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✏︎ Latest 060625 [Hold you in the palm of my hands], 260125 [Seungkwan drabble], 061224 [A review of Seventeen's personal styles (Top 4)
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✺ ᵂᴵᴾ Multiple fics in the works~
ꜰɪᴄ ʀᴇᴠɪᴇᴡꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴄꜱ
WELCOME TO MY FIC REVIEWS AND RECOMMENDATIONS. This is where I sort and tag all of the amazing works by other writers that I read. Please consider commenting, reblogging and reviewing writer's works that you love!
ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴇᴇɴ
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ꜱᴏʀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
★ Seungcheol ★ Jeonghan ★ Joshua ★ Junhui ★ Soonyoung ★ Wonwoo ★ Jihoon ★ Dokyeom ★ Mingyu ★ Minghao ★ Seungkwan ★ Vernon ★ Chan ★
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ꜱᴏʀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
★ Angst ★ A/B/O ★ Crack ★ Cyberpunk ★ Dark ★ Dystopian ★ Enemies to Lovers ★ Established Relationship ★ Exes ★ Favorites ★ F1 ★ Fantasy ★ Fluff ★ Friends With Benefits ★ Friends to Lovers ★ Horror ★ Love Triangle ★ Organized Crime ★ Polyamorous ★ PWP ★ SFW ★ Smut ★ Sports ★ Supernatural ★ Soulmates ★ Strangers to Lovers ★ Thriller
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ꜱᴏʀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
★ 100vern ★ aerisstudios ★ daechwitatamic ★ diamonddaze01 ★ eoieopda ★ haologram ★ imnotshua ★ jakedustry ★ joshujin ★ kkaetnipjeon ★ mylovesstuffs ★ seungkw1 ★ starlightkyeom ★ ylangelegy ★ yoongihan
taboo alphas
🌙 starring. Kim Mingyu & Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader
🔮 preview. “We will need a bunch of natural oil humidifiers to help mask your scent, I’m thinking pine or cedar or something, as well as a heavy blanket for the crack under the door,” your new omega pack mate explains. “We’ll need some speakers to play music so Mingyu and Seungcheol can’t hear you very well either. We don’t want them being triggered by your scent and sounds while you’re in here fighting with a sex toy for your life and sanity. Your first heat with your new pack is going to be rough, but you’ll get through it, I promise.”
tw/cw. Unprotected sex, threesome, omega in heat, alphas helping during heat, use of sex toys, extreme sexual frustration, oral, pussy eating, overstimulation, fingering, squirting, breeding kink, dirty talk, praise, hand job, breast worship, body worship, man handling, etc… I pet names: (hers.) dirty little omega.
👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.8k
🍭 aus. Werewolf!au, Alpha!GyuCheol, Omega!reader, arranged marriage situation, etc…
☀️ mlist + an. I’ve been meaning to do this duo for a while, but ABO is the type of au that takes time due to the extensive back history you have to create- this is the product of two months of thinking and working, and I hope you all enjoy it :) who knew so much work could go into a threesome haha.
Prologue:
“City dweller alphas,” you hear your father spit, his voice dripping with venom as he addresses his inner circle of leadership advisors in the living room. “And a dual leadership no less. Has there ever been anything so taboo?”
There’s murmured agreement, and you hold your breath, eavesdropping from your bedroom.
“It’s a monstrosity,” another pack member agrees.
“A monstrosity indeed,” your father sighs. “But regardless, the Choi Kim dynasty is a long, proud line, and their new coalition pack is full of young, ferocious wolves. They are the most powerful clan in the surrounding area, and with their youth comes the lack of tact when it comes to encroachment on neighbouring territory.”
“Are you suggesting they might enter our borders?” someone asks.
“Being born with silver spoons, I think it’s likely they won’t care about boundaries the same way their forefathers did.” Another deep, weary sigh from your father, and you can imagine him pinching his brow, eyes downcast. “I had planned to marry my daughter off to a different alpha, but… things might change as Fall approaches. It might be necessary to make tactical adjustments.”
Your heart lurches in your chest. As the omega daughter of an alpha, you’ve been raised with the knowledge that your marriage will be a strategic one- but to be sent to the new pack? The taboo pack that has two male alphas? It’s almost unthinkable.
What would two big city alphas want with a small town wolf like you? You can’t quite wrap your head around it, but with a deep breath, you promise yourself you’ll do your duty, after all, it’s what you were born for.
One:
To everyone's shock, the new taboo pack had accepted your father’s offer of arranging a truce through a bloodline merger of you being sent to the new leadership. To everyone's dissatisfaction, the Choi Kim alphas had insisted on there not being a formal ceremony. To them, a wedding wasn’t as important as a contractual signing of papers dictating territory, so here you are, staying in a lavish penthouse with a man named Wonwoo while your new alphas are away on business.
“Arranged marriages are not something Mingyu and Seungcheol support,” Wonwoo had told you when he’d picked you up from your former pack. “They accepted you as a favour to your father, a sign of good faith to the old ways of doing things.”
You’re not sure what your future looks like. Everything you’d learned while growing up has flown out the window. You were taught to be a good housewife, to cook and clean and support your alpha in marriage and in life. But now? Who knows.
Wonwoo is like a jailer. He’s cold, antisocial, and curt with every interaction the two of you have. His hair is a mess of curls, and his circular glasses soften out his angular face, but not by much.
He’s been watching you for a week, and only a few sentences have been passed between the two of you. Wonwoo, for the most part, sits in the living room and reads his books, while you have confined yourself to your designated room in the three-bedroom penthouse. Much of your time has been spent looking out the window at the city below, marvelling at the vastness of the city you now reside in.
The skyline of towers seems to stretch on for miles, but your penthouse is undoubtedly the highest, ruling over the other tall, steel giants from amongst the clouds on particularly gloomy days.
You hadn’t brought much with you when you’d left your last pack, but you’d been surprised to arrive at your new bedroom and find it stocked with clothing. The decor and furniture are minimalist and high-class, definitely an upgrade from your humble upbringing. Cream and sage colours make the space feel bright, yet it’s not particularly homey, and you’ve found yourself wrapped in a blanket for much of your stay here.
The silken pyjamas aren’t the cosiest, and you’re still trying to get used to the feeling of such an expensive fabric on your skin.
With a sigh, you wrap your blanket tighter around your shoulders, exiting your room.
Wonwoo doesn’t even look up from his book, and you stand in the living room for a few seconds, trying to figure out what you’re going to say.
“You mentioned Mingyu and Seungcheol would be back tonight,” you announce finally.
“Was there a question in there?” Wonwoo sighs, putting his book down to look at you.
Your resolve crumbles a little under his powerful gaze. “Do you know when they’re expected to return?” you ask meakly.
Wonwoo checks his watch. “In an hour or so.”
“Okay, thank you.” With a nod as a sign of respect, you scurry back to your room, intent on finding the right outfit to make a good first impression. You’ve been skulking in pyjamas for a week, but no longer.
Two:
You’d found a dress in your walk-in closet that felt appropriate given the circumstances you’re in. It’s not too revealing, as some of the dresses are, and it's long-sleeved and long-skirted, but it’s somewhat tight and body-hugging without being too tight. The black colour makes you feel somewhat emboldened, too, and you fix your hair as you wait in your room for the sound of the front door opening.
Part of you had considered being in the living room and kitchen area for when the alphas get home, but with Wonwoo sitting there and darkening the atmosphere, you had decided against it.
You’re sitting on your bed when you hear the arrival of Mingyu and Seungcheol, and your heart practically leaps into your throat.
There’s the sound of some baggage hitting the floor, and someone lets out a sigh.
“How was your trip?” Wonwoo asks.
“Too long,” says a deep, tired voice.
“I’ll make some food,” comes another.
You wait, wondering if now is a good time to say hello. With a few seconds to compose yourself, you open your bedroom door and peek out. The first man you see is in black dress pants and a white button-up, his black tie askew as he holds a phone to his ear. He’s very handsome in a rugged kind of way, and his broad shoulders make you wet your lips instinctively.
The second man is in the same attire, although he looks less bedraggled as he sets ingredients on a chopping block and begins to work. His features are softer, more angelic, but still just as attractive as the first in his own unique way.
The first alpha’s gaze finds yours, and you freeze, holding your breath. His eyes look you up and down, and then he turns and heads to one of the bedrooms, closing the door behind him just as he begins speaking to someone on the other end of his phone.
“Well, if my babysitting duties are over,” Wonwoo sighs, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of a chair at the kitchen island, “I’m headed home.”
The more angelic alpha finally looks up from his task of cutting up vegetables, and he smiles when he sees you. “Sorry, I forgot you were even here.”
“Can't you smell her?” Wonwoo scoffs, making your skin heat with embarrassment.
“We were just at the airport, my sense of smell is still recovering,” the large alpha jokes. He wipes his palms on a kitchen towel and comes around the kitchen island to approach you, holding out a large hand. “I’m Mingyu.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, reaching out to accept his show of welcome. He has a firm grip, but you can tell he’s holding back. Your hand looks very delicate and small in his own, and his warm skin makes you tingle.
You note that Wonwoo leaves quietly, and you’re suddenly overwhelmed at being left alone in this apartment with the two alphas who accepted you as a territory treaty favour.
You introduce yourself as Mingyu releases your hand.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Wonwoo’s not much of a cook.”
“He’s been ordering takeout all week,” you admit.
Mingyu turns to go back into the kitchen, and you follow him instinctively, cautiously taking a seat at the counter.
“Let me guess, ramen, ramen, and more ramen,” Mingyu smiles.
“He must be pretty set in his ways,” you say, letting a grin slip onto your lips.
“He definitely is.” The alpha continues to chop vegetables, and a silence overtakes the room.
After a few minutes, you let out a small cough. “So… I’m a little confused,” you admit.
“About what?”
“Well,” you muster up all your courage, “my father proposed a marriage arrangement, and although you both said no to that, I’m still here as a show of good faith or something along those lines. I’m wondering what happens next.”
Mingyu puts down his knife, and he looks up at you. He cocks his head, as if he’s trying to figure you out.
“We felt the arranged marriage for interpack peace was outdated when a treaty would be a simpler binding contract,” Mingyu tells you.
“So… why am I here?” you ask.
Mingyu shrugs. “I didn’t want you to have to stay in a pack where you were going to be married off to any alpha your dad wanted to be in good standing with.”
It kind of sounds like… in some odd way, he was trying to save you from a fate that you were raised to accept.
“So I’m in your pack now.”
“Yes.”
“And I’ll be living here?”
“We had an extra room,” Mingyu shrugs. “Change isn’t easy. Most of our omegas are coupled up and live with their mates. I know it’s extra hard for omegas to be independent and live alone, so we didn’t want to bring you here and then have you alone.”
“But… neither of you wants anything from me?” you question.
“We want you to blend with the pack, you’re one of us now.” Mingyu smiles warmly.
Taboo alphas double leading a pack, taboo alphas ignoring age-old traditions of marriage pacts, taboo alphas attempting to save omegas from possibly outdated families? This is definitely an adjustment.
“You don’t need me to cook and clean for you?” you enquire.
Mingyu laughs. “We’re grown men, we can do that for ourselves.”
“You don’t… need me to strengthen your line with babies?”
Mingyu’s smile drops. “No, we don’t need you to do that.”
“Sorry.” You avert your gaze, feeling your skin heating with embarrassment. You’re not sure what you’d expected from these alphas, but this certainly wasn’t it.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry you feel you have to provide that to us. I’m sorry if you spent the last week here expecting something different.” Mingyu lets out a deep breath, setting his hands down on the counter. “How about you go change into some comfortable baggy pyjamas, I’ll make you some food, and we can try to get to know each other outside all of this bureaucratic omega belongs to the alpha bullshit? And don’t agree just because I’m asking you to do this.”
You nod. “That sounds good.”
Three:
After changing clothes, you reentered the living space to find spicy fried pork with vegetables and noodles. You and Mingyu had sat and discussed lifestyle differences between your old pack and your new one. He had explained the thinking and progressive intent of their new leadership and expressed that sometimes, old systems such as the werewolf's ‘one alpha mentality’ are in need of new eyes and ideas.
It appears Mingyu and Seungcheol have very different roles as alphas. Mingyu is the primary communicator. He’s the one who is charming and deals with interpersonal issues and the general happiness of the pack. Seungcheol, on the other hand, is the businessman. He deals with external issues. The two collaborate on whatever is in between, and having two minds at any given conflict has been beneficial for them both in being more flexible.
As the two of you are discussing the decision to bring you to their pack, Seungcheol steps out of his room. He stands in the doorway and stares at you for a few seconds, but says nothing.
“Come meet our new guest,” Mingyu encourages the stoic alpha.
Seungcheol remains quiet as he comes to join you in the living room. He takes the single-seat armchair diagonal from where you are on the couch, and continues to stare.
“I was just explaining why we agreed to accept y/n into our pack,” Mingyu says, breaking the tension.
“Your father’s arranged marriage tactic is outdated,” Seungcheol says simply.
Mingyu lets out a chuckle. “Tell her how you really feel.”
Seungcheol shrugs his broad shoulders. “It wasn’t my first choice to take in an omega who was being used as a tool by her father, as omegas always are, but I didn’t see another option.”
You swallow thickly, biting at your lip.
“It looks like you have something to say,” Mingyu notes. “You’re allowed to speak freely with us.”
“It’s just… neither of you know me. Why did you care to save me from an arranged marriage?”
“We’re the sons of strong mothers, my mother was an alpha,” Mingyu explains, “but Seungcheol’s mother was an omega. We both saw firsthand what it’s like to have alpha fathers who stuck to the old ways. They were doing their best, but their decisions were based on a dated system.”
Your gaze shifts to Seungcheol, and his jaw feathers. You wonder if his mother being an omega is a soft spot for him. You wonder if her marriage was loveless, if her son had to witness it, if it turned him into the alpha he is today.
“What do we do about when I go into heat?” you ask shyly.
“Supressants,” Seungcheol says coldly. “Many of the omegas in our pack choose to do things that way.”
“But suppressants don’t stop heats completely,” Mingyu jumps in. “How have you dealt with them in the past?”
“We had a cottage, far from the pack, where heating omegas would go to endure with a select few female supporters who would take care of them,” you explain. “No supresants.”
“We have a similar system,” Mingyu admits. “We should have asked Wonwoo to help introduce you to other pack members this week instead of keeping you here the whole time.”
“Well, I mean…” You shift uncomfortably, “the problem is… my heat starts in a few days, and I don’t know any of the other people in the pack, and it’s a very personal thing, and the only safe space I really know is my room, and well, even without the marriage thing, I kind of assumed…”
“You assumed we’d be sharing you,” Seungcheol finishes for you, letting out a sigh. “We fucked this up.”
“I’m sorry,” Mingyu apologises, “we weren’t thinking about these kinds of details-”
“We should have been,” Seungcheol growls, standing up in anger. With a shake of his head, he goes back to his bedroom, slamming the door shut and making you jump.
Mingyu frowns, looking after his friend before his gaze shifts back to you. “This isn’t exactly the best start, is it?”
You downcast your eyes, refusing to outwardly agree with him.
It seems that no matter what, your first heat here will not be ideal, but no heats ever are.
Four:
Mingyu has personally taken accountability for socializing you with members of the pack. You’ve met a handful of omegas, who all seem sweet, but are still very foreign to you. The idea of leaning on any of these women during the most vulnerable time of your three-month cycle is not one you’re particularly fond of, and Mingyu knows it.
With two days until your heat starts, and very few viable options, Mingyu has resorted to drastic measures. He’s called on the expertise of another pack member. “Jeonghan knows the most about heats,” Mingyu explains. “He and his mate have been together since they were teenagers, and he helped her through many heats before they officially mated.”
You feel uncomfortable, sitting in the living room while you wait for Jeonghan to arrive. You’ve met him and his mate once, but the meeting hadn’t been long enough for you to feel comfortable with him.
There’s a knock at the door, and you smell the two wolves before they enter. Jeonghan and his mate Sumi enter, both have a similar expression of pity on their faces, and Sumi takes her seat next to you, placing her hand on your thigh. “Hi, honey,” she says, forcing a smile.
“Hi,” you respond meakly, already feeling the inklings of heat and its effects on the temperature of your body. This heat is ramping up to be a rough one, and it’s clear that you all know it.
“How about we go talk in your room?” Sumi suggests, “Let the men discuss out here.”
You nod, standing to follow your fellow omega to your bedroom. When you sit down on your bed, she shifts to reveal the bag she’s carrying. “I’ll be honest, we don’t know each other that well, but we’re about to get a whole lot more personal.”
And with that, she dumps the bag of sex toys out all over your bed. They’re all clearly brand new, still in boxes, and there’s a huge selection.
“Suppressants only help so much,” Sumi admits. “Which is what these are for.” She picks up a box with a pink dildo in it and waves it around. “Jeonghan said you’re staying in your room for your heat, which is going to be hard for not only you, but Seungcheol and Mingyu as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if Seungcheol stays somewhere else, but I know Mingyu is committed to helping you through this. He feels responsible for this mess, and he should. I don’t know what they were thinking bringing an omega into the pack to stay in their own home so close to heat season.”
“It’s not their fault,” you say softly.
Sumi gives you a look that tells you she doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t push the topic any further. “We will need a bunch of natural oil humidifiers to help mask your scent, I’m thinking pine or cedar or something, as well as a heavy blanket for the crack under the door,” your new omega pack mate explains. “We’ll need some speakers to play music so Mingyu and Seungcheol can’t hear you very well either. We don’t want them being triggered by your scent and sounds while you’re in here fighting with a sex toy for your life and sanity. Your first heat with your new pack is going to be rough, but you’ll get through it, I promise.”
You can’t even find words as you stare at her. This is their magic plan? Use suppressors until you can’t stand it, and then satisfy yourself to help ease the heat a little?
“Is this really the best option?” you ask sheepishly.
“You can still let me help you personally, but I know how daunting it can be to have a stranger with you during your heat, and as much as I’d love a two-day crash course on us being best friends, I don’t think that’s enough time for you to get comfortable with me.” Sumi frowns, and you can tell she’s upset about this whole thing.
Seungcheol and Mingyu dropped the ball with this; that much is clear.
“But, we can be besties after this, and next time, I can be there for you,” Sumi says, her expression changing on a dime into a smile. She pats your hand. “You’re stong, I can tell.”
Five:
You’re sitting with Mingyu as he reads all the warnings on the label of the bottle of suppressants he’d bought for you when Seungcheol’s door opens. You haven’t seen much of the storic alpha, and when you have, he’s always in full business mode.
Tonight, he looks dishevelled. He’s in black sweats and a matching hoodie, and his hands are shoved into his pockets, his hair messy as if he’s just woken up from a nap- or perhaps spent hours running his fingers through his tousled curls out of anxiety or annoyance or maybe a mix of both.
“Hey, Cheol,” Mingyu says, looking up from the suppressants. “Have you decided who you’re going to stay with during y/n’s heat?”
“I’m staying here,” Seungcheol says gruffly, heading into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
Mingyu flashes you a look before his attention finds his co-alpha again. “I thought you said you wanted to be somewhere else?”
Seungcheol shrugs. “I thought it over, and I think I should stay here.”
“It might be overwhelming for her to have two alphas right outside her door,” Mingyu notes awkwardly.
“If you’re staying, I’m staying.” Seungcheol takes a sip from his glass of water, and when he looks up, his mouth is set in a firm, determined line.
Mingyu turns to you, reaching out to place his hand on your thigh. “Are you okay with this?”
Your heart races, skin warming under the fabric that keeps his palm from directly touching you. No words rise in your throat, so you simply nod, body excited by the prospect of both alphas taking care of you.
It’s not just the heat that’s making you attracted to these men. You were attracted to them the moment you saw them, but your longing for them both is only amplified now. And you can tell they’re both attracted to you; their tells have become more and more obvious in the few days you’ve spent living with them.
Mingyu is a caretaker, and despite being taught from a young age to show love through acts of service, you’re now on the receiving end of Mingyu’s clear affection.
Seungcheol, in contrast, has done his best to stay away from you. And at first, you thought maybe he hated you. But you’ve noted his lingering gaze, the irritation that radiates off of him at your presence has revealed itself to be a mask for something deeper, something more intense. You get the sense that Seungcheol never planned for this, never planned on being attracted to the new omega he had decided to save from her outdated pack.
His insistence on staying during your heat only confirms what you’ve suspected about Seungcheol. It’s an alpha's instinct to take care of their omega during her heat, and if he didn’t view you as his, he would be able to fight the sexual desire and leave. However, for Seungcheol, being here has clearly become a need, not a want, which betrays the way his inner wolf feels about you.
The heat plan sounds simple, but you know it will be anything but.
You will lock yourself in your room, with loud music and essential oil humidifiers to mask your signs of heat from the men in the next room. Mingyu will provide food at set intervals outside your door, and once he goes back to his own room, you will open your door to retrieve the meals.
You’re not sure what role Seungcheol will play; in fact, part of you thinks this might be rather torturous for both of them, but you can’t think about their issues when you have your own heat to worry about.
Six:
Mingyu watches Seungcheol pace the room. Two days of your heat have passed, and there are likely five more to go. It’s too early for Seungcheol to be cracking like this.
Mingyu has always been the one with less composure, less control, so how come he’s suddenly the strong one?
“You can still go stay with Jeonghan,” Mingyu sighs.
“No,” comes Seungcheol’s short, angry reply.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this to yourself.”
“Why are you?” fires back the irritated alpha.
“Because she needed someone, and we’re the reason she’s in this situation.” Mingyu lets out a groan, adjusting against his bed as Seungcheol continues to pace.
“How are you so composed?” Seungcheol snaps.
“Honestly, I don’t know.” Mingyu can only shrug. “I just keep thinking about how hard this is for her. She was practically gifted to us, expected to be our omega plaything, was rejected-”
“We didn’t reject her,” the other alpha practically snarls.
“She probably sees it as a rejection,” Mingyu sighs. “There was an expectation, and it went unmet, and now, she’s having to deal with her heat without the support of her female pack members, for probably the first time in her life. She’s stuck with two alphas who, let’s be serious, don’t know what to do in this kind of situation. Neither of us has any experience with helping an omega through her heat. We both agreed not to enter into this kind of thing until we were more established as a pack.”
Seungcheol curses under his breath, and Mingyu takes a deep breath.
“We have a duty as the alphas of a pack, not as the alphas who want to mate with her. We made it clear we don’t own her.” The thought of owning another wolf in an arranged situation makes Mingyu’s mouth taste sour. “That she’s free here. Who are we if we go back on our word now due to our own animalistic instincts?”
Seungcheol stops pacing and stares at Mingyu. “When did you get so smart?”
“I’ve always been smart,” Mingyu chuckles. “I just usually let you do most of the talking when we’re discussing serious issues.”
“You feel it too, though, right?” Seungcheol asks, running a hand through his hair. “It’s more than just hunger.”
“It’s like the wolf inside is screaming that we’re not doing what we should, what we were born to do.” Mingyu nods. “It’s more than just sexual instinct.”
“Jeonghan used to talk about the day he first met his omega, Sumi, that something inside of him just knew they belonged together…” Seungcheol trails off and then begins to pace again.
“Are you saying…” Mingyu swallows thickly. “Are you saying you think she’s our mate? You were so cold to her when she arrived.”
“I had to be. This is a distraction.” Seungcheol releases a groan.
“It’s definitely a distraction,” Mingyu agrees, unable to hold in his chuckle.
There’s a faint sound, a low moan, and Mingyu’s sensitive ears pick up the vibration of it more than anything else. Both alphas whip their heads towards the closed door, on full alert.
The suppressants had been working the first two days, but now that it’s the eve of the third, it seems the effects are waning. Despite the loud music and the cedar essential oils, both alphas can smell you, and they hear a little of what is happening as well.
When Jeonghan had explained that sex toys were probably the only option if things got bad for you, Mingyu had felt his entire body tingle, and he’d hated himself for it. He shouldn’t be sexualizing your heat, but he can’t help himself. He can’t help but think about what you’re doing, which toys you’re using, how intense everything is feeling, the relief of a good orgasm-
He could use a good orgasm, but could he trust himself to stop with just his hand? He wants to think he could, but… the instinct to go and mate with you is strong enough as it is, and it seems even worse for Seungcheol.
“You should go stay with Jeonghan,” Mingyu hears himself say, tone logical and matter-of-fact, but his own voice feels distant, as if it’s not even coming from his own mouth. His attention is still fixed on the door, the flimsy piece of wood that’s just one of only two very weak barriers between himself and you.
“Shut up,” Seungcheol growls, moving to the window to open it and let in some air.
“Maybe we should play some music too,” Mingyu suggests, pulling out his phone to connect to the speakers in his room.
Mingyu knows that even if he plays music, it won’t drown out the wet sounds that are now just faintly coming from your room, and it takes everything inside of himself to try to calm down. Seungcheol isn’t as controlled, and with a growl, he goes to the ensuite bathroom for what Mingyu can only assume is a cold shower and maybe even his own hand to deal with this tension.
Can they really survive four more days of this?
Seven:
It’s the morning of the sixth day, and your heat still shows no signs of slowing down. You’re torn between hot and cold sweats, your core aching desperately every time you’re not touching it, and aching even worse with sensitivity when you do. Orgasms are the only thing offering reprieve, but with each high, the length of relief lessens.
You feel like a sticky mess, your skin tingling, body aching-
As exhaustion takes over, your ability to think clearly lessens, and your inner wolf takes over.
You have two perfectly acceptable alphas so close- two big, ridiculously sexy and virile alphas who could so easily take away your pain. Even if they’re not in a rut, they could still fill you up perfectly.
Your core aches at the thought of being stuffed, and you shift against your bed, letting out a deep moan as your hands find your pussy, fingers stroking your own clit and making you jolt.
You bite your lip to stop your whimpers of pleasure, but your hands have a mind of their own, and soon, you can’t hold in the sounds.
You imagine the two alphas touching you, and one of your hands reaches up to grasp your breast, squeezing roughly.
With your eyes shut tight, you focus on the feeling, on the way it distracts from the hot and cold sensations still warring inside of you.
But imagining Seungcheol and Mingyu only makes you want them more, and an orgasm doesn’t come, not when your body seems to know it’s your own hands and not theirs that are pleasuring you.
With a loud groan, you sit up straight, your eyes fixed on the door. You adjust your nightie, covering your breast and fixing the strap on your shoulder.
There’s an internal struggle going on within you. A war that lasts a whopping ten seconds before your body and mind agree.
Both Seungcheol and Mingyu are into you. You know it in your heart. Why should you have to endure this alone?
You hop off the bed, your feet hitting the floor with a thud, and as you tear open your bedroom door, Mingyu mirrors your motion with his own, his eyes frantic.
“Are you okay? There was a thud!” he exclaims, rushing toward you.
Then he stops, his body frozen just a meter from your own. You size each other up, muscles tensing.
Seungcheol appears behind Mingyu, and it’s as if time stills.
You feel the weight of their powerful gazes, and despite the stillness of your form, your heart is practically beating out of your chest.
“I want you both,” you declare, and they are the four most confident words you’ve spoken since you entered this penthouse.
It’s Seungcheol who breaks first, a growl tearing out of him as he practically pounces at you. You leap into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist, fingers tangling in his hair as you furiously press your lips to his own, an immediate battle of tongues and teeth.
His hands roughly grab your ass, holding you up while you make out desperately, your whole body alight with tingles and relief from finally getting your alpha’s attention.
Not a moment later, you feel the heat of another body behind you, and feverish lips press to your throat, Mingyu’s hands find your hips and tug at your nightie as he lavishes you with attention.
Moans are escaping you, and you have no wish to stop them. You want the alphas to know how good they’re making you feel, and you want more.
You can feel both of them already, Seungcheol’s hard length pushing toward your core while Mingyu’s rubs against your ass.
How needy have they been this whole time?
Have you spent six days fighting your instincts when you could have saved yourself all this trouble in the first twenty-four hours?
You push the thought out of your head, choosing to revel in the feeling of both men as Seungcheol carries you toward your bedroom.
The kiss deepens, but Mingyu moves, making it easier for his friend to get you to where they both need you.
“Are you sure you want this?” Mingyu asks, looking deeply concerned as Seungcheol tosses you onto the bed.
“I’ve wanted this since the moment I saw you both,” you confirm, licking your lips and spreading your thighs, exposing your hot core to the men at the foot of the bed. “None of the toys filled me, none of them felt like you will.”
Seungcheol lets out a groan and takes a step forward, but Mingyu stops him. “I’m sure there are other ways we could… satisfy you.”
“Don’t you want to satisfy yourselves?” you whimper, reaching down to tease your sensitive clit. “I can see how needy you both are, just like me.”
Mingyu’s hand drops from Seungcheol’s shoulder, and the stoic alpha sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed. He takes a deep breath, and you revel in the way his eyes roll back into his head.
Omegas in heat give off a pheromone to attract mates, and you know yours smells like the sweetest honeysuckle, like nectar and delicious juices. Seungcheol doesn’t stand a chance, and that fact is proven when the alpha practically dives at your pussy, his tongue lapping at your sensitive hole with more hunger than you’ve ever experienced.
Mingyu groans, and he comes to sit next to you on the bed. One of your hands threads in Seungcheol’s hair as he eats you, and the other reaches for Mingyu, who settles behind you. His thighs are on either side of you now, and he has you resting back against his chest.
He’s a large, warm cradle for your body while Seungcheol lavishes you with his tongue, and now that you don’t have to be quiet, your moans fill the room.
Mingyu reaches down and grabs at your nightie, tugging it up to expose more of you to both of them. He swallows a thick lump in his throat, and you tilt your head, nuzzling against his chest and breathing in his strong, piney scent.
“Touch me,” you whimper, wiggling your hips for more stimulation.
Seungcheol responds by grabbing your thighs and pinning you to the bed, sucking lewdly on your clit and making you cry out.
Mingyu’s large hand finds your breast, and he massages you through your nightie, making you whimper in desperation. His thumb brushes your pebbled nipple as it pokes through the fabric, and you grab onto his forearm, urging him to keep going.
Mingyu rests his cheek against the crown of your head, continuing to massage your sensitive breasts and tease your nipples while Seungcheol eats you like a wolf dying of hunger.
“I’m close,” you whimper, muscles already clenching tight. Your whole body is aching, toes curling as you stand on the precipice of the most needed orgasm you’ve had all week.
Seungcheol shifts, and then two of his fingers are pushing into your soaked hole, curling to stroke your G-spot as you cry out, digging your nails into Mingyu’s forearm.
Your whole body feels incredibly tight, and then, it releases. You let out a gasp as the tension erupts from every inch of your body, cumulating into the most intense, pleasurable throbbing of your core that you’ve ever felt.
The sensation overtakes you, making you moan and whimper and struggle against the two men holding you down. They know you need this. They know the longer your orgasm, the more satiated your heat will be. Overstimulation is a given during an omega’s heat; a mate’s job is to know the line between too much and just enough.
You can feel wet between your legs, can hear the squelching, but your mind is focused entirely on the pleasure, and it’s not until Seungcheol pulls his fingers out of your core and greedily licks them clean that you realise he’d made you squirt.
Your heart is racing, and you can’t open your eyes yet; all you can do is shiver and curl up against Mingyu, whimpering desperately as the aftershocks wrack through you.
The alpha holds you close, pressing kisses to the crown of your head.
“That should make her feel better for a little while,” Mingyu says, and you can tell he’s talking to Seungcheol and not to you.
The other alpha says nothing, and when you open your eyes, you look to see Seungcheol standing at the foot of the bed. His chest is heaving, his fists clenched, and you can tell it’s taking every ounce of his strength to fight the wolf inside of him, to not jump at you and finish the job the only way he knows how.
“Should we go?” Mingyu asks, stroking your cheek to draw your attention.
“No, I need you both,” you whimper, feeling tears begin to well in your eyes at the thought of them leaving you while they’re unsatisfied.
Mingyu’s body tenses where you rest upon it, and you know the power of your words.
“Do you both really want the first time you fuck to be while she’s in heat?” Mingyu chokes out, addressing the other alpha in the room.
“Yes!” both you and Seungcheol respond immediately.
Mingyu lets out a deep sigh, his muscles feathering under you as he fights the wolf that both you and Seungcheol have clearly given up against.
“Okay, okay, but… we can’t cum inside of her,” Mingyu declares. “We agreed no pregnancies- we’re here for this, and we’ll sort out what it means later, but we can’t… we can’t get her pregnant.”
“What if I want to be pregnant?” you moan. “What if I want you both to fill me so completely that I can feel you for hours? What if I want to get swollen and bear your children?”
“Jesus Christ,” Mingyu cusses, grabbing at the bed sheets so tightly that you hear them rip.
“No children yet,” Seungcheol growls, seeming coherent for a few seconds, but one look at his blown pupils betrays that he’s still nearly full wolf.
You shift against Mingyu, getting onto all fours and pushing him down against the bed. He looks up at you in shock as you straddle him, and for the first time, you press your lips against his own.
Mingyu groans, grabbing the back of your neck and deepening the kiss.
Meanwhile, you wiggle your hips, an invitation to Seungcheol now that you’ve convinced Mingyu to set his sensibilities aside. They might be progressive alphas, and sure, some of the ways of the wolf have to change, but mating is the most basic instinct, and you won't push aside your own sexual needs for the sake of wolfishly correct inclinations.
The second alpha gets onto the bed behind you, and you hear him push down his pants to pull out his cock. A moment later, he’s rubbing the head against your wet pussy, letting out a deep groan.
Mingyu grabs your nightie, pulling it up to give Seungcheol better access, and you know you’ve won. You’re going to have both of these alphas tonight, and there’s a sense of power in that.
Your body tingles with pleasure as Seungcheol sheaths his thick cock into your tight hole, and you moan desperately against Mingyu. The kiss breaks, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder, adjusting your body so you can shove your hand down his pants, grasping his aching cock.
Mingyu jolts beneath you, throwing his head back and moaning while you begin to pepper his throat in kisses. You stroke him off as Seungcheol grabs your hips, his grip bruising. He begins to fuck you, and your eyes roll back into your head from the feeling.
Silicon, glass and steel toys are nothing - nothing - compared to the real thing.
Your body feels like it’s vibrating, and Seungcheol is rough with the way he fucks you, his animalistic instincts kicking in. Each thrust is powerful, making you jolt forward against Mingyu, who is struggling below you to compose himself while his best friend rails you on top of him.
There’s more tearing as Mingyu’s grip on the sheets becomes too much for the frail fabric to bear. You moan desperately in his ear, and Mingyu begins to fuck up into your hand, making your body tingle with pleasure from the knowledge that he’s as deep into this as you are.
“Fuck,” Seungcheol groans behind you. “You feel so fucking good.”
“Yes, alpha,” you whimper, and the words make Mingyu moan deeply while Seungcheol’s fingers dig even harder against your skin.
“Needy little omega, just needed her alphas to take care of her, huh?” Seungcheol growls.
“Needed you both,” you confirm, drawing Mingyu’s lips to your own again.
He kisses you desperately, cupping your cheek with one hand while the other arm wraps around your body, arching your ass into the air even more for Seungcheol, who continues to plough into you.
“Fuck,” the alpha behind you groans, his pace increasing even more.
“Cum in me,” you gasp against Mingyu’s lips, unable to help yourself.
Both men growl, grips tightening, intensity increasing.
Then, at the last second, Seungcheol finds it within himself to pull out. You feel him cum on the back of your nightie, and you listen to his groans of annoyed pleasure. You know he’s not happy about following through with the no pregnancy agreement, and your empty core aches at the knowledge of what it’s missing.
But in the dark recesses of your mind, you know this is the right call, so you don’t fight it.
When Seungcheol finishes, he collapses onto the bed next to you, and Mingyu moves immediately. He pushes you into a sitting position, and as you straddle his lap, he tears your dress off your body, exposing you fully while he removes his own t-shirt.
Then he grabs your hips and shoves his pants down, lifting you and setting you onto his cock while you both release moans of pleasure. As soon as you’re properly on his length, Mingyu sits up and begins worshipping your breasts. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, lavishing the sensitive bud while you whimper desperately.
You anchor your fingers in his hair and begin wiggling your hips, weakly attempting to ride him-
Your muscles are sore, and you’d been so close to an orgasm with Seungcheol that Mingyu’s added stimulus on your breasts gets you to the edge again.
Wiggling your hips, you get yourself to where you need to be, and you throw your head back as your orgasm slams into you. Your core tightens around Mingyu’s massive cock, throbbing desperately around the wonderful intrusion as pleasure radiates through your entire body, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and your toes curl to the point of being painful.
Mingyu gasps below you, wrapping both arms around your body and nuzzling your neck, fighting the urge to fuck you stupid as your body contracts around him.
The moment your orgasm begins to subside, he flips you, and your back hits the mattress. He’s on top of you now, and there’s no holding back.
Mingyu fucks into you wildly, clearly spurred on by your orgasm. His lips are feverish against the hot skin of your throat, and the scent of cum, sweat and pheromones overwhelms you. You latch onto his shoulders, marvelling at how broad and strong he is.
Seungcheol had managed a bit of dirty talk, but everyone is so far past that now- Mingyu, who had taken the longest to succumb to the wolf inside, is now full feral, and it makes your pussy squelch to think of how you have both men wrapped around your finger.
“Cum in me,” you whisper, wondering if you could accomplish this final feat.
Mingyu’s back muscles ripple with effort, and he groans deeply against your throat. Seungcheol stiffens where he lies next to you on the bed, shifting to watch you and his best friend fuck.
Seungcheol had defied your animalistic request in the heat of succumbing to his feral side. Will Mingyu be able to?
Mingyu, who waited so patiently, who helped you through things while being logical and caring-
Mingyu, who grabs at the bed, ripping even more duvet in the wake of his inner turmoil.
He’s panting now, his massive cock splitting you open with each rough thrust.
“Please,” you whimper.
Mingyu lets out a deep groan, and just when you think you’ve won, he pulls out of you, grabbing his cock and pumping it as ropes of cum spurt onto your abdomen and chest.
His head is thrown back, all of his muscles clenched with effort, his biceps rippling with each rough pump of his cock.
God, he’s beautiful, and the sight makes you realize maybe being full was overrated… no, probably not, but Mingyu is definitely a sight to be seen like this.
When he finishes, he lets out a deep gasp, opening his eyes to look down at you.
No one says anything for a full minute, and then Seungcheol groans. “How long do orgasms subside your heat for?”
Now that he’s cum, it’s clear he’s of a more level head, you only wish you were coming back to reality with the same speed.
“It depends,” you breathe, heart still thundering in your chest.
“How about I take you for a cold shower, and we can see where we go from there?” Seungcheol suggests. “Let Mingyu rest.”
It’s clear that holding his inner wolf back for so long has taken a toll on Mingyu, who seems dazed as he kneels on the foot of the bed.
“Yes, alpha,” you nod.
Seungcheol stands, and you allow him to pick you up bridal style from the bed, carrying you to the ensuite bathroom.
He starts a shower and helps you into it, cradling you to his chest and washing you off.
His kisses are soft on your throat, and the steady beat of his heart calms you.
For the first time in days, you feel true relief.
“What now?” you ask.
“Now, we accept that you’re our mate,” he responds. “Mingyu and I both felt it when you arrived, and something tells me you did too.”
“You didn’t want me to be your mate,” you point out with a frown.
“Signing a piece of paper wouldn’t have made you our mate. Neither of us knew until we met you, until we felt it, like you did.”
You nod, finally confirming his suspicions.
“Things are about to get a lot more taboo,” the alpha sighs.
“Let them,” you shrug. “This is right, and that’s what matters.”
☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! how shocked are we that they all gave in to their instincts? haha
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🔮 preview. Mingyu’s clearly interested in the thought of you being pregnant, and you’re not surprised. Wolves, more than any other supernatural creature, have a breeding kink. It’s in your blood, in the animalistic nature that you fight with for control daily.
cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, breeding kink, threesome, fingering, blow job, hand job, anal fingering, squirting, double penetration, use of lube, dirty talk, praise, degradation, mutual orgasms, spanking, overstimulation, breast worship, body worship, finger sucking, deep throating, mand handling, etc… I petnames. (hers). Dirty little omega, darling, honey, etc…
👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 3.1k I teaser wc. 200
🌙 starring. Seungcheol & Mingyux afab!Reader
bonus
In the periphery of your everyday, you know you’ve become one of the most taboo aspects of your new pack’s conflicting presence in the court of werewolf public opinion. Two alphas, sharing an omega… it’s completely unheard of.
But on the flip side of that, it shows you that Mingyu and Seungcheol are truly unified. If they can share a mate, they can share a pack, and in an odd way, your entry to the pack, and the subsequent relationship that had formed between you and the alphas, had only strengthened the other wolves. There’s no fear of any division from within the unified group of wolves. The alphas are in agreement on everything, even their mate.
It’s been an interesting year with the new pack. While your first heat had been wonderful after you’d given in to your carnal instincts, there had been too much on the line. Mingyu and Seungcheol had agreed that putting you in a situation where you’re pregnant, at such a contentious moment in their new pack’s timeline, would be a recipe for disaster. So, after that first heat, you’d made an effort to befriend Sumi, and the two of you have been heat helpers to each other ever since.
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in the zone | ksy
what do you do when it feels like your entire life is falling apart? you spend the last of your inheritance on a beach house for the summer, of course. sure, the listing was suspiciously cheap, and there’s a massive waterpark right outside the bedroom window, but you just need to get away, so it’ll have to do. besides, it’s not like your entire world can get turned upside down in three months… right?
⟡ pairing: hoshi x f. reader ⟡ genre: strangers to lovers, (accidental) roommates; smut, fluff, lite angst ⟡ rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ⟡ warnings: bestie minghao. lots of talk about wasted potential, dead-end jobs, fear of change, job-based insecurity, self-doubt (no this is NOT a self-insert why do you ask!!). mentions of grief and mourning a loved one but nothing super heavy. alcohol and weed use. swearing. mentions of food/eating. pet names (baby, pretty girl). two down bad losers who are disgustingly into one another after a concerningly short amount of time, which is the beauty and entire point of fanfiction. please suspend any and all disbelief, thank u! ⟡ smut warnings: kissing. grinding/dry humping. public indecency but not public sex. hair pulling. dirty talk & praise. oral sex (f. receiving, mentions of m. receiving). protected vaginal sex. everyone orgasms. ⟡ wordcount: 20.2k ⟡ credits: bee (@imnotshua) and jess (@starlightkyeom) for reading this over for me, as always. i was in a time crunch and we're under a tornado watch so this is unedited and any mistakes are my own. if there's anything glaring i will fix it at a later date. :') ⟡ written for: the carat bay collab, hosted by @camandemstudios! thank you both for letting me participate. please make sure to check out the rest of the fics! ♡ ⟡ author's note: this is based entirely on the beach town i spent all my summers at as a kid, so there's a lot of nostalgia here. i wasn't sure i was gonna get this done on time, but with the power of god and anime vyvanse on my side, we managed to pull through... even if we had to pivot bc my original plan would've tripled the length. i hope you enjoy it!
Fate is not something you believe in, but if you did, you think it’d feel a lot like this.
“It’s not fate,” Minghao comments unhelpfully from his side of the lunch table, “it’s suspicious. It’s also highly concerning that they look the same to you.”
You frown. Spear a piece of near-wilted spinach on the end of your fork, sending a bead of salad dressing onto your phone that you don’t notice and consequently smear all over your screen when you scroll through the rental listing with your other hand. “Do the horrors ever cease?” Minghao stares blankly at you. You sigh at his lack of humor. “Are you saying you don’t think I should go?”
“No,” he’s quick to say, handing over a napkin. “On the contrary, I think you need to get the fuck out of here. All I’m saying is I think you should go to a place that isn’t such an obvious scam.”
A scoff escapes you as you stare down at the listing again. Super Host Soonyoung stares back at you for the hundredth time today. If it were possible to judge someone’s character from a blurry internet picture the size of an ant, you think he’d seem very kind with his beaming smile and doughy cheeks, not to mention the stylish sunglasses sitting atop his head that seem like they were purchased from an actual store and not a military-grade infomercial.
Besides, he’s opening up his home to strangers. Shitty people don’t do that, do they?
“They do if they’re landlords,” Minghao deadpans.
You concede the point. Not that you’d argue, anyway—renting out your beach house for the entirety of the summer is near-textbook landlording—but the lunch room is starting to fill up, and the last thing you need (or want) is your coworkers asking questions.
Aside from Minghao, these people are not your friends. They’re people you offer that weird closed-mouth smile to when you meet at the coffee machine and awkwardly have to wait your turn, sharing fake laughs when one of you complains that, no matter what option you pick, it always comes out tasting like an ashtray. They’re people you sign birthday cards for and have no idea how old they’re turning. They’re people who tell you all about their families and show you pictures of spouses and kids you swore belonged to someone else.
They’re people whose names you can’t match to faces when you get office-wide emails congratulating them on anniversaries and accomplishments; celebrating retirements; regretfully announcing departures for bigger and better things. They’re people you swear at under your breath for microwaving something foul or not pulling their weight; for wearing too much cologne and kissing ass for promotions that’ll never be theirs.
These people are not your friends, but you’ve been here so long that it feels like they should be.
“I need to decide before everyone else gets the same idea and it gets booked up.” A loud cackle sounds from the table beside you. Deborah, one of the new hires. You’d been expecting a picture of a middle-aged woman when her introductory email had been sent out. Imagine your surprise when a baby-faced new grad was staring back at you. “Wanna get together after work and tell me all the reasons why this is a terrible idea?”
Minghao, the bastard that he is, pretends to check his calendar. “Hmm. Looks like I’m all booked on the ‘dispensing extremely valuable advice no one listens to’ front. I do, however, have an opening tomorrow. Mimosa-drunk at brunch or wine-drunk at a more socially acceptable hour. Your choice.”
A glance at your phone tells you you’ve got five minutes and three-quarters of your salad left before your mandatory unpaid lunch break is over. You stab at the mixed greens again and frown—you left it too long and now everything is all soggy and gross. “First of all, this is the worst salad I’ve made this year. Don’t let me try any more Pinterest recipes. Second of all, you never ask me to hang out on weekends.” You narrow your eyes at him. “What’re you doing tonight? Do you have a date?”
Deborah immediately stops shrieking, attention piqued by her eavesdropping. Of course, she tries to play this off by pretending to check her makeup in her phone camera, except you can see her screen—and that she accidentally opened her credit card app.
So far, she owes $2,927.43 for the month of January.
A bastard but not an idiot, Minghao shakes his head, aware of the eyes on him. “No,” he answers, and his voice is so solid and sure you nearly believe him. “Well, not like that. I’m meeting my parents for dinner.”
God, you can practically see the cartoon hearts floating above Deborah’s head.
“Well, wine-drunk sounds better to me,” you answer, ignoring the fact that Minghao’s parents are in Turks and Caicos this week for their anniversary. Which he told you three days ago. “Orange juice gives me heartburn.”
With a put-upon sign, Minghao stands from the table. Gathers his trash and drapes his cardigan over his shoulders in a way that looks fashionable and cool. “I have got to make plans with people my own age.”
You snort. “Well, you can always ask—“
He cuts you off with a very pointed, “Back to the grind,” even though he says that’s “stuff white people say, along with ‘another day in paradise!’—and if you ever ask a white person how they’re doing and they respond with ‘I’m alive,’ you need to take a half-day.”
Everyone in this place is so fake.
And it isn’t like your day gets any better. An hour before closing time, your manager pops up on the ledge of your cubicle. “Heeey,” she chimes, pretending to wince at what’s about to come out of her mouth next. All things considered, she’s nowhere near the worst person to work for: she’s trustworthy, didn’t hesitate to give you the time off you needed, sends funny memes in the team group chat. So your whole thing with her isn’t her fault, it’s just—she’s years younger than you, so it touches on all those old insecurities. “Glenn needed to take the rest of the day, and in true Glenn fashion he didn’t get those reports done before he left. I hate to ask, but could you maybe, possibly, perhaps stay a little late…?”
In the split-second since she appeared at your desk like a bad omen, you’ve made up your mind: that beach house will be yours for the entire summer, scam or not.
Because you hate Glenn as much as the next guy (which, on your team, is mostly everyone), but you hate this place as an institution even more. What it represents. The insecurities and inadequacies it picks at. How comfortable you’ve grown here and the convenient excuses that comfort provides.
So you agree before you can come to your senses, because saying no will look bad, and the only thing you’ve got going for you and having been here so long with barely anything to show for it is the amount of PTO you’ve racked up, so you can’t and won’t give anyone a reason to refuse your request.
With a few minutes left in the day, everyone starts packing up and discussing weekend plans: sports and TV series they’ll be watching, new coffee shops they’re checking out, hobbies they’ll be catching up on. Before you can up the volume in your headphones, your cubicle mate asks if you’re doing anything fun. “Ah, just trying that new winery tomorrow, I think,” you answer, and you hope she won’t remember this come Monday because you don’t know anything about wine and can’t think of many things worse than discussing it.
Five-thirty hits. Everyone trickles out while you stay seated, glued to your desk and receiving everyone’s sympathetic glances. It takes a half hour just to get into Glenn’s reports because, for reasons unknown to you and your manager, he password-protected them—and once you’re in you see why. Half-baked columns, wrong formulas used even though knowing and understanding Excel was a job requirement, numbers you can’t trace back to any of the provided data. At seven you’re ready to put your head through a concrete wall. By eight you finally hit the halfway mark.
At quarter to ten, you finally send off the reports and sit back in your chair. Sitting in thischair for so long has to be doing irreversible damage, so you make a mental note to schedule a massage for tomorrow afternoon before you meet up with Minghao. With a sigh, you squeeze your eyes shut and try to conjure up some moisture. Nearly five hours after the rest of your coworkers, you pack up your belongings, twisting your body as you stand and trying not to wince as your knees and back make some concerning sounds.
Then, before you shut down your computer and go home to rot in bed until you’re forced to socialize, you put in your PTO request for June 2nd through August 29th.
(It gets approved first thing Monday morning.)
Vacations (In Theory) are very different from Vacations (In Practice).
Here you are on May 30th, mentally preparing for another long night hunched over your desk. Not only do you need to work ahead as much as you can for your nearly three month absence, you also have to include a paper trail to prove you at least tried to problem-solve before dumping it on whoever’s unlucky enough to cover you.
Minghao waits for you. Plops his stuff on your desk, pulls up a chair, and scrolls through social media while you work, making offhand comments every now and then about people you don’t know and all their drama while you try not to comment on how weird it is. In all the years you’ve worked together and have been friends, he’s never stuck around while you worked late, but the excuse had been convenient: I have plans tomorrow and you’re leaving early on Sunday so let’s grab dinner after work was much easier to say than I’m not going to see you for three months so let’s grab dinner because I’ll miss you.
You hadn’t commented on that, either.
Nonetheless, you put your head down and focus. Minghao had made a seven-thirty reservation at a place more upscale than the two of you usually frequent, and you’ll need to hustle if you have any hope of getting out of here within the hour.
Time seems to fly after that. Not only at work, but at dinner, too. Despite your first impression of him (deeply serious with a cutting resting bitch face), you’ve always enjoyed spending time with Minghao. He’s funny, now that you’re acquainted with his sense of humor, and he’s both carefree and solid in ways you could only dream of being. All of his troubles seem to come and go like the tide, never sticking around for too long and overstaying their welcome. The thought of him no longer being there when you return is too much to bear, so you make him promise not to change jobs until you’re back.
He quirks an eyebrow and pulls a face. “First of all, you’re going on vacation, you’re not dying. Second, I’m not promising you that. I apply to twenty jobs a week at minimum. I don’t want to be—” He pauses. Seems to be aware of what was about to come out of his mouth.
I don’t want to be like you, working a dead-end job.
I don’t want to be like you, undervalued by every metric of the word.
I don’t want to be like you, latching onto something no good for me just because it’s comfortable and I’m terrified of change.
I don’t want to be like you.
Minghao flushes. Stumbles over apologies. “No need to apologize,” you assure him, plastering on a smile you know isn’t fooling anyone. Take a sip of your drink to feign normalcy. Take a bite of food that tastes like sawdust. Good thing you were almost done, anyway.
Because Minghao was right, and everyone knows it.
Saying goodbye is awkward at best and painful at worst. Deep down, you know Minghao is just embarrassed—you would be, too, in his shoes—but just like Vacations (In Theory) and Vacations (In Practice), what you logically know to be true is very different from what you internalize. Because it’s not just embarrassment, it’s also the reason you don’t go for team drinks; the reason you don’t have anything personal on your desk. You just don’t see the point in integrating yourself into a place you shouldn’t be to begin with.
But that’s the whole point of this vacation, isn’t it?
Three months without having to think about work. Three months to decompress and pretend you’re going to do all that philosophical shit, like six a.m. trips to the beach to stare at the waves, stick your toes in the sand, and “find yourself.” Whatever that means.
There’s not much to do around the apartment except making sure you eat whatever’s left in the fridge. Coming home to a bunch of rotten food and having to go back to work the next day? Absolutely not. You’d need to bypass your office and go straight to an institution instead. You spend the rest of the day doing laundry and packing. You stand in front of your shelves and deliberate for far too long over which books to bring and then you do the same with your music library as you stare down at an empty playlist.
It’s early when your alarm goes off—barely eight o’clock, the sun already high in the sky as it beams through your curtains, birds chirping. Feels like waking up on a holiday morning or the first day of school: giddy excitement on the surface, nerves simmering just below. Makes it easy to get up and make your bed, to get dressed and put on sunscreen, your sunglasses, when there’s no dread weighing you down. Makes it easy not to mind the hours-long drive. Makes it easy to drive with the windows down, music loud, the wind in your hair.
Makes it easy to feel like you’re driving towards something, rather than away from it.
Halfway there, you stop at a small cafe for lunch, the feeling almost transcendental as you eat outside and let the sun warm your skin. You order an iced coffee to-go and it sweats in the cupholder, nothing but melted ice by the time you pull off the highway and navigate the smaller back roads, some of them covered in sand. You take a deep breath and smile. Everything smells like the sea—salty and slightly sweet, the sulphur of low tide.
The town looks like a postcard.
In your excitement, you’ve looked at a lot of pictures over the last few months, but none of them can compare to reality. Ice cream shops with striped awnings. Sidewalks covered in chalk doodles. More seafood restaurants than you can count. Antique and surf shops. Wooden playgrounds next to fenced-in basketball and tennis courts. Families walking back from the beach, pushing sleeping kids in strollers, lugging chairs and coolers and boogie boards behind them.
That excitement creeps back in the closer you get, and at every red light you look around and marvel at all the houses. How uniform they are. How they’re all elevated with ground-floor garages. The porthole windows and porches wrapped in white railing. Front yards with pinwheels stuck in thin strips of grass. Colorful cruiser bicycles stashed in tiny alleyways behind the houses, some laying on their sides with the wheels still spinning. If you close your eyes you can hear laughter and bells.
You pull into the driveway at ten after three, surprised to find that this house doesn’t look like all the others. Where they had vinyl siding in neutral, inoffensive colors, this one is mint green, bright and vibrant, with white scalloping along the facade. It reminds you of ice cream—the flowers in the wooden boxes beneath the windows look like sprinkles, and with how close you are to the boardwalk, the smell of fried dough hanging in the air, it’s easy to pretend.
Out of the car, an older couple in matching windbreakers waves as they pass you on the sidewalk. Everything sounds so much closer: the waves crashing, delighted shrieks from people on rides, the men combing the beach, trying to sell drinks and popsicles, squawking seagulls in search of someone’s food. You can see the ocean from where you stand, peeking out from beneath the boards. This is exactly what I needed, you think. Feels like your smile is permanent.
Until you try to get into the house.
You’d been given a door code when you confirmed your reservation. It doesn’t work. No matter how many times you try, 0-5-2-5 gets you nothing but a blinking red light and an encroaching panic. Phone already in hand, you send a message to the rental host—Hi! I’m at the house, but the door code doesn’t seem to be working. Is there another one I can try? Thank you!—before sitting on the porch steps to await your fate.
What you expect: a response rife with apologies, both for the mix-up and the inconvenience.
What you get: someone stampeding down the stairs and pulling the door open.
Super Host Soonyoung stands in the doorway wearing a sheepish smile and red-tinged cheeks. Except for the sunglasses, he looks just like his picture (especially the doughy cheeks), so at least you know you’ve got the right place. Still, you ask, “Hi, are you Soonyoung?” just to confirm, and that seems to knock him out of his stupor, offering to grab your bags and give you a tour.
Which seems strange. You don’t really need a tour, do you? Surely you’ll be able to find your way around over the next few months, but Soonyoung is extremely apologetic and seems a little embarrassed so you don’t say anything. You do let him grab your bag, though—mostly because meeting new people is always difficult for you, so letting him take one bag while you take the other gives you something to do with your hands. Gives you something to comment on and laugh about when he pretends to strain taking it out of the trunk.
When you get inside, Soonyoung gives you the choice of three bedrooms. Two are upstairs. Of those, one has two large windows facing the street, rewarding you with a view of the boardwalk and the ocean, while the other also has beach views that are semi-obstructed by the waterpark. The third and final bedroom is downstairs, just off the kitchen. Soonyoung offers this one and says it might be “less awkward,” which also strikes you as strange, considering—
Wait.
“Bathroom-wise, it doesn’t really matter what one you pick. There are full bathrooms on both levels—”
Reality hits you like a truck, head-on and all at once. Maybe it’s less reality and more the obvious, because listening to Soonyoung explain where the bathrooms are and giving you a tour and being here in general puts a lot of things into perspective very quickly.
“I think I fucked up,” are the only words you’re able to muster. Soonyoung’s mouth snaps closed. “Or you did. Either way, one of us really, really fucked up.” Soonyoung pauses. Tilts his head to the side like a puppy, the confusion obvious, and you think he’s about to ask what you mean so you beat him to it. “The listing was for the entire house.”
That does it.
“I—what? Are you sure?”
The second question is rhetorical. You know it, Soonyoung knows it, everyone knows it, so you don’t answer, just nod and offer a sympathetic, closed-lipped smile and hope the ground will split apart and swallow you.
Horrifyingly, all you can think at this moment is that Minghao was right about this being a scam. You’ll have to tuck your tail between your legs and tell him, because you can’t stay here. Sharing a space—not only is it foreign to you, you’re not sure you even can. There’s an art to being a good roommate, and after living alone both during college and all your years as an adult, it’s not a skill you have.
And it takes a while, longer than you expected, for the disappointment to hit. For all that excitement and all the plans you had—sticking your toes in the cold, early morning sand; sunset walks up and down the boardwalk; eating so much fried food you’re sick of it within a week; waking up to the sound of waves crashing—to come crashing down around you. This was supposed to be a reset. A reward for dragging yourself this far and surviving. A balm for all the regrets you have about your life and a compass to find a new direction.
All of it—gone.
The tears are just as embarrassing as you thought they’d be.
To his credit, Soonyoung doesn’t panic. He doesn’t seem to flinch at all, which surprises you; he gently grabs your arm and helps you to the small table in the kitchen. Pulls out a chair and gestures for you to sit, and when you do and he can be sure you aren’t going to bolt straight out the door, he pours you a glass of water, sits across from you, and calmly says, “We can figure this out.”
Any other time you’d probably scoff and say something that belied just how hopeless you found this entire situation, but now, after experiencing a concerning number of mental breaks in a very short amount of time, you’re happy to let someone else take the reins and do the heavy lifting. Of course, you don’t know what that looks like in this case. Do you ask for a refund and try to find a hotel? Surely not: any reputable hotel would cost ten times what you spent on this place, not to mention they’ve probably been booked solid since last year. Do you ask for a refund, find a hotel, book as long of a stay as you can, and spend the rest of your summer having a staycation at home? That sounds miserable.
There are probably thousands of podcasts talking about what a horrible idea it’d be to live with a strange man for three months, and it’s your fault for idealizing this entire trip so much to begin with that makes any alternative seem like a fate worse than death, but you can’t stay… right? Even if it somehow wasn’t the stupidest idea of all time, that doesn’t even touch on the fact that it’s Soonyoung’s house, and who's to say he even wants you here, anyway?
“Since this was my second embarrassing fuck up of the day, I’ll just… go somewhere else while you’re here, and you can have the house to yourself.”
You blink. “For three months?”
His eyes widen for a brief second. You’re starting to think he wasn’t prepared for any scenario, let alone this one. “I—yeah, yeah, of course. Three months! Psh, that’s nothing, you know? Barely any time at all.”
“I mean, it’s a quarter of a year. That doesn’t seem insignificant.”
Those same wide eyes have begun twitching. “Riiight.” He follows this with a very long sip of water. “It’s really no trouble, though. I can sleep at the studio. There’s a couch and a bathroom there and everything.”
It definitely doesn’t seem like it’s no trouble. Soonyoung looks like he’d rather remove all of his teeth with very dull tools, and even if this was his (admittedly catastrophic) error, it doesn’t feel right putting him out of his own home—especially to a place where having a couch and a bathroom are considered an upside. Does the bathroom even have a shower? How would he cook? Is any of his stuff there? God, you can’t do that to someone.
So it’s with a little caution, a lot of stupidity, and an ill-advised desire to be more spontaneous and free-spirited as if you’re a character in an Elizabeth Gilbert novel that you ask, “Is it weird for you if you just… stay?”
For all of Soonyoung’s mismanagement, it’s clear he doesn’t want to inconvenience you further or make you uncomfortable. He’s insistent that he’ll leave, insistent that it really is no trouble and it’s the least he can do for fucking up the listing, and insistent that if you just give him some time to pack some clothes, he’ll be out of your hair in no more than thirty minutes. With a sigh, you go through your questions again.
Does the bathroom have a shower? No, but—
How would you cook? Maybe I could come over once a week to meal prep, if you wouldn’t mind? There’s a microwave, at least.
Is any of your stuff there? Like, an old pair of sneakers. And maybe a musty sweatshirt.
By the time you ask your follow-up questions, both of you know he isn’t going anywhere, and perhaps if he’d confirmed that you’re one-hundred-percent okay with this nineteen times instead of twenty you wouldn’t have gone for it, but he does so you do.
“I really don’t have to—” You wave him off. Ask him if there are any house rules he’d like you to abide by aside from the obvious. When he sends you a questioning look, you admit you’ve never been anyone’s roommate before. “Oh,” he responds. Takes a second to think. “I don’t think so? Sometimes I keep weird hours. Like, I have my regular jobs, but sometimes I’ll go to the studio if I’m restless or want to work on something, so I guess me going in and out in the middle of the night is something to be aware of. I’ll make sure to be quiet, though.”
“Is it like a regular nine-to-five? I don’t want to disturb you, either.”
Soonyoung screws up his face. “God, no. I—wow, I just realized you have no idea what I’m talking about. I run a dance studio for the local kids. Most of them take summers off to go on vacations or whatever, so once school’s out we only open two or three days a week, depending on how many of them sign up. This year there weren't many, so we decided on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“And your other job?”
He scratches at the back of his neck. “Ah, that one’s kind of embarrassing? I… work at the waterpark next door. Carat Bay.”
“Oh, that doesn’t seem so bad.”
He sighs. Runs his thumb vertically along the length of his glass and collects the condensation. “When I first opened the studio, I didn’t realize it wouldn’t be busy all the time, you know? I spent my summers here, so I figured everyone else did, too, and I needed to pick up a second job to cover the studio rent on top of a million bills for both here and there.”
You want to tell him you understand. Want to tell him it isn’t embarrassing to do what you have to do to make ends meet; that, if anything, it’s brave. That you’ve been there (and still are). That you’re a little embarrassed by your job, too. But then he continues. “It probably isn’t embarrassing for the high school and college kids, but I’m almost twenty-nine and I’m operating the splash zone. It definitely feels embarrassing.”
You hum. Look around Soonyoung’s kitchen. From the listing photos, you knew it didn’t look like every other rental beach house, with all the ocean motifs and white wicker furniture and seashells nailed to the wall. It’s not sparkling marble and stainless steel, either, but it’s nicer than your outdated kitchen. “You seem to be doing okay, though. I mean—you’ve got this nice house and a dance studio. That seems pretty good for someone our age.”
Soonyoung laughs, a little shy and self-conscious. “I inherited the house from my grandma. I could never afford anything like this.”
“Mm, no offense, but I put that together pretty much immediately.”
When Soonyoung laughs this time, it’s bright and open, reaches his eyes and brings his entire being to life. The two of you make small talk for a few more minutes until you’re unable to stifle a yawn, and then Soonyoung is up and heading for a cabinet drawer immediately, pulling out a stack of takeout menus and saying to take your pick, dinner’s on him tonight. After you try (and fail) to protest, you ask him what’s good and accept his answer of a taco spot not far, and he puts through the order. Asks if you’ve decided on a bedroom so he can carry your bags, so you choose the streetside one upstairs with the view of the water, and while he’s gone to pick up food, you take a quick shower and unpack.
Minghao [6:22pm]: everything ok? how’s the house? You [6:49pm]: It’s a long story I’m too exhausted to type out rn You [6:49pm]: But I think this is gonna be really good for me 🤞
When you wake up the next morning, you expect it to have followed a night of fitful sleep.
Being in a stranger’s house. Said stranger sleeping only a few feet away, door cracked, his soft snores drifting down the hall. An unfamiliar place. A beach town that, while picturesque and dreamy, seems to also be nocturnal. Once most of the town turned off their lights and locked their doors for the night, it’d taken on a second life—groups of friends walking to and from the bars and clubs, shrieks of laughter and heated arguments, the to-be-expected disregard of the time and basic decency that comes with being immature and on a group trip in your early twenties.
You’re surprised, then, that you feel refreshed when you wake up. That the last thing you remember is your head hitting the pillow. It’s the most restful sleep you’ve had in months, and you roll over to check the time feeling ready to take on the world.
8:37am
Spoiled for and overwhelmed by choice, you take your time getting out of bed and going about your routine. When you slip out of your room to brush your teeth, you notice Soonyoung’s bedroom door is wide open. Even though you’re curious, you don’t (and wouldn’t) peek—instead, you’re distracted by the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee wafting upstairs.
“Good morning,” Soonyoung greets you. He’s sitting on the couch, one leg crossed and tucked beneath him. “I made coffee if you want some. I also left out the bread. If you wanna let me know what you like, I can go grocery shopping later—”
You smile. “Sure, thanks.” Wander into the kitchen. Fill a mug with coffee, cream, a little sugar. Pop two slices of bread into the toaster and, once they pop back out, spread on a thin layer of butter.
And then you hesitate. Should you eat here? Would it be weird to join Soonyoung in the living room? Would it be rude if you didn’t? With a sigh, you compromise and meet in the middle. Place your plate on the newel cap of the staircase and wrap both hands around the mug, soaking in the warmth. Soonyoung has the television on. You don’t recognize what’s playing, but it seems to be a mid-season rerun of some sitcom—background noise, mostly, which is exactly what it seems to be now.
Neither of you are watching. Soonyoung’s scrolling through his phone and you’re content to stare out the bay window facing the street, watching people pass by on their way to the beach. Large straw hats, colorful umbrellas, excited toddlers waiting for an opening to dart away. The waves still crash. The seagulls still screech. “Do you have to work today?” you ask Soonyoung because you feel like you should make conversation.
“Not today, thankfully,” he answers. He sets his phone down and twists his body so he’s facing you. “Back to the studio tomorrow, and I’m scheduled for the waterpark Friday through Sunday.”
You nod. You’re tempted to ask if he wants to do something together and decide against it, not wanting him to feel obligated. If you’re being honest, you’re not entirely sure you want to hang out, still wrapping your head around the fact that the vacation you spent months idealizing will not come to fruition. Not fully. But there’s nothing stopping you from grabbing a book and sitting on the beach for a few hours.
Long enough to decompress—or start to.
“I’ll probably head to the beach.”
“Cool. Let me give you a beach tag.” What he hands over reminds you of an oversized bread clip: octagonal and neon red, 2025 SEASON printed in the center. You have never seen one of these in your life. “Are these not a thing where you’re from?”
“You have to pay to go on the beach?”
Soonyoung’s nose twitches as he bites back a laugh and nods. Explains that the money’s used to maintain the beach and the restrooms and pay the lifeguards and a whole bunch of other things. “Supposedly,” he tacks on conspiratorially.
“Did the mayor get a brand new Porsche?”
“I don’t even know who the mayor is.”
An hour later, after you changed and decided on a book, and Soonyoung not only gave you a beach pass but also his favorite chair (one of the nice ones that recline and have a drink holder) and his phone number (under the guise of you sending him your grocery list, to which you inexplicably offered to just go with him instead), you have to admit the beaches are impeccably maintained.
Touché, beach pass.
With your toes dug into the warm sand, you get through half of your book. Spend the rest of the time dozing off in Soonyoung’s chair, lulled into a half-sleep by the rhythm of the waves crashing and retreating, the conversations of the people around you that becomes a singular thrum, the shrill sound of the lifeguard’s whistle that jolts you awake every time someone goes out too far.
Soonyoung texts you around three, asking if you still want to go to the store with him. No worries if not, he tacks on, you can just send me your list. So you start packing up what little you brought, thankful your walk back to the house is short. You’re drowsy from the sun, warmed through to your bones, still in awed disbelief that this is what the entirety of your summer is going to consist of. That you won’t have to suffer like the poor kid running the mini golf course, nearly dead from either boredom or a hangover behind the ticket window. That your whims will be able to come and go like the tide.
You rinse the sand from your feet at the spigot in the backyard. Return Soonyoung’s chair to where he’d grabbed it from. Leave your sandals by the back door and do a final shake of your bag to get rid of anything that might track into the house. Now that you have the right code (0-5-2-6; Soonyoung had mistyped it in his original message), you let yourself in, surprised to find him bent over the kitchen table with an extremely long grocery list in front of him.
“Lucy, I’m home,” you joke.
He looks up at you with a lopsided smile. “How was the beach?” he asks, eyes returning to his list.
“Beach-y keen.”
There’s a beat of silence—one that’s long enough to have your cheeks warming from embarrassment over a very bad dad joke—before Soonyoung lets out a snort of laughter. “Terrible.”
“Definitely not my best,” you concede, mirroring his smile. Even though he can’t see it, you nod at the list. “What are you up to?”
“Grocery list.” He holds it up, unfurling it like a scroll. “Do you think this is enough?”
You move closer, eyes scanning over what he’s written down. Four different types of burgers and soft drinks. Regular and gluten-free bread; milk and non-dairy alternatives. Brown, white, cage-free, organic eggs. Enough snacks to fuel a youth athletic team for at least a month. Pasta, lunch meat with ???? written next to it, cereal, rice. “Are you planning on buying out the store?”
“I—no, I just didn’t know what you like.”
“May I?” you ask, gesturing for him to hand you the list. When he does, you flip it over and create separate sections: one for each meal, one for pantry items (staples and snacks), and one for drinks. “Do you usually meal plan?”
Soonyoung’s stare is blank. “No. I just go to the store and buy things I like and try to eat it all before it goes bad.” Thankfully, you’re able to keep your horror to yourself. “You do? You’re that organized?”
“I wouldn’t say organized.” You flip the list back over and put checkmarks next to the things you like. “Do the same thing, and then we can come up with some ideas so we aren’t going rogue and overspending.”
After a lot of back and forth, a little friendly ribbing—“Do you really need four boxes of fruit snacks?” you tease Soonyoung, to which he replies, “Sorry, grandma. Add another box of Fig Newtons to the list instead,” which causes you to promptly cross them off—and even more organization and assigning of duties, the two of you emerge triumphant over the shopping list. If your calculations are correct (which they should be, considering how long you’ve lived alone and have done this exact thing every week), this shop should last roughly two weeks. You also give yourselves two days a week to either order takeout or go to a restaurant, considering Soonyoung’s sporadic work schedule.
As you pile into your car, Soonyoung slides into the passenger seat. Covers his eyes with a pair of sunglasses and rolls the window down. Leans his head back against the seat and sighs, appearing to be the epitome of contentment and inner peace. “Thank god it was you I fucked up the listing for.” He says this like it’s nothing. As if it’s a completely normal thing to say and it doesn’t have you nearly swerving into a telephone pole, stunned by the sincerity in his voice. “Can you imagine if it was someone as bad as me?”
It’s his words, and not the hours you spent in the sun, that keep you warm through the chilly grocery store aisles.
The first two weeks of your vacation feel well-earned and restorative, with a slight sunburn.
After that, however, everything starts to feel… different. Like you’re living someone else’s life. An alternate reality where you wake up whenever you want to, stroll casually up and down the boardwalk with an iced coffee and no destination in mind; where all those things you’d stressed over months ago are nowhere to be found, dragged out to sea by the current.
It’s a slow, gradual process. A little awkward and jilted at first as you both grow used to one another and figure out what and where the boundaries are. As you’re both determined not to make it weird or overstep.
Nonetheless, the two of you fall into an easy routine. Most of your afternoons are spent at the beach or around town, and on the two days a week Soonyoung is at the dance studio, he always texts you right before his last class to check in about dinner: if you want him to cook, if you want to cook, if you want to go out or order something for delivery. Meals are now eaten on the couch so the two of you can commentate whatever’s on the television.
(Fridays are your favorite. Soonyoung stops at the liquor store on his way home from the waterpark and the two of you get drunk on beer and soju and watch wrestling. You share two styrofoam takeout containers of tacos, and the drunker Soonyoung gets, the more ridiculous his commentary becomes. By the time the six-pack is gone, he’s sideways on the couch, his head nearly in your lap, bowled over from the weight of his laughter.)
A two-week trial period is usually far too short for you to make friends—hell, you didn’t even talk to Minghao until you’d run into him at the coffee machine every morning for three straight months—but Soonyoung is easy to get along with. To livewith. He’s easy to like. So you’re not shocked when you reach the three-week mark and all those inhibitions seem to disappear. When he appears in the doorway of your bedroom and asks if you wanna swing by the waterpark later that afternoon and keep him company.
“It’s so boring,” he whines. “I just sit there and make sure people don’t pee or drown, which is nearly impossible, anyway. It’s a giant bucket that dumps water on you—how could someone drown.”
You laugh to yourself, thankful your back is turned to him. You’ve been trying to decide between the neon green bikini and the one-piece with the cut-out just below your chest for a good fifteen minutes and aren’t any closer to a decision. “An adult human can drown in as little as two inches of water, you know.”
“Yeah, if they’re an idiot, maybe,” Soonyoung fires back. “Wear the green one. That color will look really good on you. And then come to the waterpark. I’ll give you a free pass.”
When you turn to face him, he quickly pulls out all the stops: truly pathetic puppy dog eyes, plush bottom lip pushed out, hands clasped together like he’s about to start begging. Before this exact moment, you would’ve said your resolve was made of steel, that you were not a person susceptible to a grown man’s pouting, but you cave in a concerningly short amount of time. Huff, try to act like you’re very displeased by this turn of events, and say, “Fine, but this is a family establishment so I’m wearing the one-piece. You only said the bikini because you’re a pervert.”
He’s torn between defending himself and letting out a triumphant hurrah before settling on both. “Hey, I’m not denying it,” he says casually. “You’ll really come, though?”
You shrug. “Sure, so long as you leave me alone sometimes so I can read my book.”
Cue the triumphant hurrah. “Yes! Okay, I can do that. I’ll see if there are any cabanas open and reserve one for you.”
“Wow, I even get my own cabana boy?”
Soonyoung rolls his eyes and starts down the hallway to his room. “And you called me a pervert,” he calls over his shoulder.
Well, if he didn’t bother denying it, you aren’t going to, either.
—
Not only is the heat relentless, the noise does not stop.
Luckily the first issue is largely solved by the cabana Soonyoung was able to nab you. It isn’t all that large, only enough space for two lounge chairs, and to your dismay there are no men in tiny swimsuits holding trays of colorful drinks with little umbrellas waiting for you to beckon them over, but at least it blocks out the sun. Shields you from the worst of it. There’s less to be done about the heat, but once the humidity becomes too stifling you wander over to Soonyoung—easily identifiable in his garish yellow shorts and matching visor—and wait for him to blow his whistle, alerting everyone to the giant bucket of water about to be dumped on them.
“Nice legs,” you tease, wolf-whistling as you approach.
Soonyoung pretends to be scandalized. Gasps. Twists sideways as if he’s trying to hide his skin from your lustful gaze. “In front of the children?” he accuses.
No kids are paying attention to your conversation when they’re about to get drenched, but you play along anyway, sliding your sunglasses down your nose. “Can’t help it. Those tiny little shorts and your pale thighs really get me going.” He scowls, pulling said shorts further down said thighs to hide the discrepancy in skin tone. “God, it’s loud here,” you change the subject, taking pity on him. “This is what you put up with the entire summer?”
“Just wait—it’ll get worse in a second.”
He’s right, unfortunately. From the second the bucket begins to tip and for at least three full minutes after it unleashes its gallons of water, all you hear is screaming. High-pitched, manic screaming loud enough to make your ears bleed, but the water is cold and you’re thankful for the reprieve from the heat, even if it doesn't last long before it evaporates.
“Ah, gotta love it,” he deadpans. “Only twenty-six minutes and fourteen seconds until the next one.”
You snort. Ask him if he wants anything from the snack bar because you need a drink—a very cold, very refreshing drink. All he requests is a bottle of water. Not a bad idea, considering you’re probably dangerously dehydrated from how much you’ve sweat, but you change your mind as soon as you reach the counter. You hear a chorus of angels. It feels like the light of divinity itself shines a spotlight on the part of the menu advertising non-alcoholic piña colada slushies.
You promptly order two—and a water.
When the kid behind the counter hands over your order, you can’t help the beaming smile that forms on your face, but it’s short-lived. Yes, your drinks come with colorful umbrellas and are topped with cherries, and Soonyoung’s water comes straight from a cooler, dripping ice-cold condensation all over your hand and the warped wood top of the counter, but it’s hard to feel victorious when the kid who hands them to you looks like he’s going to keel over and die from heat stroke.
“I—thanks,” you mutter, taking in his flushed cheeks and the hair adhered to his forehead with sweat. You stuff a few bills in the tip jar. “Sorry you have to work here.”
You’re surprised to find Soonyoung in one of your cabana chairs when you return. His visor is pulled over his eyes, his energy completely boneless, and if you weren’t in this weird limbo of maybe-friends you’d probably tease him a little. Call him Sleeping Beauty or flick some of the cold water on your hands at him.
Instead, you place all three drinks on the small, rickety table in between the chairs. “Special delivery.”
Soonyoung lifts his visor. Laughs softly when he sees what you’ve ordered. Asks, “Is one of those for me?” and reaches for one regardless of what your answer is.
“It”—you begin to answer, watching as he dangles a cherry by the stem—“wasn’t,” you finish after he pops it into his mouth.
“But I’m on break.” He pouts. “And it’s so hot outside and this drink is so cold.” He sticks the straw in his mouth and has to speak around it. “And if Chan’s running the snack bar today I bet he put alcohol in this.” He takes a sip. “No booze. Coward.”
“Do you often drink on company time? Also, that kid at the snack bar looked about ten minutes from death. Someone should probably check on him.”
Soonyoung waves you away. “I’ll do it after I clock back in.”
“When is that? Rigor mortis might set in by then.”
“An hour. Rigor mortis is when they go all stiff, right?” You hum in agreement. “Easier to move, then.” He sucks down the rest of the slushie, finishing with a loud slurp that draws some attention your way, finishing with an exaggerated ahh. “Wow, that was really good. Can you wake me up in forty-five minutes?”
You scoff. Tuck your legs beneath you and reach for your book. “Don’t you have your phone? Set an alarm.”
“Mm, don’t want to. What are you reading?”
You tell him the title. Explain that you’d picked it up for cheap in a secondhand shop in town while you were wandering around one afternoon just because you’d liked the cover. “It’s okay,” you say. “It’s not really grabbing me, but it’s well-written and not very long so it could be worse.”
“Do you read a lot?”
“Try to.” Realizing this is not a very satisfactory response, you add, “I’ve tried to read at least three books a month since I graduated college.”
“I’m not good at math, but that seems like a lot of books.”
You laugh. “I don’t always manage it, to be fair. I’m happy with thirty books a year.”
“I haven’t read one book a year in maybe… ever. Do you have a book job?”
The question is asked around a yawn, words and inflection steeped in exhaustion, which is just fine by you. Because it’s easier to glance over at him—arms crossed over his chest, rising and falling rhythmically, and towel covering his face to further block the sun—and say, “Okay, old man, nap time for you,” and laugh at his responding middle finger than it is to exhume all that ancient history. Easier than adopting that indifferent affect as you say, “No, no book job, just a desk in an office,” and wondering if your discontent is made of tissue paper. If it’s palpable.
If it is, Soonyoung doesn’t say anything.
So you don’t, either. You stay mum about the lifelong absence of a dream. How there were things you liked but nothing you could envision doing forever. How it made you aimless, drawn to whatever felt easy at the time, content to let the wind pick you up and take you wherever it wanted. How you had to swallow down that small bite of embarrassment every time someone asks what you do for a living or how much you make. That lethal combination of hopelessness, bitterness, and jealousy you feel when it seems like all of your friends, classmates, and old coworkers are lapping you.
Those things don’t matter here, you remind yourself. You focus your attention back on your book and set an alarm so you can wake up Soonyoung.
Minghao wants to visit you.
This, of course, poses a problem. While you’d alluded to it on your first day here, you and Minghao haven’t talked much beyond a few texts every few days, so you never got around to telling him the full story. That the man you thought you were renting an entire house from is still occupying it. That he sleeps a few feet down the hall and cooks meals alongside you. That, even when he’s at work or both of you retire for the night, your phone will light up with messages or DMs from him as he sends memes or links to places around town he thinks you might like—and that you always hope he’ll ask if you want to go together.
There’s no real reason to deny his request. Much to your dismay, Soonyoung doesn’t mind. Seems to light up at the possibility of meeting one of your friends, someone he only knows about from stories and anecdotes and late-night scrolls through your Instagram feed, where you and Minghao have made it a game to tag one another in the ugliest photos either of you have ever taken. He goes into planning mode almost immediately, and if you were less mature you’d probably pout at the way the “you” in his messages becomes “you and Minghao.”
Inexplicably, you care about disappointing Soonyoung far more than you care about disappointing Minghao, so you tell him to call you once he’s done work so the two of you can come up with a plan.
Your phone rings just after seven, screen lighting up with the only normal photo the two of you have ever taken together. It should bring you comfort, the reminder that this is Minghao and he’s your friend and can even look ugly sometimes when he puts effort into it. But he’s also got the demeanor and general vibe of a parent picking you up from the police station. Something about him just exudes disappointment.
You’ll have it in spades soon.
Minghao spends a few minutes catching you up on things back home, tells you about the goings-on at the office: a new girl in his department he suspects might be a nepotism hire, the creepy IT guy you’ve all complained about for months finally getting fired, a day last week the plumbing broke and everyone got sent home early. “I’m ready for a vacation,” he sighs into the phone.
You grimace, thankful Soonyoung isn’t around to watch this trainwreck occur in real time. It’s another late night for him at the studio as he prepares for the mid-summer recital, still not fully satisfied with the choreography. He’d done the same two days ago and didn’t come home until nearly midnight.
“Hello? Are you there?”
You sigh. Tell yourself it’s better to just rip off the bandage and not prolong it anymore, but you can hear Minghao in your head saying I told you so and it gives you agita. Makes your palms sweaty. You cannot, in good conscience, allow yourself to be patronized by someone younger than you.
“Yeah, so, about that…”
Just as you expected, Minghao is not particularly gentle in his response. “A scam is a scam,” he says. “Do you have any idea how stupid it was to stay there? You don’t know that guy! He could be a serial killer for all you know, or worse—a furry.”
“I’ll be surprised if he’s a furry,” you retort, picking at a bit of pilled fabric on the couch. “But also, it wasn’t entirely a scam, he just messed up the listing. It’s not like I got here and the house didn’t exist and some dude claiming to be a prince was laughing all the way to the bank with my money.”
“You’re hopeless.” You can practically hear the way he’s pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I am not. It’s really nice here, Hao. The town is nice and Soonyoung is nice and he owns a dance studio and works part-time at a waterpark that he gets me into for free sometimes.”
“Is the waterpark nice?”
You hesitate. “I, um—it’s not horrible. Sometimes Chan puts alcohol in the piña colada slushies.”
“That… sounds kind of good, actually. With the little umbrellas?”
“And a cherry,” you confirm.
This, more than anything else, seems to be what seals the decision for him. After confirming for the millionth time that Soonyoung doesn’t mind his company (and that he’s not a serial killer, to which you send him the link to Soonyoung’s Instagram and ask does this look like a serial killer to you? because his most recent post is a photo of him on a giant flamingo floatie in the pool, mouth stained orange from a bag of cheese puffs, to which Minghao reluctantly agrees it does not), he agrees to call out of work and make the drive Friday morning.
Which, of course, is the day the sky decides to crack open.
This is unfortunate for Minghao, who has to make the same hours-long drive you did. This is unfortunate for you, who was looking forward to trying a new brunch cafe on the boardwalk. This is not unfortunate for Soonyoung, who was scheduled from open to close at Carat Bay and now has the day off, which he’s spending preparing for Minghao’s arrival: fridge and pantry restocked, floors vacuumed and mopped, sheets washed and dried, downstairs bathroom stocked with fresh towels. Like the grocery shopping and cooking, you and Soonyoung had worked out a system early on, so on any other day all of this is stuff you’d be helping out with.
Except Xu Minghao must’ve either been a member of a spy network or a teenage girl in a past life.
Normally it’s to your benefit that Minghao can find anything on the internet. Unlike you, he’s not prone to or all that interested in gossip (so he says), but he’s receptive when you assign him a task, and over the time you’ve known each other, the partnership has served you well. Usually it’s just mundane work gossip: who’s sleeping together, who’s on job-hunting sites begging for leads, who got embarrassingly, shit-faced drunk over the weekend and overshared in their Instagram stories. Usually it doesn’t affect you all that much, forgotten soon after in the way mundane work gossip always is.
This time, however.
Although sending him Soonyoung’s Instagram had alleviated his fears that you’re shacking up with a serial killer, it revealed something far worse: you’re shacking up with a Gemini.
Again—not usually a problem, considering astrology isn’t really your thing. You’d be hard-pressed to differentiate a Gemini from a Cancer or whatever else, so when Minghao tells you this it’s met with a hum of acknowledgment and nothing else. It was only once he asked, “Did you guys do anything for his birthday?” that it all started to sink in and panic gripped at you.
Minghao can find anything on the internet because he doesn’t stop at the surface-level stuff. You’d sent him Soonyoung’s Instagram and he didn’t just scroll through the first few posts, he scrolled years back, almost to the beginning, and that’s where he’d found the post: Soonyoung surrounded by friends, their arms slung over his shoulders while he held a cake, two lit number candles perched on top. 25!!!! the caption read.
It was posted on June 15th.
Which was last Sunday. Nearly a week ago. Soonyoung hadn’t said anything, had gone about his day as usual—coffee and a breakfast sandwich eaten at the two-seater table on the front porch before he showered and got ready for work, and even after he got home and the two of you shared a pizza and watched baseball, he never mentioned it.
Hence why you aren’t helping Soonyoung with the cleaning. You’re at the grocery store ordering a birthday cake because if there’s one thing you cannot do it’s bake, even when it’s box mix and prepackaged frosting (and Soonyoung deserves a cake that’s both edible and stays upright). You move to the aisle with the party supplies and curse the lack of options.
A children’s cartoon character or plain red, edges yellowed from age. Tough choice.
You grab a few other things and stand in line to check out, checking your phone religiously. You’d gotten out of the house under the guise of a pilates class you “couldn’t cancel,” so anything longer than an hour will start looking suspicious, but the required 24-hour notice from the bakery had posed a problem. Soonyoung is scheduled at the waterpark tomorrow, and you can’t turn it down because he was kind enough to get you and Minghao another cabana (and Minghao really wants one of those slushies), and then he’s back at the studio on Sunday to put the finishing touches on the recital.
So, here you are. Arms full of items you can let overheat in the trunk of your car and a receipt for a small marble sheet cake, a request for Happy Birthday, Soonyoung! to be written on top in blue frosting, surrounded by confetti sprinkles.
—
Soonyoung and Minghao get on like a house on fire.
You aren’t surprised by this, considering you don’t think Soonyoung has ever met a stranger. He’s good at it—the small talk, navigating those awkward moments, making people feel comfortable. Minghao has only been in the house twenty minutes before he’s giggling and entirely charmed, made to feel right at home even though he’s dripping rainwater all over the freshly-mopped floors. Seems to forget he was supposed to be angry that the rain had ruined one day of his vacation.
Soonyoung insists on carrying on the Friday tradition of takeout, alcohol, and wrestling, which is not something Minghao would watch without outside influence. But he fits in seamlessly. Falls into step with Soonyoung’s chaos, taking over his ridiculous commentary when Soonyoung’s either too drunk or laughing too hard to finish his sentences. Polishes off two orders of tacos on his own. Assumes bartender duties and mixes your drinks to questionable ratios, but perfection nonetheless.
Not to mention he out-drinks both of you. Soonyoung is worse off, retiring to bed just after eleven, groaning about his head and worrying about how he’s going to get up for work as he ascends the stairs. Minghao laughs, watching him fondly. You get the impression there’s a lot he wants to say—and maybe he would if you weren’t seeing three of him—but as it stands he cleans up the living room and asks if you want a glass of water.
“No, I’m okay,” you answer. “I think.”
Still, you aren’t surprised to find water and painkillers on your nightstand when you wake up. Luckily you don’t need them, spared from the torture of spending hours at a waterpark with shrieking children with a hangover, so you send a double-text to Soonyoung—
You [9:37am]: Are you alive? You [9:37am]: Hao left me some water and painkillers if you need them
—to which he simply replies:
Soonyoung [9:50am]: p lease
With a laugh, you throw the duvet off of your legs and pad down the hall. Knock quietly on Soonyoung’s bedroom door and laugh again at the pitiful come in you receive in response. And he does look pitiful. When you walk in, he pops out from under the covers with dandelion hair, face puffy from the alcohol, cheeks ruddy. What little sleep he got must not have been great—he looks exhausted, so you move Minghao’s gifts to Soonyoung’s nightstand, whisper a little fighting!, and head downstairs to brew a pot of coffee.
Not long after, Soonyoung makes his way downstairs and collapses into one of the kitchen chairs. Face-plants onto the table and groans into the wood. Without a word, you grab the bread from the pantry and pop a few slices into the toaster, sliding them onto a plate and serving them to him plain once they’re done.
“This will help with the nausea. Do you think you can stomach coffee?”
He scoffs. “Sure hope so. What’s the point in living if I can’t?”
Minghao emerges halfway through Soonyoung’s third cup, looking fresh and well-rested in a way only the person who drank the most and isn’t suffering a hangover can do. He greets you and Soonyoung with cheerful good mornings and questions about how you slept and how you’re feeling. “Not as bad as him,” you answer, jerking a thumb in Soonyoung’s direction, who gives you both the finger before returning to his face-first position on the table.
Your friend looks at the plate of crumbs and the mug of coffee. He sends you a look that’s easier not to look at or acknowledge.
—
Somehow, Minghao is able to talk you into sharing a two-person tube and joining him on all of Carat Bay’s waterslides.
This is horrifying for many reasons (the height of the slides, seeing Minghao’s bare feet), but it also proves useful. At the top of the highest slide, just as you fit yourself in the front of the tube and screech when Minghao wiggles his painted toes at you, the worker responsible for pushing you towards your certain death asks, “Oh shit, aren’t you the one staying with Soonyoung?”
“I—yes.” You glance at his nametag. Mingyu, it says, and you think you vaguely recognize him from Soonyoung’s Instagram. Horrifying again, because he’s somehow even more attractive in real life and you’re squished into a two-person innertube with Minghao and his painted toes, but he’s friendly and charming and talks at you like you’re old friends.
“That’s cool,” he says, ignoring the impatient discontent and creative insults from the line of children behind you. “Soonyoung said he had someone staying with him and that you’d been here a few times, but I’m always stuck up here.” A child throws a tiny flip-flop at him. It hits him in the chest and falls to the ground. “Wow,” he deadpans, “lucky me.”
In an attempt to stifle his laughter, Minghao asks what time he gets done, telling him about the belated birthday party the two of you have schemed to surprise him with. Fuck me, you think, watching as Mingyu somehow becomes even more attractive as his eyes light up. Not only is he done two hours before Soonyoung, he’s going to invite more of his friends, too. They’ll pick up more food and more snacks and more alcohol. All you and Minghao have to do is pick up the cake and decorate, which last night’s drinking provides a convenient excuse for.
During Soonyoung’s break—which he once again spends napping on a lounge chair under the cabana—Minghao says the two of you will probably head back to the house soon. “I think the heat’s making her hangover worse,” he says, injecting a convincing amount of sympathy into his tone.
Just as you expected, Soonyoung buys it. Finishes up his break with a groan and says he’ll text you when he’s done to check in about dinner, and then there’s nothing but the thwack-thwack-thwack of his slides as he returns to his post at the splash zone.
Two and a half hours to go.
Minghao stays behind to start on the decorations while you go pick up the cake. It turns out better (and bigger) than you expected, and you thank the bakery profusely as you rush back toward the exit. Back at the house, streamers and balloons line the staircase bannister and hang from the light fixtures; a HAPPY BIRTHDAY! banner stretches across the doorway leading into the kitchen; the plates and napkins are both set out, sharing the same cartoon tiger.
Luckily, it gives you both enough time to shower and look presentable before everyone else arrives.
True to his word, Mingyu knocks on the door with his hands full: a case of beer, a pile of pizza boxes, bags of chips in various flavors. Behind him stands a group of people, only one of whom you recognize. Chan, alcoholic slushie barista extraordinaire, greets you with a wave and a large smile. You are wholly unsurprised to see he brought soju.
The next hour is met with more names and faces than you’ll ever be able to remember. Friends of Soonyoung’s, coworkers from Carat Bay, coworkers from the dance studio—all of them kind, making you and Minghao feel welcome and included. They shout in excitement when Soonyoung texts you saying he’s done work. Compliment your quick thinking when he asks what you and Minghao want to do for dinner and you tell him Minghao insists on cooking, and to just shoot you a text when he’s on his way back so he can put it in the oven. When that text comes through, they all hide in the kitchen out of sight and hold their breath, anticipating and waiting, the occasional giggle sneaking through.
You drape yourself across the couch. Minghao stays in the kitchen and, once you call out that the birthday boy is coming up the drive, pretends to chop vegetables to truly sell it.
And when Soonyoung comes through the door, looking just as exhausted as he had this morning and slightly more sunburnt, you almost feel guilty. Almost think he won’t be in the mood to host. Almost think you’ve made a horrible mistake. He asks, “Do you know what he’s making?” to which you shake your head.
“No idea. He won’t tell me—says it’s a surprise,” you respond, thankful your voice and expression both stay steady and neutral.
Soonyoung drops his bag at the door. “Hm. I’ll see if I can get it out of him,” he says, winking when he catches your eye, like it’s you and him against Minghao; like he’s solving this manufactured mystery for your benefit.
Then he walks into the kitchen.
There’s the expected shouts of SURPRISE!
And then there’s a few seconds of silence.
“What the fuck,” comes Soonyoung’s eventual response. You sidle up alongside him, laughing when he turns to look at you with a stunned expression. “What the fuck?” he repeats, quieter this time, meant only for you.
“Happy birthday.” You reach up to playfully pat his cheek. “Belatedly, anyway. Why didn’t you tell me?”
His cheeks go red. As he opens his mouth to answer, sheepish words biting at the back of his teeth, one of his friends interrupts. Slaps him on the back and puts a drink in his hand. Laughs and gives him shit, asking how he didn’t notice all the decorations.
Soonyoung steals a final glance in your direction as he’s pulled away.
Everyone eats, drinks, and laughs. You cut the cake before Soonyoung’s face can wind up in it, only for someone to grab a slice and smash it in his face anyway. Uproarious laughter follows. Someone snaps a picture: first, a close-up of Soonyoung’s face, covered in cake crumbs and enough frosting to stain his skin; then, a second photo of him washing it off in the sink, entire head stuck under the faucet.
It really shouldn’t strike you someplace deep. The memory should be enough, but you find yourself asking, “Do you guys want me to take a picture of all of you?” so you have something to remember it by, too, even if you’re behind the camera.
Minghao must notice, because he offers to take it instead, taking your phone from you and gesturing for you to join the group. They’ve all got their arms around Soonyoung again but they make room for you. Mingyu, heads taller than everyone, moves from Soonyoung’s right and to the back.
“Are you—is it on a timer?” Minghao shakes his head, clearly confused. “Well, put it on a timer and get over here.”
“Me?”
Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “Who else would I be talking to? Come on, it’s my birthday and you’re my friend, so get in the picture.” He coughs. “Please.”
Minghao laughs, but you can tell from the heat in his cheeks that he’s a little caught off-guard at Soonyoung wanting him in the picture, at declaring him his friend, so he fumbles with your phone. Can’t figure out how to set the timer. No one helps, of course—they give him shit and playfully boo him, flustering him more. Once he does figure it out, he sets the timer to the wrong length so the first few photos are candids, Minghao nothing but a streak across the frame. This earns him another round of boos that render him entirely useless, have him squatting beneath the weight of his laughter, but then he sets it correctly, thirty seconds, and there’s a smile on every single person’s face when you look at it later.
After that, it’s party time—within reason.
Someone connects to the small speaker in the living room and shuffles a playlist, upbeat with a low, thrumming bassline, perfect for a party. Minghao gets roped into a conversation with two people from Soonyoung’s studio, exchanging socials and numbers. Someone has left a pan of weed brownies on top of the stove, though no one takes credit for them.
That’s how Soonyoung approaches you some thirty minutes later, half of a brownie stuck between his teeth and chocolate clinging to the corners of his mouth. “Hellooo,” he greets you, each letter slurring together, eyes bloodshot. “Are you having fun?”
“I am,” you answer. “Are you?”
“Yes. D’you want the other half of this? I don’t think I should eat the whole thing.” Soonyoung offers the brownie to you, bottom lip slightly pouted. “I’m not a lightweight or anything,” he adds, as if it’s of the utmost importance to squash any thought you might’ve had about him being one. “And I didn’t stick the whole thing in my mouth. I broke it in half before I ate it, so there’s no spit on it.”
With a huff of laughter, you take the brownie from him and place it on a plate on the counter behind you. You also grab a napkin, turning to Soonyoung with what you intend to be stern, furrowed brows until he goes a little cross-eyed and it makes you laugh. “Why is your mouth always covered in something?”
You reach for him; he comes willingly and immediately.
“Ooh, are you gonna clean me up?” he quips, trying to wiggle his eyebrows. He winds up just squinting and un-squinting his eyes, heavy-lidded and getting redder by the second.
You ignore his teasing with a roll of your lips. Place your hand on his cheek to steady him, grounded by the warmth and softness of his skin. Soonyoung sucks in a breath when you touch him. Covers your hand with his own. Stares at you so intently you forget why you’re touching him at all, that there’s a party raging around you; forget that you’re surrounded by all of Soonyoung’s friends and their curious glances. You forget what the napkin in your hand is for, uselessly pinched between your fingers.
Everything narrows to the size of a pinhead. Soonyoung is all that exists in this moment, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying. Until now, you thought the banter had just been banter—innocent and fun but ultimately superficial. Until now, you could brush off his coy remarks and blame it on proximity and Soonyoung’s ability to flirt with a lamppost if he thought it’d flirt back. Until now, you thought the next two and a half months would be easy; that you’d be able to compartmentalize your attraction to him.
Because this isn’t about that.
You’d needed to get away—from your job, your apartment, your life. All of it. Needed a break from the constant what-ifs and self-doubt and the nasty, unrelenting feeling that you aren’t doing enough, aren’t living up to your potential. That what you are doing is walking down a dead-end street and foolishly trying to find an exit point. You needed to try to outrun everything you’ve pushed aside, knowing it’s long overdue for it to catch up.
You don’t want Soonyoung to be one of those things. Don’t want him added to your list of what-ifs, not realizing it’s already too late for that.
So, just for a moment, you let yourself indulge. You press the napkin to the corner of his mouth and wonder how it’d feel if it were your lips instead, how he’d react, what noises he’d make. If he’d gasp in surprise or suck in another breath through his teeth. If he’d push you away or move his hands to your hips to pull you closer. If he’d let you take your time and do what you wanted or if he’d take control. If everyone around you would be surprised or if they’d think oh, of course.
You don’t find out the answer to any of those questions.
Instead, you clean the stubborn chocolate from the corners of his mouth without a word. Your touch is far more tender and delicate than you think this moment calls for, but if Soonyoung agrees he doesn’t mention it. Keeps his gaze locked on you, eyes tracing every movement. His intensity surprises you, having been outshadowed by his larger-than-life personality, the way he makes you laugh without having to try. But the intensity of the moment surprises you, too, how it all feels amplified: how you can hear every hitch of his breath, even over the noise of the party; how you can not only feel the warmth of it on your skin, but also the tension. How it feels like a massive, tangible thing in the center of your chest.
“All done,” you manage to say, coughing to clear your throat, dry from nerves and the rest of the chaos swirling around in your head.
Soonyoung smiles. Sends a wink over his shoulder as he disappears into the crowd, and you feel his absence immediately and immensely.
Minghao calls you over and reintroduces you to the people he’s been talking to. They’re kind and funny and gracious with their time. Junhui tells you all about how he and Soonyoung met, about his time at his studio. Tells you all about the kids they teach and how much they love Soonyoung. All the gifts they make for him and how they watch him dance with wide, starry eyes, trying to replicate everything he does.
Which is exactly what you find yourself trying to do later on.
Soonyoung had found you in a half-hearted conversation with Chan and Mingyu and dragged you to the living room. “Dance with me,” he said, cackling brightly when you looked at him, bewildered, and said you didn’t know how. “I’ll show you. C’mon, it’s easy.”
Dancing with someone who does it for a living is not easy, but Soonyoung is a good teacher, full of praise and laughter and gentle corrections. It’s all in good fun, anyway, and that’s exactly how he makes it feel as he jokingly shakes his ass and twerks on his friends; as the room goes blurry when he takes your hand and twirls you around. And when the song switches to something slower, headier, more sensual, there’s an immediate spike of panic that Soonyoung snuffs out—he puts distance between the two of you but stays in your orbit, hovering, waiting for you to call the shots.
You know he’ll back off if you want him to. You know he’ll take it in stride and not allow things to get awkward. You also know this decision isn’t life or death, that this can just be harmless fun you blame on the alcohol and weed in the light of day when the sheepishness creeps in. And you have to admit that sounds enticing, because the two poles of your body are pulling you in opposite directions, warring with one another. Try as it might, your brain—with all its logic and reminders for you to use some common sense—is no match for the heat simmering beneath your skin.
It’s a split-second decision, you pulling him back in, letting him fit his hands to the curve of your waist, your eyes fluttering shut at the body heat that seeps into your skin. You watch as the corners of Soonyoung’s mouth lift infinitesimally before he straightens them again, like he doesn’t want to look cocky, doesn’t want this to look like a foregone conclusion, but you like it on him. He wears it well, and you’re taken by it in the same way you’d been taken by his intensity.
You know there are eyes on you—his friends’, Minghao’s—but you can’t find it in you to care. Every time Soonyoung touches you, it feels like you’re the only people left on earth, like you’re swimming through molasses, weighed down by the intoxication of it, the yearning, the need for more.
His hands move to your hips, his lips to just beneath your ear. “Is this okay?” he asks, words spoken so quietly against your skin you feel them more than you can hear them.
You nod. Still have no clue what you’re doing, feel awkward and too big in your own body, but you remind yourself it doesn’t matter. That it’s okay to just enjoy the way Soonyoung is touching you. The way he moves his body, perfectly in sync with the beat of the song, purposeful and precise. The proximity to and closeness of another person.
It’s the same later on, long after all of Soonyoung’s friends have left. Only you and Soonyoung are left at the house, your crossfades providing a convenient excuse to stay behind. No one says anything, but you catch the look Minghao sends you on his way out the door, having accepted an invitation from Jun and Mingyu to check out some new club, wanting to make the most of his last full day in town—it’s discreet and sly, but it also says I hope you know what you’re doing, because you’ve been doing it all night.
You don’t.
You know it just as well as Minghao does, so you start cleaning up the kitchen to give yourself something else to focus on. Plates, cups, and napkins in the trash. Leftovers in the fridge or pantry. Icing wiped off the floor and counters. A massive garbage bag tied up and placed next to the back door to take outside. Time alone, room to breathe. Being around Soonyoung is starting to feel like the two magnets of your head and heart are repelling.
“Leave that for tomorrow.”
You wipe the back of your hand across your forehead. “I’m almost done,” you gently argue. “Besides, it is tomorrow. It’s almost two o’clock.”
Soonyoung just laughs, nodding his head in the direction of the door. “Come on.”
“Soonyoung, there’s still food everywhere, you’ll get bugs—”
“Do I have to drag you out there myself?”
He doesn’t, though you don’t think you’d be upset if he did. “Fine. At least take the trash out with you,” you compromise.
You’re not sure what you were expecting, but it certainly isn’t for Soonyoung to lay on his back in the middle of the yard. No blanket, no towel—even if it’s mostly dried out from the previous day’s storm, you’re not exactly chomping at the bit to take the risk, but Soonyoung has no such reservations. He stretches out like he’s making a snow angel before he tucks his hands behind his head and sighs in content, though you’re not sure why. There’s far too much light pollution this close to the boardwalk to see anything in the sky, not to mention the noise.
Still, you either have to join him or stay standing and look like an idiot.
So you sit down beside him, arms stretched out behind you, your knee knocking into Soonyoung’s elbow. He rolls his head to the side and smiles, and you feel it behind your ribcage, sharp and hot like fireworks. “How did you know?” he asks. “About my birthday.”
Any other time you’d crack a joke, say something cheesy like ah, I have my ways, or that you’d paid an Etsy witch to find out, but in the middle of the night, sitting side-by-side in Soonyoung’s small, dewy strip of grass, it doesn’t feel right. Feels like a moment that requires sincerity. “It was Minghao, actually,” you admit. “He was there when I first saw the rental listing and told me it was a scam because of how cheap it was, so ever since then he’d sort of been convinced you were a serial killer or something. I had to come clean about us rooming together when he asked to visit and that only convinced him more.”
Soonyoung groans. “Damn. I wanna laugh but it’s not funny. Is it funny? He still came here after all that?”
“Well, luckily I’d already been to the waterpark with you by then and watched you nearly pass out when that kid fell and scraped her knee, so I knew there was no way you could kill someone—”
“Hey!”
“—and I sent him your Instagram. We both decided that, aside from the can’t handle blood thing, a serial killer probably wouldn’t post a picture of themselves with cheese dust all over their mouth.”
His jaw drops slightly. Looks like he wants to—and thinks he should—be offended before he snaps it shut and thinks it over. “Mm, that’s probably fair.”
“Yeah, so. As one does, he basically stalked your account until he saw one of your birthday posts from years ago and asked if we’d done anything fun for it this year, and I had to say no because someone didn’t tell me.”
Sheepish, Soonyoung apologizes. Says he didn’t have plans anyway and didn’t want you to feel obligated or make things weird. “It’d only been two weeks.” And when you move to protest, he rolls onto his side, head propped up by his elbow, and says, “I know now it was silly, and I’m still a little blown away the two of you threw all of this together. I—it just means a lot, so thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you reply, voice barely above a whisper. “I hope you and your friends had a good time.”
“I haven’t had a bad one since you got here.” Such a simple statement, but the honesty in his words steals the breath from your lungs. “I’d been having… a bad time. Before you got here. So yeah, it means a lot that you’d go through the trouble.”
It wasn’t any trouble, you want to say. Want to refute the notion that doing something nice, especially for him, was a bother, something only done out of a sense of obligation. Want to tell him you’ve been having a hard time, too, and doing something like this, celebrating someone else, helped ease that perpetual grief even a little bit. That feeling someone’s hands on you in the way his had been—selfish, wanting, longing—was a welcomed change from the hands clutching at your own, rubbing at your back, accompanied by waterlogged, sympathetic words. Apologies that only made you feel worse.
You want to tell him it was nice to be desired instead of pitied.
Instead, you say, “I’ve been having a bit of a hard time, too,” because the rest feels too honest. More words not meant for this moment.
And it seems you chose correctly, because Soonyoung’s brows quirk upwards. “Really?” he asks.
You nod. “I don’t want to dump on you, but my grandmother passed away last year. I used all of my PTO and the last of my inheritance to book the rental. It just sort of… felt like everything was starting to catch up with me, you know? The grief, the insecurities I’m feeling about my job. I needed to get away.”
Soonyoung frowns, and you brace yourself for more of the usual—I’m so sorry for your loss and other such sentiments you wish you could feel thankful for and don’t—but, as usual, he finds a way to surprise you. “Damn,” he mutters, sounding entirely convincing as he whistles, “I feel like I should give you a refund now. I scammed you out of your inheritance.”
A bubble of shocked laughter erupts from you and spreads to Soonyoung. Soon, both of you have dissolved into breathless, belly-aching laughter, trying desperately to shush one another so you don’t disturb the neighbors. And maybe you hadn’t been able to say all those other things, but this you are:
“Don’t you dare. I’d pay it every single time, a million times over.”
July arrives before you know it.
After Soonyoung’s party, things largely go back to normal. Minghao stays in touch, not only with you and Soonyoung, but also Junhui. Like clockwork, he texts you often for “updates.” He’s not interested in what books you’ve read or how many hours of sun you’ve soaked up at the beach. No, all he cares about are any updates in your relationship with Soonyoung—of which there have been none, so these days, understandably, your conversations don’t last all that long.
Additionally, you see Chan and Mingyu more often. Sometimes, when their shifts end at the same time, they swing by the house after work and join you for dinner… and shenanigans. A random Tuesday sees the four of you having a water balloon fight in the backyard. Soonyoung calls dibs on Mingyu, thinking his height will afford them some sort of advantage, but he underestimates Chan’s dodge and weave and that Mingyu’s height is nothing more than a giant target. Another weeknight has all of you nearly coming to blows over a game of poker.
Occasionally, on days they don't work, they join you at the beach. They rope you into boogie boarding and volleyball matches; they nap or mess around in the water while you read. Sometimes Soonyoung will stay behind and pester you with questions: what you’re reading, what it’s about, whether or not you like it, isn’t that similar to that one you read last week, what you think is going to happen.
And then Soonyoung gets a rare weekend off.
Friday, too, which is spent like all the previous ones. Takeout, cheap beer, watching wrestling and adopting silly voices. Even with all the time in the world, it’s not something either of you are willing to give up.
Saturday, though—
Instead of preparing for another hot, sticky afternoon at Carat Bay, Soonyoung appears in the doorway of your bedroom not long after noon. He’s still in his pajamas—nothing but a pair of black briefs you’re sure were created with the sole intent of torturing you—and his hair sticks up at odd angles. But he looks good. Looks like temptation itself with his golden skin, honeyed from the sun; the six pack of abs peeking out from beneath the waistband; his voice, deep and husky from sleep.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” You try to swallow, not at all surprised to find your mouth has gone dry. “Sleep alright?”
Soonyoung hums. Crosses one arm across his body to scratch at his collar bone, which does nothing at all to alleviate your suffering. “You got anything on the agenda for today?” You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. “They’re doing fireworks on the beach tonight, if you wanna check it out? We can make a day of it and do the whole boardwalk thing.”
“Oh,” you manage to choke out. “Sure. That sounds fun.”
His responding smile is another arrow to your chest. “Cool. You’re good with rides, right? Or are you gonna puke on me if I drag you on a rollercoaster?”
I might puke on you if you don’t put a shirt on, you think. “No, I’m good,” you confirm instead. Then you actually give yourself a second to think of something that isn’t Soonyoung and his sculpted, insanity-inducing body and follow up with, “Except maybe that spaceship-looking thing that spins around really fast.”
Rookie mistake: you forget to put the teacups on your no-go list.
After getting your wristbands, it’s the first ride Soonyoung drags you on. “If you’re gonna puke, we might as well get it over with early,” he reasons. You’re too gobsmacked to argue or try to sneak out of line when he isn’t looking, so the next thing you know you’re being ushered into an empty cup by a minimum wage employee entirely indifferent to your plight, all hopes of a last-second escape dashed.
Soonyoung’s sinister grin fills you with dread.
Because you know exactly what he’s going to do.
“Soonyoung, don’t—”
It’s no use. As soon as the ride starts moving, Soonyoung’s grabbing onto the bar in the center and spinning your teacup as fast as he can. Aside from his wild cackles that slip through, you can barely hear anything over the sound of your own screaming, louder than even the small kids being spun around by their parents. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and hold onto the safety bar for dear life, filling your thoughts with anything that doesn’t require a barf bag.
(You obviously don’t know in the moment, but later on, Soonyoung digs his phone out of his pocket. Goes into his camera roll and thumbs until he finds what he’s looking for before holding it out to show you. And you’re a little stunned, is the thing, because there you are. Eyes shut, gripping onto the bar just like you remember, but it’s the way you’re smiling that takes you by surprise. You can’t remember the last time you looked so happy. Can’t remember the last time you felt it, either.
“Do you mind if I post it to my story?”
Feels nearly impossible to tear your eyes away from it, but you manage to nod. Say, “Sure, as long as you send it to me first,” and he does.
You [6:28pm]: [Attachment: 1 Image] You [6:28pm]: What do you think this means? Minghao [6:34pm]: that you’re fucked
A fresh wave of nausea hits you, because you don’t need Minghao to tell you that.
You already know.)
Somehow you survive, even though your first steps back on solid ground are a bit shaky. Soonyoung laughs and offers up a half-assed apology you know he doesn’t mean, but he lets you choose the next few rides to make up for it. Chivalrous, sure, but there are so many you don’t know where to begin. Anything upside-down is out of the question for now, given the state of your stomach, so you point at a dilapidated-looking ship and say, “What’s that?” even though it’s self-explanatory.
“Ghost Ship.”
The hesitation in his tone immediately piques your interest. Oh ho ho, you think, smiling to yourself—he should not have spun you dizzy on the teacups. “Oh. Is it scary?”
So subtle you nearly miss it, Soonyoung puffs out his chest and stands up straighter. Stares at the ride as if it offended him personally as he says, “I—no! Not really. No, it’s not.”
“Is it not scary or not really scary?”
“It’s not scary,” he clarifies, lying through his teeth. “Not to me, anyway.”
“Cool, let’s go on it, then.” You start walking towards the ride entrance, pretending not to know he isn’t following. “It’s eight tickets,” you say, keeping up the ruse. Soonyoung still hasn’t followed and your wristbands are loaded with unlimited ride tickets. “Do we have—Soonyoung? What’s wrong?” Checkmate. Soonyoung’s cheeks go pink as he shuffles a few feet closer. “Do you not want to go on it?”
“I do!” he insists. “It’s just—it’s just, uh. Doesn’t that rollercoaster look way more fun? Or… look! The log flume looks fun, too!”
“But then we’ll have to walk around in wet clothes.”
“That’s what the rollercoaster is for.” You stare blankly at him. “You know, for drying. ‘Cause it goes fast.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to go on that one,” you say, making sure to pout a little. There’s a very visible war waging inside of him. He either looks like a chicken on the ride or he looks like one by refusing to go on it at all. And that’s nothing a bit of bargaining can’t fix, so you say, “If you’re too scared, I can always hold your hand.”
You expect there to be at least a split-second of hesitation, but Soonyoung just says, “Deal!” and reaches for you. Laces your fingers together and doesn’t let go of you the entire time. Not while you wait in line, not while you’re on the ride (where he does scream his head off and grips your hand so tight you’re surprised it doesn’t cut the blood flow), and not after.
Soonyoung holds your hand as the two of you walk up and down the boards. As you duck into souvenir and t-shirt shops with crude sayings. As your stomach starts to rumble and he asks if you’ve ever had a deep-fried cannoli. As he somehow seems shocked when you say no and offers to buy you one, and when you jokingly ask if he’s trying to kill you, he squeezes your hand and says, “Never,” in a voice so soft it nearly makes you cry.
The only time he lets go is to pay for your food. He finds an empty table and sits on the same side as you, bodies pressed so close together your thighs touch. Takes another photo after he convinces you to try the cannoli. It’s far too sweet and far too rich, and you can’t stomach more than a couple bites, but Soonyoung wears a proud, beaming smile the entire time that helps it go down easier. He cleans the powdered sugar from the tip of your nose and, when he’s done, he stares at you so intently you think, this is it, he’s going to kiss me.
But he doesn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
There are things he wants to do first. More rides, more hand-holding, more obscene t-shirts he tries talking you into buying, more strange foods you can only find in a place like this. More people he wants to introduce you to, too, because he seems to know everyone. They all greet him warmly, like their day is better just by running into him, so by extension that warmth is also on offer for you. “Oh, hi! Who’s this?” they all ask, and Soonyoung introduces you by name each time.
He never says, Oh, she’s renting one of my spare rooms for the summer.
He never says, Oh, she’s just a friend.
He never says, Oh, no, it’s nothing serious, because it isn’t anything at all.
Not once does he shy away. Never seems embarrassed to be seen with you. Doesn’t seem fussed by his friends glancing down at your clasped hands and assuming you’re together, or watching the way he throws an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side. He doesn’t put a name to whatever is simmering between the two of you, but he doesn’t snuff it out, either.
Soonyoung gives you an answer to a question you haven’t dared to ask: does he feel it, does he want this, too?
A single spark of hope can be a dangerous thing. You know this as well as anyone. But it doesn’t feel so scary when, later on, the two of you see Chan manning one of the game booths, scrolling mindlessly through his phone as a young kid throws darts at a wall of colorful balloons. “Wow, great job,” he deadpans every time one pops, not bothering to check how many were taken out before handing over a giant stuffed animal.
“I’m gonna win you something,” Soonyoung declares. “Which one’s your favorite?”
You hum. Tap your finger against your chin as you pretend to mull it over. “The tiger,” you answer. “The really big one.”
Soonyoung pretends to push up sleeves that don’t exist. “Coming right up.” He approaches Chan. “Hello, sir. I’m here to win the giant tiger for the lovely lady.”
Chan ignores him and holds out his hand for the money. “Pay up, weirdo.”
As they argue, you wander into another souvenir shop. It’s mostly more of the same—tacky figurines of sea life and shot glasses featuring anatomically incorrect genitalia, skimboards and mugs with seashells for handles—but you pause in front of a rack of keychains. You’re not going to find Soonyoung’s name on any of these tiny surfboards. There are others, though: #1 Grandpa, Rock Star, Boy Mom, They Didn’t Have My Name. You laugh at the last one. Almost pick it up for Soonyoung until another one catches your eye.
Best Teacher
When you return to Chan’s game stall, Soonyoung is holding the tiger around the neck, grinning triumphantly as he rocks back on his heels like he hunted it himself.
“Welcome back! As you can see, I fought valiantly to win you your requested prize.”
He returns his arm to your shoulders, pulling you back into his side as he continues walking down the pier. From behind, Chan yells, “No he didn’t! He didn’t win shit, he grabbed it when I wasn’t looking! He’s a fraud!”
Naturally, Soonyoung ignores this. Pretends he doesn’t know Chan at all and asks what you’re going to name your new friend. “Probably nothing, if you keep carrying them like that. I think they’re turning purple. Or blue.”
Soonyoung gasps and adjusts his grip. Carries your new friend around their middle instead of their neck. “Okay, no attempted murder charges for me. One of my friends is on ferris wheel duty tonight—let’s see if he’ll let me use his locker.”
“Trying to get rid of my child already?”
“They’re heavy,” he whines.
You poke his bicep. “Are these just for show, then? God gives His biggest biceps to His most useless soldiers.”
“Did you forget I won this—”
“Stole,” you correct.
Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “Did you forget I won this for you? How can that be useless?”
You’re poised for a response that’s cut off by someone shouting his name. A lanky, kind of tall man is leaning over the wrought-iron railing, waving his arms like one of those blow-up things outside car dealerships. He’s wearing a tie-dyed shirt and his nametag has two names on it. HANSOL is crossed out with VERNONwritten underneath in bigger, bolder letters, prompting you to ask Soonyoung what his name actually is.
“Both,” he answers. Then, to Hansol-Vernon, he asks, “Can I use your locker for this thing?”
“Just leave it here,” Hansol-Vernon says, pointing at the floor of his operating station. He cracks open a can of beer. “Y’all want some? The fireworks are gonna start soon so everyone bounced. No one’s wanted to ride this thing in fuckin’ hours.”
Surely this is in violation of at least fifteen different safety standards. No one else seems to care, though, so you’re not going to be the one to bring it up and be a wet blanket about it. “Sure.” You shrug, accepting two cans when he hands them over.
Soonyoung, on the other hand, seems to have other plans. “Can we watch the fireworks from this thing?”
“Probably. They’re doing them all the way down the beach, so I don’t think they’ll, like, hit you.”
Soonyoung looks at you. Asks a question with his eyes that you answer with a small nod. “Sick. Give us more of those”—he points to Hansol-Vernon’s beer stash—“and don’t bring us back down until I say so.”
“Dude, no. If you’re planning on fucking up there again don’t even—”
You choke on your beer, coughing violently as you try to prevent it from coming out of your nose. Hansol-Vernon slaps you on the back and asks politely if you can get it together because he can’t have a death on his hands, either. “Thanks, Hansol-Vernon,” you say, wheezing a little as you regain your voice.
“It’s just Hansol. Or Vernon.”
That doesn’t clear up much.
Still stuck on three sentences ago, Soonyoung scoffs, indignant, and crosses his arms over his chest. “First of all, that was Mingyu! Don’t blame me for his debauchery! Second of all…” He pauses. “No second of all, actually.” He turns to you. “Do you wanna watch the fireworks from up there? I promise I won’t try to fuck you.”
You choke again.
Regardless, you agree. Vernon (which you’ve settled on calling him due to his shirt, which doesn’t have much of a Hansol vibe) gets you two situated, shouting a very pointed, “Hands where I can see them at all times!” when you reach the top.
And the view is breathtaking.
Nearly the entire town is visible, flat and sprawling as it encroaches on the shoreline to your right and the bay to your left. Lit up bright, welcoming like a beacon, though you’re not sure what it’s luring you into. You watch the waves break against the shore. The ant-sized people moving in herds. All the other rides that are operating and flashing and playing stupid little songs. You watch two seagulls perch on the roof of the ticket booth and fight over a french fry.
Under no circumstances do you look at Soonyoung, even though you know he’s looking at you.
The weight of his gaze is overwhelming. Has fire needling beneath your skin, pricking at your most sensitive spots. Because not only are there implications in it, there are wants. Wants that you know would be mirrored in your own eyes. And that’s… is it smart to start something with a predetermined end date? Soonyoung isn’t an idiot, wouldn’t be going into this with eyes wide shut, but you’re not sure where you stand. If it’s a risk you’re willing to take and a hurt you’re willing to both endure and put someone else through.
Still.
A single spark of hope can be a dangerous thing, and Soonyoung’s looking at you like he wants to engulf you. Like he wants to take every broken part of you and piece them back together with gentle hands. He’s looking at you with no trepidation at all, and it’s no small thing to be looked at like that. Like there’s potential. Like whatever you have to offer is worthwhile.
It should be scary. You should be throwing out emergency flares, begging whoever comes to your rescue to make you think rationally. It’s only been a month. You’re leaving in two. Hours of distance separate the two of you. You barely know him. He barely knows you; might eventually uncover all the things you hate about yourself and find them ugly, too.
It should be scary.
But it’s not.
So here, at the top of a ferris wheel that might as well be the top of the world, is where you finally meet his eye and manage to say, “I want you to kiss me. When the fireworks start, I want you to kiss me.”
Soonyoung smiles so wide his cheeks dimple. Scooches forward to sit on the edge of the bench, so close his knees knock into yours, always touching now that he’s allowed to. So close you can smell the sea salt and the remnants of cologne that stick to his skin. So close you can see yourself reflected in his eyes, surrounded by stars.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asks, voice deep and molten, words nearly spoken into the crook of your neck. You almost have to look away again—almost have to call the whole thing off out of self-preservation—because that intensity is back. Has your breath hitching in your throat, sweat beading along your hairline.
Soonyoung cups your jaw. Runs his thumb over the seam of your lips. If you were any more coherent you’d nip at it with your teeth, soothe the sting with your tongue, show you can give as good as you get. You want Soonyoung just as affected as you, just as wanting. Just as gripped by the anticipation. Just as fucked up over the possibility of it all.
And it seems like he is, because he leans in impossibly closer. Uses his free hand to grip at the meat of your thigh, slide it higher until it’s nearly settling on your waist. He pinches the fabric of your shirt between his fingers like he’s trying to savor it, trying to memorize every detail of this moment. When he speaks this time, you actually do feel it against your skin. Feel the way his lips form around each word. Feel his warm breath every time he exhales. Feel your stomach somersault when he asks, “What if I don’t want to wait for the fireworks?” Feel your core throb when he continues, tone headier than you’ve ever heard it, “What if I just pulled you into my lap and kissed you right now?”
If you were any more coherent you’d tell him to do it. You’d smirk, press your tongue into the fat of your cheek, lean in just as close and watch the goosebumps rise on his arms when you tugged his earlobe between your teeth and said, “Why don’t you find out?” But you’re all out of sorts here on the top of the world, scared you’re going to come plummeting back to reality any second.
Because Soonyoung feels like a dream—not idealized or put on a pedestal, but realistic and attainable. Someone it’s easy to exist alongside of. Someone who shows you off without reservation and swindles his friends out of glorified carnival prizes just because you want one. Someone not afraid of or deterred by the liminal state of your relationship, before things became more solid and defined. Someone who knows when to push and when to be patient. Someone who looks at you and sees a future you could barely imagine—not because you didn’t want it, but because all those assumed barriers.
Grief so overpowering some days you could barely get out of bed. Salary, title, and job prospects not where or what you thought they’d be after graduating nearly a decade ago. Feeling trapped by both of these things. Knowing it’s pointless to tie your self-worth to numbers and degrees and prestige but being unable to help it. Being quietly dissatisfied with a simple, ordinary life.
But while those things are true, they aren’t what defines you.
You haven’t decided this thing with Soonyoung is worth pursuing because of his job—jobs. How much money he does or doesn’t make isn’t what you see when you look at him. What you see is his smile when he walks through the door on Friday evenings. The way his brows pinch and his tongue sticks out just so when he’s cooking dinner for the two of you. The look he wears when he shows up in the doorway of your room, half embarrassment and half mischief as he asks you to help him bleach his hair at some ungodly hour—that he trusts you to help even though you’ve never done it before. You see a man that, for the past month, has welcomed you into his home and his life.
All of those things are what makes it easy to plant your hands in the center of his chest and push him back against the bench. To crawl into his lap just like he’d teased, to nip at his skin just like you’d wanted, and whisper, “Maybe I don’t want to wait, either.”
Fate is not something you believe in, but if you did, you think it’d feel a lot like this: the first firework exploding as soon as Soonyoung grabs you by the back of the neck and draws you in for a searing, bruising kiss. The way he groans into your mouth and moves his hands to your waist, trying to erase space that doesn’t exist. You can tell he’s holding himself back, that he wants to thrust his hips, desperate for friction, but doesn’t want to risk making you uncomfortable, is letting you set the pace.
And the pace you want is just as frenzied.
“Fuck,” Soonyoung swears, hissing as you fully drop your weight onto him. When he tilts his head back, you move your lips to the column of his throat, delighting in the sounds spilling from him, the way he finally dares to roll his hips.
You moan, unable to help the sleazy smile that stretches across your face. “God,” you rasp, matching his thrusts, “you’re so hard.”
Soonyoung scoffs. Makes a sound like the air’s been punched out of him. “Do you know—shit—d’you know how long I’ve wa-wanted to kiss you? And have you seen yourself?”
“I have,” you snark, threading your fingers through his hair. “You could’ve, you know. Would’ve let you.”
“Pull it harder.” You do as you’re told, tightening your grip, staring down at the man beneath you. Lips parted, breathing labored, unsure what to do with his hands. You want to mess him up. Want to bring him close to the edge and make him suffer through having to wait. “Mm yeah, just like that, baby—make it hurt.”
Every word strikes you deep. Has you needy and clenching around nothing, unfazed by the world around you, that you’re in public. Fireworks continue to explode. So will you, soon, if Soonyoung doesn’t—
“Touch me,” you beg, unashamed of the need in your tone. He should hear it. He should know how affected you are by him, what he does to you. What you’ve been trying to ignore for weeks. “Soonyoung, please. Touch me, take me home, I don’t care, just—”
You’d be hard-pressed to say how you got here.
On your back in Soonyoung’s bed, his head between your legs. Panties pulled down only as far as they needed to be for him to get his mouth on you, and god is it good. Soonyoung’s made a trembling, gasping mess of you in record time. Has you clutching at his sheets every time he suctions his lips around your clit; every long, pointed stroke he makes with his tongue. Stars explode behind your eyelids every time he praises you, and you’d wanted him on the edge but you make it there first.
Soonyoung can tell. Sucks two fingers into his mouth and teases your entrance. “You’re gonna come, aren’t you, baby?” You nod, unable to muster actual words. Soonyoung grins, devilish and wicked, and presses his fingers inside. Crooks them immediately against your front wall as he returns his mouth to your cunt, sucking and licking, nipping at your skin.
“Fuck, I’m gonna—”
“Mhmm, let me feel it—that’s it, good girl. Taste so fuckin’ good; you drive me fucking crazy.”
You come with a shout, vision nearly whiting out, your hands back in Soonyoung’s hair to anchor you to this plane of existence. Wave after wave of euphoria hits you, and you almost beg him to keep going, to not go easy on you, make you come again, but you also just want him closer. Want to taste yourself on his lips. Want to hear his fractured intakes of breath as you grip his cock and touch him properly for the first time. Want the two of you to have to sleep in your bed because you make such a mess of his.
All he gives you is a few seconds to catch your breath. You know what you must look like, chest heaving and sweat-slick, and it makes you feel powerful. Sexy. Gives you the confidence to shrug off the last of your inhibitions and say, “C’mere, please,” and kiss the taste of your pussy off his lips, suck it off his tongue.
You skim your hands down his body—the expanse of soft, warm skin, chest to thigh. Grab at him over his briefs, rub your thumb across the wet patch you find there. Soonyoung curses when you suck that same thumb into your mouth and groan at the taste, the musk and hint of salt. One day you’ll return the favor and make him come with your mouth, have his muscles contracting as you swallow him down and let him fuck your throat, but right now you’re too impatient. Need him inside of you too badly.
There’s plenty of time for everything else.
Hand dipping beneath his briefs, you’re finally able to feel the weight of him. His velvety skin. Soonyoung hisses and tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. Watches you like a hawk, predator and prey, and it just spurns you on more. Has you circling and pumping his length, trying to figure out what he likes—which seems to be everything, judging by the way he hides his face in the crook of your neck and whines. “Baby,” he mewls. “God, you’re gonna feel so good around me, so tight and wet. Fuck, I’m never letting you out of this bed.”
“Yeah?” you tease, thumbing at his slit, collecting the pearls of pre-cum. “You wanna keep me forever?”
Another loud moan. “Please don’t say things like that,” he pleads, and you swear your heart stops, that your stomach drops through the mattress and onto the floor, before he follows it up with, “you’ll make me bust in my underwear like a virgin.”
You giggle, because that’s just how it is with Soonyoung: so easy to exist, to let go of your fear; so easy to laugh when everything starts feeling a bit too serious.
Easy to lob a truly terrible joke right back at him. “Come lose it, then.”
He barks a laugh. Leans over to fetch a condom from his nightstand. “Would you, the beautiful, incredible woman who I can’t believe is naked in my bed right now after I scammed her, like to do the honors?”
You would, actually, so you do.
Soonyoung kisses you as he slowly presses inside. As he fucks into you inch by inch. When he bottoms out, he gives you time to adjust; moves his hands to your waist and massages the skin just above your hip bones. “Okay?” he asks, and when you nod, tell him it’s okay to move, he presses another kiss to your forehead. “Good job, pretty girl; took me so well. I knew you’d feel like heaven.”
He fucks you slowly at first, measured and precise. Takes his time rolling his hips as his hands explore anything they can reach, like he can’t bear to not be touching you even though you’re connected in the most raw, sensual way two people can be. He waits he can feel you spasming around him, until your legs are locked behind his back, begging him to fuck you faster, harder, before he obliges. Before he puts all the power in his hips to good use. Before he rolls you onto your stomach and enters you from behind, both of you gasping at how much more intense it feels.
“Close,” you warn him, not at all surprised at how quickly your second release has snuck up on you.
With a final nip to the back of your neck, Soonyoung plants his knees against the mattress and grabs you by the hips, angling your body so he hits deeper, harder; so his balls slap against your clit every time he thrusts into you. You’re mindless with pleasure. Babbling nonsense as you beg him not to stop. Wouldn’t fuckin’ dream of it, he speaks through gritted teeth.
The coil of tension in your gut finally snaps. Again, you come with a shout, entire body pulling taut as Soonyoung continues to fuck you through it, his own undoing not far behind. Only a few more thrusts before he’s draping his body over yours and spilling into the condom, hands immediately reaching for yours to twine your fingers together.
It’s quiet in the immediate aftermath. Soonyoung rolls onto his side and presses his front against your back, arm secured around your middle. Kisses the top of your head and sighs. “I need to clean us up but I don’t think I can move.”
“Hm. At least take off the condom so your dick doesn’t get all pruney.”
Soonyoung startles, bolting upright. “Can that happen?”
“Dunno,” you respond, feeling sleep nipping at your heels, “but I’d rather you didn’t risk finding out. I happen to like your dick very much.”
He laughs. Rolls out of bed and playfully swats at your ass on his way to the bathroom. “Yeah, we’re not leaving this bed for a long time.”
In the morning, you wake up Soonyoung with your mouth and ride him until you’re both dizzy and breathless.
You fetch a book from your room and read while he dozes in and out of consciousness, content to just be next to him. You ignore the slew of texts from Minghao, who had heard from a friend of a friend of a friend that there had been a development in your and Soonyoung’s relationship the night before, but once your phone vibrates for the hundredth time that morning, you figure you might as well get it over with because you know Minghao—know he won’t relent until he gets what he’s looking for.
Minghao [11:03am]: ignore my actually important texts all you want, but at least look at this 🙄
What he’s sent you is a job listing.
You can hardly believe what you’re reading. Not only is it nearly your dream job, but it’s remote and triple your current salary—and, most importantly, you’re qualified.
You [11:12am]: Minghao what is this?? Minghao [11:12am]: a friend is a higher-up there. says we can use him as a reference but if your resume looks good it might as well be a done deal Minghao [11:13am]: i already sent yours to him btw You [11:14am]: Freak. Why do you have a copy of my resume?? Minghao [11:14am]: i don’t. i sent him your linkedin Minghao [11:14am]: your ugly ass headshot must not have scared him off bc he said he’ll be in touch soon
Now you’re breathless for an entirely different reason.
You’ll figure out a way to thank him later, ask if he’s making the switch with you because both of you deserve better. You won’t get your hopes up—not until it’s a done deal, and not until you talk to Soonyoung. Because whatever this is between you is heading down a path you want to follow; want to see through to the end, wherever that may be.
For now, though, you’re happy to exist alongside Soonyoung. Happy to listen to his quiet snores and let him cuddle into your side. Happy to be in this house in this little beach town that has already given you so much.
Perhaps fate is something you believe in, after all.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to show you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3
On the Clock | (c.hs)
PAIRING: Vernon x f. reader
SUMMARY: Modern problems call for modern solutions, including naming a random stranger in the book store as your boyfriend to avoid an embarrassing encounter with your ex. The problem? The stranger is Vernon and he’s not supposed to be a stranger at all - he’s your coworker, and now everyone at the office - including your ex - thinks you’re dating.
WC: 20,296
AU: Faking dating, Coworkers to Lovers, Romcom
GENRE: Smut, some fluff and crack
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Reader has some insecurity about how her working hard is perceived, some ranting about Being A Girlboss, a little bit of inner angst, my bad attempts at humor, reader’s ex boyfriend SUCKS sorry to all the Minho’s of the world I named him after, explicit language, some minor commentary on power dynamics, Star Wars Lore, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex (never do this), oral (f. receiving), nipple play, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, a little bit of a handjob, some cum eating if you squint, Vernon was supposed to be a freak but I made him soft instead, mutual pining.
A/N: Thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be a part of the Lonely Hearts Collab. I’m honored to be among such amazing writers and I cannot wait to see what everyone else wrote.
A/N 2: Thank you to the (w)hor(e)anghae squad @daechwitatamic @eoieopda and @jihopesjoint for beta reading this and letting me blind pass it over so I wouldn’t have to read it again because I don’t like it :)
MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAG LIST | ASK | LONELY HEARTS CAFE COLLAB
WHOSOEVER SLAYETH CAIN SHALL SUFFER TENFOLD... OR WHATEVER IT IS THAT THE BIBLE SAYS. You haven’t slayed Cain and you’re not really sure you believe in anything in the Bible, but you’re certainly suffering sevenfold. Eightfold. Ninefold.
Sevenfold had been earlier this morning when you dropped your glass of coffee on the ground, shattering your favorite cup and staining your white tile. Several Clorox wipes later, there is still brown stuck to the grout, looking a bit like you had an unseemly accident in the middle of your kitchen.
Eightfold had been when you decided to fix your weekend by heading to the bookstore. Surely purchasing books that you were going to let sit on your shelf months before reading would fix your day - until someone rear-ended you in the parking lot, leaving a good dent and an apologetic exchanging of numbers and insurance information.
Ninefold comes when you least expect it, standing in the aisle with a stack of books in your hand, eyes flickering over the different titles and ornate covers. You already feel better than you had this morning. The smell of paper, the whisper of turning pages, and the hum of the cafe brewing coffee in the distance immediately puts you at ease.
You swear nothing can put a damper on a good hour spent between shelves - until ninefold walks around the aisle corner.
The stack of books in your arm nearly drops to the ground when you see your ex-boyfriend hand-in-hand with his new girlfriend. You wheel around so fast you slam into the person behind you, which does knock all the books from your hands onto the floor.
A hissed curse leaves your lips followed by a quick apology. You drop to your knees, picking the books up as quickly as you can. The dude you’ve collided with has also dropped his books, the amalgamation of your soon-to-be-purchases making it more difficult for you to pick up your shit and leave the scene before Minho sees you.
Minho says your name, surprised.
“Fuck,” you whisper, fingers going rigid on the stack of books in your hand. You shoot to your feet and spin around, breathless as you come face to face with Minho and the new girlfriend that you definitely didn’t look up on social media a few weeks ago. “Hi, Minho.”
“Wow, it’s nice to see you not in the marketing department for once.”
“Well, I work there…” You offer a bit sharply, tapering to adjust to a nicer tone. “Hence, you know - finding me there.”
“I meant you rarely leave there.” He laughs and you feign a grin, eyes flickering over to the rosy-cheeked and very glossy-haired girl on your ex’s arm.
Good for her, you think. I wonder what hair product she uses.
“This is Mina.”
“Mina?” You ask, sticking your hand out as you shuffle your books awkwardly to the crook over your elbow. She smiles - god she has good teeth - and shakes your hand. “Mina and… Minho. Easy to remember.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Minho tells me you’re the only ex he’s ever left things on good terms with.”
Your eye twitches.
Good terms was a serviceable way to put it, you suppose. Sure, there had been no fighting or infidelity or long distance that put a strain on your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t been aware that there was a strain on your relationship until Minho was sitting you down on his couch and letting you know that it just wasn’t working for him anymore.
That had been confusing. You hadn’t asked any questions though, opting to sit and stare at him while clenching your teeth, nodding along while he explained that your inability to leave work at work and enjoy home while at home was wearing down on him.
You’re not saving lives, he’d said. He had been earnest too, which is the crux of it. You’re in marketing. You need to take a breather.
As if he didn’t come home in a bad mood after shitty sales calls all day, as if he wasn’t stressed when he didn’t hit quota, or didn’t complain about how long the department meeting went - you know. You were there, too.
So sure, you were on good terms. But only one of you seemed to have been unhappy with where things were going, and only one of you seems to have moved on to someone with really good hair genes and great dental hygiene.
Your tongue runs over your teeth, suddenly worried that you’d forgotten to brush them this morning.
“Yeah,” you agree, clearing your throat and choking a bite. “Good terms are always the goodest - best way to end things.”
“He’s really hopeful you’ll find someone,” she sighs, looking up at him dreamily. “He’s always wanted the best for you.”
A vein bursts in your head. Well- no. You wish the vein you feel throbbing in your head would burst and knock you out so you’d no longer have to suffer through this ninefold moment of suffering. Perhaps, even, a very attractive medic with glossy hair and good teeth could come save you and fall in love at first sight.
The genuine way that Minho and Mina look at you tells you that they’re serious, that they see you as something that deserves love too. Said in a cooing voice, said patronizingly, said with a pat on the head and a firm pout.
You turn with your free hand, grabbing the sleeve of the man who is hovering behind you and pull him over to you, grin growing sevenfold. Eightfold.
“No need to worry,” you assure them. “My boyfriend is right here! The stars really did align for me, just like you hoped and dreamed.”
Your seconds-old-star-crossed-lover looks entirely startled, looking between you, Minho and Mina. His books are cradled against his chest, his brown eyes wide. He’s actually incredibly cute, his glasses a little askewand his brown hair a little unruly.
“You’re dating Vernon?”
You look at Minho, blank. “What?”
Minho looks at your Very Real Boyfriend. “You’re dating Vernon? From IT?”
Ninefold, meet Tenfold.
“Of course,” you answer slowly, looking at your partner of now thirty seconds. “I am dating Vernon… from IT.”
Vernon (from IT) looks like he would rather be anywhere else than standing in the middle of the fantasy novel aisle with you at a bookstore, your nails digging tighter into his sleeve and your crazy eyes telling him to get with the program.
Vernon (from IT) clears his throat and nods, looking over at Minho. “Yeah. Hey, Minho.”
“Wow. This is really unexpected.”
“It sure is.”
Your nails dig in harder and Vernon (from IT) tries to pull away from you but you step closer, leaning toward him while flashing Minho and Mina a smile. “Anyway, no need to worry about me finding a relationship. I am very happy.”
“Figures you found someone at work again.” He laughs, but the comment lands like a blow. You feel yourself flinch, smile going too tight. “You really don’t leave enough to find anyone else, huh?”
Vernon (from IT) seems to notice, shifting toward you to slide his arm around your waist. The move startles you, drawing your attention to his face. He really is pretty this up close, his lips the perfect shade of bubblegum pink, his cheekbones high and hidden beneath the rim of his glasses, the tangy scent of citrus on his clothes.
“I like women who work really hard,” Vernon (from IT) assures Minho. “I’ll never get tired of resetting her password over and over again because she loses all her sticky notes everytime the cleaning crew comes through.”
If Minho senses the shift, he doesn’t let on. He’s never been great at social cues anyway, which is what makes him a decent salesman. Still, you’re eager to get out of their way and the glare of Mina’s shiny hair.
“Well,” You state. “We have to get going.”
“For sure. It was nice seeing you outside of work!”
With a final nod, Vernon (from IT) tugs on your waist. You both navigate awkwardly down the aisle, steps not quite in time and hips bumping. It’s uncomfortable and uncoordinated, but as soon as you’re around the aisle and away from your encounter, the two of you separate.
Vernon (from IT) looks anywhere but you. His cheeks are tinted pink as he looks up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to foot while you regain all your books in your arm. Embarrassment and gratitude both well up inside of you, one beating the other out.
“I am really sorry,” you blurt, voice a little loud. The people around you startle and you lower your pitch when Vernon (from IT) looks at you, chewing on his lip. “Thank you - I don’t even know how to say thank you for doing that.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Your cheeks heat. “Right.”
“Happy to help, though. You can thank me by swapping books with me, though.”
“What?”
He gestures to your books. “I was standing behind you because you grabbed my books after you ran into me.”
Oh. Right. You look down at the pile of books in your hand and see a few titles that you own, but did not plan on buying today. You divest yourself of his selections, taking the ones he’d collected off the ground from there.
“So you really work in IT?”
He snorts. The sound is… a little off. You glance up at him, but his face gives away nothing. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t know.”
His smile is off, too. “I know.”
You’re unsure how to reply to that, but you’re also uneager to let him go, suddenly. Vernon (from IT) stands there for a second, lips pressed in a firm line and studying you. He really is beautiful, the light hitting his eyes in a way that turns them molten gold and-
“Alright well,” he interrupts your thoughts. “See you later or something.”
The urge to stop him strikes you, your mouth opening and closing. No words come out. You don’t know what to say - or why you want to stop him, just that you do. He walks toward the front of the store to purchase his books, leaving you standing in the middle of the store and wishing you’d met Vernon (from IT) under different circumstances.
-
Routine is important to you, especially during the weekdays. Wake up, snooze your alarm for at least fifteen minutes, get up when the second one goes off. Groan as you feel every single joint in your body pop after sitting up in bed. Wonder if you really need a corporate job to pay your bills (decide the answer is yes), and get up to feed the furious beast yowling from the bed.
The ferocious beast in question has a routine as well. Perhaps not as important as yours, the cat knows when he’s supposed to be fed and when it’s even a minute past feeding time. Halloween takes his meals very seriously, which you respect.
Your morning continues with the monotonous rhythm you’ve learned to appreciate: make coffee, shuffle back to your room into the ensuite bathroom for skin care, start your morning proper. The only thing that isn’t the same thing every morning is your playlist and your outfit of choice, leading both items up to fate to decide.
A hint of spring is in the air when you step outside. It’s that kind of sunny day with a cool breeze that promises longer days of sun ahead, despite still being brisk in the morning and biting when the sun sets.
Mornings during the days that hang between winter and spring are your favorite. You roll the windows down a little on your drive to work, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as you crawl along with all the other commuters.
Buildings shoot up toward the sky on either side of you. Dozens of banks, private firms, buildings with multiple different businesses and food courts become your entire world as you navigate to the parking garage. It’s already full of cars, but you get special parking.
Well - special as of your promotion just a few weeks ago. The designated parking spot and title bump was all that had come with the promotion, though, much to your dismay.
Still. You’d worked for this particular publishing house in the marketing department for close to a decade now. You weren’t quite as far up the ladder as you wanted to be, but you were trying to get there little by little.
So close. No cigar.
The elevator of the parking garage opens to reveal other office workers already filling the mirror-walled space. You step in as everyone makes room, clutching their bags and briefcases a little closer. You see Mingyu from creative and flash him a polite grin, which is answered with a bright one of his own and a small wave.
When the people not associated with your company shuffle off on other floors, Mingyu slides over closer to you. He’s one of the many designers in the art department, and definitely several rungs below your position, but you started the company at the same time together.
“How was your weekend?” He asks, wagging his brows up and down.
You frown. His questions suggests there’s something salacious to your wild weekend spent reading books with Halloween, but you don’t think burning the bagel you ate for girl dinner or staying in the same shirt for forty-eight hours straight is what he’s looking for.
“It was fine?” It comes out as a question. “How was yours?”
“Hm. It was good. We went out to catch the big game. Seokmin got so drunk he vomited, and Vernon won all of the bets we placed before.”
Mingyu leans forward, looking at you like you’re supposed to understand something. You don’t get it, looking him up and down with a pinched brow.
“That’s nice?” Again, it comes out as a question. “Not for Seokmin, I guess.”
His eyes narrow. Pin you to your spot against the elevator wall.
Then the elevator dings, signalling that you’re at his floor. Creative is an entire level down from marketing, all dim lights and glowing screens for the designers hard at work. Mingyu gets off, still looking suspicious as the elevator doors close and you shoot up another floor.
Instead of focusing on it, you shrug it off. Mingyu has a penchant for being weird - a creative thing, in your opinion. As soon as the elevator door opens, his behavior is long forgotten as you slip into work mode.
Everyone greets you with a polite smile or small wave on the marketing floor. The main office is filled with grey-walled cubicles, employees popping up to peer over walls with mugs of coffee and protein shakes and breakfast items as they ask their neighbors how the weekend was.
A glass wall in the far back denotes the executive and director offices. You head for the one in the back, right corner. Instead of turning on your lights, you let the natural lighting from the floor-to-ceiling windows filter in, keeping the ambiance muted and relaxing. The only additional lights you flick on are the monitor light at your desk and a small salt lamp wedged between the books on one of the many shelves behind you.
Your office is still slowly being decorated. You’d only moved in after your recent promotion, and it’s still bare of personalization, save for the salt lamp and a few things you’d moved in from your cubicle.
And the coffee machine - your own private, blessed coffee machine in the corner on a small bar cart. That might be your favorite thing about your office. You like your coworkers - for the most part, anyway - but being able to bury yourself in your work without having to interact with all of them every time you want coffee is nice.
Sitting down, you roll your shoulders. When your monitor flashes to life, you see the number of emails in your inbox and try not to groan out loud. You’re thrilled to be the new Senior Director of Marketing, but you’ve gone and made the mistake of becoming too important at work, most things unable to move forward without you playing some part in it.
In theory, that was one of the reasons Minho had broken up with you in the first place. Too buried in work, too many late nights at the office, too many dates or movie nights interrupted by the blue glow of your phone screen on your face while you answer urgent emails.
The thing is - you don’t mind. It doesn’t bother you to pause and send a quick email, or to stay late and help get something launched. You like the intricacies of being a problem solver, and with as fast as your company is growing and publishing new titles, you’ve got challenge after challenge ahead of you.
It’s easy to fall into the monotony of answering emails, joining virtual meetings and striking your pen through your to-do list. It fills three pages, but it feels good to cross something off, even if you’ve only completed two things.
By lunchtime, someone is knocking on your window. You look up, surprised to see Seungkwan sticking his head in. He’s the Manager of Digital Marketing and Social Media and he’s dubbed himself as your assistant.
Other duties as assigned, he always jokes, but you are thankful for him.
“You have to eat,” he reminds you in a singsong voice, crossing his arms over his chest. His glasses are pushed up into his blonde hair. “Maybe you can take me to lunch and divulge every detail about your new romance.”
That makes you sputter. “My what?”
Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Seungkwan slips into your office, clapping his hands together. He sits on the edge of the couch in front of your desk, bounding with energy.
“Come on,” he whispers, looking at you earnestly. “Everyone knows - you don’t have to keep it a secret anymore!”
“Keep what a secret?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re dating Vernon!”
You stare. “Who?”
“Vernon! From IT!”
It comes back in tunnel vision. Ninefold meeting tenfold, Minho and Glossy Hair Mina, Vernon (from IT). Suddenly you’re hot all over, feel it creeping up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You clear your throat, leaning back in your chair as your fingers reach for your water.
“I’m - oh!” You escape answering for a second by gulping down copious amounts of water, trying to cool the panic that is licking flames up your skin. “Right. Vernon… from IT.”
“Honestly, he’s cute.”
“Ha. Ha. Yes. Um. Yeah.”
“You’re so cute when you’re flustered. How long have you been dating?”
“Uhh very new. Yes. Super new. I’m sorry - how did you hear about this?”
“Mingyu told me, but Soonyoung told him and Joshua in sales told Soonyoung because Minho told the Always Closing group chat.”
“The what?”
He sighs. “Ugh, do you keep up with anything? The sales floor has a group chat. It’s where Soonyoung gets all his tea because he and Joshua room together.”
“Who the fuck is Joshua?”
Seungkwan stares. “It is a wonder you even know who Vernon is. I swear you don’t know people you’ve worked with for years.” A thought seems to strike him and he gasps. “Oh my god is that why you’re always going to him for your fucked up passwords?”
Something Vernon said comes back to you vaguely. Something about forgotten passwords when the cleaning crew throws out your sticky notes. Of course, no one would throw out your sticky notes if you weren’t dropping them all over the floor, but that’s neither here nor there.
Bolting from your seat, you startle Seungkwan, whose brows disappear in his hairline as he stares up at you.
“Actually, I can’t do lunch today.”
He sighs. “Boss, you have to eat.”
“I am! I am going to lunch with my…. Vernon from IT.”
“Oooo.” He leans back, shaking his head and grinning at you. “Go on then. Make sure you wrap it before-”
“If you finish that sentence I will revoke your privilege to my coffee cart.”
Seungkwan’s grin only gets wider. “Enjoy, boss.”
In a flurry, you leave your office. Eyes follow you as you go and suddenly you’re unsure if people are looking at you because you’re walking so fast that you’re almost running, or if it’s because they think you’re dating Vernon).
Your finger nearly breaks as you slam the button over and over again to shoot a few floors down. It doesn’t make the elevator go any faster. When the doors finally close and you begin to descend, you turn to the mirror walls and panic, tucking stray pieces of hair back into place and trying to fix the mascara smudges from staring at your screen for four straight hours.
A knot forms in your stomach. You press your damp palms against your dress pants, wiping viciously to try and keep the moisture at bay. When the elevator dings and the doors open to the silent hum of the IT department, you think you might vomit.
Unlike the marketing floor, no heads turn as you go. You try to maintain a normal pace this time, marching down the rows of cubicles before you realize you have no idea where Vernon sits. You pause awkwardly, standing on your tiptoes to try and see over the walls of cubicles to spot him.
“Can I help you?” A man sticks his head out of his cubicle, his headphones around his neck. He looks you up and down critically. “You’ll have to have proof of submitting a ticket before-”
“Vernon,” you interrupt him. “Vernon from IT? Where does he sit?”
For a second, the guy narrows his eyes. Then a lightbulb seems to go off and he grins, leaning back in his chair. He looks far too pleased with himself, and there’s something oily and slick you don’t like about his gaze. “You’re her.”
“I’m a senior director, yes.”
That changes his tune immediately. He sits up, clearing his throat. “To the back on the left.”
“Thanks.”
Following his lead, you pass by several empty cubicles, everyone seemingly at lunch. You take the corner as instructed and find a handful of men sitting in the same cubicle, one sitting atop a desk and swinging his legs, another leaning against the cubicle wall, and the last one sitting in the seat.
The one sitting in the seat is the quarry you seek, his eyes going wide when he sees you storming toward him. He goes rigid in his seat, clearing his throat and slapping the leg of the man sitting atop his desk. He kicks at Vernon before spotting you and immediately jumping down, straightening his shirt.
Nervous energy crackles as all three sets of eyes settle on you. You stop right in front of his cubicle, trying to put on your bravest smile.
“Hi?” Vernon asks, looking at the two men on either side of him. “Did you forget your password again?”
“What? No. I don’t do it that often.” He looks unsure, brows raised behind his glasses. You huff, putting your hands on your hips. “Okay, I forget it sometimes. But no, that isn’t why I’m here.”
“Does your software need updating?”
“No, I-”
“Oh. I did forget to give Seungkwan that new phone he asked for on behalf of the social team. It came in last week - I’ll finish setting it up and-”
“Lunch!” You all but yell, startling all three men. “I came here for lunch.”
There’s a long pause. Vernon’s coworkers look like they’d rather be anywhere else than trapped by you. You ignore them in favor of a quick study of Vernon. He’s in dress pants and a button down shirt that is untucked and a little wrinkled. It’s a far cry from the casual way he was dressed at the bookstore, but it’s still not totally work appropriate.
Still he pulls it off. There’s something casual and cool about it, aloof in a way that still looks good. His hair is even styled neatly, though a brown lock falls over his eyebrow as he leans forward and asks, “Lunch? The cafeteria is on the first floor.”
The man who had been sitting on his desk kicks him. “She’s asking you to go to lunch, dude.”
“She’s not-” Vernon pauses and looks at you. “Are you asking me to go to lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Your patience narrows to a tight smile, your words pinched between your teeth, “Because that’s what loving girlfriends do, sweetie.”
The words land and have an immediate effect. Vernon flushes from the neck up, mouth opening and closing as he presses his palms against his thigh. The man who kicked him snickers and tries to hide it with a thinly veiled cough.
Your gaze narrows and he notices you watching, clearing his throat to stretch his hand toward you. “I’m Chan. It’s nice to meet… Vernon’s girlfriend?”
You shake his head and say nothing, eyes drifting to the man leaning against the wall. He gives you a small salute. “Seokmin.”
“Oh.” You blink. “The puker?”
His charming smile drops immediately as he looks at Vernon, smacking him on the shoulder. “You told her about that?”
“I didn’t tell her anything.” Vernon stands, shrugging away from both of his friends’ wandering eyes. “Sure, sweetie,” he answers you, giving you a plastic grin. “It’s your treat this week, right? At that very nice, very expensive steakhouse down the block.”
There’s a glimmer in his eyes that tells you Vernon will only play along if it’s by his rules. You’re at a disadvantage, so you grin and nod, willing to go by his rules for now. “That’s so right, darling. Let’s go.”
“Enjoy lunch!” Chan calls behind you as Vernon shuffles behind you, quickly trying to tuck his shirt. “Don’t do anything I-”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vernon warns, quickening his step to match yours. “Sorry about him.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got my own version of him sitting in my office.”
The elevator ride down to the first floor and the walk out onto the busy street is silent. It’s not the comfortable, easy silence you might have with Seungkwan or Mingyu - if Mingyu could wrap his head around silence. It's awkwardly silent, both of you looking anywhere but one another.
You don’t know where you’re going, but Vernon leads you to a Michelin steakhouse down the block, true to his word. You glare at him when you step into the dark entryway where a host with hair as glossy as Mina’s greets you.
“Two?” You both nod and she grins. “Right this way.”
Vernon follows her first, shuffling behind her as she leads the two of you into the dining room proper. It’s a beautiful establishment with lacquered floors, rich wooden tables draped with fine tablecloths and the kind of glassware that looks like real crystal.
When you both sit down with menus in hand, the hostess leaves you and you lean forward, hissing, “How much money do you think I make?”
“More than I do in IT,” Vernon answers breezily, eyes roving the menu. For a second, his gaze flickers to meet yours over the top of the menu. It’s the first time he’s really looked at you since you marched into his office. “Consider it an apology meal for the mess you’ve got us in.”
“Hey! You played along?”
“You’re right, I guess I could have just super embarrassed you in front of your ex-boyfriend. That would have been very polite of me.”
That stumps you. You open and close your mouth, feeling a bit like a fish. You suppose that’s fair - what was Vernon supposed to do when you’d grabbed him in the middle of a bookstore and staked your claim?
Sighing, you lean back as your server gives you a moment of respite, filling your glasses with water and going over the specials. When they leave, you grab your glass and take several gulps of water, trying to cool your head.
It only works a little.
“I didn’t know Minho was going to tell the entire world.”
“Really? Minho has the biggest mouth at this company. You should see his Teams messages.”
“You can do that?”
“On the clock?” He asks. When you shake your head, assuring it stays between you, he nods. “Yeah, we can see everything you do.”
“Oh.” You think of all the terrible things you’ve searched on your work computer like how to get over a breakup and how to tell if my ex still likes me. “Anyway, I didn’t know he was going to say anything.”
The server returns to take your orders. You order some sort of steak salad at random while Vernon orders something blessedly modest. As the server parts ways, Vernon leans back in his chair and looks at you again, expression unreadable.
“Well,” he eventually says. “No harm done once you tell everyone we’re not dating.”
“Once I what?”
“Well you’ll have to-”
“No way.”
“What?”
“Do you know how embarrassing that would be?”
He raises a brow. “More embarrassing than grabbing some dude in the bookstore and claiming he’s your boyfriend.”
The air leaves your lungs and you melt into the seat, your misery showing. “I already said sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Just tell everyone you broke up with me.”
You snort. “No one would believe that.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering him immediately, you busy yourself unraveling silverware. It’s a hard question to answer, not because you don’t know the answer but because you don’t want to tell him. Vernon is quiet, though. Patient.
He doesn’t press you for an answer, happy to wait you out until you’ve folded your napkin and placed it on your lap, and once again drained the rest of your water. It does nothing for your nerves as you fixate on a spot atop the table.
“I don’t… date.”
“You dated Minho.”
“Yeah. That’s uh… it. It’s kind of a running joke that I am undateable.”
He frowns at that. “Respectfully, I find that incredibly hard to believe.”
“Thanks. I think.” You pick at a string in the tablecloth. “Anyway, no one would buy that I ended the first relationship I’ve had since Minho. I didn’t even end the last one and sort of clung to it in a way that was sort of embarrassing.”
“I see.”
You’re unsure if he really does. When Minho had broken up with you, you’d attempt to make arguments to keep him around. Offered less work hours, even said you’d go to therapy to talk about your insane need for success. He hadn’t wanted any of it, and you’d eventually realized that he just… didn’t want you.
They never did, when people realized what dating you entails. Everyone wants a woman who works hard. They like the illusion of it, the woman who gets up early in the morning and goes to workout before going to her corporate job and girl bossing all day long. They desire the woman who dresses fashionably, who wears designer tags and commands a room all day before coming home to make an effortless dinner followed by a luxurious night routine.
And you get it. You want to be that too. But the truth is most days you wake up past your alarm and rush to the office wearing shoes that don’t match, and sometimes you come home so late and burned out from your job that you eat a handful of shredded cheese over the sink with a stick of beef jerky, only to do it all again the next day.
That wasn’t what anyone wanted. At least, not in your experience.
“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “You’re right, or whatever. I should just tell them I lied. I’ve given worse news. Just you know - less personal.”
For a few minutes, Vernon is quiet. You don’t look up to meet his gaze. Instead you watch the ice cubes in your glass melt, little beads of condensation zigzagging down the curve of your glass.
A sigh makes you look up at Vernon. “What if we dated for like a month or something?”
“What?”
“I don’t mean really date,” he offers quickly, sensing your surprise. For some reason, that stings a little. You swallow it down past the knot forming in your throat. “It’ll get people off your back or whatever and we can just mutually end things.”
“Really? You’d do that.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess, yeah.”
“You can break up with me,” you promise eagerly, leaning forward with the new promise of a solution to your problem. “Everyone will believe it. Just say I work too much and I’m too obsessed with my career.”
An uneasy gaze flickers in Vernon’s eyes. “It can be mutual,” he says firmly. “That way it ends nicely.”
“Fine. Everyone will think one thing anyway, you’ll get out without a scratch, trust me. Are you sure you’re willing to do this? I can… suck it up and tell everyone I made it up.”
“Do you really want to?”
“No,” you admit.
“Then it’s settled.” He shrugs, heaving a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you a month and then we can mutually end things.”
Sticking your hand over the table, you offer it for Vernon to shake. His mouth twitches a little as he smiles, leaning forward to take your hand. His is warm and softer than you imagined, enveloping yours firmly as he shakes.
“Deal,” you smile, feeling a glimmer of hope.
Just like that, Vernon (from IT) becomes Vernon (your boyfriend).
Sort of.
-
Vernon doesn’t consider himself anxious. He’s never really dealt with anxiety, and there are only a few things that can make him nervous in the world. The few times he remembers being nervous were when he was in a bidding war for a limited edition Millenium Falcon model, in line at a meet-and-greet for his favorite band when he was sixteen, and when he lost his virginity to Carley Waters in his sophomore year of college.
He’d won the bidding war and managed to not sound like an idiot meeting his idols, but he definitely came immediately after putting his dick inside Carley. Two out of three were pretty good odds, all things considered.
Vernon is more nervous than all three of those events combined as he checks himself in the mirror for the millionth time. Usually, he doesn’t really think twice about what he wears to the bar on the weekend. He has fifteen of the same shirt in the same colors, and his jeans all look the same, even though he thinks they’re different.
Now, though, he has the added element of you. He cannot recall a single time that you’ve ever agreed to go out with your work friends - and to your surprise, not his, you do have the same work friends - but tonight is different.
Tonight, you’re supposed to be dating.
It’s weird. Chan and Seokmin agree it’s weird. He keeps no secrets from them and had already told them about the encounter at the bookstore. They’ve sworn themselves to secrecy, though Vernon cannot fathom how they just go with it.
She’s really hot, Chan had said after a few sips of beer. Fuck it, right?
She’s the third most executive person in marketing, Seokmin warned. Be careful.
Both are true. Vernon had acknowledged Chan’s point the first time he’d seen you in Information Technology a little over two years ago. You’d been dating Minho then and entirely untouchable - still are, kind of - and Vernon had been the only person at the office early enough to help you out. He’d been new then, and often came in the earliest to get started on the overload of tasks he was always given as the junior employee.
Even then, Vernon thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Sure, you had on mismatched shoes and there was a breathy chaos to you that would probably stress most people out, but he sort of liked it. Thought that it was different in a good way, and spoke to the sort of person who worked really hard and didn’t fake their way through the day.
Vernon had realized Seokmin's point right after he’d learned Chan’s. As soon as he helped you login to your computer, he’d realized you were a Senior Manager of Marketing. Not a huge title in a company so big, but high enough that Vernon thought twice about his attraction to you.
Now, both of their points are moot. You’re still attractive but that doesn’t really change the situation - makes it harder, even. Vernon had never really dreamed of an actual relationship with you and now that he’s found himself in a fake one, he’s not really sure what to do with the acknowledgement that he’s attracted to you.
Worse is that he doesn’t actually know if he’s allowed to date you. Vernon is a senior coordinator in the IT department and you’re a senior director. Perhaps not in his department or directly overseeing him, but it’s a high enough position that Sekomin is right - it could mean trouble if this goes poorly.
So why the fuck did he offer to fake date you for a month?
As someone in Information Technology, most people think Vernon is smart. He doesn’t consider himself to be above average intelligence, and as he slides his sneakers on his feet to go pick you up for a night out, he thinks everyone is wrong about him - he’s fucking stupid.
Looking in the mirror one more time, Vernon decides it’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Jeans, a black shirt and a hat facing backward is all he really knows how to style. He shoves his keys in his pocket, a tiny vial of contact solution just in case, and grabs his phone as he heads out the door.
Your apartment complex isn’t that far from his. He finds it with ease, surprised that you don’t live in one of those high-rise apartments that all the other executives live in. The apartment is pretty modest with only three floors and rows of respectable Toyota Camrys and Honda Civics.
When he spots you coming down the stairs, his traitorous heart does that same little staccato it had last weekend when he saw you at the bookstore. He hadn’t expected to run into you outside of work and only panicked for a split second before he realized that you didn’t recognize him.
And then you’d called him your boyfriend.
Recovering from the memory of it, Vernon stares as you open the door to his car, flashing a tight smile as you slide in. He doesn’t know what he thought you might wear on the weekend, but he’s surprised to see you in jeans, a black form-fitted shirt tucked in, and a simple purse on your arm.
“What?” You ask, a little breathless. He sees the sticky shine of lipgloss on your mouth and squeezes the wheel, fighting the urge to lean over and taste it.
Insane, he thinks as he puts the car in gear. He’s gone insane.
“Nothing. I guess I just thought you’d live somewhere nicer.”
“Oh.”
Your shift in tone makes him realize how it sounded. “Sorry - not like that. I thought it would be somewhere really fancy. You’re a senior director and all that.”
“I only got promoted a few weeks ago. And it was not a pay raise, trust me.”
“Seriously?” You glance sidelong at him, pausing like you’ve said something you shouldn’t. His lips twitch and he says, “Not on the clock.”
That gets you to grin, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Only came with an office and title bump. I was already doing all the work of a senior director so they felt like they needed to bump my title to protect themselves, I think.”
“That’s kind of shitty.”
You hum. “Is it like that in IT?”
“I think it’s like that anywhere.”
“Good point.”
A comfortable silence falls over the car. It’s not at all like the awkward, stilted lunch the two of you had at the beginning of the week. He had been sweating through his shirt that time around, though you didn’t seem to notice. He’d been a little angry with you too, for getting the both of you into this mess.
But… it had been his idea to help you save face. He didn’t have to. He didn’t owe you anything, and he believes you when you say you would come clean and admit you lied through your teeth. Maybe that’s why he offered to help anyway, your willingness to swallow the pain of embarrassment to relieve him of the facade.
Library is a hole in the wall bar that Vernon and his friends from work like to go to on Saturday nights. It’s sort of a funny joke, a bunch of professionals from the publishing industry getting drunk and eating shitty bar food in a place named for the very buildings they dedicate their life to, in a weird, roundabout, mathematical way.
Vernon has friends outside of work that come too, but tonight it’s just the usual crowd: Chan, Seokmin and Seokmin’s girlfriend, Mingyu and Soonyoung from creative, and some of the people from the sales team. The sales team is only there by virtue of Joshua, who is the only person from sales Vernon remotely tolerates.
Vernon isn’t exactly sure what a sales team does at a publishing company anyway.
When Vernon parks, he sees you take a deep breath. He averts his eyes, feeling like he’s intruding on a moment before you brace yourself and get out of the car suddenly. He makes a noise and panics to follow you. You’re already plunging ahead like you’re storming into battle, and perhaps in your mind you are.
He jogs to catch up. “Wait!”
You stop, turning to face him with a dubious expression. “What?”
“We should walk in together.”
“Oh.” You blink. It’s a bit cute but Vernon shoves that down. “You’re right. Sorry. I sort of… set my mind to the task and forgot.”
“You can’t approach this like you approach work.”
“I can’t?”
He laughs. “No. Relationships aren’t jobs - so a fake one isn’t either. You have to try and appear like this is natural. If you come in all to-do list and checkmarking the boxes, it’s going to look weird.”
“Oh.”
The confidence you had a second before deflates. He feels a little guilty, reaching out to take your hand before he realizes what he’s doing. Your hands are cold in his but he doesn’t mind, wrapping his fingers in yours as you stare at him like he’s grown three heads.
Maybe he has.
“We should walk in together. Maybe holding hands.”
“Right.” You lick your lips and he tries to give you a smile more confident than what he’s feeling. His heart is hammering in his chest, both at the way your hand squeezes his nervously and at the preposterousness of it all. “You’re kind of good at this.”
“I just have a different perspective.”
“The perspective of someone who knows how to date versus… whatever I am.”
He hears the joke in your tone so he lets himself laugh a little. He starts walking, tugging you next to him. “Not exactly. I just watch a lot of movies, including romances.”
“Really? What’s your favorite one?”
“Uhhh.” He thinks about it as you both approach the door. He doesn’t answer for a second while he flashes the security outside his ID. “I really like The Proposal. With Sandra Bullock.”
Instead the bar is filled with modern music at a reasonable level and small, wooden tables with chipped tops. There is nothing about the bar that actually looks like a library, save the single shelf shoved in the corner with beat up comic books and an insane amount of hentai that Soonyoung put there.
“You mean the one where the boss fake dates her employee… and they work at a publishing company?”
As soon as you ask the question, Vernon realizes the irony. He looks at you with a wide gaze, pausing at the entrance to look at you. Your mouth folds on itself, trying not to laugh as you too realize the irony of the movie.
“Yeah, so that’s weird I guess,” he admits. He tugs on your hand. “Come on, we always sit in the back.”
You follow him wordlessly. The crowd isn’t big inside, but there are enough people that you have to shuffle a little closer to him. He catches the scent of your perfume - it smells like sweet tobacco and vanilla, something that is subtle with a little bit of spice.
Turning around the corner of the bar, you see a wall entirely taken by booths with pool tables in the open space. Mingyu and Seokmin’s girlfriend are already fighting over the felted green as she points a pool cue at him, threatening. Seokmin is lounging in one of the booths, watching on with a dopey grin that makes Vernon roll his eyes.
Everyone else sits in in a variety of booths, an entire corner dedicated to the dozen or so of them who have made this their home for the last two years. Vernon keeps you close, feeling his hands go clammy when all the eyes turn to the two of you. Despite the rumor having spread far and wide, it’s clear that surprise ripples through the crowd at seeing evidence of your relationship.
The fake one, that is. Naturally.
Instead of going directly to the safety - or danger, in this case - of his friends, Vernon heads to the bar. He needs to take the edge off immediately, though he knows he can’t get too crazy. The drive home is short, but even if you weren’t in his car for the evening, he doesn’t like to tempt fate.
Next to him at the bartop, you drop his hand to press your palms against the sticky wood. You make a face and he laughs before ordering a simple rum and coke. You order the same but with a lime and the bartender flashes you a charming grin.
Vernon glances at you and realizes you don’t even register the bartender. You’re chewing your lip and fidgeting, pulling at the sleeves of your shirt and shifting from foot-to-foot. A pang goes through him.
“Relax.” You look up at him, eyes wide. “We’re going to do fine.”
“What if I fuck it up?” You ask, voice barely audible as you lean in. “They’re going to see right through me, Vernon from IT. They’re going to have one conversation with us and be like ‘no way is he dating that lunatic.’”
“For starters, you’re not a lunatic.” You give him a look and he amends, “Not in the way that’s bad, anyway.”
“How do you know? We barely know each other.”
You’ve got him there. The bartender comes back with your drinks and you take yours, draining half of it before remembering the lime. He watches you squeeze it into the drink while he contemplates his answer.
“I guess I just have a feeling for these things. You don’t seem very crazy to me.”
“Thanks.”
“And I guess I’m getting to know you, so there’s that.”
You sigh. “Right.”
“You’ll do fine. But maybe don’t call me Vernon from IT.”
“Right.”
“Come on.”
With wavering confidence, you follow Vernon over to the crowd from work. Everyone greets you warmly, though a little unsure. He notes the comments about being shocked to see you outside the four walls of your office, a joke you take in stride.
It’s clear you don’t know how to interact with everyone at first. It’s not to say that you’re stiff or awkward, but Vernon can see the rigid set in your shoulders and the way your eyes follow the conversation but don’t actually contribute.
You have an effect on others as well. For those who are a little more unfamiliar with you, they can’t seem to puzzle out why one of the higher ups is here guzzling down rum and cokes. And you are guzzling them down, carving a path to and from the bar at a rate that impresses Vernon.
“How are things going?” Chan slips into the seat you just vacated to march to the bar again. “She seems surprisingly normal.”
“Why is that surprising?”
Chan gives him a look. “She’s a suit.”
“I don’t think so,” Vernon laughs. “Trust me on that.”
Chan hums unconvinced, watching you at the bar. “She’s nice, at least.”
“Very.”
“Don’t fall in love with her or anything.”
“Weird thing to say, man.”
“Yeah, well. She’s attractive, nice, and no offense, a little weird. She’s exactly your type.”
That makes him frown. “What’s weird about her? Also, would that be so bad?”
“She knew the radius of the sun and the verbatim definition of parsecs. I’m not answering that second question because I shouldn’t have to.” Chan claps him on the shoulder, looking over Vernon’s head. “She’s coming back, but seriously. Be careful.”
Chan scoots away, flashing Vernon a look that makes the single drink Vernon has had sour in his stomach. Then you’re there, sitting down next to him, swaying a little bit. He smells sweet tobacco and vanilla, his eyelids fluttering for a second as you shift a little too close - or what would be too close, if you weren’t fake dating.
“What’s that look on your face?” You ask, sipping your drink. He wonders if it’s appropriate to ask if you need water.
“What look on my face?”
“You know, like-” You try to pinch your brows together and your mouth puckers downward. He feels himself smile and he shakes his head. “Sort of frowny.”
“Nothing.” You look at him skeptically. “Hey, I have a question.”
You pause, looking a little panicked. “Okay.”
“What’s the radius of the sun?”
“Oh!” You visibly brighten and it’s like watching the sun spill over the lip of the horizon, all gold and liquid, warm and bright. “432,690 miles. Surface temperature is about 5,772 Kelvin.”
Suddenly, Chan’s warning feels very, very real. Vernon tries to hide his smile, looking down at the table. Meanwhile, you start rattling off facts about the sun, not taking a single breath as you explain you memorized them from when you were working on the marketing for a line of textbooks about space early on in your career.
Vernon lets you talk. Lets you somehow divert back to work, watching as you animatedly walk him through the process of what you do. How you think. It’s fascinating, and he’s not really sure how anyone else could find it tiresome, seeing the way you light up when you tell him about a project that Seungkwan’s team killed it on.
Your pride is palpable, your energy shifting from unsure to confident.
Suddenly, you pause, leveling Vernon with a hard stare. He says nothing, watching the way you drink him in, something beneath the surface of your gaze he can’t quite read. “Can I say something?”
“On the clock?” he asks, grinning. You shake your head and he gestures for you to continue.
“You have pretty eyes. I still like when you wear glasses, though. They suit you.”
Yeah. Vernon thinks Chan’s warning is very real.
-
Running in heels is hard. You don’t know how anyone manages to do it in movies. Not that you think anything that happens in movies is real, but you can’t imagine how they make it work for the scene. You nearly break your ankle three times on your sprint to IT and you’re sure you scare the daylights out of Chan when you come tearing around the corner.
You shout a greeting over your shoulder but don’t stop until you’re hissing Vernon’s name while rushing into his cube. He flinches, turning around to look at you mid-task. You’re heaving, putting a hand on your hip as you straighten, trying to suck down air.
“Say no!”
He’s visibly confused. “To what?”
“Just say no!”
Before Vernon can ask you another thing, you hear Minho’s voice. Your heart thunders in your ribcage as you try to lean against the wall of Vernon’s cube, nearly missing it. You stumble a few steps and he catches you by the elbow, lightning quick as he helps steady you.
When he drops his grip, the place where Vernon had held you moments before is warm. You try not to think about it, heart thundering doubletime as you watch Minho approach, a lazy swing to his step and a smirk on his face.
“Funny I found you here!”
“Why would that be funny? My Vernon - my boyfriend is down here.”
From the corner of his eye, you see Vernon wince. You’re not doing a great job at keeping it casual, but you’re also still out of breath from sprinting down the stairs to beat Minho here and warn Vernon. Seungkwan had barely been able to give you the heads up that Minho was going to ask for a double date, and you simply couldn’t have that.
Even as you near the end of your second week dating - fake dating - Vernon, you’re unsure the two of you can get through a date with someone who actually knows you. Vernon might be able to give some details on the surface, but you dated Minho for a year - how could Vernon ever hope to keep up?
Minho leans against Chan’s cube. Luckily it’s vacant of its usual occupant - Chan hates Mihno, as you’ve recently learned through a lunch with him and Vernon.
“Glad I caught you together, then,” Minho says, though you think he’s not that glad. But what do you know? “I wanted to see if you were busy on-”
“Yes.” You flash him a too-wide grin with too many teeth.
“I didn’t even give you the date.”
“We’re always very busy.”
“Ah.” Minho scratches the back of his neck and gives Vernon a look akin to sympathy. “Never has time, does she? Always all work, no play. I wanted to see if you guys wanted to go to dinner with Mina and I tomorrow night, but…” He shrugs. “Same old.”
You try not to let your exterior crack, but Minho’s words cut right through your outer shell to the softness of you. Without fail he manages to highlight this obsession you have with work, making it sound worse every single time.
Behind you, Vernon shifts closer. You become acutely aware of him suddenly, warmth radiating from him as his chest presses against the back of your arm and his hand slips to the middle of your back, featherlight, like he’s afraid to touch you. He smells like ocean driftwood and salt, something that makes you think of warmer days. Fresh fruit. Cold water.
Fighting a shiver, you freeze up, hyper aware of him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Vernon says gently. “She doesn’t work that much. She makes plenty of time for me.”
Minho’s eye twitches, the only sign he’s annoyed. As a trained salesperson, his tells are always subtle, nearly undetectable. But you know him inside and out, can see the sliver of annoyance there.
Satisfaction rules supreme, a smile tugging at your lips until Vernon adds, “We can make time for them, right?”
You snap your head to the side, eyes meeting his. Vernon has beautiful eyes. You’d said as much the other night when you had a little too much to drink, staring up at him without his glasses. He looks good without them, but you like the way the frames sit on his nose, the way they reflect light against the liquid brown of his iris.
Now, those eyes are staring back at you straight on. There’s something fierce in them, and though you barely know him, you have a sneaking suspicion Vernon is annoyed. Not with you but with Minho.
Still…
“Are you sure?”
Your question is gentle. For a moment, you forget Minho is there at all. You’re looking at Vernon, trying to puzzle out why he would say yes to something insane again. It was lucky enough he’d offered to participate in this little charade to save your pride, and now here he is doing it again, unprompted.
Vernon’s mouth twitches. He nods, hand pressing into your back a little firmer before he drops it away. You turn to Minho, who watches the two of you with a peculiar expression. “Alright,” you tell him. “It’s a date.”
“Great. I’ll send you the details.”
When Minho leaves, you turn to Vernon, the question on the tip of your tongue. He doesn’t give you a chance, shooting you a sidelong glance as he says, “Why is he always bringing up your work schedule?”
You wince. Vernon either doesn’t notice or is nice enough not to say anything. Instead of answering right away, you sit on top of Vernon’s desk, feet dangling a little. He makes room for you, turning his chair to face you and give you his full attention.
He’s dressed the same as always today, but you notice his shirt is ironed and tucked in neatly. Rubbing his brow, he slides his glasses up on his head, pressing his fingers along his eye sockets like they’re strained.
“What kind of stuff do you do?” You ask instead of answering his question. You gesture to his multiple computer screens. “Besides help me figure out my passwords.”
“Lots of stuff. It’s mostly small things like remoting into people’s computers to help them solve their issues. I spend a majority of my day showing people how to unmute themselves on their virtual meeting software.”
“Do you like it?”
He shrugs. “It’s got a rhythm to it that I like. I like having a to-do list every day and I can pretty much always know what to expect.”
“That does sound nice. And you can spy on everyone’s messages right?”
He raises his brow. “On the clock?” That makes you smile and you shake your head. “I could, but I don’t. There are a ton of people who forget us and HR can see all their shit, though.”
“Ooo like what?”
He sucks in air through his teeth, “Man, I don’t think I can tell you.”
You can tell he’s teasing and you scoff, kicking out with your foot toward his knee. He dodges you easily with a playful grin. “Come on!”
“I’ll tell you off the clock. Real off the clock.”
“Fine. Speaking of - are you busy tonight?” He raises his brows in question. “We should probably meet up and try to flesh out some details of our uh… relationship. I know some things about you but not a lot. Like, when is your birthday?”
“February 18.”
You slap your hand on top of his desk. “Vernon! That’s super soon! Are you doing anything for it?”
“Nah. I don’t ever want to make a fuss and it's close to Valentine’s Day so sometimes people are doing things retroactively.”
You hum, displeased with the answer, but you file it away for later. “So are you free tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool, you can come over to my place. Do you like pizza? You have to like pizza, right? You’re a boy.”
“A lot of boys like pizza, yes. Specifically me.”
“Good. Seven?”
“Seven.”
-
A knock at the door makes you look up from your computer. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust, the light outside the office windows long fading with the setting sun and the only other source the salt lamp behind you and the burn of the safety lights in the main cubicles.
Vernon leans against the door frame, resting his head against it as he peers at you. For a second, you forget about everything except the way he looks leaned against the frame, his glasses perfectly perched on his nose and hair soft with wear from the day.
Then, you lurch with realization, gasping and looking at your watch. “It’s seven.”
“It’s seven,” he agrees, laughing gently.
You bolt from the seat, groaning and grabbing things to shove in your bag. In the process, you knock over a cup and a curse flies out your lips. He pushes off the door, walking over to help you tame the chaos.
“Easy,” he admonishes. “All good here, don’t panic.”
“I’m really sorry. I got stuck working through this media plan that someone asked for and I completely lost track of time.”
“It’s okay.”
The panic welling up inside you calms down as you look up at him. Vernon says nothing further, picking up your cup and righting the pens that you’ve knocked over. His movements are casual, straightening the things on your desk until he’s satisfied and steps away.
You prepare for annoyance, for the same expression you’re used to when you’re late to an event or have missed a thing, when you’ve yet again lost track of time holed up in your office and yet… Vernon just gives you an easy smile and a shrug.
No annoyance. No judgment. Just… Vernon.
Perhaps tenfold isn’t so bad.
“It’s not pizza, but there's a tiny little bar a few blocks down that I really like. They serve food.”
“Yeah?”
He nods and hesitates. “It’s… themed, though.”
“That’s okay. I like a theme.”
The theme in question isn’t so much of a theme as it is an entire franchise. You stand in the doorway of Cantina Far Away, mouth parted as you drink in the sights and sounds of the Star Wars themed bar.
A circular bar sits in the middle of the small establishment. There isn’t a ton of room to recreate the iconic corner of the world where you were first introduced to Han Solo as a kid, but there’s just enough to make the magic work.
Kegs and other apparatuses hang from the ceiling of the stone top bar. Lights track underneath the bar top and in the ceiling, giving the dim illusion that it’s permanently dusk inside. Small, round tables fill the main space, with three booths lined against the back wall. An R2-D2 replica stands beside C3-PO in the corner, and a familiar soundtrack plays through the sound system.
“If you want to go somewhere else-”
“Do they have blue milk?”
Vernon pauses. “What?”
You look up at him, grinning. “Do they have the blue milk?”
“They have something on their menu like that, yeah. I don’t know what it is.”
“I always wanted to drink the blue milk as a kid.”
“Alright.” He gestures to the bar, which is mostly empty. “Let’s get you blue milk.”
Popping up on a stool, you can’t help but crane your neck upward to look at the bar from this angle. It truly looks like every part of it was taken from the movie set. You run your hand atop the bar’s surface to realize it’s actually wood that looks like stone, marveling at the smoothness.
Behind the bar, two bartenders move in sync, dressed in Jedi robes. When they approach, you both order the blue milk - you, because you demand to know what it tastes like, Vernon, in solidarity.
Vibrating with excitement, you turn to look at Vernon. “When I was a kid, watching Star Wars was one of the few things my mom and I got to do together.”
“One of the few things?”
You nod, clapping your hands excitedly when the bartender brings you whatever concoction the blue milk is. It comes in a tall glass and is clear, baby blue and frothy at the top. Leaning over, you take a whiff. It smells vaguely coconutty and you narrow your eyes, leaning forward to take a tentative sip.
Coconut rum hits your tongue and you cringe. Vernon does too, making a face and sticking his tongue out as he immediately shoves the drink away from him. You laugh, not even caring that you hate it. It tastes nothing like you expected and you don’t really like coconut, but it strikes a nostalgic chord.
“My mom was a single parent and worked really hard at a law firm,” you eventually answer, taking another sip and cringing. Vernon orders something more generic - a rum and coke for you both. “But she always made time on the weekend if I really wanted to do a Star Wars marathon and she took off work for all the prequel releases to take me.”
“That’s cute. My mom was really into it too. Want to know a secret?”
“Yes.”
“My first name is Hansol. A little inspired by Han Solo. I prefer to go by Vernon with everyone who isn’t my family, though.”
That makes you smile. “I like it, though. Your mom has good taste like mine. Think they’d be friends?”
He blushes. “Maybe.”
You realize how forward of a question it is. You avert your gaze to your blue drink, sipping it and grimacing. Vernon chuckles and says, “You don’t have to drink it.”
“I don’t have to do a lot of things but I do anyway.”
“Hmm. Like what?”
“Ugh. I don’t know? Attend meetings all day?”
“I think you do have to do that.”
You scrunch your nose. “Alright, fair.”
“Tell me about your job.”
You glance at him, brows raised. “You want me to talk about work?”
“It’s obvious you like what you do, and by the sounds of it, working hard runs in the family. Tell me what you like about it.”
That makes you sigh as you push the ice around in your glass. What do you like about your job? Well, you like a lot of things and you hate a lot of things. So you start listing them, telling Vernon that you like the routine and you enjoy having a rhythm to your day. You like feeling proud when you can solve a problem no one else can, or when you lead your team through chaos and they look at you like you’re a god who showed them the way.
You like that you can be an authority in the room but you don’t feel like a dictator, and that now when you talk, people listen. Your team is your favorite, loving the way you and Seungkwan work in tandem, and the way the creative department likes to pick your brain. Mingyu and Soonyoung are always asking for your feedback, even if your opinion doesn’t matter in the hierarchy of their world.
The dislikes though… well, you dislike that you never have enough time in the day. That you’re always in a meeting and feel like you leave your team drowning in work picking up the slack. Hate that you get time blindness and sit in your office for hours past dinner to get something right, to get something perfect.
Hate that because you like what you do, everyone thinks you don’t have a life or don’t want a life. And that leads you to the center of the entire issue with your relationship with Minho.
You pull away like you’re approaching a particularly purple bruise when you near the topic of Minho. Your blue drink is gone and you order something more normal instead. The coke and rum sizzles on your tongue as Vernon looks at you expectantly.
“I’m doing all the talking,” you mutter, a little defensive. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“What kind of blue.”
“Blue like that very nasty milk you just drank.” You stick your tongue out and Vernon smiles. His smile is like a burning star at the center of a solar system, glowing and bright and warm. It gives life. “What’s yours?”
“Deep red. Like… wine or burgundy. What’s your favorite movie?”
“Ah, not that question. I’m a bit of a cinephile.”
“Too bad. You have to pick one.”
Vernon thinks about it. The tip of his finger traces the condensation of his glass lazily and you hyperfocus on it, watching the way he catches the bead of liquid every time. He has nice fingers, you realize. The thought makes you clench and suddenly wonder if you need to walk out of the bar down to the church to confess the sin of your mind.
Not that you’re religious, but maybe you should be, with where your mind has wandered.
“I like The Princess Bride.”
You gasp, grabbing him by the wrist and shaking it excitedly. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!”
Vernon’s laughter is infectious. You both fall into a fit of giggles, quoting your favorite parts of the movie. It’s nice - this is nice. It’s unexpected and you’re a little unsure how you got here, but Vernon makes the pressure of getting to know one another in preparation to fake date in front of your ex fade away.
Until, of course, you remember that’s why you’re at the bar and the thought suddenly sobers you.
Straightening, you ask, “Why’d you want to go on a double date, anyway? You don’t owe me that.”
“He seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying.”
You hum, studying him. “It’s a bit risky. I dated him for a year… if there’s anyone who knows anything about me, it’s probably him.”
“I can always just hack into your data and learn everything about you.” You stare at him, mouth opens. His grin grows. “I’m kidding. I mean I probably could but I’m not a hacker.”
“Are you sure? You’re a bit suspicious, Vernon Chwe.”
“Hansol.” You frown in confusion. His tone is gentle, eyes soft when he murmurs, “You can call me Hansol. You know… to make it um. Seems legit.”
“Hansol.” You try out the name, liking the way it fits on your tongue. His eyes are dark and you feel like you could fall into them - you kind of want to. “Hansol. I like it.”
Maybe you don’t need to go to that church to beg for forgiveness after all. What you think you need might be divine intervention to stop the butterflies in your stomach when you say his name, or the nervous shake in your hand when you see him smile.
Not Vernon (from IT) but Hansol.
-
Hansol (from IT) is late when he picks you up. For once, you’re just glad it’s not you. Your heart beats a little faster when you see him pull up in his nondescript, black RAV4. He waves through the window when he sees you, a shy smile on his face as he reaches to turn down the music.
Inside the car smells distinctly like Hansol - driftwood, salt, a little bit of the air freshener that has long since dried but still sways under his rearview mirror. He looks good tonight, dressed in ripped jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket. He’s sans glasses, and though he looks good, you miss them a little.
Hansol without the glasses is a little intimidating. Especially this version of him that grins when you settle into the seat next to him, his brows slightly raised as though to ask if you’re good. When you nod, his grin tilts upward again and he puts the car and drive, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift tapping to the beat of the music.
It feels like you’re radiating nervous energy, but you relax as Hansol asks about your day. He’s good at that, eliminating whatever weight is sitting on your shoulders or whatever residual stress you’ve got from work. You don’t feel so… well. On the clock.
The thought makes you squirm in your seat, pulling the edge of your dress down your thighs a little. You picked it out as a last minute choice, unsure whether you’re trying to dress to impress or dress to show you don’t care what Minho thinks of you.
Hansol notices you fidgeting. “You alright?”
“Kind of nervous.”
“Any reason in particular?”
You blow out air, your head smacking against the headrest. “On the clock?”
“Off,” he says with a grin.
“I feel like I’m going to fucking blow it.”
“How so?”
“What if he asks me to kiss you?”
The words are out before you can stop them. It isn’t until you’re met with silence that you realize what you’ve said. You’ve certainly stuck your foot in your mouth on more than one occasion. You do it often, and quite wonderfully, truthfully. It has taken years of practice to stop flubbing presentations and pitches at work, but that doesn’t mean you don’t say insane shit.
Like right now, when you tell Hansol that of all the things you’re nervous about, the very slim, tiny percent of a chance of being asked to kiss him is at the top of the list.
And yet, because it’s Hansol, he grins and says, “Damn, Minho’s a freak like that? He likes to ask people to kiss so he can watch?”
Just like that, the tension eases. You laugh, hand flying your mouth to try and suppress it. His eyes are on the road, but they glitter when you catch a glimpse of his face in the headlines, flashing from dark to liquid gold for a split second.
“Okay,” you admit, laughter dying down. “He’s definitely not going to ask that. It’s just one of those irrational fears, especially with him.”
“Why especially?”
“I feel like he’s always trying to prove that he was right when he broke up with me. Or I guess, in general. He loves being right and sometimes it’s like he’s trying to force a gotcha moment.”
Hansol is silent as he turns into the parking lot. You say nothing, watching as he navigates to find a parking space. The restaurant is busy and there’s a valet, but Hansol is determined to find his own. He does - very close to the entrance - letting out a happy noise as a car backs out.
Car in park, he turns to look at you. “Can I say something? Not on the clock.”
Your heart skips a little. “Sure.”
“Minho is an asshole.” You smile, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. “And you’re going to get through dinner just fine because he’s an asshole, and you’re not.”
“Are you sure?”
His laugh is full. “I’m actually pretty confident in this. And if he does ask us to kiss, you have my full consent to lay one on me. Come on.”
You wish you felt as confident as Hansol seems. He slides out of the car easily, coming around to your side as you get out. He reaches out a hand almost instinctively, waiting for you to grab it. You look at him in surprise to find that he looks equally stunned at his own gesture.
Grinning, you take his hand. It’s warm in yours and he gives you a squeeze as you drop your linked fingers between you, walking toward the establishment like a real couple.
It feels real. You’re not sure what to do with that. The sudden realization of it churns in your stomach as you approach the dark interior of the steakhouse, immediately hit with a romantic ambiance that feels far too big for this tiny thing brewing inside of you.
Twelvefold? How many times have you suffered since that first day you ran into Hansol at the bookstore? You think it might continue through the evening, especially when he glances over at you on the way to the table to check on you, hand tightening for a split second.
As soon as you spot Minho and Mina, you’re glad that Hansol has a steady grip on you. Mina’s glossy hair is nearly blinding under the glow of the soft lighting and her smile is brighter still. You almost want to shield your eyes as they wave you over.
Neither of them seems to know if they should stand and greet you or what the protocol is. Good, you think, happy to see them as off kilter as you feel by this very weird and very unnecessary dinner date.
Why had Hansol agreed to do this again?
“She keep you late?” Minho asks Hansol, immediately reminding you why Hansol had said yes in the first place: he seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying. “You’ll get used to it!”
“Actually, it was me,” Hansol answers smoothly. He pulls out your chair for you, startling you again. You try to fein admiration - it’s not hard - and sit, looking up at him with a little bit of awe. Hansol sits, adjusting his seat so that it’s a little closer to yours. “I was working on an infrastructure request and lost track of time.”
That seems to shut Minho up for a moment. Then he laughs his businessman laugh and you wonder if it’s always sounded that way, hollow and fake and… well, annoying. “Damn, so you’re both like that?”
“Yep.” Hansol leans back in his chair, stretching his arm so that it rests over the back of yours. He doesn’t explicitly touch you, but you feel the warmth of him radiating like a furnace, a shiver snaking through you at how close he is. “Works well for us.”
You try not to frown. He’s not going to make it easy for your fake breakup. You’d assumed that you’d tell everyone you just didn’t have time for him, but with the way he’s talking to Minho now, you’re worried it’ll make the impending breakup a little less believable.
“That’s good, then,” Minho says eventually. “Just don’t schedule any vacations or you’ll both miss it.”
“I never did that,” you scowl.
Before he has time for a rebuttal, the server is there welcoming you to the restaurant. You shift in your seat, feeling irritated. Hansol senses it, the tips of his finger brushing against your bicep as if to tell you it’s okay. You relax, but only a little, still frustrated.
Again, you can’t help but feel like your faults are being exacerbated, like Minho is drawing them up to be far grander than they really were. You had missed some dinners and cancelled on some things, but you’d never gone as far as to miss a vacation or a birthday - never the big things. Never the milestones.
If the server can tell the energy at the table has shifted, they don’t let on. They pour glasses of wine that you let Hansol order while you’re spiraling in your head, and leave with the promise of coming back to take orders when the table is ready.
It’s Mina who restarts the conversation, glancing at Minho who sucks down the entire glass of wine in a single go. “So,” she says. “What is it exactly that you do?”
“Careful with that question,” Minho jokes. “She’ll talk to you about work for hours.”
“Which is what makes her good at her job.” Hansol’s voice is even. Smooth. Almost severe, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. Tension ripples from him for just a moment before he looks at you and smiles. “Her job is very cool.”
Unlike her blockhead of a boyfriend, Mina seizes the chance for normalcy and asks, “Marketing, right?”
Mina (with the glossy hair) is really nice. You like her almost immediately and strangely enough, you’re glad she’s there. Minho is like a stormcloud at the edge of the table, a little pocket of pressure that everyone can feel but tries to ignore.
Hansol makes your fake relationship look effortless. You have to mask your surprise when he recounts a detail about you that you didn’t expect him to know, or makes an observation that has you warming, ducking your face to hide the smile tugging your lips.
You know little things about him too. It’s almost like you weren’t aware until you’re saying them, all the small things about him bubbling to your lips like an instinct.
“He’s such an Aquarius!” You laugh, finish the rest of your steak. “The IT department is full of them, even and they’re all so effortlessly cool and have different interests. Hansol has the coolest case full of Star Wars collectibles and-”
“Hansol?”
Minho’s question catches you off guard. You blink at him a few times, confused until Hansol interjects, “That’s my legal name.”
“Damn. Should we be calling you Hansol?”
“Nope. Reserved for my mom and my girlfriend.”
“Wow.”
Minho sits back and observes the two of you. The plates have been cleared away for the evening and the glasses of wine have dwindled. You’re a little sleepy, ready to go home, but the appraising look in Minho’s eyes as they flicker back and forth between you and Hansol has you on edge.
Hansol seems unbothered, finishing his water. His arm rests against your back properly now and you almost melt when his fingers start to trace a pattern on your arm, almost absently. You’re so acutely aware of him that you’re nearly vibrating, telling yourself over and over again that this is just him committing to the bit. This isn’t something to overthink. His touch is for show.
You don’t want it to be for show. God, you don’t want it to be, but you try not to let it unravel right now, instead finishing your water under the heavy and calculating gaze of your ex-boyfriend, who, over the course of dinner, has made you realize you are so grateful is your ex.
“Huh.”
“What?” you ask, voice coming out a little more challenging than you intend. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s trying to position himself in a way where he’s not wrong.
“You guys are really together.”
That makes you stiffen. Hansol’s fingers go still on your arm. “What do you mean?”
“You just didn’t really seem like you were dating at the bookstore. It didn’t even seem like you knew who Vernon was.”
“It was still new,” You lie. “I also wasn’t expecting to run into you both. That’s all.”
“I guess. Just… find it surprising, I guess. Figured you’d never have time for someone.”
It’s Hansol who says, “She has plenty of time for me. Speaking of time, it’s time we head home. I have to finish up some stuff for work tomorrow and she just finished an insane project and deserves some sleep.”
Again, Minho seems thrown for a loop. You could get used to seeing him like a fish out of water, trying not to let an evil smirk take over your face when Hansol beats everyone to the check.
There is an edge to Hansol’s movements. You observe him quietly, noting the way his mouth is pinched at the corners and the way his eyes darken when he looks at Minho. But when he looks at you, it’s like the world stops. Hansol’s eyes soften and his lips turn up at the corner, a gentle smile for you.
Only you.
You’re fucked. You’re fucked fucked fucked and it’s nearly all you can think about as dinner wraps up and Minho and Mina thank Hansol for paying. You want to smack him for offering to pay for the insanely expensive bill, but he takes everything in stride.
Outside, it’s a little cold. Hansol shucks his jacket off immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders while giving Mina some sort of computer advice that goes over your head because all you can focus on is the way Hansol smoothes the jacket over your shoulder, his hand dropping to your waist to keep you close.
You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with him. You can’t recall a single time you ever felt this affected by Minho, much less anyone else. Despite having two glasses of wine, you know it’s Hansol and not the wine that has you buzzing. Hansol who has you warm, Hansol who makes it feel like there’s static in your brain when he glances at you to make sure you’re still okay after you’ve gone silent.
Hansol gives you a quick smile and turns to say farewell to the other couple. You’re happy to say goodbye - though perhaps you should have asked Mina her haircare routine - and you wave as Hansol leads you into the parking lot, fingers intertwined.
He turns to you, making you look up at him. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs, barely giving you a warning. “Unless you say no.”
“I - okay.”
There is the barest of smiles on Hansol’s face before he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief and gentle, so quick that you barely register he’s kissed you at all. He’s already pulling away when you blink, nearing his car as he does.
“He was a dick,” Hansol explains. “And he was staring at us when we left. So. Let him question what’s real now.”
Minho isn’t the only one questioning what’s real. You’re hung up on the kiss, despite it being nothing more than a peck. Your mouth is warm, thoughts spinning as Hansol helps you into the car. You say nothing, completely consumed by the feel of his mouth, the smell of driftwood and salt, the barest taste of wine.
The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable. Hansol’s hand grabs yours instinctually over the center console, fingers tied together loosely as he drives. But there’s no one to perform for her, no one to show off too. No one who needs convincing.
It’s just you and the burning desire for him bubbling up inside of you.
You’ve lost count of how many folds you have suffered, but somehow, this one is a little less worse than the others.
-
Hansol cannot stop thinking about you. He’s pretty sure the last time he had brain rot this bad about another person, it was Larcy Dodsen in his senior year of college who had blown him to heaven and back. He’s had better (and worse) blowjobs since then, and doesn’t really think of Larcy Dodsen ever anymore.
But you. You.
You occupy every corner of his mind. He wavers back and forth between thinking about the way you smell or the way you laugh (a little reedy, but cute) and thinking about how bad he fucked up by kissing you that night.
Things aren’t exactly weird. The very basis of your relationship - or lack thereof - is weird. He’d agreed to be your fake boyfriend for a month, but with zero terms. No contract outline. No do’s and don’ts. No guidelines. No rules. No regulations. Just an agreement and a fucking dream.
Now, he’s wishing he had something to go off of, because what started out as an agreement to help someone out has turned into something else entirely.
Chan was right. Hansol is desperately trying to hide that fact from his best friend, but the way Chan side-eyes Hansol at lunch when he stares off into the distance, he thinks that the younger man might be onto him.
It doesn’t help that Hansol is buried in Help Desk tickets the weekend following kissing you, and you’re six feet under in a pile of projects. It isn’t until he goes a few days without talking to you multiple times that it’s occurred to him how much he texts you during the day.
Hansol finds himself checking his phone again at lunch, swearing that he felt it vibrate. This time, Chan catches him, putting down the fork and clearing his throat to gesture at the phone. “So it happened, right?”
“What?” Even Hansol winces at his own defensiveness. “I can’t check the time?”
“Do you check the time three times every five minutes? I know you can do math.”
“Just checking to see how her presentation went.”
Chan laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right. So it did happen.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
He doesn’t. Chan knows it. Hansol knows it. Chan gets more specific anyway. “You like her. As in, you have feelings for her after… well. This weekend will make it a month. So wouldn’t that be your deal coming to an end?”
Hansol wants to think about anything other than that. “Everything is fine.”
Chan holds up his hand, a white flag. “You’re an adult. You can do what you want. Just make sure you know what she wants too, is all I’m saying.”
And that’s the crux of it. Hansol isn’t sure what you want. He assumed that you just wanted to get through this month and your fake breakup, but now he’s not so sure. He thinks of the way you’d look at him during dinner last weekend, the way your expression gets dreamy with a soft smile, eyes glowing.
Hansol doesn’t think he made it up - his creativity is good but not that good. He had been so sure that you felt something too, swears that you melted into him every time he touched you, every time he turned to check in on you.
And the kiss… it had been brief and born from wanting to rub it in Minho’s face, but Hansol had wanted to do it, too. Wanted it for himself. Wanted to allow himself a single, greedy thing. You’d been surprised but leaned into him, almost instinctual. It had been so short but it haunts his dreams, the phantom press of your mouth keeping him up late at night.
Even now, Hansol’s fingers trace his mouth, as though he can remember the feeling of your mouth against his. So maybe Chan is right. Hansol likes you - has feelings for you. There is a lingering sense that you might too, but he’s not sure.
He needs to be sure.
Finding a window to make sure, is tough, though. He only hears from you once throughout the rest of the day, and it's to shoot him a quick text that the presentation was moved to Monday and that you have to work all weekend on it.
He feels more disappointed than he lets on. He wonders if you remember his birthday is on Saturday. Not that you owe him that since you’re not actually dating, but in a perfect world Hansol thinks it might have been a good day to tell you how he feels. That he kind of wants to make this thing real.
On the bright side, you do remember his birthday. On the shitty side, he can’t spend it with you. You’re working on your presentation for the foreseeable future, and Hansol had hesitated to make plans with his friends knowing some of them were celebrating Valentine’s Day late with their partners and because he’d hoped to maybe spend it with you.
It feels stupid, thinking about it now. Of course you weren’t going to spend it with him. He knew what this was when he offered to do it. You were a bright burning star at the top of the company, and Hansol had been someone you barely registered.
By the afternoon, he’s still sullen. He’s thinking about just spending the evening eating pizza and playing video games online where he’ll get bullied by a bunch of high schoolers when he hears his phone ring and your name flashes across the screen.
Hansol’s heart soars. He all but throws the control across the room, diving to pick up the phone and answer, “Hi!”
“Please don’t hate me,” you rush out, completely out of breath. “I am panicking right now. My work laptop randomly got the blue screen of death and I’m in the middle of my project and-”
“I’ll come look at it.” He cringes, realizing how down bad he is. It’s his birthday and he shouldn’t have to work, but he’d rather come solve a problem for you than have a bunch of thirteen year old’s tell him that they’re fucking his mom. “I can come over in fifteen.”
“Oh! Uh… can you make that twenty?”
Weird. “Sure?”
“Great! Text me when you’re here and I’ll give you the unit number.”
Twenty minutes ends up being perfect, because Hansol goes through the mental anguish of what to wear, which is new for him. He showers as quickly and efficiently as he can, hopping with one leg in his jeans and the other missing the hole multiple times. He nearly runs into the wall as he’s pulling on a band tee over his head while also looking for his flannel.
Hair still damp, he pulls on a hat and twists it around backward, grabbing his glasses because he doesn’t feel like wearing contacts (and because you said you liked them) as he barrels out the house, radiating with nervous energy.
Hansol wonders if it’s appropriate to tell you how he feels today. It will be face to face but… no. You’d sounded stressed on the phone and he knows how important this presentation is for you, despite not knowing what it’s about.
He barely remembers the drive to your apartment, blinking and realizing he’s parked and texting you that he’s there. You give him directions to your unit and with shaky hands, Hansol turns off the car. He takes a few steadying breaths before getting out and heading to the stairs, his heart hammering with each step.
When he finally gets to your door, he double checks that it's the right one. His hands shake when he knocks, and he has to remind himself several times that he’s just here to fix your computer. Sure, he’s thrilled that he gets to see you, but this is on the clock. Not off.
You’re breathless when you open the door. “Hi!” You say a little too loudly. He raises his brows but you open the door and step aside, ushering him in. “Come on in.”
Hansol gives you an amused grin as he walks into your apartment. He’s confused as to why it’s completely dark, a question that he’s about to ask you as you shut the door, but you flick on the lights and he’s met with the world’s loudest shout of surprise he’s ever heard.
He flinches, hand flying to his chest in terror as the lights flood on and Hansol realizes that the reason they were off is to hide the obscene amount of Star Wars decorations covering every part of your apartment. He can’t even picture what your home is supposed to look like, just that it’s covered in streamers and paper Luke Skywalkers and RD-D2s, and filled with familiar faces.
Hansol’s mouth pops open as the crowd screams at him. Chan and Seokmin are at the forefront, phones in hand capturing Hansol as he stands there, dumbfounded. Soongyoung and Mingyu are blowing through noise makers with so much force that the paper on them breaks, and Seungkwan is leading an off-key rendition of happy birthday with Hansol’s friends you’ve never even met.
Slowly, Hansol turns to look at you. You’re standing behind him, hands clasped nervously and tucked under your chin as you watch him, terrified. You’re chewing on your lips, entire frame vibrating with energy.
He wants nothing more than to walk over to you and kiss you stupid. The flame of desire that licks through him is borderline impossible to tamp down, staring at you like the eighth world wonder as you slip over to him, scanning his face.
“Surprise?” You squeak.
“You did this for me?”
“Well, yeah.”
You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He wants to pin you against the island counter behind you, but it’s fill with food and beverages and blue fucking milk. “Is that okay?” you ask, suddenly nervous.
Hansol softens and starts to laugh. “Yeah,” he shakes his head. “It is more than okay.”
Before he can say anything else, the crowd of people crashes into him. Seokmin and Chan are screaming in his ear, grabbing him and yelling for shots. Mingyu and Soonyoung are chanting his name and his best friend from college manages to squeeze in and give him a hug and a birthday greeting.
How did you even know Minghao existed? Or how to contact him? Hansol has no idea, but before he can ask you any questions about the how or the why, he’s swept into your kitchen for birthday celebrations he thought would never happen, orchestrated by the single person he wanted to see most.
Fuck was Chan right more than ever.
-
The thing about being a bad liar is that you found it nearly impossible to hide what you were doing from Hansol. The thing about everyone thinking you’re always busy, is that it was an easy facade to shield the sheer stress of trying to plan a surprise party for him.
Your apartment is filled with more people than you’ve ever dared to let inside. It makes you a little nervous for all of these people to see this new part of you, but with a little bit of rum and the released pressure of Hansol looking like he’s enjoying himself, you decide it’s worth it.
Squished in the corner of your couch, you watch as Chan leads a game of cards that he is losing very badly at. Most of these people in your apartment are casual friends, with the exception of Seungkwan who is playing DJ in the kitchen, but they’re all friends that Hansol would want at a celebration for him.
At least, that’s what Chan and Seokmin said. Recruiting them had been pretty easy, but during the process of them helping you plan this, you’re pretty sure they’ve caught on to the AT-AT Walker-sized elephant in the room: you are very much into their friend. In a very Not-On-The-Clock appropriate way.
Now, you watch as Hansol makes his way over to you, dodging people who stop to talk to him. He seems pretty determined to reach you, clapping someone on the shoulder and moving them aside to continue his journey to you.
Your stomach flips when he sits on the arm of your couch, perched perfectly next to you. He looks good today, dressed in jeans, a soft looking tee and a flannel. The backwards hat does wonders for you - which you will not be psychoanalyzing now - and his black frame glasses.
“How did you do all this?” He asks, shaking his head in wonder. “I just… what?”
“It wasn’t easy, but it worked, right?”
“Is this the presentation you’ve been working on all week?”
“Yes. Please don’t be mad at me for lying.”
He laughs. “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried.”
An argument breaks out over cards, Chan and Mingyu yelling at each other about someone cheating. Hansol winces at the noise and you scoot a little closer to avoid the deck of cards Mingyu throws in Chan’s direction.
“Is there anywhere quiet we can talk?” Hansol asks, though he’s laughing at them. “They’re giving me a bit of a headache.”
You grin. “For sure.”
Getting up, you lead Hansol down the hall to your bedroom, which is off limits to the rest of the party. The good thing about adult festivities is that no one is a weirdo about going into rooms they shouldn’t, staying exactly where it’s appropriate to be.
Shutting the door behind you, the noise of the party dies down immediately. It’s dark in your room, save for the single lamp burning in the corner at a low setting. You realize it’s a bit messy, apologizing to Hansol as you kick clothes out of the way. You hadn’t intended on bringing him in here, and suddenly the implication of Hansol standing in your room tingles down your spine.
“I, uh-” You stammer, looking at him. “Sorry it’s a mess. I didn’t intend on anyone seeing this.”
Halloween yowls, getting up off your bed. Hansol makes a surprised sound and you apoogize again, “It’s just Halloween. He likes to sleep in here. Out, kitty!”
You open the door and Halloween bolts out, going to find Seungkwan who will give him snacks.
Hansol grins and wanders over to the bookshelf, looking over the titles. You take a few steps to follow him but keep your distance, suddenly very nervous. He points his finger at a title and looks at you, inviting you to step closer to read it in the dim light.
You recognize the title - you’d bought it the day you’d crashed into him and got some of your books mixed up.
“This one one of the books you accidentally swapped with me,” Hansol notes, running his finger along the spine. You zero in on his finger - his hands, in general. They’re pretty. You swallow hard, looking up at the ceiling instead. “Have you read it yet?”
“Not yet. I started one of the others but I’ve been having trouble breeding - reading lately.”
Hansol presses his lips together in a flat line and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh at you. Warmth floods your face and you want to die on the spot, especially when he turns to face you head on, leaning against your bookcase.
His eyes are dark, drinking you in. Your pulse skyrockets, thinking about that quick kiss he had given you the other night. It’s all you’ve been able to think about, too afraid to ask him if it was just for show and too busy trying to plan this party to work out what to say about it.
Now, alone in your room, the questions fizzle on your tongue at the nearness of him.
“Thank you,” Hansol says eventually. “For planning this. I… would never have expected you to do that.”
“I wanted to celebrate you.”
He blushes, ducking his head. “It’s sweet. It did make me nervous, though.”
“Why?”
“I thought you were avoiding me, kind of.”
You blink. “Why on earth would I be doing that?”
“Thought that maybe I took it too far with the kiss.”
“No. You didn’t.”
Hansol’s gaze falls on you. It’s razor sharp and there’s something there, burning just under the surface. You swear it’s something like desire, but you’re too afraid to name it. Too worried that it’s just what you want reflected in his glassy gaze, and not his.
Then, “Did I not take it far enough?”
The question hangs in the air. You cannot hear anything but the pounding of your own heart. It’s just Hansol in this dark room with you, looking at you with exactly the same hunger that’s been churning in your gut.
You don’t know when this hunger started. All you know is that the last few weeks, it’s been there. Every time you look at him you feel it ignite, the desire so raw that you don’t know what to do with it.
Now, you know he feels it too - see it, in the way he waits for your answer. Patient. Calm. Steady.
“On the clock?” You ask, voice shaky. He shakes his head no. “You could go further.”
That’s all Hansol needs. He’s gentle when he reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. You barely get to suck in a trembling breath before he’s kissing you.
This kiss is entirely different from the peck he gave you in the parking lot last weekend. This kiss steals the breath from your lung, his mouth confident and sure as he slots his mouth against yours. He smells like the sea, all driftwood and salt and his lips taste like the tangy drink he’d been sipping on earlier.
Everything else fades to the background. Your hands twist in his flannel. It’s soft, but nothing compared to the softness of Hansol’s tongue as he licks at the seam of your lips. You let him in and he groans, pulling you in impossibly closer as the kiss turns more desperate.
You melt. He kisses you hungrily now, sucking your tongue into his mouth. It makes your head spin, the party long forgotten as you press further into him. The bookshelf wobbles under the weight of both of you leaning against it, making you break, both of you panting.
Hansol’s mouth shines with your spit in the low lamp light and you have the urge to lean forward and lick it. You resist, only for him to give into his urge. He leans forward, tongue pressing to the corner of your mouth gently.
“What about now?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your mouth. “Too far?”
“No.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, hands dropping to your waist. You let him grip you, backing you up toward your bed. It’s a bit clumsy but you don’t care, hands looping around his neck to keep him close.
“Tell me what you want,” Hansol mumbles. Your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall backward. He follows you, caging you in with both of his planted on either side of your head. “Tell me how far you want me to go.”
“On the clock?”
“Fuck no. Nothing I want to do right now is on the clock.”
“Good. I want you to go as far as you want.”
He drops his mouth to your neck. A moan slips between your lips when you feel his tongue scrape across the soft skin of your throat. He sounds strained when he says, “You gotta tell me, baby. I need to know what you want.”
“You.” It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month. “All of it. Everything. But for real.”
Hansol nods. He presses messy, wet kisses up your neck, along your jaw, stopping at your mouth. His nose nudges yours and he smiles against your lips, giving you a chaste peck. “You’ve got me. For real.”
Grinning, you slide your hands underneath his shirt. He moans, throaty and delicious. He twitches under your exploration but he lets you brush your palms up the warmth of his stomach, reaching around until your hands are gripping his lower back.
His mouth attaches to yours again. The kiss is messy and addictive, Hansol filling your senses as he lowers himself so that his weight is rested on top of you. It’s comforting and wanted, your knees squeezing his hips to hold him in place.
One of his hands leaves the mattress to drop to your hip, squeezing before he scratches his nails against your thigh. You shiver, feeling the stimulation through your jeans. His hand slips under you, gripping the curve of your ass to lift you a little, pressing you closer to him.
A moan slips through your mouth to his when he rolls your hips against him. The stimulation isn’t remotely enough but you like this version of Hansol. His touch is confident, his lips intentful as they leave a trail from your mouth to your collarbone.
With one last squeeze to your ass, Hansol traces his fingers over the tops of your thigh to drop between your legs. He presses his fingers to the apex of your thighs, working you through your clothes. You let out a desperate sound and you feel the way he smiles against your skin.
His touch sparks a flame. You tear at his flannel, peeling it from his shoulders. He helps you get it off of him but he’s just as eager to peel you out of your jeans and shirt. A deep curse leaves his mouth when he sees you in just a bra and underwear, your chest heaving as you pant, staring up at him, mouth swollen and tender.
Reaching for him, you grab the hat and throw it. “Hat is very hot,” you admit. “But I wanted to do this.”
You slide your fingers in his hair, curling them through the strands to tug him back to you. He smiles into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand skims up your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes until he slides his hand back between your legs.
A gasp leaves you as he presses his fingers back to your cunt, pressing the fabric into your aching clit. He whispers a string of curses when he feels how damp you are, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a moment as he teases you over your panties.
“Please,” you whisper, hips rising off the bed. “Want more.”
“Mhmm.” He lifts his head and gives you a quick kiss to the cheek. “I’ve got you.”
Hansol doesn’t make you beg. You like that about him. Your breath catches when he drops to his knees, reaching his arm up to pull the back of his shirt over his head, tossing it. The sight of him between your knees in just jeans, his hair mussed and mouth swollen is enough to make you dizzy.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching with hooded eyes as Hansol grabs you by the calves, spreading you a little more. His hands are gentle and warm, rubbing up and down while he takes his time pressing a myriad of kisses up the right side of your inner thigh.
It feels so good. Your lashes flutter a little, breath coming in quicker. Everywhere his mouth touches tingles, a little path of buzzing electricity as he makes his way closer and closer to your heat until he switches sides.
You make a sound of protest and Hansol looks up at you through his lashes, grinning. He looks smug, leaning forward to bite your thigh playfully. It stings but it feels good, making your fingers twist in the sheets.
“Feel good?” he whispers, pressing his tongue to soothe the sting. You nod, mouth parted, unable to speak. He smiles again, dragging his tongue down your thigh. You think you might die right there.
Hansol makes his way back up. He drags his burning gaze up to meet yours, deliberately making eye contact as he presses the flat of his tongue against your underwear. If it wasn’t soaked before, it is thoroughly drenched now. You suck in a sharp breath, knees closing on instinct to squeeze against his shoulders.
He chuckles, dragging his tongue upward where it presses against your clit momentarily. He brings one of his hands up, pressing his middle finger right against your hole. You feel yourself clench around nothing and you know he knows, his grin wicked.
"What do you like?"
"I... don't know."
He looks at you, pausing. "You don't know? Like what makes you come?" You shake your head and realization lights his eyes. "That jackass didn't make you come, did it?"
You shake your head and he groans.
“Don’t worry,” Hansol promises with another languid lick to the soaked fabric. “I will make up for all the times you didn’t get to come.”
“Fuck.”
Vernon (from IT) has been replaced with Hansol (the Menace). He hooks a finger in the crotch of your underwear, pulling them to the side. He drags a knuckle against your pussy on purpose, both of you groaning in unison.
Eagerly Hansol leans forward, giving you a teasing lick. Your fingers dig into the mattress anyway. You can do nothing but stare at him, watching the way Hansol drags his dark eyes up to watch you as he drags his tongue through your folds again.
“Shit,” you hiss at him, a shiver wracking your body.
He seems pleased, shooting you a quick smile before he brings his mouth to you again, sucking gently. He avoids your clit at first, working you up slowly. Hansol eats you out like he has all the time in the world, like there’s no where he would rather be than tonguing your pussy.
It drives you mad, his name slipping from your lips in little gasps. His tongue circles your clit, applying pressure indirectly, working you up and up until finally, he closes his mouth around the throbbing bundle of nerves, suckling.
“Ohhhh,” you laugh, half delirious. “That. Whatever that is.”
He hums, parting only to say, “You got it.”
You see God when he fastens his mouth to you, sucking your clit gently. Dropping back against the bed, you twitch and gasp under Hansol’s ministrations. He sets a rhythm, adding his fingers to the mix as they press against your entrance. He doesn’t push in, but rather traces a pattern, making you squeeze.
Panting, you drop a hand to his hair. He hums in delight as you tangle your fingers in the strands, bringing him closer to your cunt. You feel like you’re burning up, your sheets sticking to your skin, the room spinning as Hansol eats you out in earnest now.
No one has ever seemed this dedicated to your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for a second, fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring you to a cliff of insanity. All you have to do is jump and dive head first into an orgasm.
You do. Hansol works you right to the very edge and you topple over, falling into it hard. You go taught but he holds you down, fighting your spasm as you come hard. He doesn’t miss a beat, the obscene sounds of him slurping at you drowning out the pitiful, high pitched whine that leaves you.
In a wave of exhaustion, your orgasm subsides. You flop on the bed, still shaking as he removes his mouth in favor of pressing slick, cum-stained kisses to your thighs. You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, flashing wickedly.
He pauses, looking at your wet, messy cunt back to your face. “Want a taste?”
Hansol (the Menace) is going to kill you.
You nod and he smirks. He runs his tongue generously up your pussy, making sure to dip into your entrance just a little before he stands up and leans over you to press a filthy kiss to your mouth. You suck at his tongue greedily, tasting yourself and him, a combination you’ll never get tired of.
One of his hands snakes up to your chest, tweaking a nipple gently, testing the waters. You nod, breaking the kiss with a gasp, “Yeah.”
“Gonna work you open with my fingers,” he slurs. He kisses down your neck again, working his way to your chest. “That okay?”
“More than okay.”
“God,” he whispers. “You sound so fucking good when you come. Want to hear it again.”
There is no doubt he will. Hansol rids you of your bra before returning to suck greedily at your chest. Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his sides as he presses a finger into your warmth.
“God damn,” he laughs. He plucks at a nipple with his teeth and you curse. “You’re so fucking wet.”
“On the clock?”
“Fuck no. My finger is in your pussy.”
“I am really turned on.”
He gives your other breast a playful bite. “Good. Now I want you to come apart on my fingers.”
That won’t be an issue. Hansol gets you there embarrassingly fast. He finds the sensitive spot inside of you with ease and doesn’t hold back, pressing another finger in. He works you toward another orgasm like it's easy - and maybe for the both of you, it is. Maybe Hansol was meant to have you like this, gushing around his fingers and babbling nonsense as you come again, his mouth pressed against your hammering heart.
Maybe he was meant to have you fucked out and light-headed by the time you’re helping him out of his jeans, sliding his briefs down his muscular thighs to free his cock. The tip is dark and sticky, weeping with precum when he pins you to the bed, catching you in a bruising kiss.
Gone is the patient Hansol who had started with gentle kisses to your thighs, replaced by his need to have you. To consume you. You let him, willing to let him do whatever he wants. You want his pleasure just as much as he wants yours, slipping your hand between your bodies to palm his cock, heavy and warm in your hand.
He whispers your name and it sounds like a prayer. His forehead presses against yours, letting you pump him slowly. His hips twitch as though he’s fighting to control himself, letting you have your fun before he growls and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers to pin above your head.
Hansol scoots you up the bed, putting you where he wants you. Gone is the sweet guy from IT, replaced with whatever this is. You like this side of him equally, listening to him when he asks you to lift your hips so he can slide a pillow under your ass.
With a kiss to your brow that feels sweeter than the moment allows for, Hansol lifts your leg, prying you open for him. His cock is heavy against your cunt and he ruts a little, making you both whine in tandem.
“You still want this, right?” He asks, voice shaking. “For real?”
“Yes.” You squeeze the hand he has laced with yours, pinned to the mattress near your head. “On the clock. Off the clock. Literally all of the hours.”
“What if I refuse to change your computer password?”
That makes you laugh. He gives you a glowing smile, kissing the tops of your cheekbones. “Even then,” you promise.
“Good. Try breathing for me when you come this time.” You give him a look and he smiles. “Did you think you were done? I told you I was making up for lost time.”
He doesn’t give you a second to retort, his cock pressing in at that exact moment. “Ohhh you fucker,” you moan and he laughs, which makes things worse. You squeeze around him hard, barely breathing as Hansol slides in to the hilt, the pressure and stretch divine. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did,” he admits before trapping you into an uncoordinated kiss.
With one hand holding yours to the bed and the other sliding under your ass to help lift you with the pillow, Hansol sets a slow pace. You continue to kiss him, just as slow as he fucks you. He is deep, cock brushing against your g-spot on every upstroke.
Your free hand slides to his lower back, urging him to keep going. His tempo is measured, perfect, the angle of his hips just right. You start to feel insane, mumbling his name, whining between kisses, making a pathetic noise when he increases his pace.
Hansol fucks like he knows exactly how you like it. Of course he does. Even from the moment in that bookstore, he had you figured out. No one else has been able to adjust to you like he has, no one else has been able to understand - to see you.
“Fuck,” he hisses when you start squeezing on him for harder and longer. He’s pushing you toward that edge again, so close you’re already seeing stars. “Pussy feels so good.”
He shuffles up the bed more, folding you a little. You make a wild sound, gasping as the angle pushes his cock in deep. “Holy shit, Hansol.”
“That the spot?” he asks, and you nod. He starts fucking you in earnest, pace picking up. “God damn I could do this all day.”
“Keep doing that and I’ll let you.”
He laughs and kisses you again, all tongue and teeth. You start to spasm, feeling the way your muscles clench as you near your third orgasm. This one is tight in your stomach, a pressure that is so compact you feel like you’re going to combust.
“Breathe through it,” he reminds you, out of breath as he chases your high. “You can do that, yeah?”
You nod, saving your breath for when he tells you to use it.
A few more hard strokes and you’re doing exactly as instructed, taking in a deep breath as your orgasm hits. You see white, shaking underneath Hansol as the warmth of your high blooms in your lower stomach and expands. It’s better than the first two, stretching longer, the feeling reaching to your toes.
You manage to breathe all the way through it, barely hanging on as he fucks you through the entire length of your high. He presses his mouth to your temple, slowing his pace to let you recover. You feel melted, like your bones and muscles have all gone on vacation, leaving Hansol to do the work for you.
“Good?” he asks, breath fanning your face.
You nod and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “You,” you mumble. It’s not a complete sentence, but he gets what you mean, kissing you quickly before chasing his own high, gritting his teeth.
As spent as you are, you do your part to help him get there, squeezing with what strength you have left, whispering his name, pulling him in close with a leg around his hip. It works, sending Hansol over the edge and spilling into you within a few seconds.
He curses into your shoulder, pace turning sloppy until he finally stops, hips pressed to yours, cock sheathed to the hilt. Both of you stay like that, trying to catch your breath in a sweaty pile of limbs.
Hansol recovers first, shifting so that he can lay next to you. He pulls out, a mess of cum and fluid going with him. You don’t care, rolling to your side to kiss him slowly. Softly. He rests an arm over your hip, keeping you connected.
“This is a great birthday,” he jokes, voice hoarse. “I uhhh, forgot there was a party. No one will think we’re fake dating now.”
You grin. “Whatever. We’re not on the clock.”
He kisses you again. “Thank god. Cause I really want to do this again in fifteen minutes.”
You smile, really glad that Hansol (the Boyfriend) is on the same page as you.
PERMANENT TAGS
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FIC TAGS
@christinewithluv @syluslittlecrows @avyskai @sheilogreen @j-onepostzz @beomcoups
Glutton
Pairing: demon!Kwon Soonyoung x f! grad student reader
Genre: smut, a smidge of angst, urban fantasy/dark academia
warnings: fingering, finger sucking, hoshi drinks her blood? but not really, oral (f and m receiving), spitting, dirty talk, chan makes an appearance and then gets dogged by hoshi, brief mentions of threesome, unprotected sex, cream pie, cum eating, multiple smut scenes, wet dreams, death (not main characters), occult shit
Length: ~11k
Note: as every fic this started as plotless smut and then turned into whatever the hell it is now. thank u @sailorsoons and @gyuswhore for being my betas, and @100vern for the banner. i haven't written anything and months so i'm a bit rusty. inspired by ninth house/hell bent by leigh bardugo
summary: You didn't mean to summon him but your demon is dedicated to serving you anyway he can.
m.list
This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.
You didn’t mean to.
The incantation you studied for nearly six months was perfect. In no way, shape, or form should the ritual have gone awry even if stray magic emerged. At worst, nothing should have happened. You’d should’ve ended up with an empty summoning circle, wasted materials that would need to be vacuumed up. At best, you’d have a servitor ready to assist with the more mundane parts of your thesis research.
As with every ritual, you drew the proper wards in salt and bone ash, some graveyard dirt on hand just in case. You had the knife, ready to sacrifice a few drops of blood for such a useful creation.
You recited the incantation, pricked your finger and then…
Nothing.
The sulfurous stench occult didn’t flood the room, the wards didn’t even manage a flickering glow. The candle flames didn’t even wince.
Utter failure.
You were too tired to do much more than release a choked scream in frustration before blowing out the candles and running upstairs.
Tomorrow you’d study the ancient manuscript for what you missed and try again. You just needed some sleep first.
You barely managed a few hours when you wake up with the distinct feeling something was wrong.
Everyone else left for winter break, leaving you alone with a mountain of books and articles to skim for the thesis you’ve been writing for years. It’s why you need a servitor to begin with; there was too much work to be done and simply not enough time.
No one should be in the house, but you got the distinct feeling someone, or something, was.
Only the noise of the house rang through your ears, the creak of the floor boards, the wind battering against the windows. The occasional owl calling from the tree outside the window of the living room on the ground floor. You swiped a knife from the kitchen and one of the spare jars of graveyard dirt before heading downstairs.
What a terrifying image you portrayed: a raggedy university sweater and pajama pants, dark circle bruised beneath your eyes, and a dirty kitchen knife.
None of it mattered.
The sharp scent of magic clouded the air at the bottom of the steps leading to the basement, thick as a curtain. But it wasn’t the rotten scent you were accustomed to. It was heavier with the sickly sweetness of flowers, like a poisonous bloom attempting to lure you in.
And what would want to lure prey into a trap more than a predator?
Standing in the circle was a man, but he was too perfect to be just a man. Gold flowed through his veins, illuminating him from the inside out. His eyes glowed like honey as he stared at you, watching. Waiting.
You were so distracted by his eyes you barely realized he was naked. He didn’t seem to care either, or register the fact he’s hard and you could see the way his length bobbed between his thighs.
Embarrassment didn’t have a chance to take root because he said your name just as sweet as the flower smelled.
You launched the jar of dirt at him in shock, the bottle shattering into a thousand pieces at his feet. The man made no move to avoid the explosion, didn’t disappear like the undead usually did when confronted with the reminder that they were no longer of the living. He didn’t even blink.
“What are you?” you shouted, brandishing the knife as if that could do anything. He was in the circle, that was safe enough for now.
“Yours.”
“That’s not,” you start, breathless. “What are you?”
“I’m…” Soonyoung struggled with the words to explain his purpose.
You tried to keep your eyes level with his but miles of bare, tan skin, with taunt muscles corded underneath proved too tempting. A few silver scars littered his body, indecipherable in the light and the passage of time. He was much older than you could even begin to imagine; this form only the briefest glimpse of his actual power.
“I’m a servant.”
“You’re the servitor I summoned?”
The manuscript you studied didn’t specify what a servitor looked like, only that it would serve its summoner with whatever tasks it was assigned.
He nodded widely. “I’m meant to serve whoever I’m bound to.”
“And now you’re bound to me.”
“Yes,” he swallowed. For the first time, he seemed to realize he’s naked but continued to be unbothered by it. His palm shakily grazed over himself before curling around his thighs.
Other passages from your reading came to mind as you forced your gaze away.
Bind your servitor to their duties as soon as possible, they don’t do well without direction.
They are eager to please and are capable of any task their summoner presents them with.
“We need…” you swallowed, trying to hide the squeak in your voice. “We need to make a deal.”
He nodded.
“You have to follow all of my commands.”
“Of course.”
“If you don’t,” you stuttered, grasping at straws for a threat. “I–I’ll banish you to a demiplane.”
His head tilted to the side, eyes pouring down your figure. Perhaps the stains of your sweater weren’t intimidating to him, but you held the power. He was still stuck in the circle, and you could send him away with a few words. Either he listened or turned back into nothing. Or worse; stuck in a demiplane with no purpose for the rest of time.
“Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do,” he rasped.
“Good. Give me your name.”
“Hoshi.”
You almost settled for that but something told you that wasn’t right. Occult creatures weren’t predisposed to honesty no matter how simple minded.
“Your true name,” you commanded.
He watched you for a long moment, eyes fading from gold to brown. Human eyes. Something familiar flickered in them when he said, “Soonyoung.”
As you repeated it, he shivered, a strangled inhale to match. You didn’t mean to, but a quick glance down showed he was still hard and leaking. Obscenely so. To the point it mixed with the circle drawn on the floor.
“Swear to do everything I say, and to never disobey me,” you said, eyes fixed on his, now golden once again.
“I swear to follow your every command, exactly as you say them.”
“And…”
“And to never disobey you or betray you. I bind myself to you, and anything you wish of me,” he vowed. Soonyoung attempted to take a step forward but stopped once he realized the circle was unbreakable.
Something wasn’t right. Soonyoung seemed like he wanted to tell you more, but you needed to ask the right questions. You knew what the question was, and that made you dread it all the more.
“You’re not a servitor at all, are you?”
Soonyoung rolled his shoulders, his muscles shifting and flexing with the motion. He seemed to grow taller, take up more space with the action as if only a fraction of his true form existed in front of you and the rest hid out of sight. “No.”
“Then what are you?”
“I think you know what I am.”
Since childhood you managed to summon all types of beings: spirits, a few hellhounds, a shade that left your mother locked in her room for weeks, refusing to see you. They appeared whether you called on them or not, flocking to you like a beacon. Summoning had never been your forte and now was no exception. But Soonyoung wasn’t like anything you accidentally called before.
A demon.
A demon who gave you his name and bound himself in service. To you.
Horrified, you rushed back up the way you came, the worn edges of the stairs bruising your knees as you tripped. If Soonyoung was truly a demon, then the wards would only keep him trapped for so long and the last place you need to be was next to him when he escaped. Profound relief greeted you once you were safely tucked back upstairs knowing that he hadn’t followed.
And perhaps a trickle of disappointment.
The dreams started a few nights after Soonyoung got stuck.
Stuck was the only way to describe him. Sandwiched between this world and the next, trapped in that tiny circle in the ritual room like a chained animal. He couldn’t leave the circle anymore than you could send him back where he belonged. You didn’t plan to conjure a demon with the incantation, which means you didn’t have a plan to banish him either. What had been done needed to be undone the exact same way, without error. Which meant late nights reading the same books you studied for weeks leading up to summoning the servitor, looking for any clue as to what went wrong; if it was the words, or materials, or anything else seemingly inconsequential. But no amount of reading gave you a clue because you followed the ritual to the exact letter.
He proved no help in the beginning, simply staring at you after each question about what he was and how he got here. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up each time you ventured to the ritual room for a new book, no matter how you tried to ignore his presence. He studied you with hunger
Then the dreams started.
They always began the same: you waking in bed, the aching in your core demanding attention. And then you’d be in the ritual room, or still in bed, occasionally in the archival library. You looked for something, someone. He was always there too. Soonyoung would pin you to the bookcase, down into the sheets, or against the floor boards so hard it hurt.
It was his teeth biting along your hips.
His lips sucking bruises into your thighs.
His tongue working over you in heavy strips; from your ankle, between your legs, across your breasts, caressing the sensitive flesh of your neck.
His voice crying your name, desperate pleas for something. To touch him too. To reveal in the bliss he so freely gifted.
Soonyoung knew how to touch you, skillfully working you into a pitiful mess every night. He knew exactly how your body worked, what you needed, all the tender spots to abuse until you begged him to stop.Every dream ended the same: you alone, overly aware who waits in the basement, unable to shake the feeling he knew and his pleas in your dream was for you to join him and make them reality.
Another week and no matter how much you avoided Soonyoung, his presence lingered like the chill of winter barking at the windows.
The dreams changed again. Still full of naked skin and debauched sounds, but sometimes you woke in his arms, limbs heavy and satiated as if you really did let him into your bed. He was still behind you, on top of you, beneath you but he curled around you like a soft blanket instead of a needful lover as he pulled you apart until you couldn’t breathe.
Soonyoung would whisper more poems in your ear, lips etching the words into your skin, gently rocking into you with sweet whimpers. No longer were you bound to just the house, your subconscious took you farther and farther; into fields and caves, castles and mansions; in the soft glow of sunrise and into the eye of hurricanes; and your bodies met again and again and again.
After, he’d pull you his chest, tracing the skin between your shoulder blades as you dozed off.
“She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright. Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light. Which hell to gaudy day denies.”
“I don’t remember that being the line,” you hummed.
Soonyoung pressed his mouth to your hair, inhaling deeply before speaking. “Blasphemy won’t earn you favors down the line.”
“I think I’ve crossed the line too many times already…” you said, moving to straddle him. “What’s one more?”
After another round — Soonyoung fucking up into you while you held on for dear life, eager to take pleasure from someone so willing to give — he laid you back down and buried his face in your stomach.
“How could something as divine as you be a sin?”
You realized the dreams were as much his as they were yours.
A week is all you had to banish Soonyoung back to wherever he belonged.
In seven days, the other members of the house returned and shortly after that, they’d descend to the ritual room and find him. He needed to go home. The sooner the better.
After an entire day studying the necromancy texts kept in the archives, you moved to one of the other society houses, hoping their library proved more useful. None of them liked sharing their magic but it’s easy enough to lie your way in under the promise of noting anything useful. They’d rather have a bookworm pick through the fluff and regurgitate the most interesting pieces than look for answers themself.
Chan was no different but he liked to pretend demonomicons and dusty grimoires fascinated him if it meant you’d let him sit with you. Two dates and nothing more didn’t seem to deter him from trying for a third, if anything he seemed eager to prove he deserved another chance.
It was well beyond midnight when he offered to walk you home, frigid wind curling through the streets. Chan was the one struggling to keep up as you all but sprinted home.
“I could come inside,” Chan suggested with a hopeful look on his face.
“No,” you shouted. “I mean…I have to clean up before everyone comes back. It’s a complete mess.”
He nodded, pretending not to be embarrassed from your easy refusal. “Alright. Well, have a good night.”
Maybe he’s what you needed. A quick romp, something to clear your head. Someone to fulfill all the fantasies Soonyoung planted and let bloom for the past month.
“Actually,” you said. “Maybe you could come in. Just for a little bit.”
Chan’s inability to satisfy you had nothing to do with him. Even as he rolled into you, attentive to every embellished moan you rewarded him with, you had to remind yourself that it felt good. His fingers between you would make you cum, his lips on your neck would make your blood boil. The way he groaned around your name sounded divine.
But every time your eyes slipped shut, someone else was saying it. Someone else touched you, tasted you, fucked you. You felt Soonyoung’s hands on you, confident where Chan was clumsy, knowledgeable where Chan was a novice.
If Chan knew something was wrong, he didn’t let it show, leaving just as the sun rose with a bit more pep in his step.
You managed a few hours of sleep, dreams melting with reality. Chan in your bed, except it was Soonyoung’s throaty moans filling the air as you rode him. Then you sprawled between his legs, back to chest, while Chan took the space between your thighs. Soonyoung gripped his hair, pushing his face firmer against your pussy, guiding him exactly how you need to be touched. But when Chan failed to do a satisfactory job, Soonyoung shoved him out of the way and showed Chan how you like to be played with until you woke up with a cry.
An hour long cold shower left you with numb fingers but had no effect on what plagued your mind.
Two days buried in books and diaries to avoid sleep and finally you had a lead.
There’s something to be said for carnal desires, and those created in service to them. The only way to banish those beings mirrors one’s own methods for purification in times of rabid depravity. — Jeonghan Yoon, class of 1923
Soonyoung must be what Jeonghan referenced in his diary; what he was and how to get rid of him once and for all. The ritual room had an entire bookcase dedicated to exorcisms, both new and old texts mingling on the shelves. You already exhausted most of them but the earlier pages of the diary quoted a line in a demonomicon you pushed to the side; it’d only been twenty pages, all shuffled around in the worn binding.
Jukoth’s Daemonum.
The pages were online, the LED screen of your laptop presenting the neat script. They held no rituals or instructions. Merely classifications of demons, from kings of hell to lowly vampires. You knew the copy downstairs would be far more useful. Frustratingly, Jeonghan’s handwriting littered many of the house books, Jukoth’s Daemonum would no doubt be graffitied in the same fashion.
Soonyoung said he’d do whatever you asked. Perhaps he knew the ritual to send him back where he came from. If he didn’t, maybe he knew where to look for one.
Tip toeing down to the basement, your demon waited inside the circle of salt and wax just as you left him. The aura of gold had yet to fade. Soonyoung looked almost more punishingly beautiful here than in your dreams. The full force of his presence warned every part of you to go back upstairs, put up the safety of new wards added in the last few days, lock the door, and hide until you found a way to get rid of him.
But wasn’t that why you were here? In this very house, at this very university? Decades of illicit occult activities the university would never officially acknowledge, silenced by millions of alumni dollars to keep the houses open. Your research was valuable enough for a well funded PhD as long as there were results. Results you couldn’t obtain if your demon stuck around much longer.
Thumbing through Jeonghan’s diary, you looked for the page you read last night. Several other books were listed along with the demoniomicon; all stored in the basement. Eyes low, you entered the room and scurried to the bookshelf opposite the door, Soonyoung's gaze pierce into your back the entire way.
Each leather spine slipped under your finger, a clean streak left in the dust as you searched for what you needed. Whoever last organized the shelves, some new initiate decades ago most likely, didn’t have a knack for alphabetization. French, Latin and Greek translations were sandwiched in tightly, obscuring the titles.
The basement was silent, sans the creaks of the warped wood beneath your feet. You could almost pretend to be alone.
Almost.
“You smell like him.”
Jeonghan’s diary tumbled out of your hand onto the floor as you choked on a scream. “What?”
“Chan.” He spat the word, something animal and primal and full of disdain behind it. Soonyoung’s rage washed over you like a blast of heat. Of course he’d know Chan’s name, he knew everything.
“Oh,” you squeaked, cheeks heating. There was no reason to feel ashamed but you curdled like a scolded child. “Just a friend. He was helping me with research.”
“Did you tell him about me?” Possessiveness twined through his voice.
“Tell him what? That I have a demon in my basement I can’t get rid of? Of course not,” you scoff.
You flipped through Jeonghan’s journal, nearly tearing the pages in an effort to ignore your demon’s eyes raking over your skin.
“Did you tell him how wet you get when you have my tongue between your thighs?” he asked smugly. “Or how you like being taken from behind?”
“Shut up,” you whispered.
“I listened to the entire thing and never heard those little sighs you make right before you come. Did you fake it for him?”
“Stop.” You didn’t dare risk looking at him. You didn’t dare risk turning around and fleeing upstairs either. If you moved a muscle, you’d be lost.
“He didn’t help you at all, did he? You wanted me inste—”
“I said shut up!”
Your hand came down onto the bookshelf, knocking an ancient vase covered in dust to the floor where it splintered into a thousand pieces.
“Shit!”
Only in a pair of wool socks, you stood trapped, surrounded by jagged shards in the dim candle light. Soonyoung’s very own captive. Diving to the floor, you clumsily picked up pieces to clear a thin path. The splinters split the skin of your bare knees and fingers, ribbons of blood trickling down your skin.
The smell of night and incense washed over you as you worked in a trance. You needed out. Out of this room, out of this house, out of this town.
But the warm presence kneeling over you wiped those thoughts away.
“Let me see,” Soonyoung murmured, warm hands wrapping around your wrist.
“It hurts,” you whimpered, dropping all the pieces you so carefully collected. He felt warm, real. Solid. That rich smell of night washed back over you, urging you to dive into his bare chest and drown in it.
And you realized—
Soonyoung was out of his circle.
“You—”
“I’ll go back, if that’s what you want,” he whispered. Despite his promise, he nuzzled into your neck, inhaling deeply.
“You could leave the whole time?”
“You need something stronger than salt to keep something like me contained.”
“Like what?”
“Words,” he says, with no hint of amusement. “You do your work somewhere else. Why?”
“Because…”
“Because why? I can help you,” he whispered, pulling your hand to his mouth, waiting for you to pull away. When you didn’t, his tongue flicked out, lapping away your blood before sucking it into his mouth.
“I…” You faltered under his ministrations. Soonyoung’s tongue curled around your knuckle, his teeth teasing just enough to light a fire in your belly.
Realizing you couldn’t answer like this, he released your finger but moved on to licked across your palm before inhaling deeply.
“Because you’re still afraid of me,” Soonyoung sighed, disappointed. He rose to his full height, pulling you along. The movement gave you enough clarity to speak.
“You stare at me.”
He stared at you now. Past your rumpled pajamas and stretched out sweater, beyond the surface fear and annoyance he wouldn’t just go away. Soonyoung looked at you like he saw the very core of your entire soul.
“How could I not?”
You went silent.
“You know why I stare at you?” he pleaded, chest brushing against yours. He still held your hands, your blood making his grip slick and warm. “Because I don’t want to miss those moments when you look back.”
Soonyoung buried his face in your throat, lips tracing over your pulse. Tasting, teasing. “Every night, you cry in your sleep. For me. You beg me to touch you like I do in our dreams and I stay down here despite wanting nothing more than to bury my head between your legs like you need me to.” Instead of his tongue, his nose followed the curve of your shoulder, greedily inhaling your scent like it might evaporate. “I listened to him fuck you and it made me want to destroy the entire house. The entire town.”
With each word, you stepped back, Soonyoung quick to follow, his thigh slottied between your knees. With your eyes shut, it felt like all your shared dreams. You could pretend it was just another night of Soonyoung plaguing your subconscious as your back met the wooden bookcase, arching away from the dig of the shelves. All those useless manuscripts that failed to warn you, kept the secret of what Soonyoung was tightly bound up, were better used like this. For him to show you exactly what he was.
“You called me here. I’m yours. I’m always yours. Every time I’m yours.”
You squirmed in his hold, hips rutting against the muscle of this thigh. A step ahead, he flexed and pressed harder, enough to hurt in the best way. He was already hard. You knew what he looked like — what he felt like — beneath the pair of sweatpants you currently loathed, the draw string tied tight enough to prevent you from pulling them down in the haze of lust.
“The first day you summoned me, you asked me what I was made for.”
Your head tilted back against the bookcase, Soonyoung’s teeth razing into your neck. You wanted him to bite you and he knew it, digging his teeth in just enough to hear you moan before drawing back and moving to a new patch of revealed skin as he tugged down the collar of your sweater. Every rut against his thigh pulled you closer to the sun, you were Icarus and he was melting you into nothing. Maybe this was the only use those books would serve; a backdrop to using Soonyoung’s body like he wanted you to.
“I was made to do this,” he sighed, drawing in a long breath of your scent. “To please you, to serve you. To love you.”
“I—” you choked, hips curling into the muscle of his thigh. He was so close. Close enough to taste and feel and it was far better than any of the dreams. Better than anything before.
“I was made to fill this perfect,” his fingers squeezed your ass for emphasis, “fucking pussy until you can’t take anymore. Until you can’t think of anything else. Not your research, nothing. Just us.”
You were tempted to let him take you. On the floor, against the bookshelf, on the stairs because the bed was too far away. Fucking around the entire house, everything beyond where your bodies join burning into nothing. Every squeeze of his fingers, the raze of his teeth, pure gluttonous temptation to give in.
Wedging a hand between your bodies, twin sighs of relief mingled together. Your knees ached to buckle so you could taste him, the glass still scattered around the floor. The burn of his teeth on your throat answered your desperate plea to do just that.
Nimble fingers shoved your shorts and panties to the floor. If it was anyone else you’d be embarrassed at the sticky cling, but Soonyoung was made for this. He was made for you and only you.
Your mouth caught his roughly, eager to suck at the swell of his bottom lip for a distraction from the unbearable want.
You wanted his hand around your throat, forcing you to watch the mess between your thighs soak between fabric down to his skin. You wanted his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling hard enough your back bowed. But you couldn’t keep your eyes open at the soft pets to your clit.
You needed to touch him too. Scratching at his sides wasn’t enough to curb the potent need to feel all of him unfiltered through sleep. He just needed to give you enough space to do so.
A mangled wait just barely passed between your lips.
Woken from a trance, Soonyoung jumped away. His hair is a mess, chest heaving.
It was enough to send the consequences of whatever this was toppling down on you like a house of cards.
When you didn’t speak, he returned to his circle and faced the wall, back stretching over each ragged breath. He didn’t turn around as you pulled your bottoms back up, now cold and uncomfortable but you saw the way his hands flexed; the tremor he tried to hide. You shuffled away from the wall, only to realize too late that the vase would be a problem.
Or it would have been but the glass once littering on the floor sat back together on the shelf, the vase perfectly mended as if it never fell.
The isolation and darkness of winter break was catching up to you. It had to be. The lack of sleeping or eating as well. Your muddled senses had led you down this path without care for the consequences. and without Soonyoung seducing you, they became much sharper.
The entire night Soonyoung stayed downstairs, most likely fighting the same thoughts you were. He didn’t follow you upstairs. It’d only take a word, but you stayed quiet, tucked between the sheets, door locked as if that could stop him when fine tuned wards couldn’t.
The only proof of what happened was the teeth marks at the base of your throat and the mortification that even hiding in your room with new salt wards and ruins to keep him away, your fingers itched to take advantage of the wetness in your panties and finish what he started.
But for the first time since Soonyoung arrived, your dreams were filled with nothing.
Two days until campus came back to life and you remained hidden in your room. The first floor of the house was a makeshift no man’s land; an illusion of space between you and the demon waiting in the basement. Somehow you knew he hadn’t moved since you fled the other night, he hadn’t so much as made a sound.
His absence in your dreams was almost worse than his presence. You’re still looking for him; searching the house, bumbling through a maze, calling for him on the shores of the beaches you two tangled at before. But he never answered. Like some demented game of hide and seek, he evaded you even though you knew he’s somewhere watching. Waiting for something.
Every morning, you woke up more aggravated than before. Sweaty and confused, frustrated because you were just on the verge of finally catching him before your alarm went off.
Jeonghan’s notes in the demonomicon, and Soonyoung's explanation that night in the ritual room tangle together until you finally have an answer.
Command him to return to hell, and he will.
Overly simple. Embarrassingly obvious you didn’t consider it. A command would get rid of him entirely. Forever.
But even with the knowledge, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
You wanted him to stay.
Which meant he had to go.
You woke up a sweaty, pitiful mess. Soonyoung remained hidden in your dreams but the seed of want continued to bloom, choking out any other desires you might have. You couldn’t breathe without remembering his scent, couldn’t look in the mirror without imagining how his body would look draped over yours as you both watched your reflections move together.
You wanted him.
You needed him.
It was a slow start. You didn’t remove all your clothes, just pushed your shirt up and your panties to the side. Somehow that would be admitting defeat but not the careful way you retraced Soonyoung’s path. Pinching where he pinched, squeeze at your breasts like with the same force he did. Your hips ground down, desperate for something after so many weeks of torture.
You fucked yourself in jerky strokes, dedicated to pretending it’s as satisfying as when he did it. Three fingers don’t substitute for even one of his.
You didn’t care anymore. If this damned you to hell for all eternity then at least you’d have Soonyoung there to make it worth it.
“Soonyoung,” you whimpered, beckoning him from the basement where you knew he listened.
When you opened your eyes, your demon waited at the foot of the bed.
“Tell me what you need,” he demanded, crawling over you. Soonyoung followed a frustrated tear as it streaked across your cheek only to kiss it away. “Tell me what you need. Please.”
“You.”
There was no fear here, only the relief of his lips on yours. You sighed in relief as your hands found his skin and cataloged every curve and dip. He tried to take off your shirt but you wouldn’t release him, forcing him to rip it into ribbons of fabric instead.
Laining full exposed
“Dreamed of this,” he moaned, nipping at your chin before descending to your breasts.
Your hips kicked at the sting of his teeth. “I know.”
“You don’t,” he said as he kissed over to your neglected breast, pinching at your nipple. “You can’t.”
“Show me,” you commanded.
Visions flashed in your head: Soonyoung curled on the rug in front of a fire, chin on your stomach as you cried at some silly joke; floating in a deep lake with you tangled around his back, counting the freckles sprinkled over his shoulders from the sun. Fingers intertwined under a full moon.
Distracted by his dreams, you didn’t realize he settled between your legs, the thin pajamas tattered on the floor. His fingers pressed your legs apart. Completely bare. All for him as Soonyoung traced the crease of your thigh with his teeth.
“I’m yours,” he murmured again and again.
“Mine,” you answered.
Soonyoung lapped between your legs like a starved animal, whimpering at the taste of you. His fingers twisted, welcomed by the soaked warmth of your walls. Nothing would ever replace the intoxicating bliss of how perfectly he was made for your body.
“Oh god,” you moaned before wincing from a punishing bite to your thigh, hard enough to draw blood. But Soonyoung sucked away the mess and returned to your clit.
You’re covered in sweat, hot to the touch from his touch and freezing from the chill in the air.
“That’s right,” he moans. “Touch yourself like I do.”
Head falling back, you tweaked your nipples still wet with his spit. His unused hand snaked possessively up your chest, pinning you to the mattress while splaying you on his fingers. You rocked into the dull throb of it.
“Soonyoung, fuck,” you hissed, hand tangling with his. He sucked your clit hard enough to break you.
The rush of your orgasm blasted through every pore. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room to keep you afloat, inky splotches staining your vision. Sweat whimpers turn to pitchy whines as he whispered dulcet praises between each punishing suck to your sensitive clit.
You shoved him to his back, surprised by your own strength until realizing Soonyoung was merely eager to do exactly what you wanted him to do just as you were for him.
His cock shined in the light filtering in through the window, wet with arousal and so hard you’re tempted to skip this and plant yourself on his lap and never leave. You would. Eventually.
You took him into your mouth, sighing at the weight against your tongue, eyes slipping shut. This was a rare occurrence in all the shared dreams. All of them were your demon serving you like he promised, focused on your pleasure at his hand. Now, you wanted to reward him.
Soonyoung might be from hell but his groans sounded like pure heaven. You swallowed down what you could, unafraid of the consequences if it meant hearing him sigh your name again.
When you looked up, Soonyoung was already watching, eyes glued to his cock disappearing between your lips. He stroked your hair gently. You appreciated the sentiment but you didn’t need him to be sweet. You needed him as desperate as you felt.
Soonyoung continued to stare and you stared right back. A demon rendered speechless. He’d done so well, snuffed the clawing ache in your veins temporarily. You wanted to reward him. Show him how much you cared even if he was something otherworldly.
He wanted the moments you looked back and you would give him that in spades.
His cock sat pretty in your hand, glossed in spit and his own need, throbbing with each tight stroke. Every pass allowed you to take him deeper until you choked.
“Angel, fuck, look at you,” he panted.
Yes, you thought. Look at me. Never stop looking at me.
You drew out the next stroke, moaning at the taste of him. It’s all so much better than you imagined it would be but the euphoria didn’t last long enough. Soonyoung pawed at your face, fingers wet against your cheeks, your own arousal smeared against your jaw as he dragged you into a kiss. He knocked your hands away when you attempted to keep stroking him. His mouth tasted like you.
The room filled with desperate pants. Soonyoung pinned you to the bed, wrists caged in one hand, the other titling your chin for more languid kisses. You lit up inside, his glow consuming you as well.
Hours or days passed like that: pathetically rutting against each other, whimpering for more each time the friction was too much. Your ankles linked over his hips, encouraging him to finally make those dreams real but Soonyoung had a millennium of patience on his side.
“You deserve this.” He nipped along your neck, sucked the delicate skin beneath your ear until your pulse sped up.
“Soonyoung,” you whimpered, tears blooming. You thrashed in his hold, nails scratching at his hands frantically, humping down against in hopes he’d give you something. But your strength was no match for a demon’s.
“Say it,” he commanded. “Tell me you deserve this.”
“I—” you break. You can’t. Not with the way he choked the next breath out of you with a press of his cock.
He pinned you in place, golden eyes level with your own. “Say it.”
“I deserve this!”
“That’s right. So fucking smart,” he grunted, finally giving you what you both needed. “You’re perfect. Gonna fuck you until you believe me.”
He drew back slowly, the pull out verging on pain at the idea of being empty for even a moment. But Soonyoung was in full control and rolled back into your tight heat eagerly. You want everything he can give you so bad it hurts.
“Oh my god,” you croaked.
You’re torn between sinking deeper into the mattress and taking, letting Soonyoung ring you out to dry with each thrust. Or forcing him on his back and taking every last drop of pleasure he offered.
“S-soonyoung.”
He ignored the command but freed your hands. You only got a moment to scramble for balance as he pulled you up into his lap, sitting on his heels as he fucked you deep. A hand punishingly tight on your ass. Entirely at his mercy.
You fall into a daze like that, nothing more than a limp ragdoll as Soonyoung wrings another orgasm from your body.
“That’s it,” he cooed against your trembling lips. “Mine. All mine.”
Speech evaded you. All you knew was the feeling of him inside you, the heat he kissed you with. Completely limp, you whimpered.
Yours.
He came like that, trembling and hot in your core, forcing your body harder onto his cock as you promised your soul to him. There’d be bruises on your ass and hips, teeth marks branded into your neck but you didn’t care. You never wanted this to end as he caged you into the bed, both of you limp and sated.
On your back, Soonyoung’s fingers prodded between your thighs, sinking into the mess of your cunt. You couldn’t survive another orgasm so soon but the idea of him stopping silences your concerns. After a few curls, he reveals the dewy pads of his fingers. You’ve already committed yourself to a life of sin. That’s what you tell yourself when you snag his wrist and suck his cum from his fingers, never looking away from him as you swallow. Soonyoung took the taste back with his tongue in your mouth and then with his tongue inside you, collecting his spend before spitting it into your mouth and watching you greedily.
You swallowed and whimpered, “more.”
Soonyoung obliged, lapping at your entrance, leaving wet kisses to your clit that made you twitch. You wanted to pull him off and taste the combined mess. You wanted to soak in the press of his fingers. You wanted him to fuck you until the house collapsed around you two.
He did all those things. Rolled you onto your front and spread your ass, touched you like no one else ever had. He held you against the bookcase in the corner of the room, kissing away the overstimulated tears. Soonyoung balanced you in his lap, whispering praises despite the jerky way you rode him, muscles fatigued.
You lost all sense of self through it.
Soonyoung’s arms wrapped possessively over your naked body, the moon already dipping low outside the window was what you woke up to.
“You never told me what you are,” you said.
“I’m yours, and you're mine.”
“Like soulmates?”
“I don’t think that’s a strong enough word.” Soonyoung pulled you further into his chest, his lips dragging over the pulse of your wrist. “I find you in every lifetime.”
“Have you?” you asked, half asleep. “Found me before?”
It was a joke. A demon and a human? Something without a soul bonded to something as fragile as a mortal? It couldn’t work.
“Always,” he said, rolling you onto your back. Every inch of him burned against you, weighed you down into the mattress as if you’d run away. As if the idea would cross your mind to leave him ever again.
“And?”
“It never stops feeling like the first time even if it always ends the same.”
You wanted to ask him how this ended but the words melted on your tongue as he sheathed himself inside you again, opened your heart to him like a flower in bloom. All you could do was splay beneath him, taking everything he offered, sucking his vows of devotion straight from his lips until you both seized with a cry.
Curled around your back, he memorized your body with his hands, molding you to fit perfectly in the curve of him. In the warmth of his body, you drifted off.
This dream didn’t feel like a dream at all.
It was a memory. It had to be Soonyoung’s, because you only recognized the cottage from the other dreams you shared; but those in those dreams it was merely a stage for his torture. You recognized this place. This was home.
You knew outside the winter had killed off the beautiful flowers he tended to, that up in the attic a cat slept curled up near the bricks of the fireplace rather than chase off any mice. The bed in the corner was barely big enough for the two people who lived here to share. A husband and a wife. The unique little girl from the village who talked to ghosts and everyone vexed in public but begged for help in private. And the boy who burned so bright everyone turned towards him like flowers searching for the last sun before winter.
It was dark outside, the chill of winter creeping in as you tended to the bubbling caldron, stirring just right for the potion to have the effect the mayor’s wife wanted. A simple love potion to stop his affairs meant enough gold pieces so that Soonyoung could afford a new horse.
Humming the incantation, you turned towards the door when your husband arrived. Instead of the dramatic dip and kiss he greeted you with even on the coldest days, Soonyoung opened his bag and began shoving things inside.
“You need to leave.”
It was your demon but not. He lacked the sharp edge of the supernatural you knew him to have. Soonyoung was human and he was your husband. Or he should have been. The Soonyoung you summoned and this Soonyoung blended together. He moved with unnatural speed he didn’t possess before. His shoulders were broader, more intimidating.
You grabbed his arms to stop him from packing but he was too strong.
“What did you do?”
Soonyoung continued shoving valuables in a sack. “They’re on their way here.”
“What did you do?” you cried.
“I’m protecting you.”
Something was wrong with him. You didn’t know what but this wasn’t the Soonyoung that left the cottage this morning for the mills. He was different. He wasn’t yours.
“No,” you shook your head, “this isn’t right! Tell me what yo—”
“We’ll be together,” he smiled, tears streaking down his face to join yours. “I’ll always find you, I promise. Now go!”
“No,” you argued.
“You have to go, they’ll kill you if they find you here.”
“They’ll kill us both! I won’t leave you to die alone.”
But that wasn’t true. If you gave yourself up, they’d let Soonyoung live. His marriage to you was their betrayal. One of their own siding with the woman who kept death around her like an old friend. Soonyoung’s life could be bartered with your own.
Outside, the darkness morphed into torch light, the hum of an angry crowd swelling as they surrounded the house. There was nowhere to run.
“You have been accused of witchcraft!” called the mayor. “Come out at once or we will burn this house to the ground.”
Soonyoung pulled you into his chest, hands framing your face. A gold ring had begun taking over the warm brown you’d grown to love. “I will love you until we are nothing but dust.”
Before you could respond, Soonyoung kissed you like he did the night of your wedding and then marched towards the front door, skin glowing a faint gold. You tried to follow but he was too fast, out the door before you could even take a step.
Then the screaming started.
Clawing at the door, you found it locked. The back one was as well. You couldn’t do anything but try to watch from the soot stained windows as the screaming crescendoed like a boiling kettle.
When it finally stopped, you scrambled for the door once again and opened it to a graveyard.
Blood stained the ground, thick puddles collecting like it rained for days. Lifeless bodies decorated the ground. Some ripped in half, others with their extremities bent at unnatural angles. Skulls indented and bones protruding out.
You didn’t care.
You searched the dead for hours, until the sun hid behind the clouds and cast everything in blues and greys. The mess of bodies clung to your skin and beneath your nails. You had to breathe through your mouth because the metallic scent became too much.
No matter how long you searched, Soonyoung’s body was nowhere to be found.
The memory changed. Soonyoung crouched in a dirty cell, a woman with your face sneering at him. A different life where he arrived at your doorstep and you took him in like a wounded animal without any fear. Lifetimes of your bonded souls flashed by, some where you loved him and others where he was nothing more than a pest. The only constant was you never recognized him but despite that, Soonyoung kept loving every new version of you he met even if they refused to love him in return.
You watched your lives play out over and over before finally settling back in your bed, tucked beneath your lover's body as he stroked your hair, your stomach, your thighs. He committed this version of you to memory while you lived the ones forgotten.
“Why?”
He focused on the dip of your waist, fingers curling perfectly like you were made for him to do so. Soonyoung pulled you closer before whispering, “Because an eternity in hell is worth seeing you again, even if it’s only for a short time.”
“Isn’t it torture? When I don’t recognize you?”
This time he didn’t answer. Your heart ached, having felt what he felt in those memories. Soonyoung didn’t care if you couldn’t love him in return, he only cared to hear your voice. He would love you until time ceased to exist. He needed to know you were happy on Earth, that his pain in hell wasn’t in vain even if it didn’t serve him.
“Please stay,” you croaked.
Soonyoung nuzzled your throat, delaying the obvious truth.
He was never meant to stay.
“You’re the most you here,” he whispered. “Always summoning things you weren’t supposed to.”
Nudging him away, you looked at him. Really looked at him. The scary demon you once believed haunted your existence stared back. A few hours ago you would’ve wilted under the intensity but now you embraced it. Him. The closer you looked, the more human he became. You didn’t want to hide from him anymore, the man who sold his soul for you.
“I’m sorry I didn’t remember,” you said. You needed him to know that even if you didn’t recognize him in this life, you believed him. You wanted to remember him.
“Hear my vow before I go.” He said something else; something in Greek you couldn’t decipher as he pushed your legs apart and rolled into you. Your new memories of your first life together flashed in your head: a secret wedding, making love beneath a full moon, a harvest festival where every other woman in the village watched as you and your husband spun around the room like teenagers drunk for the first time.
You tried to ask him what it meant, but Soonyoung silenced you with a kiss.
When you finally woke up, the sun was high in the sky and the sheets were cold.
Your skin was pristine where the stain of bruises and hickies and bite marks should be.
You knew the house was empty. Nearly a month of Soonyoung’s presence lurking in your mind, weighing down your shoulders. You knew he was gone.
But it didn’t stop you from looking.
The other bedrooms were empty, beds made and ready to welcome home their rightful owners. In the kitchen, the accumulated mess from break disappeared; no dishes, or towels, or stains on the cabinet. Dusty books were all that greeted you in the archives.
You saved the worst for last.
You tried to take the steps slowly, delaying the inevitable knowledge that waits beyond the basement landing. But no matter how much you try to pry the seconds apart and make them last, you’re in the empty ritual room staring at nothing.
The circle was gone. The candles and ruins vanished as well.
Like he never existed at all.
“Soonyoung,” you said, voice cracking.
Nothing.
“Come back.”
Still nothing.
Your demon was gone.
All alone, you sank to your knees, curled on the floor until sleep took you away. Hopefully where he waited for you.
Students were set to return to campus that evening and you weren’t ready for different reasons than a few days ago.
No matter how many times you called for him or followed it with a command to return – whether cursed, spit, or plead – Soonyoung was gone.
You walked the house aimlessly searching, knowing he wasn’t waiting behind a closed door or just up the steps. The dreams you shared didn’t hold him hostage either. There’s no proof he even existed beyond the fading bruises and soreness in your muscles.
The book you brought him with was open in front of you, a circle of salt drawn haphazardly in the corner of your room. If you could summon Soonyoung once you could summon him again. You just needed to concentrate on messing up in the exact same way.
But right as you opened your mouth to being, someone knocked on the door.
Throwing the door wide, you barked. “What?”
“Sorry!” The man jumped back, nearly tumbling down the steps before he caught on the last stair. “I’m Soonyoung, the new grad student. Dr. Credew said we might be able to help each other. He said he emailed you about me.”
You must be hallucinating. This Soonyoung didn’t have the same golden aura as the Soonyoung you knew but he looked the same. Same sharp jaw, fox like eyes.
But it couldn’t be.
“I…” you trailed.
“This is 1520 Orange street, right? Or am I completely lost?” He joked.
“No, this is it. I must have missed the email. The past few weeks have been…Weird.”
The street bustled with the few early student arrivals but was mostly abandoned.
“Your thesis is on ritualized sex, yeah?”
You nodded and he said, “Cool. Mine is on Asmodeus and blood rites.”
As the initial shock wore off, the winter chill creeped beneath your robe and you remember that you’re not wearing much beneath.
“Have we met before?” he asked.
“I—” you choked. “No, I don’t think we have.”
“Sorry, I’m just getting weird deja vu. Really weird,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” you mumbled.
He walked through the house like he’s visited before even though you both know he hasn’t made himself at home in the living room before you excused yourself upstairs to change.
“She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright. Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light. Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”
You rooted to the spot on the stairs, limbs locked. “What did you say?”
“Are you a fan?”
“Of what?”
He flashes you the cover of a book. A collection of Byron’s poems you don’t remember leaving on the table but must have. The only person in the house all winter break was you.
“Personally, I think Maid of Athens is his best work.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”
“Maid of Athens, ere we part. Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ,” he recites again, flipping through the pages but not reading them. “She Walks in Beauty is another great one but you seem to know it already.”
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπ.
My life, I love you.
“Would you like some tea?” you asked, mind half gone.
“Tea sounds great. I can do it while you get dressed.”
He ignored your protest, racing into the kitchen and filling the kettle before you were able to stop him.
In your room, you rushed to get dressed only to find the pair of sweatpants your demon wore folded and tucked away in the back of your dresser. You pulled them on, along with a thick sweater and socks before collapsing onto the bed.
Soonyoung had come back. He returned in a form that might be able to love you in the light of day, in front of others, even if this Soonyoung didn’t know it yet. Maybe this was what he meant. This was the way things always ended in every life, he got to have you before sending you off to be with his mortal self.
The whistle of the kettle beckoned you back downstairs to find out.
“Thank you,” you said as he handed you a mug full of tea.
Soonyoung shrugs, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight over his chest. “I like being useful.”
Weeks later, after a successful ritual to raise the dead for Soonyoung’s thesis, when you’re both thoroughly debauched —sweaty and pink between the sheets of your bed, the windows fogged and clothes strewn haphazardly about — you find his tattoo.
Soonyoung dozed on his stomach, one arm wrapped around your middle to pull you closer every time he woke back up. Your fingers traced along the dark ink of a double ouroboros, two snakes intertwined, swallowing their own tails, nestled between his shoulder blades. Every loop around the circuit brought you to the same start.
“It means—”
“Fates. Intertwined,” you cut him off.
Silence hung heavy in the air. Comforting, not suffocating. You’ve got new bruises and teeth marks painted over your skin, ones you knew would last. Soonyoung is covered in ones of his own but you feel the need to add more, just to make sure they’re real.
Sooyoung leaned back from your shoulder, pulled your hand to his mouth, lips grazing your knuckles as he spoke. “Do you believe in soulmates?”
“I think some people are destined to find each other in every life.”
“Me too.”
In the afternoon winter sun, the warm brown of his eyes flashed gold.
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Hold you in the palm of my hands
Persona-coded : Seokmin
☁︎
wc: 0.3k
boyfriend! Seokmin x reader, summer fluff
Content notes: chubby! reader
related fic—Tummy
Seokmin can’t seem to stop looking.
He knows it’s impolite, to ogle at a woman’s body like that (even if you are his girlfriend), but he props himself up on his elbows to get a better look at your silhouette against the picnic mat.
Changing seasons mean switching out winter wardrobes for lighter pieces; Seokmin gets to see you debut a low-rise tiered skirt in a frilly floral pattern as spring is rolling in. Paired with a semi-cropped top, his eyes are fixated on the cute bit of your tummy peeking out.
He’s used to you sporting high-waisted bottoms since you started dating each other last fall, and not to mention, he has also seen you naked on multiple occasions—so he knows it’s not specifically the skin showing that allures him. He thinks it’s the exposure of your soft curves against the draping layers of fabric, contour going along the flesh of your belly, the divot into your navel being highlighted by the skirt’s drawstring hem against your hips.
With the flowers, grassy landscapes, and sunlight trickling through the leaves onto you, god—he can't believe he gets to date you.
His lingering stares don’t go unnoticed, and you catch him soon enough.
“What’re you looking at, handsome?”
He re-orients his body and pats his thighs as an invitation, which you happily accept as you lay your head down. You squint a little at the sunlight against Seokmin's back.
“A goddess, I think.”
He chuckles and cups your face in his hands, leaning down to land an upside-down kiss on your lips. You smile and kiss back, only managing to do so for a few seconds before Seokmin decides to pull your whole body onto his lap.
His arms trap you in an embrace as he peppers you with more kisses and makes you yelp. It's unsaid, but you both hope this moment of summer continues on for years to come.
This short fluff has been stuck in my drafts for so long—now that summer is properly here I've decided to just put this out there! My DK craze has been off the charts lately
dk_is_dokyeom
i live for bss line + prod. woozi.
we’ll only be left with boo boy by the end of the year, life will not be gwenchana :”7
Chat…I fear the video game equivalent of Dokyeom is undertale papyrus
Hold you in the palm of my hands
Persona-coded : Seokmin
☁︎
wc: 0.3k
boyfriend! Seokmin x reader, summer fluff
Content notes: chubby! reader
related fic—Tummy
Seokmin can’t seem to stop looking.
He knows it’s impolite, to ogle at a woman’s body like that (even if you are his girlfriend), but he props himself up on his elbows to get a better look at your silhouette against the picnic mat.
Changing seasons mean switching out winter wardrobes for lighter pieces; Seokmin gets to see you debut a low-rise tiered skirt in a frilly floral pattern as spring is rolling in. Paired with a semi-cropped top, his eyes are fixated on the cute bit of your tummy peeking out.
He’s used to you sporting high-waisted bottoms since you started dating each other last fall, and not to mention, he has also seen you naked on multiple occasions—so he knows it’s not specifically the skin showing that allures him. He thinks it’s the exposure of your soft curves against the draping layers of fabric, contour going along the flesh of your belly, the divot into your navel being highlighted by the skirt’s drawstring hem against your hips.
With the flowers, grassy landscapes, and sunlight trickling through the leaves onto you, god—he can't believe he gets to date you.
His lingering stares don’t go unnoticed, and you catch him soon enough.
“What’re you looking at, handsome?”
He re-orients his body and pats his thighs as an invitation, which you happily accept as you lay your head down. You squint a little at the sunlight against Seokmin's back.
“A goddess, I think.”
He chuckles and cups your face in his hands, leaning down to land an upside-down kiss on your lips. You smile and kiss back, only managing to do so for a few seconds before Seokmin decides to pull your whole body onto his lap.
His arms trap you in an embrace as he peppers you with more kisses and makes you yelp. It's unsaid, but you both hope this moment of summer continues on for years to come.
This short fluff has been stuck in my drafts for so long—now that summer is properly here I've decided to just put this out there! My DK craze has been off the charts lately
i decided to upload my little baby svt file collection for everyone. its rly just a small random grab bag but i have access to some source files (basically meaning ts files so not screen recorded or watermarked, i will mark these as "source quality") + ive collected some concert recordings as well. enjoy.
!!! dont forget youre helping hybe finance the killing of palestinians when you give them money. consider donating to a palestinian child here. thank you
the links are hosted on gofile and WILL EXPIRE in about 2 weeks! you can send me an anon any time if you need me to reupload something, i want to share these files with as many people as possible! the only reason they'll expire is bc i can't afford permanent storage right now.
full list and links under the cut~ includes nana tour in the soup a selection of concerts some caratlands yadda yadda
❣️ stuff that will be added as soon as i get it: caratland 2025 both days no watermark + dokyeom focus cam, follow to japan fukuoka source quality
NANA TOUR source quality, 1080p, this is the full non-shortened weverse release!
IN THE SOOP Season 1 - source quality, 1080p, eng & spanish subs, this is the amazon version meaning it's shorter than the weverse release by 2 episodes. i don't have the full version in proper quality, if you do PLEASE dm me Season 2 - source quality, 1080p, eng subs, this is the full weverse release / ‼️ ATTENTION: for this one the audio and video streams are split but when you open the video file in VLC player you can simply add the audio stream in the settings. send me an ask if you need help with that!
CARATLAND 2024 - source quality, weverse release! 2024 - both days, both with multi and single cam each
CONCERTS
Right Here in Goyang - both days Right Here in Osaka - day 1 Follow Again Osaka - day 1 Follow Again to Incheon - day 2 CONCERT FILMS Follow Again to Cinemas 2024 - source quality Power of Love: The Movie 2023 - source quality Follow to Fukuoka 2023, source quality Ode to You in Seoul 2019 - source quality
OTHER PLACES TO DOWNLOAD FILES: therosebay 3cmgoogie dadeuthannie svt vlive archive
if you don't care about downloading files you can check out svtflix. it's an archive of almost every show, concert, documentary etc free to stream. and then there's also this old archive.
if you have high quality files you want to share please dm me!! i can store, upload & maintain links
some other resources: jdownloader - this program is the best for youtube downloads, not 4kdownloader!!! jdownloader also lets you download from a million other sites.. no limit no ads no scraping your data weversetools - to download wv lives
ok bye~
+ NEW 3 days ago: added follow again to cinemas 2024, power of love 2023 & ode to you 2019 under concert films! and a couple more links such as the svt vlive archive, rosebay etc
today: added follow to japan fukuoka 2023 under concert films
The time in between
Seungkwan is back home for a while between tour stops and wonders why you keep pacing the house when you're supposed to be working.
Persona: Seungkwan
☁︎ ✂︎
wc: 0.5k
Idol! Seungkwan x gn! reader
Content notes: domestic mild angst and maybe fluff if you squint
Seungkwan notices that it’s the fifth time you’ve come out of your study now—fifth time in the past hour.
Every time, you’ve either just paced around the hallway and stopped for a few seconds, or entered the kitchen and left empty-handed. Meanwhile, he’s spending his free day lounging on the couch whilst you’re working from home, so it’s only natural for him to wonder what’s got you so restless as to be disrupting your work.
When the study door open for the sixth time, he pauses his drama and gets up. He intercepts you before you’ve made it ten steps past the doorframe.
“Honey, is everything alright? You seem like you’ve been on edge all day.”
He tilts his head and watches for any changes in your expression and can tell you’re trying to uphold a poker face. When the reddening of your cheeks give you away, he takes your hand in his and gently cradles it.
He doesn’t push the matter, doesn’t ask too many questions, and simply leads you by the hand back to the living room when you respond with silence. There’s no reluctance in your movements, so he at least knows you’re not mad at him—but he still feels the rigid tension carrying in your muscles when he lays you on top of him on the sofa.
His fingers massage your scalp when they naturally wind through your hair, free hand finding refuge on your waist.
You let your eyes flutter shut as a sigh escapes your lips. His heartbeat against your ear is steady, soft, calming, and Seungkwan can feel your limbs go lax against him as the minutes pass.
Your index finger draws languid patterns near his collarbone when you decide to speak,
“I missed you.”
He contemplates your words for a few moments,
“I missed you too, ‘m sorry I can only be home for a few days.”
“Don’t—don’t apologize Kwannie…it just sucks that the tour’s keeping you away so much. And I can’t even take a day off to go out with you when you’re here.”
He hums in agreement, fingers now resting by the nape of your neck. He’s holding you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world (which, if anyone asked, would be true to him).
“Just being here with you is enough, we don’t need to go anywhere special,”
He lands a small kiss on the crown of your head, a small smirk tugging on the corner of his lips,
“Is that why you’ve been so skittish today? Coming out to peek at me even though you’ve got stuff to work on?”
He's reminded of a cat—not particularly direct in your attempts to seek attention, but adorable nonetheless. His heart only melts further when you let out a noise into his chest, muffed by the fabric of his sweater.
You both know your time together is limited; Seungkwan’s next flight is in less than fourty-eight hours, so all you can do is hold him in your arms a little longer before life keeps him away from you again.
updated my profile theme~ I personally really love Seventeenth Heaven's concept and styling
The time in between
Seungkwan is back home for a while between tour stops and wonders why you keep pacing the house when you're supposed to be working.
Persona: Seungkwan
☁︎ ✂︎
wc: 0.5k
Idol! Seungkwan x gn! reader
Content notes: domestic mild angst and maybe fluff if you squint
Seungkwan notices that it’s the fifth time you’ve come out of your study now—fifth time in the past hour.
Every time, you’ve either just paced around the hallway and stopped for a few seconds, or entered the kitchen and left empty-handed. Meanwhile, he’s spending his free day lounging on the couch whilst you’re working from home, so it’s only natural for him to wonder what’s got you so restless as to be disrupting your work.
When the study door opens for the sixth time, he pauses his drama and gets up. He intercepts you before you’ve made it ten steps past the doorframe.
“Honey, is everything alright? You seem like you’ve been on edge all day.”
He tilts his head and watches for any changes in your expression and can tell you’re trying to uphold a poker face. When the reddening of your cheeks give you away, he takes your hand in his and gently cradles it.
He doesn’t push the matter, doesn’t ask too many questions, and simply leads you by the hand back to the living room when you respond with silence. There’s no reluctance in your movements, so he at least knows you’re not mad at him—but he still feels the rigid tension carrying in your muscles when he lays you on top of him on the sofa.
His fingers massage your scalp when they naturally wind through your hair, free hand finding refuge on your waist.
You let your eyes flutter shut as a sigh escapes your lips. His heartbeat against your ear is steady, soft, calming, and Seungkwan can feel your limbs go lax against him as the minutes pass.
Your index finger draws languid patterns near his collarbone when you decide to speak,
“I missed you.”
He contemplates your words for a few moments,
“I missed you too, ‘m sorry I can only be home for a few days.”
“Don’t—don’t apologize Kwannie…it just sucks that the tour’s keeping you away so much. And I can’t even take a day off to go out with you when you’re here.”
He hums in agreement, fingers now resting by the nape of your neck. He’s holding you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world (which, if anyone asked, would be true to him).
“Just being here with you is enough, we don’t need to go anywhere special,”
He lands a small kiss on the crown of your head, a small smirk tugging on the corner of his lips,
“Is that why you’ve been so skittish today? Coming out to peek at me even though you’ve got stuff to work on?”
He's reminded of a cat—not particularly direct in your attempts to seek attention, but adorable nonetheless. His heart only melts further when you let out a noise into his chest, muffed by the fabric of his sweater.
You both know your time together is limited; Seungkwan’s next flight is in less than fourty-eight hours, so all you can do is hold him in your arms a little longer before life keeps him away from you again.
baldnon lore for the baldnon enjoyers
