summary: There's one rule. Never date your friend's ex. But it has never been this hard to stick to that rule until now. She leaves behind a man who can only make her look crazy for doing so. Lead singer and guitarist in a band that he commands with an intense patience that begs to be tested, Song Mingi is your greatest temptation, and your greatest nightmare. Whilst with your friend, all he seemed to do was test your last nerve. Cocky, whiny, and handsome, a dangerous package. After the breakup, you seem to run into each other more often, suspiciously so. Naturally, you should hate him, but as more questions about him beg to be answered with every interaction, you wonder if the feeling of finally wanting something for yourself should outweigh the only rule you've ever had the urge to break.
content: bsfs ex!mingi, smut, kinda angsty, fluff, baker!reader, denial, teasing, banter, takes place in fall, he's in a band, but it's not really the sole focus, passive!reader, haunted house, comedy, kinda morally grey mingi, he kinda sucks, arguments, pet names, encouragement, sweet mocking, teasing, passionate, vocal!mingi, fingering, biting, multiple positions, overstimulation, slapping, squirting, he fucks you while ur on the phone, guilt, mild sadist!mingi, pleasure dom!mingi, bittersweet ending, men aint shit, reader ain't shit either, lowkey nobody's the shit in here
wc: 11.5k
notes: yes i took the title from a limp bizkit song, yes this took 3 weeks to write because im so tired, no i did not proofread it, thats for suckers
tracklist: the percocet & stripper joint, magdelena, a little death
Passivity. The acceptance of what happens, without active response or resistance.
That was the word your mother used in response to your question, “What else about me could you possibly want to change?”
“When are you gonna fight for something, (Name)? Something for yourself.”
After that argument, you left her home in a hurry, making sure to slam the door as hard as your heart would let you. The leaves crackled under your feet as you walked angrily down the sidewalk, your footfalls melting into something softer the farther you got from the house.
You stared at the miniature puddles and their orange and brown lilypads as you walked, the gloomy darkness of 6 pm sending a quiet cold down your neck. You walked to the closet sandwich shop, hands in your pockets where you pulled at the strings in them.
You walked inside, ordered your sandwich politely and quietly. You were the only customer. When they put olives on it, after you had specifically asked them not to, you simply turned on your heel, sandwich in hand, and went home with a curt thank-you and a $ 3 tip in the jar.
You hated admitting your mom was right, so you decided not to. You won this argument in your head. While the overhead fan of your living room dusted you in a warm breeze, you picked the olives off your sandwich while you listened to your friend, Ji, talk her tongue off.
“And then he said that it “wasn’t a big deal.”’ You say that about literally everything. Is anything any kind of deal for you? Do you care about anything? Being nonchalant is not cute, plus-”
You slid an olive onto your pinkie finger like a flimsy little rubber ring, and grimaced at the hangnail it caught on. You nodded at the appropriate times, said “no way” when the moment called for it. A hardly practiced routine when it came to Ji, and the worn-out topic of her boyfriend.
You slid the olive off your finger and dropped it onto the pile that began to accumulate on the little green plate. You would never throw them away; some of the wildlife outside would be much more appreciative of it.
“And yeah, so I said it's over, and he didn’t even make a “deal” out of that! I’m so sick of him; if anything, I swore I saw him smile.”
You nodded drowsily, wiping the olive oil off your coffee table.
“Who would’ve thought…” You muttered with just the right amount of annoyance. It was only when she went silent for a moment that you actually processed the words that came from her mouth. Your eyes widened, and you grabbed your phone off the table.
Something deep, deep inside you shifted, even if at that very moment, you had yet to notice the change.
“Wait, you finally did it?!” You exclaimed, staring at your friend's forehead on your screen. She angled the camera back down to show her face.
“What do you mean by finally?” she replies, chewing on the straw of her water bottle with a knit in her brow. You roll your eyes and set your phone up against the candle on the table.
“You know exactly what I mean.” You deadpan, brushing off a ball of lint that fell from the ceiling fan and onto your lap. The warming scent of pumpkin bread wafted through your kitchen as the loaf baked slowly. The candlelight around your living room seemed to bend and bow to the autumnal wind that blew outside just out of the flames' reach,
Fall was always your favorite time of the year. It was quiet; it was comfortable. It was familiar. You did very well with familiarity.
“So does that mean you won’t be bringing him around anymore? I hope not.” You laugh to yourself and take a bite of your sub. “Let's get you on Hinge; you’re a bit of a serial monogamist.”
Ji raises an eyebrow and snorts in surprise. “First off, how do you even know about Hinge? I’ve never even seen you on a date. Secondly, Mingi and I were together for 3 years. That's not really something you just “move on” from.”
You shrug and smile. “I mean, you’ve done it before.”
“You don’t know what it feels like.” She snipped, and you decided then and there to shut your mouth.
Her reaction only made you all the more curious.
It seemed to feel like a genuine loss to her, even though she initiated it angrily over the phone. You couldn’t have imagined it felt like much of a loss, going by the way she spoke about him on the regular. And you frankly had your own evidence.
Anytime she brought him around, it was like having your really, really fucking annoying brother on a family trip where everyone wants to relax and unwind, but he’s the only one who just can’t seem to get a clue.
“Aggravating in the hottest way” is the way Ji described him when they first got together, and you hated to agree. Yes, he was the worst, and in fact one of the loudest men you have ever met in your life, but you were not strong enough to deny the fact that he was not hard to look at.
Short, scruffy black hair that looked like he took to his bathroom mirror with kitchen scissors and a dream. Simple black gauges that were enough to tell you he liked a little fun. He was so broad, so big. Sometimes you’d catch yourself staring when Mingi leaned down to hug Ji. The way his shoulders would swallow her body behind them, the traps in his back flexing when he squeezed.
And maybe you liked the way he talked to you sometimes, how he’d tease you, and always begged to let him try every new recipe you had. That was the one thing that kept somewhat of a branch between you two: your baking.
The day that Ji brought home a tray of blondies that you had made, something between you two clicked into place. Between your love of cooking and his lust for sugar, a bridge was built. The only connection that could ever be allowed.
Ji was never much of a sweets person, so if she was leaving your home with a dessert, it was for Mingi, per his request. She never questioned it, and as a matter of fact, found it “cute.”
“I can’t bake worth a shit, so the poor boy’s not getting anything out of me, and you don’t really know anyone else who likes baked goods except yourself. It's a win-win situation!”
Ouch. But it was nice to have somebody around who appreciated your version of art. You catch yourself smiling and take another bite.”Listen, Ji, my condolences, but I’m very happy that I won’t have to hear you complain about him all the time anymore. I just gained 4 hours of my day back. I need to go finish my sandwich and celebrate”
You know this will make her laugh, and of course it does. She smacks her phone and rolls her eyes with a snort. “You bitch.” She giggles and sighs.
“All right, I’ll let you go. Thanks for listening anyway; you always do.” She hangs up before you can respond, and something in your chest tightens.
You were a good friend; she always told you that. Always willing to listen, always willing to lend a hand, always willing to bend, to break-
You stopped chewing, and your mother’s voice pinged in your head like a far-away dock light.
Something for yourself.
Your feet screamed at you to sit down, but you still needed to do some grocery shopping. After another grueling day in the bakery, every bone in your body felt like glass. So much mixing. But whilst people say not to mix work with pleasure, work was your pleasure, and you wanted to go home and bake, but this time, you could sit in your rolling stool and allow your legs to sleep.
Pumpkin Pecan Coffee Cake. You needed more eggs, pumpkin puree, and your usual vanilla paste. The new one you tried was beyond offensive.
The grocery store enveloped you in the sterile cold, the quiet chatter of passing shoppers, and the squeaks of their carts. Inconsolable children begging their insomniac parents for Halloween candy filled your ears as you made a beeline for the canned goods. You swiped your can of pumpkin off the shelf seamlessly and continued back to grab your eggs.
You never liked grocery stores; they make you anxious. You worked in one for 2 years, and with every passing shift, you had only dreamed of your inevitable end coming sooner than you had ever hoped for. Needless to say, you wanted to be in and out. With a dozen eggs tucked under your arm, you walked to the baking aisle, pausing in front of the little collection of vanilla extracts.
You saw your usual brand and sighed, but before you could grab it for yourself, a hand reached over your shoulder and took the last jar off the shelf. You literally coughed, and turned around, ready to bribe the owner of said hand, but what came out of your mouth was something entirely different.
“Why are you here?” You groaned, and Mingi simply gave a once-over to the jar of vanilla paste and shrugged.
“Shopping? What else?” The corner of his lip quirked up like he was fighting a grin. The black tanktop he wore did little to hide the absolute unit that he was, and his stupid smooth velvety voice made your heart kick.
“What could you possibly need that for? Give it back.” You reached for it, and he lifted his arm higher.
“I can’t give it back to you, because you never had it in the first place.” He raised his eyebrow like a gotcha, and that urge to punch his lights out was reawakened inside of you.”
“Okay, smart alec. I really don’t have the patience for your middle school boy act, so give me my vanilla paste before I fuck your haircut up even more.”
His mouth widens; those stupid pink, puffy lips gasp. “First off, very rude of you to say that about my haircut; you know I got this professionally done.”
“Well, actually I don’t! Because if you told me, 90% of the time when you talk, I have you tuned out.” Lie.
Mingi hands you back the vanilla paste, but instead of letting go when you grab it, his hand latches onto yours. It's warm and rough; you can feel the calluses from all the guitar strumming he does.
“Please let me try your baking again!” He cries out, shaking your hand in his in mock plea. “It's been 3 weeks since Ji and I broke up, and I'm having withdrawal symptoms cause she’s not bringing me home your stuff anymore. I might go insane.”
You scoff and laugh in disbelief, but you feel an overwhelming, drowning sense of happiness that he was so desperate for baking that your eyes start to water. Frankly, it wouldn’t have even had to be him, but having someone so absolutely infatuated by your baking felt like a warm light in your chest.
“You’re my best friend's ex. Generally, I don’t think we should be interacting at all.” You begin to walk away, and of course, like some lost duck, he follows you.
“C’mon, I’ll even pay! It’ll be purely transactional if it makes you feel better about yourself.”
You don't stop walking; in fact, you walk faster, but it’s not much of a difference for the all-leg man following close behind you. “If it makes me feel better about myself? What do I have to do with this? You and Ji were together for 3 years, and she seems pretty upset about the whole thing. My feelings have nothing to do with this.”
Mingi laughs and pulls a stray hair off the back of your sweater. “That’s funny because she broke up with me and seemed pretty content about it too.” He walks faster so he falls in stride with you, looking down at you while you continue forward to the registers.
“Plus, us dating never stopped you from giving me food. Since when are us breaking up gonna stop you? You’re too nice.”
You bite your inner cheek and take a deep breath, because apparently people love telling you all about yourself lately.
“This isn’t me being nice, Mingi. It’s me being a good person.” It sounded high and mighty, and you hadn’t meant it that way. But were you really a good person?
“Making me sweet treats isn’t gonna turn you to a life of crime, (Name). I assure you.”
You hated the way he said your name every time. Like he was trying to taste every syllable and feel the sharp edges of every letter.
“I really wish you’d get back together; you hardly bother me as much.” Mingi smiles and stops in front of you, forcing you to stand in one spot.
“There were rules then; there are no rules now.” You didn’t notice it, but god was he taking you in.
His eyes stopped at every freckle on your face like connecting constellations; his gaze fell to where your hands nervously twist and untwist the jar of vanilla bean paste, evidence of previous oven burns puffed up on your delicate fingers.
“Rules?” You exclaim incredulously. “Since when have you been a rule follower? I wasn’t aware there were more rules.”
Mingi sighs and drags his big, veiny hand down the bottom half of his face. “You won’t believe how hard it’s been for me.”
That’s not a good thing to say, nor a good thing for someone like you to be aware of. You huff and walk around him, and he follows.
“Listen, clearly you’re not an upstanding guy, and Ji broke up with you for a valid reason I’m very, very sure. I want nothing to do with it.” Lie lie lie.
“I’ll let you try my stuff if you promise; it remains purely transactional. Full trays are 15.” You began scanning your items, and you hardly noticed the way he seemed to light up.
“You’re the best, actually. Can I have some kind of mutual friend discount?”
You groan and bag your stuff. “There is nothing mutual about us, Mingi. You and Ji are not together. You and I are not friends. We shouldn’t.”
Mingi grabs your bag before you can, and you turn to look at him, and the look on his face makes you freeze. Confusion? Frustration?
“Why not?”
Why not?
Your home seemed empty, and you knew you were right. Ji, being the serial monogamist she is, has been on date after date after date, trying to fill the hole. She hadn’t been over to your place in a while, and it was starting to feel sterile.
You liked your alone time; it was more important to you than most things. Sometimes during the fall, however, one more laugh in the house would be nice. Maybe it’ll help the candles burn longer, and make the apple pies taste better.
It had been weeks since they broke up, and now and then she’d bring up the fact that she missed him. Your only response was always “You broke up with him.” To which she would nod, gather her senses, and start talking about the date she went on the day before.
Eventually, the calls came less, and you started to believe that Mingi truly was the bridge that held your friendship together.
It frustrated you. He cannot be important in any shape or form.
You folded the dry ingredients for the first loaf of bread slowly. Staring at the wet concrete outside your kitchen window. It looked cold outside; the bare trees bowed to the wind as it blew. The house was warm and quiet, and it reminded you of the things you work so hard for.
This house, your independence, your job. You fought for things. You don’t just let anything or anyone happen.
A knock at your door pulled you from your deep thoughts, and you set your spatula down in the bowl.
“Mingi, get off my porch. I haven’t even put the first loaf in the oven yet. And who told you that you could just show up to my home willy-nilly?”
You stood in your doorway, arms crossed, your cute little sage green apron covered in white powder and pumpkin splotches. You glared at Mingi, who stood on your porch, his hair a wet mess from the rain, a sheepish smile on his face.
“I wanted to try your stuff.” He all but pouted, but then a sick little grin crossed his face slowly as he suddenly began shaking his head back and forth like a wet dog, splashing you with rainwater.
You gasp and shut your eyes as water splashes all over your face and apron, and you turn to walk into your kitchen. “You dick!” You shout as you wipe your face off with a towel, and by the time you’re done drying off, Mingi is standing in your kitchen, staring at the themed decor on your walls.
“You never let me in your kitchen when we came over.” He mumbles to himself, reaching out and touching the hanging wisteria above the counter.
You purse your lips and smack his hand with a roll of paper towels. “And for good reason, look, you’re dripping all over my goddamn kitchen, you’re gonna contaminate my batter, get out.”
Mingi laughs and can do nothing but walk out as you all but push him to the living room. “You sound like my mom.”
You walk away and resume your spot in the kitchen as Mingi watches you through the pass-through. The quiet sound of your speaker bleeds out a song by The Smiths as you pour the batter into a smooth layer in the pan. He watches you and says not a word for the longest moment you’ve seen him manage, staring at you. Hard. He watches the way your hands flex as you smooth the batter down.
The involuntary way your eyebrows furrow, so you look a little melancholy doing the thing you love the most.
“Is it done yet?” He all but blurts. And you do not disguise your annoyance.
“If I were your mother, I would have you chopping walnuts right about now.”
He all but lights up. “I can do that! Where’s the cutting board? I wanna help you.” He’s moving before you can give more direction, and you nearly lose your skin when he pulls the large butcher knife out of the holder.
He chops walnuts next to you as you prep the next batter batch. You both hum to the songs that shuffle in your playlist as you work, and you realize that this is the kinda noise you missed in your home. The quiet kind.
“Do I get a discount now?” Mingi sings hopefully, and he groans when he hears you snort.
Standing next to you, he can smell you, see how the base of your neck disappears behind your apron. He wants to wipe the flour off your eyebrow.
You could have kicked him out by now; he came over genuinely believing you’d turn him away the moment you laid eyes on him. But even after he splashes water on you, gets your kitchen all messy and whatever else he dares to bother you with, you never force him to go home.
You let him come in. Not passively. You wanted him to stay. This was you wanting something.
When you feel like you’d have just about enough of Mingi burning holes into your face, you turn and hold out the filled baking trays to him.
“Put these in the oven, won’t you?” He takes the trays in your hand, and you can’t help but notice how easily his hands swallow them in a firm grip compared to how you had to hold them flat on your palms.
“Anything for you, baby.” He winks, and your brow hardens.
“Don’t do that.” But he’s already turning and sliding the pans into the oven, a burst of warmth flooding the kitchen before it’s cut back off with a clank, the door shutting softly.
“Do what?” He hums, and you feel smaller as he stands in your kitchen, looking at you in a way you couldn’t pin down.
“Talk to me like this-“ you gesture between you two. “-is more than it is.
Mingi rolls his eyes at you and throws up his arms. “C’mon, don’t do that. You always do this.”
“Oh, now I’m doing something?” You laugh incredulously, enlighten me, Mingi. I am simply-“
“You are simply doing the same thing that you’ve been doing for the last 3 years. Denying. Deny deny deny- it’s always you exempting yourself from every exam.”
Your brain ticked, and you had something to say. You had many things to say, but words wouldn’t come. Instead you stood and listened to Mingi talk.
“You’re smart, much smarter than Ji. I know I’m not subtle. It’s been 3 weeks since her and I broke up. I’ve been wanting to do it for 3 years. 3. But I’ve gotten to know you in those few years. And I know that you don’t do jack shit for yourself. I knew that if I split with Ji, I would most likely never see you again. Because if anything about the way you liked to sneak looks at me-“
“Don’t make yourself out to be some kind of saint!” You bite back, and you could feel two things. One. Anger. How dare he think he can speak for how you feel. It pissed you off. And 2? Never see you again? He wants to keep seeing you. You.
Something, embarrassingly enough, explodes in your stomach, and suddenly you’re hyper aware of everything about the man in your kitchen. Clearly the thermostat being at 74 is too hot for him cause he’s sweating a little; his face is flushed from frustration, something else too.
His eyes won’t stop moving all over you, like he’s also trying to read every twitch of your limb and every shift in your foot. He takes a step closer, and you step back until the kitchen counter nudges you.
“I’m not. I’m telling you I'm not, (Name.) I’m telling you that while I’ve been with my girlfriend for 3 years, I’ve been thinking about having you the whole time. Clearly I’m not the best role model. And if you think it’s so bad to indulge in your own wants now and then, then maybe you shouldn’t be such a saint.”
You pause; your voice is quiet next. Like you’re unsure of your next words. Like they’re not what you really mean. Autocorrect, so to speak. “That’s… not okay.”
Mingi’s voice drops low under his tongue, his eyes set on you, soft, yet stern enough to want you to move, closer to him or further back; you couldn’t tell. Your skin tingled when he stepped a little closer, craning his head down to speak into your hair softly. “Never said it was.”
He smells good. You were eye level with his throat. You remembered how Ji would always disappear when Mingi stood close in front of her. You wondered if in that moment you’d look the same.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, while I wait for the treats to be done, I’m going to go outside and have a cigarette because I want one right now. And I pursue the things that I want.” He fishes his lighter out of his pocket and turns on his heel, walking out of your kitchen and leaving a faint trail of Jo Malone wood sage and sea salt.
You stare at the back of his head as he disappears out your front door, standing in the middle of your kitchen in disbelief.
He doesn’t end up coming back, surprisingly enough. You spend the rest of that night bagging up the coffee cake and staring at nothing in particular. When the kitchen’s cleaned up, and the roar of quiet thunder shakes your home, you check your phone to see a message from the man of the previous hour.
“Think about it.” He had sent it. You looked up at the only other text message he ever sent you from 2 years prior.
“Can you make a tray of cookies for my band?’
You hadn’t ever responded to it, but you remembered when it happened. You made peppermint Meltaways and brought them to one of Mingi’s late-night shows. You had shown up to the venue, loud and crawling with people. Concerts were not your kind of thing; you liked the quiet and the predictable. Concerts were neither of those things. And out of the two, Mingi was the most unpredictable.
You showed up with the cookies in a tupperware container tucked under your arm, weaving through hot crowds of people as you tried to make your way backstage to drop them off for the band and then leave.
Mingi spotted you, noticing your panicked rush and the look of loss on your face as you grimaced every time someone sweaty bumped too close to you. He walks up behind you and swipes the container from your grasp. You turn, ready to yell. He watches your anger fall to relief, and something inside of him twists seeing you seem so grateful to see you.
Mingi reaches out and pulls you into a hug, one that you melt into deceptively easily, taking a big whiff of his scent as he wraps you up in him. “It's good to see you, thank you for coming,” he quietly shouts the words against your temple over the drone of the openers. You feel his lips against your skull.
Your skin shivers, feeling his voice against the skin of your face, feeling his arms holding you close to him. When he lets you go, he looks down at you. The look he gives you makes you freeze, because he’s never looked at you like that before.
You clear your throat and physically have to restrain yourself from reaching out and pulling him back in, clasping your hands together tightly and biting your inner cheek. “Well, there are your cookies,” you shout shakily, and you feel like you see his smile soften at the sound of your voice.
Somebody damn near steps on your foot, and you’re pulled from your selfish little world of wondering about your best friend’s boyfriend. You shake your head and begin to turn away. “Now I need to get out of here before I start screaming.”
Mingi grins and opens the container, snatching a cookie and stuffing it in his mouth. “Aww. c’mon,” he whines, his voice muffled. “Don’t you want to stay and watch us play?”
You laugh and turn back to him, staring at the peppermint on his lips. “Not even Ji likes coming to concerts. Too many sweaty men everywhere; I think I’ll pass.” Gripping the strap of your purse tighter, you wince when somebody shoulders into you.
Mingi’s eyes set hard, and he frowns. “Open your eyes, dipshit.” He shouts at the man who ran into you, and his voice booms across the bustling crowd; you could feel his words through the floor. You cough and smile awkwardly.
“Well, regardless of whether you chose to stay or not. I appreciate you bringing these to us; the boys and I are your biggest fans when it comes to your baking. I’ve seemed to pull them down with me when it comes to sugar intake.” He puts another cookie in his hand, and you deadpan at him.
“I only made a dozen, y’know. Don’t eat them all.” You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face, and Mingi only shrugs and adjusts the many chains dangling off his strong neck.
“They’ll get at least one, don’t worry.” Mingi smiles back and closes the container with a click. “These are mostly for me, right?” he wiggles his eyebrows and bites his bottom lip, waiting for you to play into him.
You shake your head, and you hope that the LED lights that make the keychains on your purse a neon yellow hide the weirdly flattered look on your face.
“Yes, Mingi,” you sigh dejectedly with a smile, looking past him and at the mess of musical equipment and the moving bodies on stage, the kind of rapid movement that hints at the show starting any moment. “I made them all for you, and only you. I think you’d better get going.”
You pointed behind him, and he turned his head to see his fellow bandmates waving him over hurriedly and shouting something while pointing to the cookies he held. Mingi winces, and you could see his shoulder lift as he shouts an apology to them. He turns back to you with an apologetic look and starts to back away slowly.
“Gotta be super cool on stage now, sorry. Thank you. Sucks you won’t stay.” He pouts, faux sadness in his pathetic slumped posture. He tries to make you feel guilty, giving you those stupid, glazed puppy eyes that always had Ji tripped up.
“Go!” You snap, having none of it. “I will put laxatives in your next batch.” He leaves, not without teasing you for the promise of another batch of baked goods, waving the cookies at his friends while he bounds on stage. You didn’t stay, because you meant what you said. The place made you feel incredibly out of place. But you might have stayed for one or two songs. You stood at the back by the entrance, thinking you were out of sight, but Mingi, of course, was watching you damn near the whole time.
When you finally walk out of the front doors, Mingi’s eyes fall back down to the pedals on stage. He feels the dents and grooves of the guitar strings on his fingertips for the first time. It hurts. The stage lights on his skin feel hot, and suddenly he’s sucked back into the space he’s in.
He looked at you the whole time he played. He muttered a curse under his breath as he tuned up for the next song. As the music swelled in that hot, crowded room once again, he temporarily set you aside as he lost himself in the sound. Mingi wasn’t sure if he could continue to be a good man as long as he had access to you. Then again, he’s never really been a “good” man.
Ji always called him selfish, but he doesn’t think that way. There was something about the fact that he can’t have you that makes the pull so much stronger. He wonders if he ever could have you; would the urge go away? Would the riskless accessibility to you dim his interest in you? It's a hard thing to think about, and the last thing Mingi wanted to do was use you.
I mean, that’s at least what he thinks.
It was weird; Mingi made texting you a regular thing. The two lone messages from him that collected cobwebs in your contacts slowly disappeared to somewhere beyond the screen the more you talked. Pictures of recipes you tried, or wanted to try. Snippets of his songs and samples he wanted your opinion on.
You made the effort to give vague, non-inspiring feedback. “Good. Very loud. Catchy.”
He always responded to your pictures of pastries with the same thing. “Omw.”
You never invited him, never asked him to try the things you made. He would just tell you, then come over. You could text him no. Tell him to leave you alone. Block him. You would just let him. Not because you wanted feedback, or an extra mouth for taste.
You liked the noise he brought with him. And the humor. And maybe the soft, smoky smell of him, or the brushes of his hands against your waist in the small confines of your kitchen. Or the way he practically begs you to let him have the whisk, you cave, and you stare at him licking the stupid fucking thing for 30 seconds straight.
You weren’t subtle either, and Mingi had come to a semi-stable conclusion.
You would never do it for yourself, so somebody’s gotta do it for you.
“-you staring at?”
He blinks and grins at the annoyed look on your face, coming back to earth after some rather…deep thoughts. Hypocrite, was all he could think.
He turns away and resumes rolling the cookie dough into neat little spheres. “Sorry, what was the question again?”
“I said there’s a Halloween festival I’m catering this weekend. I’ll have a table set up by the haunted house, if you wanna swing by and try anything.”
Mingi harumphs and rolls the doughball in the bowl of sugar. “That’s gonna drive away business; haunted neighbors don't make for a good investment.”
You can’t help the stupid expression that flashes on your face, and you laugh unexpectedly. “Um, actually the haunted house is the main event. Who goes to a Halloween event and doesn’t go to the haunted house?”
Mingi shrugs. “Normal people.” So he's a scaredy-cat.
He turns to you and narrows his eyes. “I know what you’re thinking.”
You bite back a smile and grab your purple colored whipped frosting. “I wasn’t thinking anything.” You set it next to the cooled first batch of cookies. “I just thought I should let you know I’d be there this weekend.”
Not the desserts. You.
He doesn’t say anything, and you hate to admit it made your stomach feel weird. You quickly change the subject.
“Could you help me frost these? And unwrap the chocolate-”
“Bring those pumpkin cream cheese cookies, and I will have no choice but to stop by.” He smiles and picks up the delicate bar of chocolate you bought, and you watch as his big, rough hands gently unwrap the candy bar.
That weird feeling goes away, even if it's just the desserts he’s excited about. He’s willing to stop by, and to something deep inside of you that you weren’t willing to acknowledge, was more than happy with that thought.
The festival was swarming with people, and countless people would run out screaming from the haunted house, only to immediately gravitate to your cute little pastry table. Apple cider cake, fig almond cake, pecan pie bars and of course the pumpkin cream cheese cookies.
Orange, purple, and green lights and lanterns provided enough ambient lighting to help everyone navigate around the grounds, booths of carnival games, face painting, and homemade crafts. You sat at your table, a steady flow of customers keeping you tied up and busy. The food was flying off the trays at an alarming rate, and you kicked yourself for the huge smile that broke out on your face when you saw Mingi approaching your table.
The first thing you noticed was the way he seemed to shrink in on himself anytime a scare actor walked a little too close, or if the speakers on the outside of the haunted house screeched a little too loud for his liking. You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Only crazy people put themselves through things like this,” he grumbles, swiping a pumpkin cookie off the tray. You roll your eyes and smile softly, taking the money from the person in line and packaging their pastry for them.
“You have to pay for that, y’know- thank you! Have a good one!” You wave at the person, and as they walk away, you turn to Mingi. “I didn’t say anything about them being free.”
“Oh come on!” he exclaims, licking a crumb off the corner of his lip. “I’ve been giving you free labor in the kitchen for weeks, and I can’t have one for compensation?”
Your face twists into one of humor, and you poke his chest. “You come into my kitchen unannounced, and frankly, all you do is dust my entire house with flour. I can’t really say that's much help.”
He shoves the rest of his cookie in his mouth and grabs a napkin off your table. “You say that, but you never told me to leave.”
Your eyebrow furrows, and you reach under the table and grab a sign sitting on the surface.
Be back soon!
“I’m going into the haunted house cause I’m a “crazy” person, and I’m gonna have fun. If you would like to tag along, this is me finally inviting you.”
Mingi freezes in place, and you walk around him and towards the entrance to the haunted house. He watches you walk away, and he finds his feet moving before his brain can tell him no.
“Please don’t make me do this,” he whines, walking close behind you as you stop at the entrance to show the attendant your wristband. He scans yours, then Mingi’s.
“I'm not making you do anything; you are more than welcome to go do anything else with your time.”
“I literally came here for you, so why would I go do anything else?”
You purse your lips like your body just took a physical hit from his words, and you take a deep breath as you step into the building. “I told you the main event was the haunted house.”`
He shouted at every door slamming, every scare actor that just barely looked his way. He tried to get in front of you a couple times, to give the illusion he was protecting you. When in fact he was just raising his own blood pressure, and he finally resorted to cowering behind you throughout the whole thing.
“This is the biggest fucking house ever. How much longer?” Mingi whimpers when a scare actor dressed as a mummy just barely brushes his arm.
“This is the best day ever, I think. I’ve never seen you so helpless.” You laugh when he nearly trips on a plastic skull glued to the floor.
“This might be the meanest you’ve ever been to me.” He playfully tugs on the hood of your jacket, and you shake him off.
“Keep complaining, and I’ll start running, and I’ll leave you in here by yourself.”
This time Mingi moves to stand firm in front of you, looking down at you with a serious expression. “Don’t you dare.”
Of course, you dared. You grinned, juked him, and began running through the house to reach the end. You scream wildly as Mingi runs after you, and the adrenaline of him chasing you ends up being more effective than the actual scares themselves.
He follows you so close you can feel his footsteps on your heels, and just as you leap through the exit, he scoops you up in his arms by your waist and lifts you into the air.
You squeal, and your hands fly down to hold on to his arms that he has locked around your stomach. You laugh loudly, and Mingi lowers his voice to that playful, teasing voice parents do when they tickle their kids relentlessly.
“You think you can run from me, huh? Hm?” his fingers dig into your stomach, and it makes your skin tingle excitedly. Mingi spins you round one time before setting your feet back on the ground, his hands lingering on your waist a little longer than necessary.
As you regain your composure, Mingi watches you the entire time. His eyes are glued to the way your hands ghost over your stomach, like you were still searching for his touch there. Your smile fades from wildly excited to something more content, and the purple lantern to the right bathes your face in a soft violet.
And it's now he’s realized that this is the most alive he’s ever seen you. Anytime he did see you, it seemed like a fleeting, non-canon interaction. If he saw you, it was only because of Ji. You were an extension of her while they were together, and now that it was no more, he could fully appreciate you at your most, when you’re not being held back by the existence of a side character.
You asked more questions; you stood up for yourself more. You did things for yourself, even if it wasn’t much. It was a step in the right direction.
But something in your head flashes, and your smile drops. Mingi’s does as well, at the change in your mood. He can sense it.
“Don’t start,” he groans, and you turn your head to glare at him. You raise your eyebrow in disbelief, and your hand waves in question.
“Don’t start? Start what, Mingi? What was I going to say? Because for some odd reason, I can’t help but feel that you've got this really weird complex going on that’s got to do with fixing me.”
You’re not really sure where you pulled that from, and it could have been your terrible habit of self-sabotaging. Did you really feel that way, or are you trying to come up with a reason as to why this can’t be okay?
It's been months since their breakup. Ji still talks about him. She says she misses him. You see him almost every day, and she has no idea. You feel terrible. But when you’re in a room with him, it just feels right. And you hated that it felt so right.
Mingi doesn’t respond. What if that’s what he really is doing? Trying to fix you? That wasn’t his intention, and really he can’t remember what his intention was to begin with. To try your baked goods, to befriend you? To fuck you? All of the above would do well enough, but Mingi couldn’t write on paper what he wants, and that might become an issue.
When he didn’t say anything in response to your accusation, something heavy settled in your chest.
“Listen,” you start, and you take a step back from him. “Ji is still my friend; we still talk. She talks about you still. Do you see what I’m saying here? I’ve told you numerous times, we shouldn’t.”
“Just because we shouldn’t doesn’t mean we can’t. And to be quite honest, you keep telling me what you should or shouldn’t do, but you won’t tell me what you want to do. I don’t love Ji; I want nothing to do with her. I don’t want her. ” Mingi didn’t think before he spoke this time, so maybe his words were a true reflection of what he really wanted. And that confused him.
“Okay, so do you want me then?” You blurt out, accidentally kicking a rock against his shin. The laughter of people filing out of the house, the faint music playing from a nearby booth. The whir of a cotton candy machine. Anything but a response filled your ears.
You ignored him; you walked away, back to your quiet little table. You didn’t turn to make sure he was following you.
When you stood behind the table and took the sign off the surface, Mingi was no longer in sight.
Was it the idea of each other that pulled you together? Was it the mystery of not knowing that made you two want to find out?
You sold out of your pastries that night, all except for the pumpkin cookies. You had made 3 dozen, just so there would be enough for him to bring home for himself.
He only ate one.
You didn’t see each other for 2 weeks. After neither one of you could tell each other what you wanted, a quiet distance was built. No song snippets, no new recipes. Even Ji stopped talking about him, almost like she could sense the bridge crumbling between you two. The one that she built.
You found yourself wishing she would talk about him more, so you could hear about the stupid ways he's broken guitars, or the annoying way he pouts to get what he wants. It was your vague glimpse of him after your short argument at the festival.
It felt stupid to have so many feelings about him, especially with how conflicting they were. You two weren’t supposed to have anything to begin with, and just when something began, it crumbled just as quickly. This must be karma.
You hated that you thought like this, that every decision you made would somehow, someway count against you. You hated that it was true that you never let yourself have the things you wanted. You hated that your mother was right.
Want, you wanted Mingi. You wanted to hate him; it was the only logical thing. He was looking at you while dating your best friend; why would you want somebody like that? He could do the same thing to you that he did to Ji.
“I think I just need to fuck him out of my system.” Ji traded her iced chai for your sweet potato latte, humming when the taste hit her tongue. You nearly choked on your donut.
You two hadn’t had breakfast on a day off in a long while, and you felt like a day with her might sober you up to Mingi. However, now she was talking about him, and you felt all your progress come crashing down.
“That sounds like a terrible idea.” You reply, reaching over and grabbing her chai to try.
“Well, like, clearly I’m still thinking about him. We hadn’t fucked for a week before we broke up, and I think it’d be a good way to tie up loose ends.” Tie up loose ends, and you could see the shit-eating grin in her eyes thinking about having Mingi on top of her again.
You tried a question. “Do you think he’d still want to?” You know the answer to that.
“I don’t see why not. He didn’t seem the most upset after we split, but he’s never been one to sleep around. I bet he’ll be up for it.” Oh, you bet.
Your phone chimes, and you look down and see the man of the hour.
please. can we talk?
9:33 am
Your heart hammers, and you quickly shut off your phone, taking a sip of your drink. “Do whatever you feel you need to, girl; I’ll support you.” The words taste bitter, and the coffee washes down with a bad taste.
You went home that night, after a long day of window shopping and Hinge profiles Ji shoved in your face. While it's true you mostly enjoyed yourself hanging out with Ji, you realized something.
Almost every time you were with Ji, Mingi was there too. He was always there, even if it was in the background, awkwardly staring at the floor in the lingerie store. Without him, Ji was just… not as engaging. Mingi kept her from complaining, kept her from being rude to Ulta employees.
You were pissed all over again. Does he really have to be such a major contributor to everything in your life? Your pastries, your relationships, your emotional turmoil. It was getting unbearable.
You pull out your phone, and you see the message he sent at 9:33 that morning.
Come over.
9:21 pm
You set your phone on your counter and drop your head in your hands, rubbing the tiredness out of your eyes. You wanted to see him. So for the first time in 6 months, you invited him over.
He texts you back immediately.
can’t drive. drunk. come over pls
9:22pm
And his address follows. You don’t hesitate. You hop in your car, not even bothering to go see how you look in the mirror. For the first time, you didn’t stop to think about it, and you just moved. The drive was quiet, and your foot tapped impatiently against the floor of your car as you drove.
The streetlights cast dusty yellow streaks over the roads pulling into his driveway, behind his very familiar 1994 Camaro.
Getting out of your car, the cold nipped at your fingers as you walked up to his door. A small, simple home. It was too quiet for someone like him.
You knocked twice and waited quietly, and the nervousness began creeping into your belly again, but when the door swung open and there he stood, it was replaced with relief.
His hair was an awful mess, a little longer and scruffier. His cheeks were a soft pink, and his eyes fell on you greedily. He held onto the door frame like it was keeping him upright, and he didn’t smile, but only pouted.
“Hi,” you whispered. You didn’t know what you were going to do next, but he went ahead and made the decision for you. His arm slipped around your waist and pulled you through the doorway.
It shuts with a thud, followed by your back pressing against it, Mingi having you closed in against the fragrant wood. Tall, his shoulders hunched as his hands came around and held the backs of your hips in a steadying grip, pushing your head back against the door as he kissed your mouth open with a deep sigh.
“I’m sorry, (Name),” he whispers into your mouth. “I’m sorry, you know better than me that I want you. Let me have you, please.”
Your hands find the back of his neck where you anchor yourself there, your nails scraping against the hair at his nape. He breathes heavily, like he’s on the verge of losing it. His eyebrows are knit, and his gaze is pleading. His teeth nip at your jaw, his kisses leading up to your ear, where he can whisper to you.
“Let’s be selfish for once.” He begs, and coming from him, it might not mean much. But to you, it meant something. You could have him for yourself, and you weren’t feeling that pit inside of you about it. You were feeling want, need, and the desire to let him do whatever he wanted to you.
“Okay,” you reply breathlessly, like it was suddenly coming to you that it’ll be alright.
Mingi backs away, and you watch his eyes dart all over your face, reading your expression. “Yes?” he confirms simply. You feel one hand slip away from your hip and up your back slowly, under your shirt, the warmth of his skin spreading about your body.
“Yes,” you confirm back, a little more desperate this time as his hand finds your shoulder blades. “Please.”
Mingi turns your body around so your front is pressed against the door. In that swift moment, you could catch a momentary glance of his home, but not nearly enough before he has you overwhelmed.
His back presses against yours; his hand comes up and grips the front of your throat, gently pulling your head back over his shoulder; his other hand slides down your stomach and into your sweatpants.
He taps his fingers against the side of your neck, his nose nudged against your cheek, his breathing now steadier as he slides his hand into your panties. Without an inch of space to speak for, Mingi moves his foot between yours and forces your legs open more.
“Spread more. Like that.” His words are clipped and heavy, and this might be the most impatient you’ve ever seen him. You whimper, his fingers gliding through the wet mess only he’s managed to pull out of you, and the hand on your throat squeezes tighter, a very low growl vibrating against your upper back.
He kisses your shoulder, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your neck while his middle and ring lightly flick against your clit. Such a light, teasing motion that sends your knees shaking every time. You’re so sensitive.
“This is years of tension, baby.” He mutters against your face, his hand gently starting to stroke up and down your neck. His fingers spread your pussy open beneath your panties, and even though neither of you can see it, you feel so embarrassed.
“Mmhm, we gotta get it out.” Mingi keeps his thumb on your clit, your arms reaching back and gripping his shirt when he slowly slips a finger inside of you. You bite your tongue and moan softly, his warm words on your skin making the warmth in your belly expand to your legs. “I’m gonna get it out, I promise.”
His hand stops at the base of your throat, and you feel his thumb and middle finger press down on those soft spots on the side, and the fuzzy feeling that wraps its way around your skull only makes your cunt drool down his wrist even more.
It's thick, rough, and slow. You close your eyes and just feel the soft encouragement he speaks against your cheek. The languid, curling drag of his finger against your gspot makes your legs tremble, and Mingi only presses his body further against yours, another finger pushing its way inside of you.
“Doesn’t that feel nice?” He coos, playfully squeezing your throat in short intervals. “It feels so good to get what you want, hm?”
You can hear the iteration in his tone, the implication that he’s also finally getting what he wants. His fingers sink a little deeper into your cunt, and his palm brushes against your clit with every curl.
It was getting hard to hold yourself up on your legs; soft moans falling from your lips. You were addicted to the smell of him and the feeling of his hands on your body, and this was precisely one of the reasons this wasn’t a good idea. Addiction does run in the family after all.
The thoughts are knocked out of your head when you feel his thumb slip past your lips and into your mouth. Your eyebrows unfurrow, and you feel his fingers stop stroking. Instead, they press hard against your g-spot and circle there continuously. It felt so good; suddenly nothing else seemed important.
“Stop thinking.” Mingi purrs against your ear, stroking up the length of your tongue slowly. Drool slips down your lips, and you find yourself taking stifling breaths, the pressure he holds against your sweet spot purely wicked.
Hard, and gentle all at once, it's like he’s forcing the orgasm out of you. Unable to move or run away from it, he keeps the pressure there like some kind of torture, and it makes every nerve in your body feel like it's been grazed.
“You’re right there; I feel you, baby. Cum for me and I’ll give it to you, okay?” He moans against your throat for you, pushing you closer and closer to where he wants you. “We’ve been so patient.”
The thumb in your mouth slips out, smearing saliva across your lips as his hand moves down to grab the underside of your thigh, lifting your leg against the door to spread you even wider. His fingers don’t move faster; they press harder and slower, filling you with a kind of blissful pressure that was nearly painful.
Your hands splay flat against the door, bracing yourself against it as Mingi fingerfucks you to the point of tears, unable to find oxygen as he talks you through your orgasm. The hand holding your thighs squeezes the soft flesh there, and his moans shift into something more desperate, his fingers gently slipping out of you.
Your wetness clings to him; he teases your clit with a couple of curt slaps, and your body curls in on itself. Mingi’s mouth falls open as he spins your body around, sliding his fingers into his mouth.
“Walk for me, baby, it's the last thing you’re gonna have to do.” He grabs your hand and leads you away from his living room, down the dark hallway and into his bedroom. He doesn’t shut the door, and instead pushes you back until you fall into the tangled mess of navy blue sheets.
He’s on top of you immediately, his hands holding you under your arms and pushing you back until your hips are on the mattress. He kisses you everywhere: your collarbones, down your arms, the skin where your legs meet your hips.
His room is dark, and you can hardly see past his shoulders, casting a dark shadow on your body while he lifts your hoodie, bunching it up above your tits. Sliding your sweatpants down your legs, his palms press down on your thighs, holding them spread open against his mattress.
He's all over, not a moment to rethink, not a moment to assume he wasn’t interested. He was on you like he was hungry.
Mingi watches his fingers sink into your flesh, and even with the thickness of them, his hands still look giant against your legs. While one hand slides your soaked panties to the side, his other unclips the belt on his jeans, palming himself through his underwear as he stares at the slick that drips from you.
He leans over your body and cages you in once again, and you can feel the thick heat of his dick against your cunt. His chest presses against yours, his hands keeping a firm hold on your thighs so you can’t even think of running from him.
“I hate that I gotta hold you down, baby. But you’re so fussy, you won’t stay still.” He doesn't hate it, and in fact it only makes him harder knowing he can keep you in one place so easily.
Your throat bobs when Mingi starts to move his hips, so slow you could feel every vein against your pussy lips. His lips mouth praises about how good and warm you feel against your shoulder and neck, playful bites as he coats himself in your slick.
Then, your phone rings.
Your entire body freezes; you can’t see who’s calling, the glowing device vibrating just out of reach on his mattress. Mingi does not stop; he keeps moving. And you feel your heart drop at the grin on his face.
“Guess who’s calling.” He sings against your throat, dragging his tongue up to your jaw.
You watch in bewilderment as his hand pulls away from your thigh, smacking it hard enough to drag a yelp out of you, and reaches over, pressing the answer button.
He quickly covers your mouth with the palm of his hand, then sinks his cock deep into you in one powerful thrust. Your groan comes out muffled under his palm, and he moves it away just as a voice on the phone begins. He's fat, and heavy and curved, and you feel like you just might lose it.
“(Name)! Are you busy? I need your opinion.” Ji’s familiar voice fills your ear, mixing with the shaky groans Mingi lets out, your cunt squeezing around him so tight it makes his mouth fall open against your ear.
You force the most normal voice you can manage, and Mingi takes this as the perfect moment to move. “Yeah, w-what's up?” Holding open your thighs, he leans back and cranes his head to the side, staring down at where his dick disappears inside of you and reappears as slow as he’s able to manage.
Your cunt flexes to let him in, so thick, a pretty pink that fills up so good it's pushing against your stomach. Your eyes widen, and your hand fist the sheets, and Mingi’s shaky, deep moans permeate every fiber of your being.
“So if I do end up fucking him, if I end up making it a habit, is that really a bad thing?” You bite your bottom lip and try your very best to hold back every noise Mingi tried to drag out of you. You watched his little micro expression shift and change with every stroke into your pussy, and how when he found an angle that you seemed to like, he’d smile and start to fucking you just a little harder.
“Ya’ll talking about fucking me?” Mingi murmurs to you, bullying you with a hard, long thrust that forces a squeak out of you. His eyes pull away from your cunt and hold onto your gaze, pushing your thighs down further into his mattress. “Bad girls…”
“I told you, do whatever you want…” Your voice was shaky, and it was hard to mask. Mingi laughs at you and lets off of your thighs, gathering your legs together and draping your feet over his shoulder. His cock sinks deeper into you, his fat tip nudging deep enough to touch the back of your throat.
Keeping his eyes lasered on you, he holds your legs over his left shoulder, pressing the softest of kisses against your ankles, down your calves… He smiles when your eyes roll as he angles his hips up a little more, easing into a steadier, heavier pace. You feel every inch of his strokes inside of you, and you could see Mingi’s eyelids drooping a little when your cunt flutters around him.
“I’m just saying like, does that make me a bad person? Like I’m sure he’s just getting over me, and it’d be rude to just show up and ask to fuck a few out, y’know?”
It's infuriatingly hot the way Mingi’s smile only grows the more his ex-girlfriend talks, and he faux pouts at you, fucking into you just hard enough you can’t keep your eyes on him for longer than a couple seconds. “C’mon, answer her, sweetheart. Does that make her a bad person?”
He laughs in disbelief and moves your legs so they're spread on either side of his body, so he can lean down and press his lips against your ear, his thrusts impossibly deep and tortuously slow.
“She thinks I still wanna fuck her,” he moans deeply when he hears the telltale slickness of your cunt sucking him in, over and over and over again. The proof of your desire for him clings to his hips, and with every stroke into your warm pussy, he finds himself wishing Ji would hang up so he can really get you screaming.
“Just- hah, do what you t-think’s right, mkay? I gotta go...” You drunkenly reach up and fumble around, searching for your phone. When your finger grazes the red button and you hear the familiar hang-up note, Mingi grabs either one of your hips and lifts your thighs to prop against his sides.
He leans in and presses his forehead against yours, kissing you with a filthy longing, wasting zero time as he puts some force behind his hips, smoothly stroking your guts out.
His kisses are loud and wet and invasive. His dick grazes against spots you didn’t even know you had, and every time you looked down and saw the combination of his hands holding your hips up and his dick slipping out of you, coated in cream, it sent you headfirst into your second orgasm.
Your body locks up, and Mingi notices, and he grabs your jaw and holds your head still, forcing your gaze on him. “Keep going,” he orders, his voice low and whiny. “Keep cumming, don’t stop. There’s no reason to stop.”
His words drag it out as he fucks it out of you, and you realize you hadn’t moaned for a minute because you were too busy trying to breathe, blissed out of your head.
Mingi squeezes your jaw a little harder, slowing his hips to give you a minute to regain composure before he slaps your cheek with just enough force to shake your brain back to life.
“C’mon, fuck me back, baby.” He lets go of your hips and opts for keeping one hand on your jaw and the other against the small of your back, arching you just right. “Fuck me…”
Your hands brace against the mattress as you lift your hips and gently roll them up against him, helping him slowly fuck his dick into you. Your head falls back, and Mingi moans at the marks he’s left on your neck. He twitches, watching you eagerly fuck back into him, your sweet little whimpers and begs making his chest tight with the overwhelming urge to give you what you want.
He reaches down and smacks your tits one at a time repeatedly, and you cry out, your hips faltering. “Never thought my ex would call while I’m giving you inches, but it's a first time for everything, right?” Gently, he pushes your hips down so you’re pressed back against the mattress; this time, he comes out with a greedy combo.
His hand is large enough that his fingers can reach your clit, and his palm, with the right amount of strength, presses nice and hard against your lower stomach. His other hand finds that familiar hold on your lower neck, and that fuzziness returns tenfold. You felt stupid underneath him, drooling on yourself, legs twitching, and all you could do was whine.
“Ever squirt before, pretty girl?” But he doesn’t care to hear your answer; before he’s moving his hips again, and your brain shatters. The lack of oxygen, the stimulation on your clit, his tip slamming against your g-spot. His eyes practically beg you to fall apart. His nostrils flare, and his sighs and moans bring weird swirls in your stomach that make your vision go blurry.
It was so good. You see why Ji was thinking what she was.
You tried to speak, and words wouldn’t come. He might actually fuck you up, make you an addict. You squirted, and you didn’t even notice it was happening, but Mingi couldn’t get enough of it. He laughs excitedly and lets up on your throat, and you moan loudly, your voice hoarse.
Your entire body shakes, and Mingi just keeps going. “Just a little more; you can handle me a little longer…”
He becomes frantic, fucking you with the one end goal of filling you up. Your third orgasm is winding and continuous. His arms and hands wrap around your body, his hands curling over the back of your shoulders and literally holding you down on his cock. Stars burst from every vessel in your body when he buries his face in the crook of your neck, a long, sonorous moan spilling out by your ear as he holds you still.
He cums so deep, you’re almost worried birth control would be no match. He pants, his hands massaging your shoulders, absentmindedly fucking his cum back into you, only stopping when you start crying from overstimulation.
“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Don’t cry…” he kisses your tears away and slowly slides himself out of you, his eyes fluttering closed as he fills your mouth with his tongue. You felt so empty it was unbelievable. If you could actually fuck a shape into someone, this was certainly what it had to feel like.
While Mingi was away, starting up the shower, you checked your phone. 3 messages from Ji.
whats going on? r u okay?
11:19pm
hanging up on me was kinda rude fyi
11:19pm
were u getting fucked or smth?
11:19pm
There was no way she wasn’t eventually going to find out. The circle was too close. Nobody out of the three was subtle about anything. Ji would not be cool with it.
He bathed you, he fed you, he drove you home. He took your car home to you, and Ubered back. It was soft, and it was kind. And it was the last time you spoke for months.
For months, it was radio silence from both of you. You never texted him, and he never texted you. You talked to Ji every day and found yourself hanging onto every word about him. And when you found out that they had hooked up again, you woke up.
It was like he, “legally”, broke the rule. You can’t sleep with your girlfriend’s best friend if she's not your girlfriend anymore. Things started to line up again.
When Ji told you she was turning off her tap because Mingi pissed her off, he came crawling back to you. When he texted you for the first time in months, you were livid. You yelled at him when he came over; you argued.
You two tend to do that, and it became a routine. Ji and him distance. He texts you. You argue. He fucks the living daylights out of you. He treats you with gentle hands, then runs back to her. And you let him.
You keep feeding it, and it will come back. But you just can’t help it. You let yourself want something, and now one slip-up will destroy everything you already have.
Your friendship. Whatever twisted thing you had going on with Mingi. You never talked about it. He never stopped asking for your recipe, however, and the song snippets returned quietly to your messaging app.
So maybe it wasn’t that bad of a deal.
Everyone does keep telling you to be a little more selfish.
smut was 10/10 wheewww but that endingggg? i just assumed they would get tgt at the end but my toxic angsty heart likes how it actually ended… this was famous
⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART TWO [FINAL] 14.2k
⪼ this is the second half of my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! genuinely so happy and grateful to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, i've met so many wonderful mooties & friends through this whole process, and im so glad to be beside them in such a banger ass collab!!! be sure to check out everyone else's bangers fr
⪼ smut minors dni 18+ | p in v, fingering, dirty talk, you and mingi are both sluts, wooyoung lore, LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. if you made it this far thank you so, so much for reading, sorry i had to split it lol, this fic is genuinely my baby and everything i could ever want in my life. i hope you enjoy xoxo
When was the last time you cried? Like seriously, actually bent over and cried real tears into your palms? When was the last time it was at the hands of a man? Did you even have something to cry over?
It was too confusing, you didn’t have the energy to pick it apart while heaved sobs rip from your throat. Was this a release? Too much emotion built up inside, with nowhere to go? The tears began after picking an argument with a still-drunk Yeosang in the car, pointless, yet you still left him to fend for himself while you ran up the steps to your apartment, still fighting to keep the sobs inside.
Alone in your living room, sitting hunched over on the couch, face in your palms, you cried.
And cried, and cried, and cried.
Your phone lights up, sitting face-up on the coffee table, multiple notifications from the square, pink icon that’s been draining your battery all fucking day. You can only imagine what they say, what vile fucking things are waiting for you, all from real accounts, real people who hate you because of Song Mingi.
Maybe it’s masochism, or maybe you need to keep the release flowing, a devil on your shoulder tells you to unlock your phone and read. You make it through three before your shoulders shake all over again, your phone falling to the floor, you have half a mind to smash the screen so you can’t look even if you wanted to. Curling up onto the couch, you let yourself cry, you sink into the feeling, into the emotion; if you let your brain wander enough, you can still feel his covered palm on your skin, his lips on yours, you can still see his eyes, how he looked at you. So fond, affectionate, so fucking different from any man who has ever looked at you, ever.
There’s a knock at your door, rendering you quiet, sniffing up snot that dared to fall.
“Hello?” You call out, sounding so unlike yourself you cringe.
Three presses of someone’s knuckles at your door again, you whimper as you push yourself up off the couch to open it. Hand on the knob, you close your eyes, sucking in a deep, grounding breath. You hope you don’t look insane.
Just as another knock sounds, you open it. Standing with his fist out, he wears a blank face, one that warps into confusion then concern as he looks you up and down. “Are you okay?”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Wooyoung?”
“I came to get my hoodie,” he shakes his head like that was beside the point. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”
“Have you gotten your eyes checked recently?” You sniff again, wiping at your nose with your bare wrist. It’s clear you’ve been crying, are crying, sounding nasally on top of your appearance, you can’t be bothered to care. “What do you want, for real? I know you’re not here for your fuckass hoodie.”
“I broke up with Winter,” he admits easily, too fucking easily.
There’s no feeling in your gut, no excitement, no disappointment, there’s nothing. Your face reflects it, shoulders shrugging, free arm flying to say okay? You feed him an irritated laugh, “Congratulations?”
“I broke up with her because I miss you,” he tries again, “she isn’t you.”
His hair is messy, undone. Clothes dark, hanging off him, like he rolled out of bed to come here. You study his face, his mismatched eyes, the dot of espresso that sits on the apple of his cheek. There’s nothing unclear about the way he’s looking at you– there’s the hinge in his jaw, his dilated pupils, his slouched shoulders, deflated. Like he didn’t want to admit it, but here he is.
“No shit,” you sniff again. “What was the plan? You come here, confess your bullshit to me, I take you back, and we live happily ever after?”
“I’m not going to give you a bullshit speech,” his gaze averts to the floor, “I know you have a boyfriend. I just wanted you to know, I needed to get it off my chest.”
You laugh again, and it’s accompanied by disbelief and shock, but what rings truest is understanding. You lean into your door, still wide open, “You don’t have to lie. She found out, didn’t she?”
He glances up, “You’re the only one who gets it.”
“I’m the only one who put up with it,” you correct him, “those days are over.”
“Why are you crying?” He asks, straightening again. “What happened?”
“Nothing you give a fuck about.”
He takes a step forward, hands reaching out, but he doesn’t touch you. “I care about everything that involves you. What happened?”
You hold his stare, your jaw locking. Familiarity, routine. Pattern.
“If I asked you,” your voice comes out shaky, you clear your throat, “to fuck me, would you do it?”
“You have a boyfriend–”
“Would you fucking do it?”
His hand wraps around your jaw, searing your skin, lips smashing onto yours like he was fucking waiting for it. It’s blinding, dizzying how he pushes you backward, kicking the door shut behind him, lips rough and tongue taking, your mind shuts off in a second’s time. Muscle memory kicks in, Mingi’s jersey on the floor, mini skirt hiked up to your waist, panties pushed to the side, this is it. This is everything.
This is all you’ll ever get, and you’ve made peace with it.
“Are you coming tomorrow?”
Inside, at the very edge of the tunnel, tucked off to the side to avoid lingering eyes, Mingi’s vibrating with excitement, he can’t believe Winter is here and wearing his fucking jersey. He was already excited because they won their game; even if he knew they’d win and it was no surprise to him, Mingi played such a perfect game he was high off adrenaline, off arrogance, like absolutely nothing could go wrong.
“Of course,” her back is against the wall, her head tucked right under Mingi’s outstretched arm. She wears a cute, dainty smile, almost innocent, it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He has to fight his instinct to not tell her about the life he’s imagined for them. “I broke up with Wooyoung, by the way.”
This might be the best day of his fucking life.
“I’m… sorry?” He eases a smile, one that turns into a full-fledged grin when he sees how Winter smiles back.
She giggles, “Don’t be sorry. That night at the bar, she was right.” Winter bites her lip and Mingi wishes he could bite it for her. “Will she be there?” She asks, “Your girlfriend?”
“Huh?” Mingi’s brows furrow, then he remembers the bar, and then a picture of you in his passenger seat rushes through his mind. “Oh. I don’t know, I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“I saw her in your jersey,” she tilts her head to the side, a manicured nail between her teeth, “unfair, she gets the real one, and I’m stuck wearing this.”
“Not for long,” it rushes out of his mouth before he can think about it. He chuckles, nervously, “I mean, like, things aren’t really that great between us right now.”
“Oh, really?” Her brows lift in soft surprise, “She seemed kinda… mad, when she saw me in this. I told her I’m a huge fan, but she didn’t seem to like that answer. Does she get jealous often?”
Mingi’s brows furrow, head cocking to the side. Jealous? Mad?
“What do you mean?”
She giggles, a hand covering her mouth, “I don’t want to paint her in a bad light, or make you guys argue or something.”
“We won’t,” he pulls his arm back to his side, sounding assured, “tell me.”
“She asked me why I was wearing your jersey,” she looks down at her shoes, then back up to him, “she looked really mad, Mingi, like she was seconds away from ripping it off of me or something. I was kinda scared.”
“Huh,” he looks away, he isn’t sure where. You were already acting off when you came down to the field, he could feel it, he could see it on you. How you forced a smile on your face, faked laughter, looked like Lucifer had come to pull you back down to Hell before he kissed you.
For some reason in his stupid fucking mind, he thought kissing you would make it better. That you’d laugh, call him an asshole, brush it off like it was nothing– selfishly, he wanted it to make it better, he wanted to be the reason why. He wanted to see your smile, the real one, not that fake shit you were putting on so no one would shoot you a second glance.
You looked like he hurt you instead. He supposes it’s time to break up anyways, if the conversation he’s currently having is any indication, there’s no real reason for you to be together anymore if everything had already worked out. But fear lingered, in the way you looked at him, in how you jumped away from him like he burnt you, it stuck heavy in his mind, scared that you wouldn’t be friends after this. He’s afraid you’ll never speak again. He’s terrified you’re the first real friend he’s ever made.
“I’m okay, though,” she brushes a hand on his chest and he doesn’t like how it feels. “She left me alone after that, that’s why I waited until she left to come see you.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he’s speaking, not thinking. “And no, she doesn’t do that often, I don’t think she’s feeling well today.”
Should he not have kissed you? Did that make everything worse? Did he cross a line, for real?
“I hope she feels better,” Winter smiles, showing off the pearly white teeth hidden behind her glossy lips, “are you doing anything tonight?”
“Yeah, I– um,” he looks around again, moving backward so her hand falls from his chest. Are you mad at him? Should he apologize? “The team is going out to celebrate tonight, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, you deserve the celebration for how well you played. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” it’s mindless, absent.
He walks back to the locker room with furrowed brows and tunnel vision. Opening his locker, pulling out his phone, he doesn’t even take his jersey off before texting you.
mingi: were having a party tomorrow at the house to celebrate
mingi: if u wanted to come
mingi: and im sorry for kissing u
mingi: idk if i shoulda done that
mingi: im sorry
mingi: if u want we can break up tomorrow at the party
mingi: a lot of people will be there
You stare at the pictures Yeosang sent you. Minutes go by, maybe an hour, you aren’t sure, but you’ve zoomed in on every inch of each picture, and the looming cloud of dread won’t dissipate for shit. You weren’t imagining how he looked at you, how he held you, it was eternalized in pixels on your screen.
The more you stared, the more you hated it.
“What’s that?”
You lock your phone, throwing it on the nightstand beside you. “Can you get the fuck out already?”
He smacks his teeth, “We haven’t had a sleepover in so long, why so mean?”
“I don’t like you,” you finally turn your head to see him. Eyes low with sleep, dark hair frizzy and sticking out in every which way, shirtless, littered with marks you’ve never been allowed to give him before. “I don’t want you here.”
“Then why’d you let me stay?”
“Because you did me a favor,” you run your hands over your face, rubbing at your swollen eyes, “but I have to prepare to break up with my boyfriend tonight, so unless you’re helping me come up with a plan, go.”
“Just tell him you cheated,” he shrugs, and when you look at him he’s wearing the nastiest of smirks. “Worked for me.”
“You didn’t even tell me, you fucking asshole,” reaching over, you smack him dead in his chest. “Get out of my apartment.”
He laughs, slowly sitting up, giving you a pretty view of his spine, the tattoo that sits at the top, the muscles in his shoulders. You hum, head tilting as you stare, he really is pretty. You missed the sight. He turns his head halfway, “Have a smoke with me before I go.”
You keep your eyes glued to him for a moment, his eyes peeking over his shoulder, he’s still shamelessly naked in your bed. So many things, Jung Wooyoung is, but most of all a complexity you don’t think you’ll ever fully understand.
You sigh, soft, pleasant, almost. “Okay.”
On the balcony, you’re in Mingi’s jersey you picked up from your living room floor, the first thing you saw when you realized you needed something on your body to go outside. He’s across from you, boxers on his hips, shirtless, comfortable. Always comfortable with you.
He turns around to face you while your lips wrap around his cigarette, a Marlboro Red, he takes a second to watch you. His eyes don’t follow the smoke as it leaves your lips, they stay on you, analyzing, thinking.
“What’s up with you?” He finally asks. “Don’t bullshit me.”
Face going unchanged, you respond, “I think I like him for real.”
He stares a second before breaking out in laughter. Hand clutching his stomach, his brows furrow, “So you slept with me because you like your boyfriend?”
“I slept with you because you’re the opposite of him,” you reach out your arm, two fingers sliding the tobacco into his, “he freaked me out. He kissed— kisses me like he cares about me.”
“I don’t kiss you like I care about you?”
“You kiss me like you’re saving the nice shit for her,” you huff, craning your neck, stretching your aching muscles. You really went too long without getting laid.
Wooyoung’s brows wiggle, shoulders shrugging as he brings the cigarette up to his lips like he couldn’t argue with you even if he tried. “You don’t make sense.”
You sigh, turning to face the balcony, the neighborhood below. So quiet, it was busier closer to campus; here, it was nothing but peace. Warm, not quite humid yet, a clarity in the air you haven’t felt in so long, you let the sunshine beat on your skin, the kelly-green polyester covering it.
“You don’t need to understand,” you reach out your fingers, he places the cigarette between them. “Being with him is too much exposure, too many eyes on me. You should see my Instagram DMs.”
“Bad?”
“Worse than bad.” Tilting your head, blowing smoke from your lips, you ask, “Wanna come with me tonight?”
“To watch you break his heart?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m game,” he takes a step toward you, leaning over the balcony, shoulder touching yours. “Did you know Winter has a thing for him?”
“Yes,” you laugh a little, “you’re late to figuring that one out.”
He stayed until the cigarette burnt down to the filter, shoving it in the ashtray you bought and kept on the small table in the corner, solely for him. You stayed on the balcony for what felt like forever after he showed himself out— sitting with yourself and your thoughts, flooded with Mingi, the inevitable end a part of you had begun to think might not actually come.
FIFTH OUTING: THE BREAK UP, FOOTBALL HOUSE. 10:21 PM
Mingi has always been grateful for his height. It’s helped him tremendously, helping his mother much smaller than him, in football, with women. He remembers being a kid and being giddy about holding the caboose of his class’s line because he was the biggest.
He thinks he’s never been more grateful than he is right now, facing Seungmin, looking over his brown head of hair clearly, effortlessly— you, in his living room, dancing like you didn’t give a fuck. Hair let loose behind you, your top clinging to your body like it was painted on, jeans hugging your swaying hips in a way that made him jealous of black denim.
You greeted him like you weren’t here to break up with him, a soft hey rolling off your tongue, cheeks already flushed with liquor, shoulders already slouched. Mingi put his beer down on a table littered with empty bottles and hasn't once thought about picking it back up.
You told him he looked good, apologized for his jersey smelling like cigarettes, which made him quirk a brow in confusion, but he forgave you in the same breath with a little laugh as you stumbled over your feet.
Drunk. Cute.
You didn’t mention the kiss, didn’t mention breaking up, you didn’t mention anything that happened in the last twenty-four hours. Mingi wasn’t going to remind you, not when you’re blissfully boneless, a smile permanently etched onto your cheeks, there wasn’t a line in your face to be seen. No worries, no stress, no anger, unaware like it was purposeful. You seemed like you needed it.
“Hello? Mingi?”
He blinks into focus, eyes back on Seungmin before him who wore furrowed brows and tilted jaw, staring at him expectantly.
“Sorry,” he laughs a little, jutting his chin in the direction of you, making Seungmin turn his head. “Look at her.”
“You’re sick,” Seungmin looks only for a second before turning back to Mingi whose eyes are glazed over, the younger man’s face rendered flat. “Obsessed.”
Mingi giggles like he’s proud of it. No denial, no rebuttal, he thinks he might be, just a little, maybe infatuated was the better word. Especially since you’re not mad at him. The nerves he’s felt from last night leading up to when you walked through the door of the football house were full-bodied, eating at every vein below his skin, every organ felt like it wasn’t working right.
You answered his texts, which should have eased him at least a fraction.
princess: i kissed you back did i not
princess: moron
princess: ill be there
princess: and im breaking up with you btw
He couldn’t figure out a response, mostly because a huge part of him wanted to stall breaking up, but he couldn’t figure out why. Or he wouldn’t let himself, he should say, because the answer was staring at him in the fucking face: he likes you. He knows he does, Yeosang’s show confirmed it, forced it to the front of his mind, a life-altering observation— he’s so fucked.
This is an arrangement. An even exchange, he gets Winter, you get whatever the fuck your plan with Wooyoung is. It dawns on him that he’s never even asked, there are so many things he wants to ask, so many things he wants to say, he doesn’t have enough time to say them. You made it clear yesterday that you wanted to break up.
“Go get her,” Seungmin huffs, “I know you want to.”
“I don’t dance,” Mingi looks at Seungmin like he’s crazy.
“Why else did you ask Woozi to DJ then?”
“Fair.”
Seungmin turns on his heel, toward the kitchen, maybe. Mingi takes one step before he stops in his tracks, eyes blowing wide, body running ice-cold.
Like a shadow, he was at your back, hands on your hips, smiling like he was supposed to be there. Like you were allowing it. You clearly were, head tilted backward, smile wide as a laugh he couldn’t hear rolled off your lips. God, Mingi can’t even say his name— he’s a roach, a fucking rat that’s lingering around Mingi, waiting for the opportunity to give him diseases or something.
He finds his feet moving, not aware of himself body slamming people who were minding their own damn business, certainly not aware of the anger that hung in the hinge of his jaw, in his clenched fists. He pulls you by the wrist, your name on his tongue, you barely notice. Hazy eyes finally landing on him, your smile widens, sparkles in your eyes shining brighter, your fingers tighten in the fabric hanging off his shoulders. “Mingi!”
He eyes Wooyoung over your head, face flat, unimpressed, pissed off. Wooyoung’s smirk is cynical, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, what’s happening. Mingi feels left out and he doesn’t fucking like it.
“Where have you been?” You’re whining, head tilted to the side, lips pouty even if your body sinks into him more than it ever has before. You’re drunk.
Mingi eyes dance over to Riyo and Jia, two of your friends, he thinks those are their names. One red-haired and wide-eyed, body rigid with fear as she meets Mingi’s gaze, the other dark-haired and panicked like she was already searching for a distraction, a way to get you out of this situation.
Wooyoung speaks up before Mingi can get a word out, “Did you two break up yet?”
Yet. His jaw clenches. Riyo and Jia turn confused.
“We’re not breaking up,” Mingi responds, “fuck are you talking about?”
“I need another drink,” you turn around, back leaning into his chest, laying your whole weight on him as your arms reach down to his thighs, palms splayed flat over denim for purchase. “Can we go find cutie Kai? He’ll get me one.”
He can’t even focus on your hands on him, how mindless you are, he’s so fucking irritated. He ignores you, asking Wooyoung again, “The fuck are you talking about?”
Wooyoung’s brows raise, smirk growing like he was about to drop a bomb. “Interesting, that’s what she told me this morning,” he takes a step closer to you, “right, baby?”
“Huh?” You ask, body swaying, Mingi uses two hands on your waist to keep you steady.
“You’re breaking up with Mingi,” Wooyoung repeats, “that’s why we had sex last night. Right?”
Sorry if your jersey smells like cigarettes.
He pushes you forward like you fucking burned him, just enough for you to fall into Wooyoung’s chest instead. Jia and Riyo are side-by-side, watching everything unfold like it was a train wreck they couldn’t look away from.
“Wait,” hands braced on Wooyoung’s chest, you turn around, eyes wide and lips trembling. “Hold on a second.”
Wooyoung pulls you into him, arms slithering around your torso like he knows every inch of your body. It makes Mingi sick, or it would if he could feel anything, his body’s numb like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
“You fucked him?” His voice is pitched like he didn’t believe it. “He cheated on you,” Mingi feels like the three of you are alone, like this isn’t a party full of one hundred something people. “Twice.”
“I know—”
“Then what, you don’t give a fuck?” His voice is raised, he doesn’t care. “What the fuck was the point then, huh? What the fuck was the point if you were just gonna go back to him?”
Wooyoung cocks his head, “The point of what?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Mingi blurts, “I’m not talking to you.”
“Mingi,” your jaw drops, “I don’t—”
“You couldn’t wait?” Mingi asks, “Couldn’t at least have the decency to break up with me first before running right back to him?”
“I’m sorry!”
The apology off your lips makes him stand straighter. It’s pleading, like you’re just asking him to be quiet, to stop, but it seems to screw his head back on his body, his consciousness forcing itself back into his six-foot build with vengeance.
You call after him as he turns around, walking away as quick as he can, fingers tapping at his sides just to remind himself he has them. This can’t be real, he’s gotta be dreaming, there’s no way in hell that just happened to him.
Is he just gonna leave you with Wooyoung? Drunk as you are? Is that why you’re so fucking hammered in the first place? You seemed so comfortable in his hold, Mingi wonders if that was you or the alcohol, he could see it in your eyes, the fear of being caught. The confusion, like you didn't understand why Mingi was so angry.
You probably didn’t. You probably thought he wouldn’t find out, because why would he? You were supposed to break up tonight, be done with each other. A chapter closed. Mingi feels like turning on his heel and pulling you away from him, just to ask you every fucking question he’ll never have the chance to.
He feels like apologizing.
He feels like confessing.
But he’s so fucking pissed he bullies into the kitchen instead, eyes on alert, searching for something he can’t place, anything that will rid him of this dirty fucking feeling.
It’s full circle, he thinks, as his eyes land on Winter. Sitting on the counter, two guys in front of her, clearly chatting her up.
Nah.
Forcing a smile when he gets close enough, his voice carries a warning to the two unnamed, no-faced men. “Hey, beautiful.” They scatter.
“Should you be calling me that?” She teases, hands gripping the edge of the counter, leaned forward, feet kicking where they hung. Hair pulled up, tiny top, little shorts, she looked bare-faced, natural. Pretty. Good enough.
“I can’t be honest?” A cocky smirk, a character he hates playing. Approaching her pinned knees, they open, letting him step between them, he takes the silent offer.
“You can be honest,” she nods, batting her lashes. “But I would rather you be mine.”
He has to force the twinge of disgust out of the back of his throat, tasting like coke-drip and disappointment. He didn't feel this way talking to her last night, Mingi blinks at her before a slow chuckle rolls off his lips. “Smooth.”
“Vodka makes me bold,” she shrugs, winking. “Problem?”
This could work. He could make this work. He has to make this work, actually. “I’m supposed to be the bold one,” he hums, palms landing on her bare knees, so soft beneath his burning skin. Her eyes drop to where their skin meets, but she makes no move to stop him.
“I didn’t think you were available enough to be,” her eyes flicker upward, “do you have good news for me?”
He nods, “You won’t believe it, actually.”
Her brows furrow, smile faltering a little. “What?”
“Don’t worry about it, nevermind,” Mingi shakes his head, “we don’t have to talk about her, we can talk about us now, finally.”
They talked. And talked, and talked and fucking talked, Mingi heard every other word, something about her classes and school-air fucking up her makeup. Something about Wooyoung, he thinks, he tuned out after he heard that godforsaken name. Mingi didn’t really care, he wanted to kiss her, to fuck her, he hoped you’d find out and feel as shitty as he did right now.
The tips of Winter’s sandals toyed with his pants, his hands planted on the counter, on either side of her thighs. He was so close to scoring he could taste it, this was the right outcome, the whole purpose. This is what he should have been focused on the entire time.
“Bro,” Jaemin snaps him into focus, a pest at his side, a hand on his shoulder. “Your girlfriend’s on a table.”
“Not my girlfriend,” Mingi shoves his hand off, but then the words sink in. He cranes his neck, “A table?”
“She’s dancing on a fucking table,” Jaemin confirms, laughing like it’s funny. Like you aren’t piss-drunk and surrounded by people who don’t care about you.
Mingi doesn’t even look at Winter again before he’s moving. Rushing past bodies, physically moving them out of his way as he follows the sound of cheering into the dining room, he can see you over everyone’s heads. No, this is full-circle, he thinks for just a moment at the entryway, here you are, in his dining room where the plotting truly began, where Mingi first lost his mind over the girl he could give two fucks about right now.
Dancing, swaying your hips to whatever song is playing, something pop with heavy bass from the early two-thousands, it’s deaf on his ears. Arms above your head, smile absent, eyes absent, you aren’t even in your fucking body and everyone surrounding you is cheering you on. Mingi’s sick and he can feel every tapered edge of it.
Bodies are glued together, phones out, he smacks two out of the air as he forces his way past. He spots Jongho and Yeosang, the only two trying to get you down, arms reaching out in caution, faces stressed beyond what they should be at a party.
Mingi meets the edge of the table and he catches Wooyoung out of the corner of his eye, standing up against the wall, watching, smirking. Like he was loving every second of this. Like you wouldn’t want to rip your fucking hair out when you wake up tomorrow. Somehow it pisses him off worse that he’s watching you like this was reality TV, as if you’re not a real person, someone he slept with last night. He shivers. Rage runs deep.
“Mingi!” Jongho yells across the table, “Thank god you’re here, please get her down.”
Bare feet— where the fuck did your shoes go? Hair stuck to you, shirt splotched with wetness, probably liquor, maybe worse. There’s bottles on the table, grinders open and full of weed, puddles of water, beer, solo cups from a game of pong. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, panic, like he was responsible for you, for this.
“Get down,” his voice stands out amongst the music, the cheers. Louder, heavy with direction, order. Like he’s on the field.
Your head spins in every direction like you weren’t sure where the sound came from. Even now, irritated and shocked beyond belief, he softens at the sight of you. “Please, baby, get down,” his voice is layered with worry as you finally meet his gaze, eyes glossed over, smile lazy and gone. Holy shit.
“You’re mad at me,” you drop down to your knees, pouting, fuck this table big enough to seat half the goddamn team, stopping him from pulling you away from each and every pair of eyes.
“No I’m not,” he shakes his head, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “I’m not mad at you, I just want you to come to me.”
On all fours, you start crawling across the fucking table, a lazy grin taking over like you didn’t have any eyes on you, so unaware that Mingi’s anxious. Head tilting, a split of consciousness entering your vision, you ask, “You want me?”
He swallows, nodding, a palm reaching out for you, “Yeah, I do.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a shadow of black leaving the room. He doesn’t look, keeping his eyes on you, each agonizing second of your arms and knees pushing you forward, not a semblance of haste to your movements.
You reach out your arm when he’s close enough to grab your hand and he pulls you the rest of the way, hearing the slick sound of black denim sliding against shiny oak, he isn’t fucking thinking as he bends at his knees and throws you over his shoulder. You yelp, body deadweight over his back before your legs bend up in front of him, bare feet covered in a layer of grime, wet and sprinkled with god knows what. He sighs.
“Put me down!” You yell, your tiny hands flat against his back, pushing yourself up.
He turns, one arm holding your legs down, hauling you out of that room faster than he’s ever sprinted down a field. He spots Kai across the living room, a head of blonde hair standing tall over the crowd, the only face easy to spot at his full height.
“Huening!” He shouts. Kai’s brows furrow when he sees him, bending into bewilderment when he sees you over his shoulder. “Get me my keys.”
“You drink?”
“Get me my keys, Kai.”
He feels you smacking his back, yelling something unintelligible as he hauls you through the living room, through the front door, the air outside no fucking relief to the sweat forming at the base of his spine. Down the lawn, to his car that’s parked at the edge of the street, he puts you down on the hood with a muddled grunt from the back of his throat.
You lay back as soon as your ass meets steel. Eyes closed, head turned to the side, your arms straight out on either side of you, you heave a breath and mumble, “I’m s’fucking drunk.”
Mingi didn’t realize he was out of breath until he leaned into the side of the car, elbows resting on the roof plate. He laughs, a small one, full of disbelief and utter shock. “No shit.”
“You called me baby again,” your eyes peek open to point at him with a weak, bent arm, “you were nervous.”
Mingi feels seen. He squints, “You were gonna fall off the table, I had to get you down, of course I was nervous.”
“You like me,” you sing, arm falling back down to the steel with a smack, dopey grin on your cheeks. “You like me for realsies.”
Mingi snorts, pulling his arms off the roof of his car to step to the side, palms landing on the hood to lean forward. Your hand sways through thick air before your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist, “I like you too, even though you’re kind of rude.”
He wills his heartbeat calm. “You think I’m rude?”
“You’re so rude,” the words slur together, his lips tighten at the sound. You open your eyes again, “Wanna fuck on the car?”
Mingi cracks a laugh, a belly laugh he couldn’t hold back, “What the fuck?”
You laugh with him, loud and obnoxious, the arch of your back lifting off the car, head turning to the opposite side before it snaps back to look at him. “Just a question,” you sing again, “jus’wonderin’.”
“Can I ask you a question?” He waits for your slurred mhm. “Did you really fuck Wooyoung?”
You suddenly frown, “Yeah, he caught me at a real vulnerable time. Do y’know what vulnerable means?”
He shakes his head, “Yes.”
“Means exposed. He caught me crying ‘cus you kissed me and you were nice and your Instagram army was calling me crazy shit.” Your eyes open all the way, “They’re wild on there, did you know that?”
“People are messaging you about me?”
You choke on a laugh, “So many people.”
“Let me see–”
You scoff, “Fuck no.”
“Song!”
He hears Kai shout from the tip of the lawn, Mingi turns and Kai throws his keys across the green, landing perfectly in Mingi’s palm like he aimed for it. “Thanks,” he yells back up, and Kai nods once before turning back inside.
“Can you get up on your own or am I putting you in the car?” He receives nothing but a groan in response, a turn of your head in the opposite direction. He sighs. “Come on, you can’t even sit up?”
You turn your head back to him, “Why’d you kiss me?”
“Because I wanted to,” he says it like it’s obvious.
“They’re gonna kill me for it,” you grumble, “they’re gonna kill me and it will be your fault.”
“No one’s killing you–”
“Did you like it?” You’re blinking at him, knees opening and closing like you needed to move to remind yourself you’re conscious, "Kissing me?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow when you’re so–”
“Tell me now.”
Mingi sighs, taking his eyes off you to look at the trees across from the football house. Tall, shadows filling space between them, calm. The music inside is muffled, bass still vibrating the ground beneath his feet. The confession sits heavy on his tongue. Fuck it.
“Yeah I did,” he says it in one breath before he looks down at you again. Your brows are upturned, a pout on your lips, watching him until you hear what he says, then you smile.
“Yay,” the word is light, cute. Then you look as if reality snapped back into you, “Damn, I probably shouldn’t have fucked him, huh?”
Mingi snorts as he walks around the front of his car, grabbing you by your wrists one after another, pulling you upward. “No,” he says, shaking his head, but his smile stays, “you shouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, then bring your hand up to your forehead, groaning. “Fuck, ‘m dizzy.”
“I’m taking you home.” He scoops you off his hood, an arm curled under your knees and another holding your back until he’s got you next to the passenger door, letting your feet touch the grass beside the curb. Opening the door, one hand still on your waist, he says, “Get in.”
Your body is a mess of tucked angles as you quite literally fall into his passenger seat, Mingi has to fasten your seatbelt for you when he finally gets in the driver’s seat. You smell like liquor, cigarettes, sweat– he rolls the windows down and you stick your head out like a dog.
Twenty minutes to your apartment, no music, just Mingi and his thoughts. He thinks about her, his first girlfriend after he started becoming known, how the long-term relationship ended so soon after going public. Comments, DMs on every platform, it didn’t matter what revisions she made to her social media, the words still made it to her eyes, her ears. Nasty, disgusting, vile words and not one of them was true, Mingi hasn’t spoken to her since they broke up. She hates him, down to his core because of something he had no control over. It’s what put his wall up in the first place, made of brick, of steel, a wall so thick it didn’t let any emotion in, only desire.
He can’t imagine what’s sitting in your phone. Terror lives in his grip on the steering wheel, white-knuckled, bottom lip tight between his teeth, brows furrowed in thought, in remorse. He didn’t think you’d be affected by his status since your relationship was fake, an oversight, one he regrets already.
“You awake?” He parks just outside of your apartment, but your head doesn’t move off the window frame.
“No.”
He reaches over, unbuckling your seatbelt, “Come on, drunkie.”
You moan something belligerent, picking your head up slowly, the seatbelt going over your head, stuck around your arm. Mingi can’t help but laugh as he rolls the window up, turning off the car, he expects to have to haul your ass inside. You let him, deadweight in his hold, your bare feet crossing over one another with each step, all the way up to the second floor. Thank god your building has an elevator.
“Key?” He asks. You point to the mat on the floor, eyes half open. He flattens his lips. “Yeah, we’re gonna have to change that.”
You stand on your own long enough for him to get the door open, and he’s on alert this time, taking in his surroundings. The last time he was here he didn’t walk past the threshold, but now that he’s in, he can smell you everywhere. A large mirror next to the TV surrounded by plants, a tall lamp in the corner, a cozy couch set cream-colored. A coffee table filled with books, an unlit candle and his jersey thrown over it, your apartment screamed comfort, peaceful.
His eyes squint at the Lego sets under your TV. An open shelved media console, a polaroid camera, a record player with flowers, a starry night painting, all Legos, it’s all he could pick out until you start moaning and groaning again.
“Uh-uh,” he grabs you by the wrist when you start making for the couch, “your ass is taking a shower. Where is it?”
You gasp, staring down at your feet, wrist limp in his palm. Your toes wiggle as you ask, “Where are my shoes?” You look back up at him wide-eyed, “I had shoes on, didn’t I?”
“I’ll find them at the house tomorrow,” he pulls you closer by the wrist, “come on, drunkie. Shower time.”
“I don’t like that nickname,” your top lip lifts, “you have better ones. Why are you here?”
“To get you into bed,” he starts leading you toward the entryway to his right, a small walkway he can only pray holds a bathroom at the end. “You smell like a brewery.”
You smile, following behind him like this was his apartment and not yours. There’s movie posters, framed paintings, decor on your walls he stores for later as more questions come to mind. He notes how clean and sophisticated you decorated, minus the closet door left open with clothes strewn about like you tore it apart before going out tonight. The bathroom tucked in the back corner is worse, makeup scattered across the vanity, pairs of shorts and underwear littered the white tile, you didn’t seem to mind as you walked in right behind him.
“Do I have to?” You sit on the closed toilet, back bending over the tank, head hitting the wall with a thump.
He opens the shower curtain, turning it on, heating it up instead of answering. You giggle, more of a single sound of amusement, legs spread out in front of you, body molded to the shape of the toilet.
“Fine,” your grumble is somehow still amused, and Mingi swears it takes five whole minutes for you to stand up, toying with your skinny studded belt as your feet stumble over tile, fingers missing the prongs like you couldn’t get a grip.
He sighs again, sitting down on the toilet instead, “C’mere.”
Your hands find his shoulders for purchase, standing between his legs, body still swaying. He steadies you with two hands on your thighs and you lean into him, his touch, voice filled with pleased confusion, “You’re being nice to me.”
“I want to be nice to you,” he glances up at you, face flushed, eyes low, hair a mess. So vulnerable, a new word in his dictionary, to see you like this, for you to act this way in front of him. He wonders how much of it has to do with the messages in your phone.
“Nice is scary,” you whisper as he starts undoing your belt, pushing the prongs out of leather, your grip stays tight on his shoulders. “You scared me when you kissed me.”
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he pulls leather through the loops of denim, throwing it on the floor. “Button?”
You nod, body swaying again, he holds you upright with his fingers tucked in the hem of your jeans. “No one has ever kissed me like that before,” you’re still whispering like you’re telling him a secret. He looks up after getting your zipper down, seeing your glassy eyes, your dilated pupils. Pretty.
“I think that’s how you should be kissed,” the answer comes quickly, easily. Honest.
Your hands find the hem of your top, pulling it over your head, throwing it to the floor beside you. He fights to keep his eyes on yours. Your forearms sit on his shoulders this time, finding them like magnets as you flip your hair over your shoulder, out of your face. He swallows, breath catching in his throat, “You should get in the shower, don’t waste water.”
“You didn’t like me when you met me.” It’s not a question, but an observation. A memory.
He counters, “You didn’t like me either.”
“You were an asshole.”
“You’re sober enough to get in the shower–”
“What changed?” You ask, words sounding fragile, like you were scared of the answer.
“Everything,” he smiles halfway, leaning back an inch. The room feels hotter, steam taking up space, the sound of the shower hitting the tub a small hum, his ears ring with the quiet. “Most of all, me, I think.”
You’re looking at him differently, like you’re trying to figure something out. You reach up to his hair, pushing it out of his face, your touch featherlight, so delicate a shiver shoots through him like a firework. Your fingers glide over his temple, his cheek, you press your palm flat against his cheekbone, he leans some of his weight onto it, he lets you toy with him like he’s yours to do as you please. There’s a part of him that thinks he is, even if it’s fucked up, even if the two of you are still somewhere in purgatory.
“Pretty,” you mumble, a mindless word. “I can understand why they hate me.”
His bottom lip curls, “I’m so sorry–”
“No,” you shake your head. “Not your fault.”
His lungs twist hard enough to steal his breath. His hands find your hips, pulling you forward until his forehead meets the heat of your abdomen; so soft under him, fragile in his hold, you have no idea how long he’s waited to hear those words, no idea the weight they hold. No idea the guilt that lives glued to his spine.
Your hands find his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp, holding him against you like it’s where you wanted him, where he’s supposed to be. He thinks it’s where he’s supposed to be, too. He picks his head up only to place a kiss against your skin, a soft press of his lips over your stomach, it holds everything he can’t say to you right now. He hopes you can feel it.
Your knees buckle a little, fingers stalling in his hair, he hears the breath you suck in, feels how you bend into him. “I’m drunk, don’t make me horny, I’ll jump you.”
He snorts, your words pulling a laugh straight from his gut, he leans back to look up at you, your fingers still in his hair. You’re smiling, lazy and stupid, but then you break away from him, thumbs tucked into your jeans like you’re about to shove them down.
“Hold on, damn.” He stands on weak knees, quickly skipping out of the bathroom, he peeks his head back in just before closing the door. “Be careful. Shout if you need anything.”
“You’ll stay?” Your face is round with supplication.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Hey.”
Your nose twitches.
“Wake up, it’s after twelve.”
Your top lip curls.
“Wake up, I’m getting bored.”
You peek an eye open as your whole face tightens up, hands finding your cheeks, rubbing your eyes awake. Your stomach hurts, your knees feel sore, you grumble out a curse as your body stretches itself into consciousness.
“She’s alive.”
You pause, peeking over your fingertips to Mingi sitting on the edge of your bed. Dark hair messy on his head, shirtless, a pair of your shorts painted onto his thighs. You’re too confused to laugh at the sight.
“What the fuck?” You ask, voice laced with sleep, face scrunched up beyond recognition. “The fuck are you doing here?”
“Come on,” he frowns, “you didn’t even throw up, there’s no way you blacked out. Think, smart girl.”
You blink at him, letting the memories come back one after another. Wooyoung, shots, shots, shots, table, car, bathroom, bed. Mingi’s head on your stomach. Mingi’s lips on your skin.
“Oh, shit.” You sit up on your elbows, eyes on your bedspread, still blinking crust out of your vision, “Oh, shit.”
Mingi huffs a noise of amusement through his nose, “Still confused?”
You shake your head, heart picking up speed in your chest. Your head feels heavy, stomach nauseous, limbs tingly with leftover alcohol in your blood. You look up at him, “Why are you still here?”
“You asked me to stay,” he shrugs, like that was the most normal thing in the world. Like he’s stayed over a thousand times before.
“So you stayed?” Your brows stay knitted together, confused, confused confused confused.
“So I stayed,” he nods, “how do you feel?”
“Like dog shit.”
“Sounds about right,” he’s smiling but he’s trying to hide it. It makes your lips twitch upward. “You remember dancing on my dining room table?”
Your eyes close, lips flat, brows raised. “Yup,” you nod, “unfortunately, I do.”
“Remember asking to fuck on my car?”
Your eyes shoot open, tone full of disbelief, “No.”
“You’re funny,” he chuckles, laying flat on his back at the edge of your bed. “You’re always funny, but you’re an especially funny drunk. It was cute when I wasn’t terrified you were gonna die.”
“The scaries are gonna haunt me for weeks,” you push yourself up, forehead meeting your palms. “Fuck.”
“I was hoping we could talk,” he sounds coy all of the sudden, nervous. Shy.
You nod, “Let me shower again, eat something, drink a bottle of water. I feel like a fucking zombie.”
After cursing yourself out under your breath upon entering your messy bathroom, half your shower was spent with your forehead pressed to the wall, somehow cooling down your body temperature while steaming water soaked away all your shame. You ran through the events last night over and over, a little fuzzy at the edges, but each and every damning moment was crystal clear. You dried yourself off, completed your routine all with the same thought in mind: What the hell does he want to talk about?
It’s not like he likes you for real. You’d never work– your past is too messy, your current state is too messy, actually. He needs someone with a clean record, a nice, pretty girl who dresses in dainty clothes, someone who says please and thank you– that’s his goddamn destiny, a girl like Winter. Reserved, bashful, composed, you wonder if she’s ever said a curse word out loud, she’s nothing like you. She’s someone the internet would love, his coaches would love, his family would probably love, not that you know anything about his family.
You’re getting ahead of yourself— you’re spiraling. The only outcome of this conversation is that tension ran high, he was kind enough to take care of you when you were drunk, you’d go back to normalcy in an hour. Maybe Wooyoung’s free later tonight, he’d make a snide comment about you dancing on the table, you’d laugh like it was intentional. Like there weren’t videos of you on people’s phones that’d haunt you at two in the morning for weeks to come.
“What’s all this?” You asked upon walking into the living room, Mingi stood beside your small kitchen table, rummaging through one of two plastic bags.
“I ordered food,” he says, pulling out containers from the bag. Setting them down on the table neatly, one on top of another, neat.
Your brows furrow, walking into the kitchen hesitantly, “Food?”
“I can’t cook,” he looks up at you with a half-smile, “no idea how. But you need to eat, I also got juice for you, and I found ibuprofen in your cabinet–”
“Mingi,” you shake your head, trying to gather your bearings, “what are you doing?”
He holds up a hand, flat palm facing you, features straight and unimpressed. “Don’t start with me, sit down and eat. We’ll talk after there’s food in your stomach.”
You must still be drunk. Limbs feeling heavy, you trudge into the wooden seat, the one with the broken bar that supports the legs. Breakfast food, so much breakfast food, your stomach hurts at the sight of oil and grease, but you need it, you need the juice, too– you sucked that down in record time.
Silence, other than the sound of chewing and plastic ruffling, it was comfortable. Maybe a little awkward, unless that was your nerves talking which was absolutely plausible, you still sat in fucking confusion. Feeding you, catering to you, taking care of you like he did last night– and he still only had on your shorts. Your powder blue waffle shorts that fit you loose but clung to his muscled, golden, tan-lined thighs like they’d rip at the seams if he moved the wrong way.
You hate that it’s nice having him here. You hate that you’re letting it happen.
Pills swallowed, enough food in your stomach to take an hour to digest, the awkwardness grew after cleaning up the table. Both aimlessly pacing the kitchen, pretending to still have something to do, avoiding the conversation that needs to happen. Might as well get it over with.
“Mingi–”
“Can I start?”
You sigh, pointing a finger in the direction of the living room. “Couch.”
Your stomach feels uneasy like you’d throw up every bite as you sit across from him, both taking edges of the couch like you’re scared to get close. You sit on a leg like it’d give you an easy escape if you needed it, despite it being your apartment.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, voice small. Your brows furrow, ready to ask what the hell he’s sorry for, but his lips part instead. “I’m so sorry you were sent messages about me, this has happened before, my ex-girlfriend broke up with me because of them, because people didn’t leave her alone about me.”
“Mingi, it’s not your fault–”
He looks up at you and his glassy eyes kill the words on your tongue. His voice is small, layered with struggle, “We were together for a year. When I posted her, us, she broke up with me within two weeks. We never spoke again.”
Your jaw drops, “Two weeks?”
He nods, “I don’t even think we made it to the fourteenth day, I can’t believe I didn’t think that would happen to you. I guess I thought because our relationship was fake it wouldn’t, but no one knows it was fake, I just didn’t think, again. I let it happen again. I’m sorry.”
Ah, and now everything makes sense. “You didn’t need to do all of this because you feel bad. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself, I also know when things are out of your hands, and the messages are one-hundred-percent out of your hands.”
His brows furrow after a second, “I didn’t take care of you because of the messages, or because I feel bad. I took care of you because I care about you, I like you.”
“No,” you shake your head, “no you don’t. You might think you do, but you don’t.”
“Huh?” His eyes thin, top lip lifting, “Who are you to tell me what I feel?”
“I just know, I’ve seen your type, and it’s not me. Which is fine, I don’t–”
“You told me you liked me last night,” he argues.
Your lips flatten. “I was drunk.”
“Drunk words are sober thoughts.”
“What are you? Sixteen years old?” Your face twists, “I’m being realistic and logical, you’re acting on emotion.”
“Well I haven’t felt this much emotion since she broke up with me!” His hands fly up on either side of him, voice strained. “And I’ve missed it, I missed feeling this way. I want to keep feeling this way, about you.”
Your blinks are stuttered, slow. Your lips purse, he might have shocked you into silence. He runs a hand through his hair, face torn up into exasperation, he sighs, one deep and grounding. Looking at you again, he asks, “Do you really not want me? There’s not one bone in your body that wishes everything we’ve done the last few weeks was real?”
Your chest is tight. Your lips won’t move, your mind is blank.
“You don’t think you deserve it,” his voice switches to something calm, understanding. “Someone to like you, or care about you, I know. You’re used to guys like him, guys who use your feelings as ammunition. I won’t do that to you.”
You feel like stone. Stuck, still, eyes wide, unblinking. Fear simmers.
He shifts himself closer, eyes pleading. “I was sick when I found out you slept with Wooyoung, I’ve never acted like that before in my life, so jealous and angry, like he was taking you from me. I felt like you were mine, and he was trying to steal you–”
“I asked him to,” you finally speak, rushed and panicked. There’s nothing else left to argue with other than this. “I basically begged him.”
“You were upset,” Mingi shakes his head, “you told me. You said you were upset because of the messages and because I kissed you, you didn’t want to–”
“I needed to,” you try to swallow, throat squeezed tight, “I needed him to. He isn’t kind, he isn’t genuine, he doesn’t hold me like I’m breakable, he wouldn’t do all the shit you did for me last night. He isn’t you, and I needed the reminder. That’s what I deserve, not you.”
“Do you even know what you’ve done for me in the weeks we’ve known each other?” Mingi’s voice is pitched now, layered with raw emotion. “You’ve reminded me what freedom is like. That I can do whatever I want, I’m not a machine, or a puppet for someone else to use. You gave me back myself, is it so ridiculous that I don’t want to let you fucking go?”
“I’m scared,” you blurt it out, two words pulled from so deep in your psyche you can’t believe you said them out loud. “I’m scared to let myself feel anything towards you.”
“You already feel something towards me,” he argues, “a lot of something. You wouldn’t have slept with him if you didn’t.”
Stunned into silence again, your lips purse. He continues, “I’m not stupid. My vocabulary might not be as big as yours but I’m not stupid, I know you have feelings for me. You can’t hide that no matter how much you want to, how much you try to get it fucked out of you.” He shifts closer. “I’ll show you. Let me kiss you again.”
“Fuck no,” your brows furrow.
He deadpans, “Let me fuckin’ kiss you.”
“Did you even brush your teeth?”
“Shut up,” he stands up on his knees, too big in front of you, chiseled body on display, your heart drops to your stomach. “Stop deflecting. I see through you now.”
“Mingi–”
His hands find the armrest behind you as you uncurl your leg from beneath you, trying to accumulate space, space you’re quickly losing as he leans closer. “You don’t have to be scared with me.”
Your breath is shallow and shaky, heart in your throat, eyes halfway out of your head. He keeps his face close, forehead a millimeter from yours, you feel his heat first. He’s so big, he swallows your figure, he’s too big for the fucking couch, it’s dizzying.
“I’m gonna kiss you.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
He smiles before pressing his lips to yours, soft, so fucking delicate it takes you a moment to ease into it, to process that it’s even a kiss. Softer than it was on the field– his lips barely graze yours at first, as if he was testing the waters, like he wanted to feel your breath on his skin, wanted to feel your body say yes before your mouth said the word. Your lips part for him, soft and steady, molding to his, letting him guide, lead.
He asks for entrance with his tongue, swiping along your bottom lip with a certain courtesy like even though you were following him, letting him show you, you still held the reins. Your insides feel molten, fingers grabbing onto your shirt like you didn’t know where else to put them, mind in a constant battle to pick every detail apart or shut off completely. It’s different– it might be everything, laying here and kissing him softly, lazily, like nothing else exists except for him, his weight, his mouth. He tastes like something new, something blue, a memory you’d come back to for a long, long time.
He parts from you, lips swollen and red like he’d bitten them, he stares. Chocolate eyes big and round, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed a pretty rose, he looks at you like he’s just discovered you. Like even though he kissed you to prove something to you, it’s proven something deeper to himself.
He doesn’t smile, still calculating, but in a quiet voice he asks, “Do you feel it too?”
Your fists are still tight in your shirt, you search his eyes, the way they fall to your lips, you don’t answer— you kiss him again, harder this time, faster, tongue passing through his lips like his mouth belonged to you, like you were running out of time. You shift down on the couch, pillow falling to the floor, his elbows bracket your head as your calves hook over his thighs, moving in unison like your bodies were acting without either of you thinking about it.
Your hands find his hair when you wrap your arms around his neck, lifting yourself into him, pressing yourself against him, feeling the strength of him, it makes a tight noise leave your lips, one needy and begging. He rolls his hips into you on instinct and you moan into his mouth like you need him to do it harder.
“Fuck,” he curses into your mouth, lifting himself up on his palms, “wait— wait.”
“What?” You follow on your elbows, bug-eyed, “Why? What happened?”
He swallows, panting, running a hand through his hair as he sits back on his calves, your legs still thrown lazily over his thighs. The print of his length sits heavy and prominent with his legs spread in your cotton shorts, your eyes flicker back and forth to his face, mouth watering, patience already scarily thin.
“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he shakes his head, chest splotchy, tummy expanding with each aborted breath he takes. “I want this, I want you, I want to do it right.”
Your heart flutters in your chest, it’s at war with your dampening panties, your thighs that twitch as the words leave his mouth. His eyes drop to your figure, the big tee you wore hiked up to your stomach, tiny shorts clinging to your dampened core, he squeezes his eyes shut like it’d erase the sight from his memory.
“You want to stop because you want to take me out on a date?” You ask, brows raised. “We’ve been on, like, two already. Maybe three or four if you squint.”
He opens his eyes to narrow them, “You’re such a smartass.”
You smile at that, head tilting, cocky, “Clearly you like it, since you wanna date my smart-ass.”
His hands fall to your hips, tugging them towards him until your back is flat against the couch again, “I wanna do more than that.”
“Then do it,” you huff, hips bucking into him, arms lifting to reach for him, “you’re the one who stopped.”
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” He asks, leaning forward enough to let you wrap your arms around his shoulders, he uses his hands at your waist to lift you up onto his lap.
You gasp at the movement, at the fucking ease in which he maneuvers you, your knees land beside his hips before you answer. “If you want me to shut the fuck up then give me a reason to.”
“I lied, don’t want you quiet,” he’s looking up at you from this angle and the sight of him steals your breath, makes everything feel a little more real. He’s so beautiful and he wants you and fuck you want him, too.
“Make up your mind,” you press yourself to his chest, keeping your faces close. “Y’know, you talked big game that night at the LAX house, been wondering if you could back it up.”
His hands tuck beneath your tee, fingers warm against your skin as they drag up your sides, palms landing heavy on your waist, it makes you shiver. He smirks, “Now you’re baiting me into fucking you?”
“Maybe,” your faces are so close your lips graze, “is it working?”
He kisses you again, more feverish than the last, hands squeezing your waist before they drop down to your hips, grinding you against him. You keep your arms folded around his neck, tongue slotting between his lips messily, teeth clashing together as you grind your core against his clothed length, roughly, purposely, letting him feel the arousal that’s bottled up inside. You part to empty strangled noises into each other’s mouths, eyes screwed tight, your hips move steadily in a rhythm guided by his hands. So hard, long and thick beneath you, you could feel him through your shorts, his shorts, there was no stopping. There was no pausing.
His hands find the hem of your tee, you help him pull it over your head, his lips find your neck, your chest, your head tilts back to give him access, for small, pitched breaths to leave your lips, a song for him to hear. He groans when your hips slow into a nasty grind, his tongue pokes out to drag down your chest, over your heart where he places an open-mouthed kiss. He looks up at you to say, “This is mine now.”
Your heartbeat picks up, he smiles like he can feel it. Brows knitted together, face bent with intoxicated arousal, you respond, “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“We’re technically still dating,” his teeth catch onto the hem of the lace bralette you wore, tugging on it before placing a kiss right above, at the center of the valley between your breasts, “and we’re not breaking up.”
“Are you trying to gaslight me?” You ask, hips still moving against him, fingers knotting in his hair when your clothed clit rolls over the ledge of his tip, “ah– I think we had a very public breakup last night.”
One of his hands slithers over the curve of your hip, down between your thighs, two fingers adding pressure where you needed it. You choke on a moan, back arching, hips digging into the pressure as he grins wide, “I forgave you already. This is make-up sex.”
“More,” your fingers tighten in his hair, eyes squeezing shut, “Mingi.”
“Oh, I like that,” he circles his fingers twice over your clit, smirking, “beg a lil’ more, put that mouth to good use.”
Your eyes open wanting to scowl but your brows are knitted too deeply in pleasure, lips parted and glossy with his spit, you can’t force yourself to as his fingers circle over your clit again. “P-please,” you stutter over the word, hips rolling into his touch, “wanna feel you.”
His face contorts in pleasure like you were the one touching him, he catches your lips again, tongue slotting into your mouth as his fingers dive beneath your shorts. He groans into your mouth as he slips between your folds, feeling the wetness that seeped through your damp shorts, “So wet for me, princess.”
Your hips buck into his hand, body twitching at how thick his fingers feel at your center combined with that fucking word on his tongue. “Feels s’good, more, Mingi, inside.”
“Say please,” the words are muffled, lips still pressed to yours.
You whisper, “Please.”
“Good girl,” he mutters, feeling you clenching around nothing as his fingers prod at your entrance. His eyes flicker upward, “You liked that? Being called my good girl?”
You nod shamelessly, hips rolling into his fingers, beckoning him to put them inside. Slowly he inches forward and you gasp, breath catching in your throat, fingers tightening in his hair, he curves them with each inch he gives you, adding pressure on that spot as soon as he reaches it, you’re choking on your own pleasure as your hips grind to fuck yourself on his fingers.
“So greedy,” he whispers, completely in awe, “look at you, baby, fucking yourself on my fingers. You gonna be good for me and cum on ‘em?”
“Holy shit,” you whisper, hips stuttering, his words going straight to the pit in your belly. You’ve never had someone pay this much attention to you or your pleasure, never had someone even insinuate making you cum before they’ve taken their pants off. He crooks his fingers and you whine, “You don’t h-have to, ‘hmygod.”
“Yes I do,” his fingertips massage that spot, fucking into you in small, stuttered thrusts so he can keep pressure, “need you to cum around my fingers, then around my cock, gonna do that for me?”
“Yeah,” you roll your hips faster, harder, meeting the thrusts of his fingers, his movement trapped within your shorts, the edge of his palm kissing your clit. It’s fucking dirty, nasty the way you’re moving, so shameless, if you weren’t so consumed by pleasure you’d be mortified at how easily he cracked your composure.
“Yeah? You wanna cum around my cock?” He asks, tone arrogant because he knows the answer, “Gonna make a mess on me with this wet lil’ pussy?”
“Mingi,” you whine, “stop.”
“You like it, I can feel you clenching,” he grins, you open your eyes just enough to see it. Cocky, but he’s backing it up and fuck you might die if he stops. “So good for me, bet you’d take anything I give you, bet you’d ask for more.”
The pit of pleasure builds steadily in your gut and you bite your lip to try to keep your mewls inside. It’s futile when he kisses you, drinking up every wrecked moan you spill into his mouth, keeping his fingers moving at the same pace, the same pressure. The rough edge of his palm hitting your clit with each movement and it’s so fucking obvious he knows exactly what he’s doing, how to pull you to the finish line with ease.
“Mingi,” you gasp out, limbs locking as you climb, “I’m close.”
“I know,” he presses his lips to your chin, under your jaw, “give it to me– cum for me, baby.”
Your hips stutter first before your orgasm crashes over you heavily, body twitching, rolling into him, he moves with you, keeping his hand steady as you ride out your orgasm, chanting praises into the space between you, encouragement that extends your pleasure, the feeling of euphoria that rocks through you never-ending. You keel after you finish, forehead meeting his, body deflating like he took everything out of you, he kisses your unmoving mouth, smiling into you when you don’t respond.
“Did so good for me,” he pulls his fingers out of your shorts, bringing them up between your faces, slipping them between his lips. He moans in pleasure, “Mm, can’t wait to eat her. You’ll let me, right? You’ll ride my face if I tell you to?”
The pit in your stomach twists all over again, core clenching around nothing, he’s filthy. You love it. “Need you inside,” you mutter, voice tight with arousal but winded, “need to feel you, Min.”
His smile returns, “Can you handle it, big girl? Look at you after just two fingers.” You whine and he laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen, “I can’t believe you’re so easy. You’ve got such a fuckin’ attitude and now you’re whining and crying for my cock.”
“You asked me if I ever shut the fuck up,” you grind yourself against him, bleeding impatience, “do you?”
He makes a sound he keeps lodged in his throat, it makes you smirk. He answers, “Not if it makes you this wet. You soaked through your shorts, princess.”
“Stop calling me that,” you huff, “fuck me already, ‘m tired of hearing you run your mouth.”
His hands find your thighs, holding onto them tight as he lifts himself up, you fall backwards fast with a loud yelp, back hitting the cushions of the couch. He’s predatory as he leans over you, “This mouth can make you cum faster than my fingers did,” his fingers find the hem of your shorts, “wanna find out?”
“I want you to fuck me,” you lift your hips for him and he tugs them down to your ankles, “save your filthy fuckin’ mouth for another time.”
“There she is,” he stands on his knees, tugging at the baby blue shorts on his hips, “knew the brat was in there somewhere.”
“It only comes out when you’re a cocky motherfuck–” he tugs his shorts down and the word dies on your tongue. Bigger than he felt beneath you, thick, red, leaking, your mouth waters, back arching off the couch at the sight, “Damn.”
He’s smirking and you hate that his cockiness is starting to become sexy. “Gonna take it all like a big girl?”
You’re nodding, not even looking at him, you can’t take your eyes off his cock. Bigger than Wooyoung, than Hyunjin, he might even be bigger than Mingyu and that’s a feat. All you can muster is, “Hurry.”
He settles between your legs, your knees spread under his heavy palms, he licks his lips when he gets eyes on your center. “She’s so pretty, baby. Why didn’t you tell me? Woulda been fucking you weeks ago.”
“God, Mingi, shut up,” you buck your hips toward him, “get inside me already.”
“She’s soaked,” he wraps his fist around his cock, sliding it through your folds, rubbing circles over your clit that make you shiver, “so pretty, gonna ruin her. Can I? So you can’t fuck anyone but me?”
Impatience is a band that snaps hard, “Is that why you talk so much? You have a big dick that you don’t even know how to use–”
He wastes no time slipping back down to your entrance and pushing inside, just his tip has your body locking up, head tipping back, a tight, wilted noise slipping out of you involuntarily, it tells him everything you can’t say. He’s smirking even if he’s fighting to keep his own pleasure at bay, “Yeah? I don’t know how to use it? Say that again.”
He’s curved, carving into you like he’d make you take it even if you couldn’t, your walls suck him in like you were made for it, clenching around the width of him, mushroom tip kissing your cervix just enough that it’s pleasurable– you shake your head, biting your fucking tongue, nails clawing at the couch cushions because no one’s ever felt this good just sitting inside you.
“Exactly,” he pulls out slowly, filling you back up just as slowly, letting you adjust to his length, his thickness, the perfection your mind couldn’t comprehend. “Lay there and take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”
“Fuck, Mingi,” it’s high-pitched, filled with anticipation and slight disbelief. You watch as his abdomen flexes, how his tummy fills with air and deflates, his jaw that goes slack with each thrust, he’s so sexy it hurts. “Faster.”
He picks up speed on command, palms finding your shins, pushing them back into your chest as his cock starts bullying into you, “Like that?”
You can barely choke out a yes, hands flying to his biceps, nails marking crescents into his skin, half-curses fly from your lips drowned out by tight moans, pitched noises when his tip drags over that spot inside you, repeating, “Mingi, Mingi,” like it’s the only word you know.
“I’m here,” he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your knee, “I got you, know it’s big, baby, you can take it.”
You curse again as he fucks into you harder, back trying to arch but he has you pinned so deep you can’t move, “Mingi!”
He smiles, eyes half-lidded, “That all you can say? Fucked out already? Just started.”
You whimper, legs shaking beneath his palms, he lets go of your shins so he can lean down and kiss you, trading speed for a pace so deep and heavy you can’t kiss back. Moaning straight into his mouth, arms around his neck, you keep him close, legs hooked around his back, “Mingi.”
“Doing so good,” he kisses your cheek, your jaw, down your neck, “pussy so tight, baby, so perfect, gonna have to fuck you every day.”
You sound hypnotized, you might be. “Yes, yes, every day.”
“You know why?” He doesn’t wait for your answer. “‘Cause you’re mine.”
“Uh-huh,” you nod, and when he picks his face back up to kiss you, you kiss him back. It’s a mess of teeth and spit, too distracted and moving to be considered a kiss, but you’re lucid enough to tangle your fingers in his hair, for your hips to start fucking back.
“Say it,” he whispers in your mouth, edged like a blade. It makes you moan.
He groans, hips picking up speed all over again, he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, lips mindlessly pressing against your skin, tongue poking out just to taste the sweat that's formed. He slips an arm between your bodies to press two fingers against your clit and you twitch, a sharp moan escaping you, bucking into him at a pace unsteady and uncontrolled as the pressure builds fast.
“Mingi!” It’s loud and pitched, “Too much, too much.”
“No ‘ts not,” his words are muffled, lips pressed against your skin, “Take it, cum around my cock. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you cum f’me, baby.”
Strangled noises escape you one after another, his fingers circling your clit with practiced movements like he already knew your body inside and out. He’s still talking as pleasure climbs, your fingernails clawing shapes into his back, his rhythm doesn’t change or falter for a second. His words feel mindless, babbles of praise, “C’mon, baby, cum for me. Need to feel you clenching around my cock, say my name, say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, Mingi,” you don’t sound any more composed than he does, “Mingi, ‘hmygod I’m gonna cum, just for you, all for you.”
He moans as your pleasure hits its peak, seizing beneath him, legs locking around his body, fingers raking at his back hard enough to leave marks, you’re a mess of moans and cries and whimpers, but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t let up even a little. He’s cursing, hips jerking into you at that same fucking damning pace like his life depended on it, like he refused to give you anything but the entirety of your orgasm.
You’re still shaking when he pushes himself up, body red and splotchy, veins swollen and prominent and everywhere. “Gonna flip you,” you think he might be saying it to himself more than to you with the way he moves you fully on his own, your front meets the couch with a squeak, body spent, head fuzzy.
You’re flat against the couch, his legs straddle yours just below your ass, he spreads you to lean down and spit before he’s pushing inside once more. You curse sharply into the pillow, eyes rolling back, hands swatting behind you as he fills you up in one fell swoop.
He shushes you, two hands grabbing your swatting arms by your wrists, pinning them at the base of your spine, “You can take it. Breathe, princess.” When he moves, you feel like you might never recover. Your wails are muffled by the cushion you buried your face in, the pleasure was different, more, deeper, the way his cock grinds against that spot inside you and you can’t get away– you feel the pressure build like it never stopped, steady, heavy, so euphoric you might not be in your body at all anymore.
“You’re perfect, oh my god,” you hear him behind you, “gonna let me fill you up? Let me mark what’s mine? Fuck, baby, need to fill this perfect pussy up, need to cum inside.”
You dig your fingernails into your palms, kicking at the armrest on the other side of the couch, grinding your teeth, you turn your head just to cry, “Yes, fill me up, inside,” your voice cracks, “please.”
“Clenching around me s’fuckin’ hard,” his voice is rough, “y’gonna cum again?”
You let out a noncommittal sound and he changes the angle ever so slightly, your vision blurs, breath taut in your chest, his cock drilling against that spot like he was aiming for it, you don’t know if the damp spot under your head was from tears or drool. Keeping the angle, the pace, he lets your arms go before leaning over, pressing a sloppy kiss to your shoulderblade, breath hot in your ear, “So fucking perfect, let go f’me, baby.”
The sound you let out in response was from the deepest part of your lungs, a sob, a prayer, you’re so close you can fucking taste it. He presses another kiss to the tip of your spine, leaning over your shoulder again, mouth opening, teeth grazing your skin– when you feel him clamp down in a bite you lose it, trembling, sobbing, fisting the couch cushions with his name on your tongue, “Mingi!”
“Yes,” in awe again, his hips stutter, “there you go, fuuck– fuck, gonna fill you up, gonna make you mine.” You’re spasming around his length, hips bucking, trying to escape the unending pleasure as his thrusts only get heavier, sloppier, quicker. He keeps himself close, “My perfect girl, y’gonna take every drop? Fuck– fuck, gonna cum, baby, you want it?”
“Yes, Min,” you’re grabbing for him again, nails clawing at his thighs behind you, “fill me up, make me yours. Need you inside.”
One hand snakes under your jaw, turning your head he kisses you sloppily as his hips stutter, groaning a curse into your mouth as he twitches inside you, then he slows, warmth filling you up, ropes of his release heavy, hot, nasty. His breath is short, winded, exhausted, you don’t think yours is any more even.
“Mingi,” it comes out like a whimper, you feel him twitch inside you, he lets go of your face. A lazy grin takes over your cheeks, eyes closing, “You weren’t lying.”
He laughs, a small, easy thing, lifting himself up. “Why would I lie?”
“Dunno,” you answer absent-mindedly, “make yourself sound better.”
“Baby,” his hands smooth over the skin of your back, he leans down to press a soft kiss in the middle of your spine. Mumbling into your skin like he was too shy to say it with his chest, “I don’t need to do that.”
You hum, “Of course, how could I forget, you’re the entire package.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or if you’re fucking with me.”
“Good.”
He smacks his teeth, “I’m gonna pull out, ‘kay?”
You pop a brow at the warning, but as he starts to slip out inch by inch, you’re grateful for his thighs keeping you locked in place because the full-body twitch it gives you is lethal. You whine a little as his spent cock lays still-heavy on your ass, “How do you keep that thing hidden?”
He snorts, “Like in my pants?”
“That’s a weapon,” you’re still twitching beneath him, “and you just used it on me.”
He’s giggling as he shifts himself to be able to carefully flip you over, another movement he does with ease as if you’re some kind of toy. It still makes your stomach curl with warmth, body flushing hot as he lays himself down next to you, sliding an arm under your body, holding you close. “Smells like sex in here.”
You curl into his side, cheek pressed to his bare chest, eyes closing again. “Don’t care.”
“I really like you, you know,” his voice is low but steady, honest, “and I want to be your boyfriend.”
You pick your head up to look at him, his eyes big and round, glossed over like he was nervous to say the words. You reach a hand up, running your fingers through his chocolate locks once before cupping his cheek, guiding him down to press your lips softly against his. “You already are my boyfriend, moron.”
“I mean seriously–”
“And I mean seriously, you’re already my boyfriend,” you raise your brows in expectation, “so no more ogling girls at parties, no more calling me stupid names and no more Winter.”
“I thought you said you’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend before,” there’s a stupid smile on his face, “seems like you got the gist, princess.”
“What did I literally just say–”
“What about the messages?” His question is a little sturdier.
Your brows furrow, “What about them? I already turned my requests off.”
His brows match yours, “That’s it? It doesn’t turn you off from being with me?”
“I fucked Wooyoung like, two days ago, Mingi,” you smile when he makes a face of disgust, “if you can mentally handle that, I can mentally handle being in the spotlight, as long as its smaller than yours. But if I can’t, I’ll tell you, and we’ll figure it out. Wait, what about your coaches?”
“That is such a non-issue,” he rolls his eyes, “who gives a fuck?”
You make a face of surprised agreement, bottom lip bending over, brows raising, “Sure. Who gives a fuck?”
He smiles, “Cool, I think that’s everything.”
“Cool,” you nuzzle yourself back into his chest, pressing a short kiss to his skin, “by the way, how long until we can fuck again? I’ve been waiting three weeks for this too, y’know.”
masterlist 🏈 part one
this is my soul project. ive never loved another mingi as much as i love this one. if you read all of this, genuinely thank you from the bottom of my fucking heart. i could write about him endlessly, my muse fr. i hope you enjoyed and pls dont hesitate to tell me all your thoughts 🩷
girl… this is mingi sooo fucking good… the way he took care of her even during the fake dating goddddkwnfnwjwjfe i think i lost my mind when during yeosangs show when he was holding her drink and covering it for her. AND WHEN I FUCKING TELL YOUUUUUUWUEURJRN A DRUNK ANGSTY CONFESSION SCENE IS MY FUCKING FAVORITEEEEEEE GODDDD AND THE BOYFRIEND IS JEALOUS BUT STILL TAKES CARE OF THE DRUNK GIRLFRIEND OH MY GODDDDDDDEKWNRJJRE actually so fuckign peak like all of my favorite tropes in one wow. mingi ur so sexy.
for mature audiences only, minors will be stockaded in the town square
⟢ a/n: the long awaited... | this is NOT in any way, shape, or form meant to depict who / how any of ateez are irl. please do not take this fic as fact on their personalities, please and thank you.
⟢ summary: everyone knows choi san. the choi san. and the pornstar wonder boy just invited you to do a collab with him
⟢ word count: 35.7k
⟢ warnings: MINORS RUN FOR THE HILLS | masturbation (f), oral (m,f), p->v, unprotected sex (don't do that), squirting, edging, dirty talk, san makes a Crazy first impression, cowgirl/riding, bondage (f, not reader), slight yeosang x reader (mentioned), porn industry, blowjob, fingering, basically just everything you’d find in a porn
You love that you can wake up whenever you want, and that you have no set schedule to live by. The only deadlines you have to worry about are the ones you make for yourself. You love your beautiful apartment that you didn’t need anyone else’s help to get, and that it is so close to everything in the city. You love not worrying about money anymore. You get to live however you deem fit, taking life one day at a time. Everything in your life is by your own design. Honestly? It’s a dream.
And it’s easy money, giving men a fantasy for the night.
That’s what you sell, the idea of you. In everyday life, you don’t pout nearly as much as you do on camera, nor do you talk as sweetly to strangers. Some of them, though, aren’t strangers to you anymore. You recognize their usernames and their donations, especially the ones who have been fans of yours since you started, and the ones who pay for your highest tiered subscription. Twenty-five dollars a month just to jerk off to your exclusive content. Ah, men.
Your fanbase has grown and grown, skyrocketing somewhat recently when you convinced Yeosang, your hot guy friend, to join you in one of your videos. He’d worn a face mask to protect his identity, but it had been so obvious that he’s attractive even with it on. The black tank top left little to the imagination as your audience watched the muscles in his arms flex as his strong hands fingered you over and over again while he talked you through each orgasm. It was a rather simple video, with no actual sex. Regardless, that became one of your most viewed videos even though it was an exclusive, and the video that ended up paying for this apartment. Men and women alike scrambled to type in their credit card information to see it, boosting not only your ego, but your bank account as well. You gave Yeosang a decent sized chunk of your earnings, seeing as he was in the video too.
His whole face had turned red when you showed him the number of views, hiding behind his hands for good measure. He’s always been shy, it was a damn miracle you even got him to do it in the first place.
Since then, you’ve been living quite comfortably. Yeosang, too. Despite your efforts to convince him to create his own account for people to subscribe to, he’s maintained his ‘innocence’. However, recently he’s been asking you more and more about the details and dynamics of running an account like yours. You’re almost afraid to jinx it, like if you ask him outright if he’s thinking about it, he’ll forget the whole thing and never do it. Who are you to potentially accidentally deny the general paying population of your hot friend?
He may become even more popular than me, you think to yourself, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
You glance at your laptop, its camera trained at a specific angle towards your empty bed, and you peek at how many people are waiting for your livestream to start. Friday nights are always good to pull in larger crowds, and tonight is no different.
Nine hundred, and climbing.
Whoa.
You let out a low whistle at the number, the highest you’ve ever seen it just for the amount of people waiting. You’re not even due to start for another ten minutes. The number shifts around a couple times, losing some, and gaining more every minute. For the first time in a while, you start to feel a little self-conscious. This newfound fame is still just that: new. Even though you can’t see the audience you’ve gathered, you still feel that there are nine hundred pairs of eyes on you in your bedroom. There’s a nervous flutter in your chest that you can’t seem to shake off in the dwindling minutes before your stream begins.
With only two minutes left, you flit around your room, double checking how you look in your mirror, fixing your hair and makeup, and adjusting one of the straps to the lingerie you picked out for the evening. You sit prettily on the bed, taking a few moments before you start to center yourself, taking deep breaths and focusing on getting your head clear for tonight’s performance.
A ‘performance’ is basically all it is.
Your fingers hover over the trackpad of your laptop, counting down the seconds until there are none left, and you click “Go Live”.
As usual, you allow about ten seconds to go by, waiting for more to join once they get the notification that the stream has started. You read the sudden influx of chat, smiling when you see familiar usernames and knowing that rent will be covered for the next couple of months, just by their presence here. If you wanted something, all you had to do was ask for it. Someone in the chat will gladly donate however much you need – and then some – just for the chance to hear you read their username and thank them in your sweet voice.
So easy.
You saturate your greeting with honey, looking up into the laptop camera, eyes round and innocent.
“Hi, everyone,” you sing, giggling for all of the people vying for your attention. Each comment is sent with the hope that you’ll read it out. Some send tips already, small amounts mostly in the single digits, but there are a couple of doubles sent your way already. The tip counter in the upper corner of the screen increases steadily with each donation as they come. Compliments, questions, requests, and general niceties move up the screen in a constant staccato, making room for the next.
You lean back on your hands, pretending that you don’t know what you’re doing with this angle. The camera is angled down, providing an almost perfect POV shot for the audience. The fantasy begins immediately. You uncross your legs, feigning shyness.
“My day was okay, thank you,” you purr, knowing you just made someone nearly cream their pants by answering their question. “But… I’ve just been so lonely.”
You pout, right on cue to accompany your words. Instantly, the comment section floods with volunteers to cure you of your loneliness. Each one promises they can fix it, that they’ll be there for you, that they’ll never leave. It’s flattering, but none of them really mean it. Maybe they think they do, but again none of them really know you. You doubt most of them want to get to the very root of you and figure you out. No, most if not all just want to get into your pants to say that they have. Bragging rights.
[user75846] will yeo be joining you?
You read the comment aloud, shaking your head in quiet defeat. “No, it’s just me tonight.”
Some comments beg for his return, others are happy that it’s just you – the jealous types – and the rest are simply impatient to see your body. Your hand trails across the hem of your flimsy, sheer tank top you chose to wear for the evening. It leaves little to the imagination. The quiet pinging of more money being donated motivates you further. You sigh, looking up into the camera again.
“I’ve been so sad and lonely all day… you guys will help me, right?”
You pull your shirt down just a little more, showcasing your cleavage while keeping your face as innocent as possible. The comments spike again, but you don’t pay attention to them anymore. Your hand travels farther up to your mouth, fingers threatening to slip between your glossy lips. Twelve hundred people watch and wait. You hum, parting your lips slightly but not quite giving them the visual they want. Not yet. There’s no rush – not for you, at least. But one comment catches your eye because of its impatience.
[mntn3000]: start.
Very blunt. You don’t recognize the username as one of your regulars or subscribers. Whoever this is must be new. You’ve run and maintained a rather strict program with your subscribers when it comes to what they say in the live chat – politeness being one of the main rules. The lack of a ‘please’ to sweeten the demand nearly twists your face into something less angelic. Maybe whoever this user is is already close, unable to finish his sentence before he finishes himself. You bet once you take your shirt off he’ll blow his load and leave. It happens. For now, you’ll have fun with him. Teach this newcomer some manners.
You dip your fingers in, tongue peeking out to greet them into your mouth. The amount of comments slows just a little, silently telling you that some of your viewers are beginning to work themselves up along with you.
“Oh dear… ‘mntn3000’ just said ‘start’. No ‘please’? Will someone let him know how this works?” You keep your voice sugary, making sure everyone knows you aren’t hurt or being stuck-up, but that you’re rather amused at the comment.
Almost immediately, upon request, you see one of your regulars tag the newcomer in a message explaining the chat rules.
“Thank you, Woo,” you hum, lifting your shirt up even more, just for him, to show your gratitude. Your hand lingers near your breast, a small shudder running through your body as you graze your nipple.
‘Woo’, your nickname for him from his username, has become somewhat of an anonymous friend to you. He’s subscribed to your highest level tier and the VIP extras that you offer, including private shows and a group chat on Discord. He’s always the first to step in if someone says something out of line or disrespectful in any way. Your own personal guard dog.
Whoever he is, ‘mntn3000’ doesn’t say anything to Woo’s message.
Fourteen hundred people now.
You hum again, resisting the urge to squeeze your thighs together. You love the attention. And after doing a rough estimate in your head how much money you’ll make tonight, it just makes you want to put on an even better show.
“If you want something…” you purr, taking your shirt off completely. The comments erupt. “Ask nicely~” you tease, giggling to yourself.
A donation pops up immediately, the sum of which nearly makes you gape.
[mntn3000] has donated $500
Well… that’s certainly nice.
[mntn3000]: start, kitten
That’ll do it.
You’re quick to control your reaction to the generous donation. However, now you can’t help but feel like you’re performing under pressure. Some of your other patrons comment on it, but you’re on autopilot now.
One more deep breath in and your tight little shorts soon join your shirt on the floor.
You exhale audibly, turning the breath into a quiet moan as your hand continues to explore your own body. This time, you don’t tease when your fingers come back up to your mouth, accepting them immediately. Your free hand finds its way to your neglected chest, kneading the warm skin. It’s easy to pretend that the touch belongs to someone else’s manipulation.
It’s more than just a little confusing for you to immediately imagine it’s Yeosang, if not friendship-wise. The two of you have mutually agreed that you’re platonic. The collaboration was just… a friend helping a friend. Moreso than the views and money you earned from it, you’re thankful that there is no awkwardness between you two in the aftermath of it. When you had switched the camera off, he had even joked about graduating to another level of friendship, or something like that. You can’t remember exactly right now, you’re a bit preoccupied.
You pry your eyes open to read the chat, wanting to know if they’re enjoying the view so far.
[user92834]: i keep expecting yeo to show up ㅠㅠ i miss him
You whine, only able to nod once or twice. “I miss Yeo, too.”
Now you’re playing with fire. Multiple people in the chat remind you of their personal favorite parts of that video, giving you a much needed visual to get yourself off. Is it wrong? To use memories of your best friend ‘platonically’ overstimulating you for the better part of an hour? Maybe. You think you just need to get laid soon. Admittedly, it’s been rather long since you have been. Longer than most of your viewers will ever believe.
“I wish someone was here to help me,” you blink slowly into the camera, pouting again.
Your artificial patheticness is like a siren call to these men. It seems that every single one of your viewers suddenly comes alive, flooding the chat and your donations box all at once, each claiming that they should be the one to help you next time. That they have what it takes.
Except one.
You haven’t seen that ‘mntn3000’ guy’s username pop up since he sent the generous donation earlier. You wonder if he’s still watching. Maybe he’s embarrassed from earlier.
Whatever. He’s more likely just another background viewer. You probably won’t hear from him again.
Pushing the thought away, you start to finally trail your hand down your stomach to lightly circle your clit. Your hooded eyes flicker up to the screen, making sure everything’s in view. Satisfied with what you see, you resume touching yourself, continuing to loudly suck on your fingers for good measure.
[user82392] has donated $5
[user01743] has donated $20
[puppyu.u] has donated $50
[mars9843] has donated $50
[puppyu.u] has donated $100
You can’t help but smile, watching the silent competition between your viewers. Every time someone ups the amount they’re willing to drop on you, there’s dozens more who are willing to match it. You feel like you’re at auction. Who will win in the end? Usually, it’s one of your regulars, the ones with access to the private Discord, who come out on top. You’re betting on ‘puppyu.u’ tonight. He seems like he has something to prove.
No one’s quite willing to match ‘mntn3000’’s five hundred dollar starting offer just yet.
You get the feeling that everyone who regularly competes here silently agrees to just… ignore it. Everyone here spoils you, of course. But dropping five hundred dollars straight out the gate is a blatant power move that seems intent to undermine most of the others in here in one fell swoop.
But he’s quiet now. Maybe he spent all he had in one go. It happens sometimes. Rarely, but sometimes.
You’re not sure why you’re so hung up on this random user. You’re not used to being caught off guard like this. Closing your eyes so no one can see you roll them, you decide to not think about him anymore.
And you have just the thing for it.
While they spend money to achieve imagined dominance over the others in the chat, you reach just offscreen to grab your favorite dildo. It’s a fan-favorite as well. You scoot a little farther back on the bed, finally taking your fingers out of your mouth and replacing it with the head of the dildo. You sigh around it, like you’re content, grateful to have something in your mouth again. In reality, this is just so that it goes inside of you easier.
This time, you don’t make them wait.
The blunt head of the toy slips inside easily, and you fight to keep your head up so everyone can see your reaction to it. Halfway in, you give up. Head back, a visible shudder runs through your body that has the donation notifications ringing like crazy. Around this point in your little show, you’ll pay less and less attention to the chat, only focusing on the pleasure you’re creating for yourself.
But this time, something’s off.
No matter what you do, you can’t seem to find that specific angle that makes you cum. Not even playing with your clit seems to be any help. You try to relax, to see if maybe you’re too tense to feel anything, but it’s quite hard to relax when you’re this frustrated already. You’re not about to let the audience know that, but it’s discouraging. You don’t like to lie, but again, it’s all part of a performance. A fake, tailored show to sell a fantasy version of you. The one who always comes for whoever is watching, the one who is just so insatiable for each individual person watching.
At one point, you obtain false hope. You hit an angle that nearly does it for you, getting you closer than you were before to that sweet edge. It’s so close you can almost taste it, quickening your pulse and electrifying every vein in your body. There’s an ache in your wrist that is starting to become strained and uncomfortable, and your eyebrows furrow together to try and maybe will an orgasm into existence. And yet the payoff evades you completely.
You make a sharp, high-pitched noise out of frustration, which hopefully comes across as ecstacy instead. You’re not even enjoying it anymore, and your hand begins to slow down the pumps of the dildo as your fake moans increase again. There’s a trick you know to make your legs look like they’re realistically shaking from an orgasm – learned by ego-boosting one too many failed relationships and one night stands in the past – and you use it now.
Ugh.
The toy slips out of you, and you blearily toss it next to you on the bed. You let the audience watch the slowing rise and fall of your chest as your breaths even out.
What the fuck was that? You think to yourself, tilting your head back to hide your look of confusion. You’re kind of nervous to look at what people are saying in the chat, worried that they somehow caught onto the fact that you faked it. Without any proof, you conjure up images of cancellation, accusations, name-calling, every possible and yet unrealistic bad thing that could potentially happen.
Steeling yourself as best you can, you straighten and take a look at the chat.
All worries melt away at once as soon as you notice the heart emojis that flood the comment section. You’re not sure when this started, nor do you know who began the trend, but it has turned into something similar to applause at the end of a stream. A cute signal that they enjoyed the show. You smile at the screen, even laughing a little from relief. Time and time again, you’re proven to be loved no matter what.
There are a few more donations, although they’ve slowed down now that you’re done. You push your hair back, taking the time to slowly breathe in and out as you read the comments. Most of them tell you how hard you made them bust, which earns you a few more dollars. Still, there’s one username you’re stuck on that you’re not seeing. Not yet. You hope you’re not being obvious, waiting for it to reappear. Maybe with some manners and patience this time. Your eyes stay locked on the corner of the screen.
It’s after you blow a puff of air up towards your hair to move it out of your face that he reappears. Maybe your impatience was received loud and clear to him.
He only sends one word. Four letters.
[mntn3000]: cute
[mntn3000] has donated $1000
[mntn3000] has left the stream
Huh. Your spinning head almost registers that. A good thing about streaming is that you’re not exactly on a time limit. You can take as much time as you need to to calm down and regroup before addressing your audience again. Most will leave during this time, and that’s alright too. Your devoted viewers will stay, still seeking out your attention, praise, and appreciation. You always thank them for watching and of course, donating.
“There’s thousands of others you could have spent your time with tonight, so thank you for choosing me. I hope I made it worth it.”
In the middle of catching your breath, you manage a small grin into the camera. With a whispered, ‘goodnight’, and a kiss blown straight to your audience, you end the live and flop backwards on your bed. Another job well done. Another year of rent earned.
You force yourself to move after five minutes, showering, changing into new, comfier clothes and taking your makeup off in the bathroom until it’s just you in the mirror, and not the character. It’s not until you’re brushing your teeth that you realize how tired you are from that live, nearly drifting off with the toothbrush still in your mouth. Head about to hit the wall, you jerk back to stand upright and finish up quickly. You can practically hear your bed calling your name.
A text from Yeosang lights up your phone, halfway buried underneath a pillow. You pull it out and stand by your bed to read it.
[yeoyeo🌻]: another successful day at the office?
You can’t help but grin, burying yourself under the covers and texting him back quickly.
[y/n🌸]: another small fortune 🥱
[yeoyeo🌻]: still wanna hang out tomorrow?
[yeoyeo🌻]: or is the princess too tired
[y/n🌸]: stfu 😂
[y/n🌸]: yes pls i miss you :(
[yeoyeo🌻]: fine fine
[yeoyeo🌻]: i’ll be over at noon
[yeoyeo🌻]: you better be awake -.-
[y/n🌸]: goodnight pretty boy!
[yeoyeo🌻]: 🖕🏻
[yeoyeo🌻]: goodnight
Exiting the messages app, you reach over to the nightstand and grab your laptop from its perch, keen on transferring your earnings into your bank account as soon as possible. Luckily, the site you use makes it rather easy, just a click of a button, but this time around, you take a second to look at the number in the corner.
$14,601.
You whistle lowly at the sight of it. Nearly fifteen thousand dollars for thirty minutes of ‘work’. If you spend and save wisely, you’ll never have to set foot in an office for as long as you live.
Laptop set aside for the time being, you make a mental note to try and fit in some pilates tomorrow morning before Yeosang comes over. There are certain things you try to do to maintain your beauty and health, especially if the rewards look like this number. The sore muscles, cutting off sugar, and time spent trying to match your wing eyeliner are worth it. Almost… you do miss sugar quite a bit and are prone to cheat if tempted.
You quickly do the math in the calculator app to see how exponentially your bank account is about to grow once the transfer is complete. The total makes you smile ear to ear. Already, you’re thinking of more ideas, ways to keep everyone interested… but also… maybe a vacation. A first class flight to anywhere in the world seems more than desirable. Maybe tomorrow you’ll ask Yeosang if he’d like to come too. The thought excites you, making you want to stay up and look at potential destinations.
Closing out of the calculator and banking apps, you’re just about to go on TikTok to look through your ‘dream vacay’ folder, when a notification directs your eyes upward. It’s from your email, but it's no promotional message from one of the many stores you shop at, nor is it spam.
The sender is simply ‘H.J Kim’, accompanied by three words in the subject line: ‘Exclusive Collaboration Offer’.
That certainly piques your interest, although it could just be a scam. Since you don’t have an agent, you’ve learned the hard way how to filter out those who just wish to take your hard-earned – well… earned – money away from you. When you were just starting out, you had to change numerous passwords more than once. You’re on a first-name-basis with your bank. Usually, you ignore emails like this, but something draws you to it. In what you can see of the preview, the sender doesn’t use more words than he has to, and the word choice seems rather official. Not as scammy as you’re used to.
Hesitant, but intrigued at what this offer could possibly entail, you click on it to see what the rest of the email says.
__________________________
Dear Miss Y/N,
I hope you are doing well. My name is Kim Hongjoong and I am a Talent Agent with Afterdark Productions, representing Choi San. We have been admiring your work for a while now, and would love to extend an offer for a collaboration between the two of you.
If accepted, I will be more than happy to disclose more information regarding the details of the shoot as well as beginning the process of arranging transportation and accommodation. Please feel free to reach out with any questions or concerns, and I will respond as quickly as I can.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to the possibility of working together.
Just his name makes your thighs clench together under the plush comforter.
You make a noise somewhere between an exhalation and a laugh of disbelief. You reread it a couple more times, making sure you’re reading it correctly. There’s simply no way someone like Choi San knows you exist, and if he does, then how? Sure, you’re gaining popularity on cam platforms, but you didn’t think the industry on the other side of the coin would take notice. Maybe you’ve just been naive. It’s essentially the same thing but without a script or team involved. You do everything yourself — the lights, the camera, the action. The idea of even attempting what ‘Afterdark’ is known for is quite daunting. The thought of potentially meeting San even more so.
Everyone knows Choi San.
Somewhat of a respected micro-celebrity, he is currently revolutionizing the stigma around adult videos and being an adult actor. Breaking stereotypes, barriers, and backs. Impressive. It also helps that he has adonis-like features and a smile that can universally melt hearts. Very helpful, indeed.
It’s still not fully clicking that you’ve been offered a chance to work with him. Not yet. Most likely, it’ll hit you in the morning when you check your phone for the millionth time, making sure you didn’t just dream this all up in a post-orgasmic haze. Each time you reread it, the words stay the same. The name jumps out at you.
“Fuckin’ hell…” you whisper, pressing your palm to your mouth, reading the email over just one more time. That’s what you tell yourself anyway.
A collaboration… you assume that means on his turf. On his side of the industry, anyway. Your mouth dries. Are you even up for this?
A visual learner all your life, you find yourself opening a private browser and looking up a porn site you know has posted a couple of San’s videos. For research. Literally. Your thought process is to refresh your memory, imagine yourself in the actress’ place and discern whether or not you think you can handle what this offer entails. You pick the very first result after you enter his name in the search box, and settle back against your pillows, nervously biting your nails as the video begins.
It starts off like many others of its kind, a flashy montage of what’s to come – pun unfortunately intended – to entice viewers to keep watching. You skip ahead, like many do, not caring for whatever ‘plot’ has been thrown together to justify why these two hot people are sleeping together this time. Although, from the clips you do see as the video jumps ahead, inching closer to the real action, you have to admit he’s a decent actor. You stop skipping through it towards the end of their conversation, landing at the proposition and steadily rising scripted passion.
San steps closer to the actress, really getting into her space, and holding eye contact the whole time. The type that would make any girl melt. It’s not fiery or intimidating, no, it’s something much worse.
Desire.
He mumbles something under his breath that you don’t catch, too focused on how his hands wrap around her waist, pulling her in closer. What startles you is how… almost vulnerable he looks. Attentive. His head tilted down slightly, looking at her through his eyelashes, enchanting her so effortlessly as his hands gently wander. You cross an arm over your chest, eyes still fixated on the phone screen. You’re getting affected this much just watching him look at her like that? How the hell will you possibly be able to handle it in real life? The short answer is: you probably won’t.
Because the next time you skip, impatience gnawing at you to just see and know what he does, you’re thrown right into the fray.
The camera is almost cinematic, capturing precise angles where everything can be seen, the lighting low and sensual. They’re on a large bed, and San has taken the time to place one of the pillows under her head as well as her hips. A blindfold covers the actress’ eyes, but you can tell right away she’s been steadily crying through the fabric. Her hands tighten in his hair, his mouth latches onto one of her breasts, and his hand between her legs where quiet, constant, wet sounds are being drawn from. Still, he looks earnest. Genuine. Like he cares about her pleasure, and wants to make sure she’s getting just as much out of this experience as he will. At this point, you’re sure the script is thrown out the window, because the way he talks to her, so soft and sincere, praising her closer and closer to the edge, is something that no scriptwriter could come up with. No, this was pure San.
When she’s close, she tells him immediately and he changes nothing. He whispers the same praises, keeps his hand at the same pace and angle, reaching deep and curling up over and over, coaxing her body to release. The automated subtitles are no help, so you turn the volume up just a bit more, so you can hear him clearly. He must’ve been edging her because she starts begging him, trying to not pull his hair out at the roots. He simply covers her mouth with a free hand and leans over her, giving her permission to let go for him.
She shudders violently, thighs pressing into the sides of his body to prevent him from moving. He's not going anywhere, though. That infamous dimpled smile appears as he watches her come undone beneath him.
Your thighs clench. That’d be you.
His voice drifts languidly from your laptop speakers, melting your brain even further. “Yes, baby, that’s it. There you go… such a good girl.”
A girlish squeal gets stuck in your throat and you press your lips together to ensure you don’t let it out. You haven’t even said yes yet. There could be conditions you don’t agree with, payment arguments. He could be an asshole for all you know. Or this could all be a very elaborate and convincing scam.
Still, just in case it is real, and for the sake of ‘research’, you keep watching.
He kisses her chest, slowly making his way up her throat, her jaw, until he reaches her lips. He takes his sweet time, like he knows no one would dare look away. She sighs into his mouth, quiet whimpers leaving her every so often while he gently rubs her clit, just enough to keep her stimulated as she gets used to the feeling of being empty once again. You wonder what it’s like to kiss him. Your hands itch to reach for your phone and text Yeosang to tell him everything, however, you’re rather busy holding them still at the moment.
You appreciate how he doesn’t move onto the next thing immediately. Too many times have you seen other actors in his industry not giving their partner a bit of a breather after such an intense orgasm. Granted, some may like that, the overwhelming and constant stimulation, but the way San allows her to take her time, silently encourages her to follow the deeper rhythm of his breathing, and how he holds her hand and places slow, soft kisses all over her body, it all adds up to make you crave a slower pace. An intimate interaction like this.
San checks in with her quietly, and with a nod from her and another peck on the lips, he’s positioning himself between her legs. Stars in her eyes, she reaches down and strokes his length, whimpering softly. He gently brushes her hair back, admiring the look of nervous anticipation on her face. When he finally pushes inside, the two of them moan at the same time. Buried the way in, he smiles down at her before kissing her deeply. All dimples. A broken moan of his name tumbles from her lips, and you’re almost sure she didn’t realize she even said anything. She’s staring up at him like he’s a deity. Like he’s come down from heaven just for her. And she’s not acting.
One thing you know for sure: you’d be stupid to decline the offer.
You consider your mind made up.
Reluctantly exiting the video, saving it for later, you reopen your email app. Part of you wonders whether or not two in the morning is an appropriate time to email someone, but another part of you simply doesn’t care. It’ll be in Mr. Kim Hongjoong’s inbox first thing when he wakes up tomorrow. Your reply is enthusiastic yet professional, expressing appreciation for the offer in the first place. You thank him and San for taking notice of you and offer praise of his work as well. Wrapping up with the same politeness the original sender used, you sign off with your name. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a minute before adding a kiss emoji to the side of your name. Before you can second guess that choice, you send it off.
Needing to expel some of these nerves, you get up out of bed to scavenge your fridge for a well-past-midnight snack. Maybe yogurt or something. Standing in the white light of the fridge, you realize food may not be the best choice. Nothing jumps out at you to want at two o’clock in the morning, stomach already doing flips and tricks as it is. You settle on a mini carton of strawberry milk that you may or may not finish and walk back to bed a little too fast. Quicker than your usual leisurely pace.
You glance at your phone, laying face down on your bed like what you just watched on it made it shy. You want to text Yeosang so badly, to get his take on all of this, but you should let him sleep. Just because your sleep schedule is fucked doesn’t mean you have to ruin his as well. Your fingers absentmindedly tap the carton, only two sips deep in your drink. Hm.
You’re just starting to flirt with the idea of calling Yeosang anyway when you get a notification that effectively snaps you out of your thought spiral. Whoever or whatever it is has just unknowingly saved Yeosang’s REM cycle.
Not expecting a response so soon, your eyes widen a bit when you see that you’ve gotten a response back already. The quickness makes you a little wary. Scams usually are quick to respond back too.
Or, this ‘Hongjoong’ guy may have a sleep schedule quite like yours. After all, you responded rather quickly to his first email.
__________________________
Hi Miss Y/N,
Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. We are thrilled to hear that you are accepting the offer.
The next steps in moving forward are rather simple. I will ask you to fill out a form – which I have linked to this e-mail – and send that at your earliest convenience. It is your basic questionnaire, really, and a chance for us to get to know you as well as your preferences for the shoot and scene.
After you have sent that and we go over it, I would like to meet with you – either in person or through video call – for both our safety and to finalize all arrangements. If you choose to meet in person, I will gladly bring along a female member of my team in an effort to make you feel more comfortable and safe.
As always, please feel free to reach out if you have any questions, comments, or concerns. Looking forward to hearing from you again.
‘We are thrilled to hear that you are accepting the offer.’
At first, you assumed he was just referencing the production company, but the specific use of it catches and holds your attention. Did San… ask for this collab to happen? Scrolling up to reread it again, the second line of the first e-mail you were sent strikes you: ‘We have been admiring your work for a while now…’ Not just the company. ‘We’ as in…
You swallow hard, setting the strawberry milk on your nightstand and shrinking back against your pillows again. Your phone burns your eyes in the dark, but you can’t stop reading this new message. There’s so much to unpack, even though it’s so straightforward. As of right now, in regards to meeting with Kim Hongjoong, you’re leaning towards just a video call. You’re still not quite totally convinced this isn’t an elaborate prank of some kind. Maybe a weird fan who wants this to happen but there’s no truth to it. But again… you don’t get that vibe. Not from how professional this seems. And a crazy fan wouldn’t offer to bring along another woman to make you feel more comfortable, he’d insist on meeting alone, under the guise of ‘protecting our privacy’.
And if it is real… then it is really happening. Moving forward, as the talent agent said, a collaboration in the early stages of planning. With Choi San.
Dammit, Yeosang, why can’t you be awake right now, you think and you huff dramatically, burying your face in your hands. He’ll certainly get an earful of all of this tomorrow afternoon.
But you decide you need to talk this through to somebody right now. Or some people.
Even though you just went live, you’re quick to open your Discord app, not even bothering to send a warning message to tell your exclusive members that you’re going live again. This time, just for them. You know they’ll come. They always do.
Once you have your laptop adjusted and headphones on, you’re ready to go. You click the microphone button and wait.
As expected, four of them join immediately. You regularly wonder how they’re all able to drop everything to watch you, no matter what time you go live. Two others join soon after, but they rarely comment in the chat. Silent viewers with open wallets are never unwelcome here.
“Hi guys! I have big news,” you smile into the camera, reading all the messages as they pop up.
[woogoesthere]: tell ussssssss!!!!!
[fix0nmi]: 👀?
[mars9843]: what is it cutie?
[puppyu.u]: hi baby why the secret meeting?? 👀
You take a minute to let them get all their guesses out, increasing their desperation to know what you’re hiding from them. Hopefully they’ll take the news well. As far as you can tell, none of them specifically come across as the parasocial jealous type, but you don’t know for certain. However, they seemed to handle your previous collab with Yeosang pretty well. That gives you some more confidence to confide in them about this.
“I’ve been offered to do a collab with someone from…” You pause before saying the company name for dramatic effect. “Afterdark.”
You’re a little surprised by the lack of comments right away, even worried a little. The thought of them being the parasocial jealous type crosses your mind again. Especially Woo. For a split second, you worry that you may have just angered your most loyal – and charitable – fans. The abrupt absence makes your heart plummet to your stomach.
It takes a full minute before anyone says anything. The longest minute of your whole life.
[woogoesthere]: are u telling us ur collabing w choi san?!!??!?!?! :0
Leave it to Woo to ease any worry you may have. You mask your relieved exhale under a light laugh.
“Should I be worried?” you half joke.
The immediate responses in the comments are overwhelming and collective:
[puppyu.u]: yes!!!!!!
[mars9843]: be afraid, be very afraid
[fix0nmi]: he’s gonna wreck you lmao
[fix0nmi]: icw to watch 🤪
[puppyu.u]: same 😭😏😭
[mars9843]: if you could barely handle yeo………
Your confident smile fades slightly, the corners of your mouth dropping back down as you read the multiple comments confirming what you’ve been wondering.
[woogoesthere]: guys stop ur gonna scare her ㅠㅠ
You try to laugh it off, looking off camera to grab your strawberry milk again. The action gives your hands something to do as worry begins to settle in your chest. Of course, Woo tries to ease your growing anxieties in the chat as you lift the bottle to your lips, eyes still scanning the messages… or rather, the warnings.
[puppyu.u]: well it’s true
[woogoesthere]: we should be encouraging tho >:(
[fix0nmi]: yeah or else she won’t do it 👀
[mars9843]: …
[mars9843]: y/n we’re just kiddinggggg
[fix0nmi]: you’ll be fine~! >:)
[woogoesthere]: -.-
[puppyu.u]: drink lots of water beforehand!
[woogoesthere]: you pervs are so annoying
“I can do it!” You try to regain your previous confidence.
A shroud of doubt begins to creep up over your shoulders, weighing you down. You’re able to hide it well, but you go quiet. Quieter than usual when you’re live. You don’t like silences that last too long. Unfortunately, your sudden silence is noticeable.
[puppyu.u]: babyyyyyy
[puppyu.u]: don’t listen to us we’re just teasing
[fix0nmi]: haha sorry baby
[mars9843]: you’re gonna be great, pretty girl
[fix0nmi]: can’t wait to see it ;)
[woogoesthere]: you ARE gonna be great
[woogoesthere]: choi san has no idea what an honor this is fr ㅠㅠ
That last message brings your smile back, tugging at the corners of your mouth until you give into it. ‘Woo’ is right. You have to remember who the fuck you are. Choi San sought you out specifically. There’s no need to be nervous about anything. It’s a different side of an industry that you’re already accustomed to, that’s all. You just have to adapt to however it operates for one day, and if you hate it, you’ll never have to do it again. And hey, you’ll get to say you’ve had that first and only experience with San of all people.
What a debut.
Your loyal fans must notice the confidence boost you’re experiencing because they’re quick to praise it in the chat.
[fix0nmi]: there she is :)
[woogoesthere]: ugh ur too cute
[puppyu.u]: fr that bastard has no idea how lucky he is ㅠㅠ
[mars9843]: he better be nice to u >:(
“Aww, you guys are so sweet,” you giggle softly, enjoying their attention and their praises. Your nerves are somewhat settled for the time being, though you can’t promise they won’t return once you open your eyes tomorrow morning. You wonder what Yeosang will say about it.
Leaning back against your headboard, you exhale deeply – maybe even adding a little hint of a whine-like noise to keep them entertained. ‘Pervs’, as ‘Woo’ put it, indeed. Not that you minded.
You hum to yourself and mention how much better they’ve made your night, and they eat it up.
“Thank you all for your love and support. Truly.”
You talk with them for a while longer, reciprocating their interest in you by asking them about their days and what they’re doing tomorrow. One of the silent viewers goes offline, and you can’t say that you blame them – no one should still be awake at this hour. You’re not sure if you’ll fall asleep quickly after you log off, so maybe that’s why you linger here and continue to talk with them. The minutes continue to go by and you start to feel guilty for keeping them all up this late. You know it’s their choice to stay and talk, but still. Odds are that at least one of them has to be up early tomorrow morning. They won’t leave until you do.
“I’m gonna go to bed, guys. Thank you for staying up and chatting with me.” You smile, watching all of their usernames simultaneously start typing again.
[mars9843]: goodnight cutie
[fix0nmi]: night babe ;)
[woogoesthere]: aww have a good night jagi <333
[puppyu.u]: sweet dreams baby <3
[puppyu.u]: <3333
You giggle, noticing ‘puppyu.u’’s competitiveness. Before ‘Woo’ can start a war to see how many 3’s they can add to their hearts, you quickly blow them all a kiss and end the call.
The silence of your apartment comes back quickly. Naturally, so do your racing thoughts. You place your laptop on your nightstand and crawl back under the covers, hoping against hope that you can smother your thoughts with your pillow.
Your phone vibrates against your thigh and you sneak a quick glance at it, half-expecting another e-mail, only to find a Venmo notification. It’s from Woo. Your exclusive members have the username of your ‘business’ Venmo account to send you money outside of cams, if they choose to. The message he attaches to the money makes you laugh: ‘i’m not losing to puppyu.u so easily. goodnight<333333333333’
Oh, man.
Make that $14,751 now.
You wince as you notice the time in the upper lefthand corner of your phone screen. Yeosang was very clear in his text: you better be awake by noon. Knowing how late you usually sleep until, it’s not looking good. Hoping it will help, you set several alarms on your phone. Surely one of them will wake you up. You switch your phone off, refusing to check it again until tomorrow morning.
Without your phone to distract you though, all you do is replay that video you watched of San and that actress. The memory of it projects against your eyelids and you can’t look away. A shiver runs through you when you picture how his hands held her with such gentle strength, and the addictive moans he wasn’t afraid to let out. The same thought echoes until you finally fall asleep: that’ll be you.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
Against all odds, and seven missed alarms later, you manage to wake up – albeit, exhausted – around ten o’clock. Plenty of time before Yeosang is due to come over.
After you eat breakfast, you decide to spend the morning researching San, watching more of his videos, listening to interviews, stalking his Instagram, anything you can find to get to know him better. Or at least, to get a better grasp on what you should expect. Hongjoong never clarified if it was going to be just you and him at this future meeting or you, him, and San. You want to be ready.
From what you can find, you’ve come to the tentative conclusion that he appears smart, funny, well-traveled, and handsome. That last one is a given to anyone with eyes, though. It seems like he could’ve succeeded in any field of his choosing, but his candor is notoriously present and blunt whenever he gets asked why he’s gone into this profession: “I like sex. I happen to be good at it, so why not?”
You get it. Easy money.
His Instagram is mostly pictures of him in exotic locations. It seems you and him have dream destinations in mind for the future as well. Nine million followers strong – and counting – he has his comments turned off to them on every post. There is also no message option anywhere. He completely cuts himself off from being accessible. A part of you is a little jealous, but at the same time you like the closeness with your fans. It feels more intimate, it gives you a reason to be punctual and come back and care about what you do. Although some, like that ‘mntn3000’ guy, can sometimes be quite rude in the chat. You have your chat open to all, and your public Instagram is the complete opposite of San’s. Thirst traps, a highlight on your profile for song recommendations, and the ability to comment and message you. Not that you answer most of them. Most are gross, obnoxious, frankly misogynistic men who choose the most unhinged, disgusting words to express their… ‘desires’. You’re thankful for Woo and fans like him. Still… you find yourself wondering if you should limit your accessibility as well. Your popularity is rising. Maybe now is the time.
You still find yourself looking for everything and anything that has to do with him online. Everyone wants to be him or be with him. One of those guys. Of course.
You rest your head in your hands, groaning to no one in particular. After all the women he’s been with, you hope you can meet his expectations. A worthy costar. Same industry, different department.
By the time Yeosang knocks on your door at a quarter past noon, your mind is so far away he has to call you to let him in.
“Hey, sorry.” You apologize, ushering him in and locking the door behind him.
“I knew you wouldn’t be awake,” he grins, making himself right at home on your couch. “Is going live for thirty minutes really all it takes to make you catatonic the rest of the day?”
You roll your eyes, swatting his shoulder as you sit down next to him. “Shut up, it’s not because of that. Well… not exactly.”
Yeosang quirks an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on, then. What’s up?”
You pull out your phone, ready to show him the evidence to back up what you’re about to say. The original email is still unchanged as you glance down at it, which is encouraging. Another reminder that you didn’t make this all up in your head. It didn’t happen in a dream, there’s hard evidence staring you in the face.
Well, now or never. Out with it.
“I, um… I got an offer to work with Choi San.” Your voice toes the line between excitement and cautious optimism. If anyone’s opinion matters to you at all, it’s Yeosang’s.
Yeosang’s eyebrows raise at the name. “Like… the Choi San?”
“The Choi San, yes.” You nod, confirming it’s exactly who he’s thinking about.
Handing your phone over to him, email ready to be read by a fresh pair of eyes, you watch his reactions closely. You find yourself biting the side of your thumb nail, a habit you keep thinking you’ve grown out of, only to be proven wrong in times like these.
Yeosang’s face is serious as he reads it. You can tell he’s searching for any indication of this being a scam first and foremost before he digests the rest of it. Finding no blatant or well-hidden tricks, he pays more attention to the general message.
“Are you gonna do it?” He asks, handing your phone back to you. His voice holds some reservation to it that you clearly pick up on. You take no offense, though. He’s just worried about you. It’s more… public than you’re used to.
“I don’t know,” you shrug, answering him honestly. “I’ve done my research on him and already sent them an email back saying that I was interested and wanted to know more, but… do you think I should?”
You truly value his opinion. Yeosang has been such a good friend to you for the past couple of years. The two of you had met in your second year of college and became fast friends. When you moved to the city, about a year after he did, he helped you find your first apartment, got you a job, and checked in on you to make sure you knew you had a friend here. He made everything easier. He still does.
Yeosang shrugs, “Doesn’t matter what I think. If you feel confident about doing it, then go for it. If something is telling you to not do it, then don’t.”
He makes it sound so easy. Should it be?
“Yeah, but… I value your opinion.” You mumble, not outwardly saying what you’re thinking. But he reads your mind anyway.
“Y/N, it’s not gonna change my view of you if you decide to do this. If I had a problem with my best friend being a mattress actress, I would’ve told you a long time ago. Y’know… before I collabed with you.”
At this, you can’t help but laugh, knowing he’s right. A pressure you didn’t realize was weighing on you is alleviated off your shoulders, making you feel lighter. He grins as you let out a small sigh of relief, glad that he eased some of your worries. Now, to tease you about it. As best friends do.
“I’m just worried that you won’t survive the experience,” Yeosang says dramatically, covering his eyes with his arm and sneaking a smile your way.
“Stop, what do you mean?” You push him, playfully.
“You said you researched him, right?”
You nod, wondering where he’s going with this. Is there something you’ve missed? You feel like you’re the only one left out of a well-known inside joke. You try to think back to the videos you’ve seen of him. Sure, you haven’t watched his whole filmography, but nevertheless, you’d like to believe you know roughly what to expect of him when the day comes.
“Did you watch the ones he’s done for ‘Fantasy’?” Yeosang smirks.
You blink, trying to remember if you did. To be totally honest, you weren’t really paying much attention to which company was posting the videos. Just that San was in them.
“I don’t know… maybe?”
Yeosang shakes his head, already seeming to know the answer. “You’d know if you did,” he says definitively. “If you wanna know what he’s really capable of, watch some of those.”
You stop yourself from rolling your eyes, frustrated that no one will just tell you what they’re talking about. You only have one guess, that it may be due to the fact that you’ve only ever been with two guys before. They each taught you the basics, but everything you bring to your livestreams, you learned all on your own. And it’s not like you’re clueless when it comes to the different kinds of sexual encounters one can experience. You’ve watched porn before – hell, you do a type of it for a living. So why does everyone keep underestimating you? What does San possibly do to make everyone think you won’t survive him?
A part of you kind of doesn’t want to know. You don’t need to give your creeping self-doubt any more ammo. It had taken you a long time to beat it far back enough in your mind for it to not invade every time you hit a little snag in life. A resurgence would make you question everything, make you back out of this quickly. You don’t want that. No, you’re determined even more so now to see this through. To prove everyone wrong. More importantly, though, to prove it to yourself.
“Sounds like he sought you out though,” Yeosang says. His words almost make you jolt. Not only do they pull you out of another spiral, it reinforces something you were thinking in passing last night. Maybe you aren’t reading too much into it after all. “Kinda seems like this Hongjoong guy and San are fans of yours.”
You hide your face in your hands and groan, making Yeosang laugh at your rare display of shyness. It’s frustratingly unclear to you why the idea of him watching your content makes your cheeks burn so much. You’re obviously comfortable with people seeing your body and earning a profit from it, but you like the anonymity of the people watching. You simply don’t want to know. Perhaps it’s because he’s about to not be a faceless viewer anymore. Rather, a colleague of sorts.
Also, in a way, you tend to view cam’ing as more… intimate than porn. The sole focus of the audience is on you. No fake plot, no costar, no distractions. Just you, reading the chat, and existing and getting off in real time.
“Sounds like it,” you agree. “I must’ve done something he likes to pique his interest.”
Yeosang shrugs, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Or he saw the collab and this is all just an elaborate ruse to get to me.”
You’re grateful to relax enough to laugh again. “Oh, I bet.” You say, playing along. Though, part of you does wonder for a brief moment if San had watched the collab and that’s why he thought you’d be a good partner for his next project. It’s definitely plausible.
“So,” Yeosang leans back against the couch, crossing his legs, “what do you have to do now?”
Remembering the phone in your hand, you look down at it, visualizing that attachment Hongjoong sent you. Yet to be opened. “There’s a form I have to fill out, I think it’s some kind of consent form.”
He nods, “Yeah, that’d make sense.”
There’s a small silence between you that follows as he watches you stare down at your phone. You have the most recent email pulled up, analyzing it again. He watches you bite the inside of your cheek, a habit you have that comes up when you’re thinking a little too hard about something.
“Do you want me to go through it with you?” He asks, though he thinks he knows what you’ll say.
“No, I’ll do it myself. It’s gonna ask like… in depth questions,” you insinuate, almost shyly.
Yeosang doesn’t press you on it, which you appreciate. But you know he’s probably thinking there’s not much he doesn’t know about you. After all, he was fingering you to high heaven in front of a camera only a week ago. Still, he doesn’t push your privacy or your boundaries. It’s one of the many things that makes you feel safe with him.
Breezing past the subject, knowing you probably need to relieve some stress, he picks up one of the gaming controllers on your coffee table.
“Rematch?” He asks, referring to a game of Mario Kart fairly won by you, though his opinion of the event is rather different. Something to do with you ‘innocently’ bumping into him, causing him to almost drop his controller, and giving you the lead in the race. His win streak is much cleaner than yours.
“You’re on,” you agree, playfully narrowing your eyes at him as he scoots away from you on the couch.
There’ll be no ‘accidents’ this time. But maybe you’ll think of something.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
The rest of the day is light.
Little by little, the weight of uncertainty you feel fades into the background, instead transforming into unserious frustration as Yeosang beats you in Mario Kart six times in a row. You win the seventh round, but you highly suspect he let you. He had several speed boosts and red shells that would just disappear from his screen the next time you looked, wondering when he would fire one of those shells at you.
You order in, opting to stay inside and just be lazy today, and the two of you eat on the couch. When the sun eventually starts to set late in the afternoon, he takes a nap while you scroll on your phone, half-watching a K-Drama on your TV. Neither of you bring up San or the form still laying in wait in your inbox again. He wakes up around eight o’clock, yawning and stretching as he gets up to go home – he mentions that he promised his friend he’d go out with him tonight. Though he extends the offer, and part of you does want to go, you decide to be responsible and take the night to go through the form with a somewhat clearer mind than last night or this morning.
Almost as soon as Yeosang leaves, you’re back in bed and pulling everything up on your laptop. The attached file on the most recent email takes just a second to load, bringing you to a Google Form sheet, ready to be completed.
But first, you think about what he said about San. You want to know what everyone else already seems to. At least one video. Just for research purposes again.
In another tab on incognito mode, you hesitantly type in the search for ‘choi san redfantasy’ and bite the inside of your cheek as the page loads. The typical ads pop up before you’re able to see any actual content, avoiding the scams and viruses with practiced ease. Trying to not overthink it, you just click on the first video that comes up. In fact, you barely look at the title. It’s in all caps, a bunch of buzzwords and tags jammed together to get as many eyes on it as possible, but his name is always put first. That’s the seller right there. Audiences are in the market for Choi San.
There is no plot this time, at least none that you can discern. The lighting is darker, as well as the mood. There’s less build up, the action begins almost straight away after the company logo screen fades away.
Your chest constricts at the very first shot. A rather pretty woman, on her knees in the middle of a room. Her bare knees dig into the plush carpet beneath her and she looks up at the man in front of her, tilting her head up with a firm hand in her hair.
San.
“...didn’t you?” You barely hear him say to her, and you quickly turn up the volume on your laptop, rewinding the video ten seconds to hear the full question.
“You misbehaved today, didn't you?” He purrs, nodding once to give her permission to speak.
“Yes, sir.” She replies, obediently.
The hand in her hair is taken away, and yet she never takes her eyes off of him. You imagine that’s probably what she was instructed to do… but you’re starting to think a director wasn’t involved in this. Everything seems more intimate, less corporate. Like San just set up a camera in this expensive looking hotel room. A step above amateur porn.
San stalks around her, humming to himself as if sizing her up. The camera cuts to a slightly different angle, farther away, and you only just now realize that her hands are tied behind her back. The multiple static angles all but confirm your theory: everything in this video is by San’s design.
He then sits down on a rather large, black leather couch, facing her. The camera caresses his features, letting you see every detail of the tailored suit he’s wearing that fits him perfectly. The suit itself is probably more expensive than five of those couches. Wordlessly, he beckons her closer with two of his fingers. He almost looks bored. But you think bored is the wrong word… curious actually. Like he’s just taking his time, waiting for her to act first. His tempo is carefully curated and well-calculated. He reacts, even though he knows they’re both just enacting what this company wants to see. Like this isn’t just for the cameras. Every scene is serious to him, and yet it doesn’t come across as corny or too much. You wonder why he doesn’t go into acting. He seems more than able to convince people of real chemistry between himself and his co-star each and every time. And with a face card like his, you doubt he would’ve had many rejections.
Then again, you imagine it’d be rather hard to make a smooth transition into becoming a serious and respected actor after being in adult films.
She manages to make her way over to him, knelt in between his knees, waiting for further instruction. And he makes her wait. The camera cuts a couple of times, documenting the power dynamic from several angles. It’s evident a long time has passed because she keeps shifting her weight, knees never quite finding relief on the floor.
A small whimper leaves her, and it earns her a sharp smack across the cheek. You gasp at the same time she does, not expecting that at all for an action so miniscule. In almost the same motion, San’s grip returns to her hair, pulling her closer to his clothed crotch.
“Be actually useful for once, baby.” He says sweetly, like he’s praising instead of degrading her. “Earn it.”
You can tell she’s holding back another whimper, trying to be good. San guides her further down, until her face is pressed into the front seam of his tailored pants, and holds her there until she realizes what he wants her to do. Rather pathetically, she mouths at his dick through the fabric. He’s not even hard yet. No, he fully expects her to do all the work for him, including getting him ready.
While she’s… busy, he lazily takes off his watch, setting it aside and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt to just above his elbows. You’ve seen him naked about a dozen times in these types of videos, and for some reason, this is what sends an uncontrollable shiver down your spine. Almost on sight, you feel how wet you’ve become, panties starting to cling to you.
His face is stony, refusing to give away what he’s thinking. That’s privileged information. But the harder he gets, the more motivated she becomes, tilting her head to the side to attempt to wrap her lips around his length as best she can. And yet, he never says anything. No praise, no degradation. He lets her actions speak for themselves, lets it burrow into her mind on her own. Pathetic. She doesn’t bother looking up at him for reassurance anymore. He’s not giving her anything to work with.
Abruptly, he yanks her back by the hair, just to see if she makes a noise. She does. Another sharp crack against her cheek makes you squeeze your thighs together. She takes three more slaps until he stops, his hands leave her entirely and one grips himself through his pants, sighing like he’s bored. Or rather, disappointed. From what you can discern from the print against his pants, he’s only half-hard.
“You don’t want it that badly, do you?” He asks like he’s already decided her answer.
Frantically, she shakes her head, denying his assumption. “No, no sir, I do want it. Please, I want it so–”
Unfortunately for her, his mind is already made up.
San rises from the couch, picking her up into his arms easily, like she weighed nothing. The camera cuts, now facing the bed, and San lays her down onto it. He then goes about tying her down to it, on all-fours. The girl’s face presses into the pillows, muffling any noise. San ties her ankles to the bedposts, leaving her spread open for him with no chance of closing herself off. Fully exposed, at his mercy. Or lack thereof.
San then loosens his tie before wrapping it around her throat, fashioning it into a makeshift collar and leash. He tugs it once, testing its reliability. Satisfied, he lets it go for the time being, no doubt planning on using it later. For now, he stalks around the bed, admiring his work, and assessing the best way to deal with the girl tied up in front of him.
“Since you couldn’t wait and just had to touch yourself before you came to me, I’m gonna teach you some patience.”
As if the last few times weren’t enough, an involuntary sound escapes from her lips. Soon enough, her ass is red and bruised, San’s hand quick to punish her for making noise.
“Be quiet,” he reminds sternly, “or you get nothing.”
That’s good motivation. Suddenly, you feel like you can’t make a single noise either.
He disappears offscreen for a while, the camera cutting a few times to capture how the anticipation makes the girl very nervous and wet at the same time. Impatient, you skip ahead thirty seconds and San pops back into frame, holding something.
There’s no warning, no telling her what it is. Only he and the audience (you) know. He holds the vibrator wand right up to her pussy, mere centimetres away and pauses. Her toes curl in an effort to stop the rest of her body from squirming. He waits for any minuscule movement. It’s when she cranes her neck, attempting to look back to see what he’s doing, that he turns it onto the highest setting and presses it against her clit in one swift motion.
Poor thing gasps and screams at the intense, unexpected vibrations, earning her another brutal round of spanks.
“Shhh,” he hushes her softly, “be quiet. Don’t move.”
Your pulse stutters, eyes wider than they were before, and your hand starts to drift downwards, underneath your clothes, to find your clit. The relief is immediate, like scratching an itch. You work yourself up alongside her, trying to follow San’s instructions yourself. Breaths turning shallow, you press your lips together to keep from making any sounds. If you really wanted to immerse and challenge yourself, you’d grab your own vibrator from the drawer, but you can’t tear your gaze from the screen. You don’t want to miss anything, and you feel like pausing it would disrupt the experience. If this is potentially what’s in store for you, and she doesn’t get a break, you don’t get one either.
Her fists tighten and grab at nothing, still bound behind her back. You can tell she’s losing the fight to follow through with his instructions. San notices this too. He moves the vibrator up and down, grinding the head of it harder on her clit before moving it away again. You have no idea how she’s managing to hold on.
San hears it the same time you do, not a gasp or a noise per se, but a hitch of her breath, just audible enough to hear. At the same time, her legs begin to shake, out of her control to stop them from doing so.
He takes the vibrator away, switching it off.
Her toes curl again, burying her face deeper into the pillows to silence any sounds. Your hand stops dead, even though all you want to do is keep circling your clit.
“See what I have to do?” He sighs, trailing the head of the vibrator down the back of her thighs. “If you just waited for me, I wouldn’t have to do this. I wouldn’t have to waste my time teaching you to be patient.”
Damn. Have you ever heard him talk to any of his scene partners like this? The San from the first video you watched as part of your ‘research’ seems a million miles away. A completely different person.
Eventually, the vibrator is returned to her clit, humming at full power. You resume your own administrations as well. San kneads her ass with his free hand, eyes glued to her body, waiting for her to fuck up. Any excuse to take the pleasure away again. An excuse comes when she’s forced back onto the brink of an orgasm, and he switches the toy off again. But he keeps it pressed against her pussy. On instinct, her hips rock backwards, trying to chase the pleasure, and you can’t help but groan out of frustration as you take your hand away. This time, he doesn’t administer spanks to her ass, but right on her pussy. And she can’t help the high-pitched yelp that leaps from her throat. San spanks her pussy until she shuts up. You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until the uncomfortable pressure in your throat forces you to inhale deeply.
The girl shudders after the last smack but doesn’t move or say a word. You’re both rooting for her and secretly hoping she’ll screw up again, just to see what he does. Also, you want to see if he’ll actually fuck her.
Rather impatiently, you skip ahead a couple of minutes, needing to know if he’s the type to punish by leaving her empty the whole time. It takes only a second for the video to buffer and when it does, you see that he’s added another toy, keeping it pressed deep into her pussy, right up to the very base of it. The vibrator never leaves her clit. The skin of her ass is bright red and already bruising in some areas. It looks rather painful. She’s moaning but it’s muffled and barely audible – you can imagine San gagged her in some way to keep her quiet after failing over and over again. Possibly with his tie. He doesn’t move the toy at all, instead just forcing her to feel the thickness and weight of it buried deep inside of her, no doubt pressing right up against her g-spot.
If he denies her again in this state, you’ll really be scared of him.
And that, he does.
This time, she wails through her gag, her whole body locking up and then quickly deflating in defeat. But the time in between denials is no longer merciful. San waits maybe ten seconds before starting again, placing the vibrator back where it belongs.
God damn– you think, becoming wetter as your fingers find your clit again, your own pleasure building. The poor girl shrieks into the pillows, incoherently pleading with him to stop. Instead of listening to her cries, San taps the vibrator against her pussy, driving her – and you – even more crazy.
“I’m doing you a favor,” he says flatly, not caring that she’s essentially begging for mercy. “You should be apologizing for making me waste my time to teach you basic manners.”
Your mouth drops open at that. He’s so mean, and yet if you were in her position – which you may be soon – you’re pretty sure you’d start apologizing right away. But she can’t, at least not properly. Not with a gag in her mouth and her face half-pressed into the pillows. You imagine after being denied what must be nearing ten orgasms at this point, her mind is also going a bit blank.
He presses the vibrator harder against her, making her back arch. “Tell me how sorry you are and maybe I’ll stop.”
That grabs her attention. Muffled, garbled, and barely full sentences immediately tumble from her lips, on the off chance that he’ll take pity on her and stop this edging torture. Her body shudders violently, cutting off her voice entirely.
Rather surprisingly, he does let up. Both toys disappear at once, and he watches her body collapse onto the bed, burning muscles unable to hold herself up any longer. But he doesn’t let the relief stay for long. His hand twists in her hair, yanking her upright until her back is against his chest. With the other, he rips the gag out – which was, in fact, his tie.
“I’ll give you one chance to tell me the truth,” he mutters in her ear, his other hand lingering dangerously close to her sore mound. “Did you just cum without permission? Yes or no.”
A sob tears itself from her throat, knowing that she’s been caught.
San pulls her hair again, causing her to yelp again. “Answer me,” he hisses, “and don’t you dare lie to me.”
“Y-yes, sir,” she whimpers, honest.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t let her go. He just makes her stay with that feeling of guilt, the shame of being caught, and the foreboding knowledge that he’s going to have to punish her again. With his free hand, he runs the pads of his fingers through her soaking wet folds, collecting the evidence for himself. To humiliate her even further, he shoves those fingers into her mouth, pressing on her tongue. She whines around them, which he rewards by shoving his fingers deeper, into her throat. Tears flow down her face and neck, already utterly fucked out and he hasn’t even touched her himself, really. He’s still fully clothed, for fuck’s sake.
San sighs, thinking aloud, “What should I do with you, hm?”
Busy choking and spluttering around the intrusion in her throat, she can’t answer him at all. He probably doesn’t want an answer, though. You have a feeling he knows exactly what he’s going to do with her.
Once again, you’re proven correct when he lets her go and pulls his fingers out of her mouth. He watches her gasp for air and cough violently for a fleeting moment of relative peace before dragging her back towards the edge of the bed.
“Fucking useless slut…” he mutters to himself, just audible enough for her to hear. “You wanna cum so bad? Fine.”
A new toy is brought into frame, this one looking more daunting than the other two. You can tell it’s one of those two-for-one types, and your heart goes out to her. It slips inside of her easily, though it’s thicker than the previous dildo, all but confirming once again that she did cum without his permission. This time, there’s no mystery or question about what he’s going to do to her. She knows. The knowing is almost worse than the not-knowing.
He switches it on without much ceremony. She does her best to not move or make a sound, but another orgasm builds rapidly. Too fast, too soon.
For seven straight orgasms, he just watches her. He doesn’t even touch himself even though you can tell he’s hard beneath those tailored pants. Her pleas fall on deaf ears, like he’s not even in the room. You’ve barely managed to keep up with her, coaxing two weak orgasms from your own body with just your fingers and already feeling exhausted. Fuck, maybe everyone’s right…
You tap the screen to see how much more of the video is left, and your eyebrows raise when you see there’s still ten more minutes. You decide to skim through, just curious if he ever does let her have his cock.
Spoiler alert: he does not.
In reality, the only thing he changes is that he jerks himself off, getting off on her screams and pleas for him to turn the toy off, that she’s had enough. For the last two orgasms he forces her through, he adds his thumb to her clit, circling it mercilessly.
“One more, come on. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To cum?”
Through her tears and scratchy voice, she warbles, “W-want– wanted you t-to fuck me…”
He only laughs at her, and it sends such a blow to your psyche.
“Did you really think I would?”
She screams again, mixing with her sobs and choked groans as the final orgasm rips through her worn-out body. The only act of kindness he gives her is removing the toy and kissing her back, in between her shoulder blades.
He takes his time to untie her ankles from the bedposts, his hands smoothing over the skin where the rope had been. Wrecked and twitching, she curls into a ball on the bed, pussy sore and swollen. Knowing this, San drags her back down towards the foot of the bed, forcing her legs apart again. Her hands weakly try to push him away, but he ducks down, licking a near-fatal stripe up her folds, sucking harshly on her clit. Voice basically gone, her scream is broken and breathy.
That’s a habit he has, you’ve noticed. Or maybe just a signature thing. No matter what, when he’s done with his scene partner, he gives their pussy one final lick. As if he’s sealing the deal. Something they’ll feel long after the cameras stop rolling, along with the ache of their inner walls.
San chuckles, patting her inner thigh with his hand before pulling her onto the floor, back down onto her knees. He doesn't say anything more as he jerks off in front of her, aiming his cock right at her face. He lets her suck on it, much to your surprise, and he eventually comes. Some of it inside of her mouth, and the rest, he smears across her face. The final act of humiliation for her.
You slam your laptop shut.
Holy. Shit.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
You come back to the forms after a cold shower and a half an hour long pacing session in your living room.
With a somewhat clearer head, you decide to take it one question at a time.
At first glance, you can’t help but feel like you’re filling out the forms you’d normally get in a doctor’s office. It covers everything. Height, weight, age, consent for Afterdark to inquire upon certain medical history to ensure the prevention of any diseases or illnesses, and payment information. On the next page, it goes deeper, and you almost want to take another lap before you dive in and check off any of the boxes.
There’s a checklist of kinks, each one with a box to check if any are ‘hard no’s’ or ‘hard yesses’for you. You gotta hand it to Afterdark, they’re very thorough. At the very top, just above this checklist, you notice two more boxes simply labelled ‘Rough’ and ‘Gentle’.
Ah.
This must be the reason that every video with San feels different. Not just because of whatever context they provide in the beginning of the video, but he never exactly has the same go-to way of fucking every time. Except of course, that parting move he’s so accustomed to doing. With some women, he takes it very slow, gentle and caring with lots of praise, and with others, like the one you just watched, he is ruthless and mean, denying orgasms and spanking them until their skin turns an alarming shade of red. They’ve tailored their own experience with him. That makes you feel a bit better actually, gives you more of a sense of control. You’re not just walking into this with no say in what he does to you, nor will you be blindsided. Actually, you’ll have a pretty good idea, and no worries that he’ll do something you’re uncomfortable with.
The empty boxes still taunt you. Which version of him do you want?
After much consideration, you eventually let fate decide. You pick both options. Rough and gentle. Let’s see what he does with that.
Moving on, forcing yourself to breathe slower, you continue down the list of kinks. Again, it’s very thorough, even asking for locations that you’d be okay filming in. You check off ‘hard no’ on most, if not all of the ‘bodily fluids’ section of the kink list. All except creampies, crying, and squirting. You wonder if he’ll be able to make you do that. If so, you don’t want to discourage him from it. You’re okay with toys, cunnilingus, fingers in your mouth, body worship, hair pulling, hickies, clothed sex, light bondage, the traffic light system, and spanking, just to name a few. You also mean to check off a hard ‘yes’ to aftercare. Aftercare is a non-negotiable for you. One of your exes never did that for you, and it’s been a dealbreaker ever since you got out of that relationship. You dislike feeling used after-the-fact. Discarded. It’s an ugly shock to your system, one that you’d like to avoid if possible.
Double checking everything on this page, you go to the third and final page.
In the top half, there’s an interactive calendar so you can input dates and times when you’re free to do the shoot. You’re pretty much free all the time, if you’re being honest. You just have a family wedding to go to in late August, two months from now. Though you’d rather do the shoot later in the day, not wanting to risk sleeping through it with your terrible sleep schedule. So, you mark every afternoon and evening as ‘available’.
In the bottom half of the page, there’s just one last question, accompanied by a text box: ‘Tell us about yourself, and what we can do to better tailor this experience for you.’
You have to admit, you weren’t expecting this kind of question to come up. They want to know about you? Tailor this opportunity for you?
Huh.
Your mind goes blank at first. What could they possibly want to know? What are they actually looking for? There’s really no telling.
Slowly, you type out a vague summary of where you grew up, why you started doing cam-shows, and that your favorite color is purple. When it comes to writing about how they can improve on this collaboration, your fingers hover over the keyboard. Stuck. You could just straight up not say anything, or just put ‘N/A’. But your inner professional tells you to answer it. You search yourself, wondering if there’s anything that would make you feel a little more comfortable while there. You assume they’ll provide a robe for you, or something to cover you up when you’re not filming, but you’ve also heard how ‘fucking cold’ porn sets are kept. Not exactly wanting to show up with a blanket from home, you decide that’ll be your one request.
‘If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like a blanket while on set. Thank you! :)’
You double – triple – check each form page, making sure you didn’t accidentally check something off or type in your information wrong. After you confirm that everything is accurate and spelled correctly, you click on the ‘submit’ button. A ‘thank you’ screen pops up, and you quickly exit the tab, not wanting to think about it anymore. It’s out of your hands now.
But speaking of the hands it’s now in, you have to set up a meeting time with this Kim Hongjoong guy.
Right. Okay, onto the next step.
In a new email, you type out all the dates and times you’re free – you may have made yourself sound busier than you actually are – and send it off to him. Glad to have everything done, you flop back against your pillows and groan. You replay all the images you’ve seen. All the things he’s done to multiple women.
You wonder what on earth he’ll do with you.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
It’s the next day that ends up being the meeting day.
You opt for a virtual meeting, reasoning that it’ll probably be quicker and easier for both of you. From what it sounds like, being employed by Afterdark and Choi San keeps Hongjoong rather busy.
You do your makeup and hair, wanting to look presentable. It’s the shirt that gives you a headache. You’re rather unsure how professional you should look. What does someone wear to a meeting like this? You look down at your chest, trying to mentally calculate how much of it is appropriate to show, and choosing a shirt based on that. Eventually, you just pick a nice triangle lace cami. Kim Hongjoong will just have to excuse the fact that it’s summer and hot in your apartment in the afternoons. You’ve been meaning to figure out how the air conditioning works. It’s hi-tech in a way that truly baffles you. You’ll get Yeosang to figure it out the next time he comes over.
Moving your laptop into the kitchen for the natural light, you try to shake the nerves out of your hands as you walk around the kitchen island. You grab a cold water from the fridge and drink half of it before forcing yourself to sit down. The meeting is set for two-thirty, just a few minutes away. You kind of want to scream into the pillows on your couch. This will be the final stage until you actually go through with this whole collaboration. The last buffer until it happens.
In the upper right hand corner, you see an email notification from Hongjoong, providing you with a link to a video chatroom. For a full sixty seconds, you pretend you haven’t seen it yet. But when that minute is up, and you have to be an adult, you take one more sip of water before clicking on the link and sneaking a glance at yourself in the reflection of your laptop as the camera loads.
There’s a small boop sound from your laptop, signalling that the call has been connected and you brace yourself for a scam. Your hand hovers above the trackpad, ready to hit ‘end call’ at a moment’s notice. When his camera finally loads, you breathe a little easier. He’s in an office based on context clues of what you can see around him, and he’s rather handsome himself. That admittedly takes you aback. He has short, dark brown hair, round eyes, and a charming smile once he sees you on his screen. He pushes his glasses further up his sharp nose, and leans forward in his seat a little bit.
“Miss Y/N! It’s so nice to talk with you today, how are you?”
“I’m doing well, thank you. Are you the one I’ve been emailing?” You ask when he doesn’t introduce himself by name. You just want to clarify.
He laughs to break any awkward tension, “Yes, that’s me. My apologies, I’m San’s agent, Kim Hongjoong.”
“Okay, good.” You smile back, shoulders relaxing a little more. His dress shirt makes you feel a bit… well, underdressed, but when you notice that the top two buttons are undone, it makes you feel a bit better. He’s clearly not going for ultra-professional right now either. Off camera, in your lap, you play with one of your rings, giving your nervous hands something to do.
Unexpectedly, the first ten minutes are spent just making small-talk, especially after finding out you and him grew up around the same area. He asks you how you like the city, and you find yourself telling him about how much you love it, and that you never want to leave. Turns out he shares the same sentiment. It’s starting to feel less like a rigid job interview and more like a casual interaction. Nothing to be afraid of. You feel much more comfortable than you did ten minutes ago, that’s for sure.
Hongjoong eventually looks over to the side, where his desktop computer is and starts clicking around, the light reflecting off of his glasses. And you realize that it’s time to actually start talking about the collab. You fix your earring for no real reason, just to give yourself something to do.
“So, I’ve received the forms you completed – thank you for doing that, by the way – and I was wondering if you have any questions for me about them?”
You pause before you answer. Now’s the time to ask, and with the right person, too. Humming to fill the silence, you think about a good question to ask first.
Hongjoong picks up his phone when it starts vibrating incessantly, and looks at the screen for only a few seconds before placing it face down on his desk. Someone must be trying to get in touch with him, but he doesn’t bother with replying right now. You know it must be important, whatever it is, so you appreciate him keeping you the center of his attention right now.
“I guess I’ve been wondering about… like… if I check off certain boxes will we do all of that? Or…?”
Very eloquent.
Luckily, he doesn’t seem to think anything of it. “Oh, no, no. Usually what happens is we take a look at it, figure out which ones would work best together and with you and San, and take it from there. It’s just to see what you’re comfortable with and to see which direction you want this collab to go.”
That makes sense. And now that you think about it, what if someone puts a ‘hard yes’ next to something that San would check off as a ‘hard no’, obviously they wouldn’t do it. It’s a mutual agreement. They find the things that match between you two and take it from there.
“Actually,” Hongjoong says with a small grin, still scrolling through the forms on his computer. “You two are pretty similar. It wasn’t hard to match up.”
You hear it but your brain doesn’t process what it means yet.
“Oh, really?” You say, not knowing how else to respond.
Hongjoong just hums, nodding once. He pushes his glasses up again before turning back to you.
“Regardless of that, though, I wanted to also let you know that if at any point during the shoot you feel uncomfortable and want to leave, you can, and you will be paid in full, no questions asked. Obviously though, if you leave before, or if you don’t show up at all, we can’t really do anything to pay you. We have this in place because we don’t want you to feel trapped once the scene starts. Does that make sense?”
You nod quickly, “Yes, it does.”
“Perfect,” he says. “So, with your schedule that you sent me, if you’re okay with it, we can set the date relatively soon. Is this coming Friday, at six o’clock alright?”
Friday. As in… Friday, two days from now, Friday? Your mouth dries instantly. Two days from now. Is he not busy? You assumed this wouldn’t happen for a couple of weeks, at least. A delusional voice in your head tells you that maybe he cleared his schedule to be with you sooner rather than later. Oh, sure. Yeah, right.
Still, it baffles you.
And yet you hear yourself say, “Friday’s good for me!”
Well, now it has to be whether you’re ready or not. Your hands itch for your phone, needing to text Yeosang immediately, even though you know he’ll probably find your dilemma rather entertaining. You also need to book a waxing appointment and get your nails done ASAP. Maybe even a facial, too.
Fucking hell, Y/N, the things you get yourself into.
Hongjoong lights up, quickly typing something on his keyboard, scrunching his nose once or twice to keep his glasses from moving down again. A few more clicks of his mouse, and it’s done.
“Okay, perfect. I’ve got you booked for six o’clock this Friday. If you could email me where you’d like our driver to pick you up, that’d be great. Otherwise, do you have any other questions, comments, or concerns for me?”
Your lips part. Driver? Someone from Afterdark is going to bring you to the set? Your right hand grips your phone, turning it over and preparing to call Yeosang as soon as you hang up with Hongjoong.
Fuck, okay. Sure, why not?
“Oh, um–” you suddenly remember one thing he hasn’t mentioned at all. “Is there a script? Like, do I need to know any lines before…?”
Hongjoong answers right away, “Ah, this shoot will be unscripted. It’ll feel more natural that way.”
More natural. Your heart feels like a brick in your chest. To be honest though, you’re really glad there is no script. However, a rubric would be helpful as well. You nod, acknowledging that information. So it really will be like the videos you watched. That’s the experience you’ll be getting.
“Okay, cool,” you reply, desperately needing another drink of water for your dry mouth. “Thank you.”
Hongjoong smiles politely. “No problem. Alright, well if everything sounds good, we’ll see you on Friday! Thank you for taking the time to speak with me today.”
We.
Again, he’s probably just talking about the company, but Yeosang’s words from yesterday are stuck in your head. Your secret delusions and Yeosang’s smart mouth are never a good mix.
“See you Friday! Thank you.” You reply politely, the very picture of calmness and professionalism.
And once the call disconnects, you’re slamming your laptop shut and calling Yeosang to tell him everything.
He picks up on the third ring, yawning and obviously not fully awake just yet. You forgot he went out with his friend last night. Still, it’s definitely time for him to be awake now.
As expected, once you rattle off every detail of the call you were just on, Yeosang laughs his ass off.
“Oh man,” he says with an audible sigh, “you’re fucked.”
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
Part of you wishes that the driver will somehow get hopelessly lost on the way to the set.
You’re sure he’s been there multiple times before, but you pray for a random dose of amnesia anyway. It’s not that you’re second-guessing the decision – not at all – you just weren’t expecting the day to come so soon. It’s crazy how forty-eight hours now seems like no time at all. You shake out your hands as you step out of the car, and look up at the building. It’s rather unassuming, blending seamlessly into the numerous ones around it. Nothing about it screams that this is where adult films are produced. Not that you really expected it to.
The driver parks with the hazards on, and gets out as well to let you into the building via a keycard. You thank him quietly as he holds the door open for you. He must’ve told you his name, but for the life of you, you cannot remember it. He points you in the direction of the elevators, and confirms that he’ll see you later to drive you home.
Then, you’re alone. He gets back into the car and drives it around the building, to an underground parking garage you assume.
You take a deep breath in the lobby, finding the elevators quickly and starting towards them. Hongjoong said the shoot is on the eighth floor, so you press the ‘8’ button once in the elevator car.
As soon as the doors shut, the silence and gravity of what you’re there to do settles in immediately. You force yourself to take a deep breath, really dragging out how long you exhale to try and ease your heart rate. The second floor comes and goes, as does the third. But the higher you climb, the tighter your throat becomes. On floor five, you think of bailing. Past the sixth floor, already almost there, Yeosang’s custom text ringtone startles you. Glad to distract yourself, you immediately read the text.
[yeoyeo🌻]: don’t let him intimidate you, you’re the one he wanted for this
[yeoyeo🌻]: remember he’s literally just some guy and you’ll be fine
[yeoyeo🌻]: you’re gonna be great :)
You can’t help but smile, and you roll your shoulders back to stand taller. He’s right, as always. Choi San is many things, but at the end of the day, he is just a man. You have to view this as a very elaborate hookup rather than a career opportunity, just to calm your nervous system if anything else.
When the elevator doors open on the eighth floor, someone is already waiting for you on the other side.
Hongjoong.
You don’t realize until this moment how relieved you are to see a somewhat familiar face.
“Miss Y/N,” he greets, extending his hand out for you to shake, “it’s so nice to meet you in person.”
You smile warmly, returning the greeting and hoping that your handshake is up to par. Before you have time to possibly overthink such a small thing, he asks if you need anything.
“Oh, um…no, not at the moment, thank you.”
“Of course,” he nods once. “If you do need something at any time, please let one of us know.”
You assume that ‘one of us’ probably means the team of people you’re about to meet and be fucked in front of. Forcing another deep breath, you manage another easy smile and thank him again.
He motions for you to follow him, and you have to look down at your feet to get them to move. You beg yourself inwardly to get a grip and soon.
Hongjoong leads you down a long hallway, deeper into the Afterdark floorplan. You’re surprised by how nice it smells in here, like someone is burning incense somewhere. The walls are decorated with miscellaneous artworks and some awards, as well as headshots of the actors and actresses signed with them. At the end of the hallway, there are two huge double doors, and he pulls one of them open with ease, letting you walk into the gigantic room it reveals first.
When you finally enter the large set, you can instantly feel the drastic temperature drop. Just as you had been led to believe, they must have turned down the thermostat in the room, making it several degrees colder than the early summer weather outside, and you rub your arms to try and warm them up.
No more than five seconds after the two of you enter, Hongjoong is suddenly flanked by a young woman with a clipboard. A sticky note flutters as she keeps pace with you and him, and she mutters something to him that you can’t hear.
“No, that’s alright,” he says quietly, “I think he’s good without her right now, but double check for me, please.”
You keep your eyes on the floor, pretending that you didn’t hear anything, but your mind races. Who is ‘she’, you wonder? As quickly as she appeared, the assistant scurries off, past the camera and lighting crews, and over countless miscellaneous wires with practiced ease.
While the two of you walk, you’re rather relieved that no one is staring at you as you go by. You’re just another actress to them, and right now, that’s okay with you. And luckily, the path Hongjoong is taking you on is relatively close to the perimeter of the set, so you’re not exactly the center of attention right now. A part of the wall juts out, making it look like a closet, but once he opens the door, you see it’s a dressing room. Complete with vanity lights, a full bathroom, and a brand new silk robe for you to wear on set, hanging up by the door. There’s also a small, plush couch up against the wall next to the vanity that you have a feeling you will be texting Yeosang on as soon as you’re left alone.
“This is all yours for the day,” Hongjoong says, “someone will come around in a minute to help with hair and makeup, and then we’ll start.”
You nod, swallowing down as much of your anxiety as possible.
“Will you, um–” you ask before you can stop yourself. Hongjoong pauses before he heads out, waiting expectantly for you to finish your question. “Are you gonna be on set the whole time?”
His expression changes into something akin to surprise. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting you to ask anything about himself. He doesn’t answer straight away, taking a moment to try and understand why you’re asking that. You can almost see the professional within him piecing together a corporate response in real time.
“We try to limit how many people are in the room to those who are absolutely necessary. I usually stay close in case someone needs me. Why?”
You wave your hand, trying to brush everything off. “No, I was just wondering. Nevermind. Thank you!”
Hongjoong looks like he’s about to say something, but ultimately leaves you alone, gently closing the door behind him.
As soon as it clicks shut, you’re moving to sit on the couch, ready to call Yeosang, but you stop yourself at the last minute. You’re acting crazy, you do realize that. And you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll tell you the exact same thing.
Instead, to satiate your need to call him, you reread his last three texts of encouragement.
Lock in. Remember who the hell you are. Now.
You put on some ego-boosting music so you’re not just getting ready in silence, and quickly undress before hair and makeup arrive. Folded neatly on the vanity, is your outfit for the scene. A tight, cropped black lace cami, and a plaid mini skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination.
No panties anywhere in sight. No bra, either. Total and easy access.
Your lower stomach starts to heat up, already envisioning how San might go about undressing you. From what you’ve seen, rarely does he let girls undress themselves. No, he wants to be the one to do it. Like he’s unwrapping a present, just for him.
After you throw your hoodie onto the couch with the rest of your pile of clothes, you turn back to the vanity, noticing a small army of mini water bottles lined up and waiting for you if need be. You’re almost positive that if you look in the vanity drawer, you’ll find snacks as well. Maybe you can get used to this. But you’ll wait to give your final verdict after the job you came here to do is done. It’s best to wait.
You’re only waiting for a minute or two before there’s a light knock on the door. Two women wearing face masks enter the dressing room, bowing to you and introducing themselves. You try to remember their names – Youngmi, you think is the makeup artist, and Rina, the hair stylist – but your brain is elsewhere, working double overtime to try to calm you down. Luckily, the Britney Spears song in the background is doing a lot of the heavy lifting. Youngmi and Rina are quick, and good at what they do. Rina makes you laugh by scrunching her nose and singing along to the song as she brushes through your hair. Youngmi only rolls her eyes at her colleague, but it’s all in good fun.
By the time they’re done, you no longer feel like the scared outsider that doesn’t look the part. They made you even more beautiful.
There she is, you think as you admire yourself in the mirror.
You sigh in relief, feeling much more confident than before. And not only that, you feel ready. It’s not the easiest thing to turn your nervousness into excitement, but somehow, this time, you manage to do it. So many girls would kill to be in your shoes right now – or, in your skirt. You had kicked your shoes off next to the couch.
You make sure to thank Youngmi and Rina before they bring you out, not knowing if you’ll have a chance once you’re on set. With one more spritz of your perfume that you brought with you from home, and a last minute decision to bring the robe out with you, you finally follow them out towards the set. Just mere feet from where you’ll be… ‘performing’.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
As you’re walking and looking around, you start to wonder if San makes it a point to surround himself with equally beautiful people. Or maybe it’s a company requirement.
Sure, maybe Hongjoong, Youngmi, and Rina are just coincidences, but even the camera and lighting crew are arguably just as pretty. Speaking of Hongjoong, you look around, noting that he isn’t anywhere to be found at the moment. He’s probably with his talent right now.
When you’re introduced to the director, you almost say something about it. Everyone in this room is attractive. Conventionally, unconventionally, and everything in between.
“Hello Ms. Y/L/N, I’m Choi Jongho, I’ll be directing you two today.” He introduces himself, bowing politely and shaking your hand.
You bow your head and reply, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”
He offers you a chair to sit in while everyone waits for San to come out, and you take it gratefully. You don’t know how long he’ll be. Youngmi and Rina excuse themselves, heading off in the other direction together, walking with purpose. You drape your robe across the back of it, unsure if you’re supposed to give it to someone or take it with you onto the set.
“Would you like anything to drink, Ms. Y/L/N?” The director asks, noticing that you don’t have anything with you ready for any breaks.
Director Choi only refers to you as “Ms. Y/L/N.” Very professional, cordial even. Makes you feel like more than an object his star is about to fuck on screen. You’re being treated with real respect, which is a pleasant surprise in comparison to what you had expected from the porn industry.
You look around yourself, only just now realizing you didn’t take one of those mini water bottles from your dressing room like you originally planned.
“A water, please–” you start to say. As soon as the last syllable of ‘water’ is spoken, an assistant hands you one. You didn’t even see him standing next to you, much less holding a bottle. Then again, you aren’t really paying attention to whether or not people are carrying water bottles or not right now. Damn.
You try to warm up your arms by rubbing them, now that you’re virtually wearing next to nothing in this arctic-like room. Only a few moments later, a blanket is handed over to you wordlessly by another assistant, a quick bow following the action. You tilt your head down as a responding bow, shocked. You didn’t even have to say anything.
Is this what San is used to? Everything given to him at once, on a silver platter with no questions asked? You imagine every single thing handed to him accompanied by hopeful, round eyes looking at him for his approval, only to be ignored or thanked by a small nod. You’re so used to doing everything yourself, this type of treatment makes you feel… stuck up – and every fiber of your being screams at you to make sure none of the staff think that of you.
“San will be out in just a moment,” Director Choi says, but his heart isn't in it. He checks his watch and glances towards San's dressing room with nearly well-concealed impatience. It is rather late in the day, and you only just now think about the possibility that they may have been here since early morning. Maybe even shooting San with someone else. It’s entirely possible. You can imagine they all just want to get this last one done and go home. None of them would ever let that show, though. No, you have to admit everyone here is quite professional.
Your hands absentmindedly twirl a strand of hair around your finger as you zone out. At least for now, you can zone out with a blanket wrapped around you.
The air shifts just moments later.
It’s like a sudden pressure drop where everything goes still for only a second. That one second feels like a lifetime as you turn your head to see what’s going on. Though, in your heart you know exactly what it is without needing to look – it’s the arrival of the main attraction.
From where you are, leaned back in your chair, you can’t see him too well. He’s surrounded by a team that moves with him like a clump of cells, or maybe in this case, like sheep in a herd. Finishing touchups by Youngmi and Rina, an assistant by his side carrying a medium-sized leather bag and holding his coffee cup when San hands it to him, and other miscellaneous characters that float around the star. Everyone wants to be near him in some way.
Hongjoong stays at the back of it all, looking down at his phone as he walks.
The team finally disperses one by one, revealing more of Choi San to your eyes.
When San finally gets close enough to you, whatever air in your lungs is promptly sucker-punched out of you at the sight of his refreshing beauty. It’s even more pronounced in real life. You’re not entirely sure how to greet him, or what he’s used to. But you remember Yeosang’s encouragement again: He’s just a guy. Don’t let him intimidate you. You’re gonna be great.
He’s just a guy. You’ve dealt with those before. It’s just that this guy in particular is crafted like an apology for creating men in the first place. And a couple of days ago, you were watching him make a girl cry on a bed that looks quite similar to the one on set right now.
You stand up, smoothing down your skirt and standing still, hands clasped in front of you.
“Hey Jongho, sorry we’re late,” Hongjoong calls over, pocketing his phone. He side-eyes San, who bows his head in apology as he walks.
The director waves him off, clearly used to his tardiness and the apologies that follow. “It’s alright,” he says, “you’re actually earlier than we thought you’d be.”
“We need to go over the rules with her,” San says once he’s close enough to you and the director, sounding tired. You wonder if he just woke up. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt as he speaks, and catches you looking. You don’t see it when you quickly avert your eyes, but his whole demeanor changes. No longer lethargic, he becomes awake and alert at the sight of you.
Director Choi nods and grabs a clipboard from his own director’s chair. You nervously roll your ankle, hearing it crack quietly in the interim.
“Right, number one rule is consent. If at any time you want to stop, just say the word. No questions asked. Second rule is to keep all details of this shoot private, including any conversations with each other,” At this, Director Choi looks up at you. “Third rule is health and safety, but Hongjoong said you covered that with him, and when you sent in the form,” Again, his eyes flick up from the clipboard to glance at you. “Fourth is to be respectful at all times – there’s no room for ego here. And lastly, don’t look at the camera unless told to, otherwise keep the illusion.”
You go over each rule in your head before you forget. Consent, confidentiality, feel safe, be respectful, and don’t look at the camera. Simple enough. You keep your chin up, and shoulders back. You force that annoying inner voice of self-doubt to mumble the lyrics of the Britney song from earlier.
“Follow these, and we’ll have a great shoot day. We should be ready to go in just a few minutes.” Director Choi offers both of you a quick smile before he turns on his heel and walks towards the cameraman, getting everything finalized and ready to shoot. Your heart pounds underneath the robe. Hongjoong steps closer to San, muttering something to him before walking back towards the dressing room.
You’re just about to walk over to the set to get used to it and be ready to go whenever they are, when San steps right in front of you, effectively blocking the way.
Out of the blue, he crowds your personal space, and you have to really dig deep to make yourself stay put. Right where you stand. Don’t be intimidated. At the end of the day, you’re both here to do the same job, and both of you are successful in your own rights. He’s just a man, you remind yourself again.
San towers over you, his shirt opened just enough for you to see his perfectly toned and tan chest right in your face. You keep eye contact, even though all you want to do is look away. It’s much easier to be confident and independent on your own turf, but here on his, it’s more of a challenge. Still, you stand your ground. You have to if he’s going to keep sizing you up. He has been since he walked out here.
“You didn’t cum,” he says matter-of-factly.
…
Pardon? Did you hear him right? What an odd opening line to say to someone you’re meeting for the first time.
Your lips part and eyebrows furrow, rather startled. “I’m sorry?”
There’s no way you heard him correctly.
“Your last liveshow,” he shrugs. “Am I right?”
Well… yes, but– how did–?
Is this how he starts all of his conversations? With a personal accusation?
“That’s alright. We all do it sometimes,” he shrugs again. He leans down so his mouth is next to your ear and lowers his voice. “You’re not gonna fake it with me, though,” he says, and the terrifying thing is that he sounds genuine. It’s not unfounded cockiness or meaningless bravado. He means what he says in all seriousness. He says it like you shouldn’t worry about it. Like it’s a promise.
And you exhibit monumental self-control to not clench your thighs together at this moment.
Your mind races at a million miles a minute. That, you didn’t expect. Isn’t that all that porn is? Fake, overblown orgasms for the girls and endless, guaranteed pleasure regardless for the men? You’re starting to think that this may not be the case with him. You think about the videos you watched as part of your ‘research’, and a bolt of electricity zips up your spine. You never doubted that he made his costars feel good, but you know full well that a lot of porn actresses pretend that they’ve cum with their scene partner. But with him, now you know: all of the girls weren’t acting. In fact, you really doubt that they needed to fake just how good he made them feel. The last video you watched of him comes back to mind… you wonder if he’ll make you scream like that too.
Unsure of how to respond to that, you just take a small step backwards to put some distance between you two. Room to think and process if possible. But he’s relentless, and he seems to like getting up in people’s space. A mischievous glint in his eye tells you that he’s enjoying this particular encounter especially. He’s definitely the type of guy that finds it fun to make girls flustered or nervous.
You swallow hard.
“You sound rather confident,” you note, still trying your best to hold eye contact with him. To not back down or seem weak. You’re sure it’s not working. You just refuse to melt all over him, or suck up to him. Especially not when he’s the one who asked you here.
Surprisingly, he smirks. “Shouldn’t I be? I’ve done my research, I know you probably have done yours as well.”
So you were right. Yeosang, too. San has seen your content before. And not only has he seen your previous works, he was right there with you, watching your last live. Your speculation sounds a lot like confirmation now.
“Does that make you nervous, kitten?” He whispers, tilting his head slightly to the side like he’s about to kiss you. He could if he just leaned forward a couple more inches.
A little, you admit to yourself. Your heart hammers against your chest like it’s trying to push you forward, to get closer to him. At this proximity, you can easily smell his cologne and dammit, somehow it makes him even more attractive. You’re almost getting annoyed with him now. Surely there should be at least one flaw to him, something that makes him human like the rest of the world.
“No,” you lie, “I’m fine.” Arms crossed. Eyes up.
San laughs lightly, and his smile instantly becomes the most attractive thing about him so far, even if it’s at your own expense.
“If you say so,” he shrugs again.
He doesn’t move away from you, though. Not right away. His gaze lingers on your lips for a fleeting moment, which gives you just enough time to come up with a question of your own.
“So, you’re a fan of mine?”
At that, he pauses. But, he doesn’t shy away from it.
“Yeah,” he says, owning up to it immediately. He straightens back up as you nod, taking in the information. “Have been for a while now. I saw that other collab you did with that guy, it was really fuckin’ hot.”
You make a mental note to let Yeosang know he was right about that, as well. To be honest, you weren’t expecting the compliment.
“I’m– glad you liked it,” you say, clearing your throat in the middle of the sentence. You’re doing pretty well on the outside despite your nervousness beginning to rise again on the inside. San studies you once more, like he’s searching for something on you that only he can see. You step back again and turn your face away from him as you take a sip from your water bottle, taking your time to screw the cap back on.
“Mm… you’re even prettier in real life,” he says, so casually it almost doesn’t register.
You nearly swallow wrong, just barely avoiding choking on the small amount of water still left in your mouth. Luckily, Director Choi calls over to you two to start making your way onto set.
The final few minutes begin to tick down.
You don’t attempt to hide the deep breath you take, but you do try to not make it very noticeable. Placing the water bottle onto the chair you were just in, you clear your throat again.
“Any final advice or warnings for me before we start?” You ask, keeping your voice casual and light. It’s a subtle dig to him, but you mean no malice behind the words. Fortunately, he picks up on it.
“Oh, tons,” he grins, keeping pace with you onto the set. It’s almost easy to forget the cameras.
You steal a glance at him as you walk, the floor bitterly cold beneath your feet. With each step the bed gets closer and closer. Now finally getting a chance to see the set in detail, you’re pretty impressed. It’s a pretty realistic bedroom setting, complete with shelves decorated with trinkets and records, but vague enough to have no specific personality. Nobody’s going to be admiring the set design when they watch this. Still, you appreciate the effort made by the production team to make it feel real.
The lights facing you are blinding and you wince when you accidentally look right into one. Good incentive to not look that way, you suppose.
San sits on the edge of the bed. “You get used to it,” he says, nodding towards the lights.
You nod as well, placing a hand above your heart, willing it to stop racing.
Noticing this, San takes your hand and guides you to sit down next to him. You do feel a bit better now that you’re sitting. You keep your eyes down to avoid burning your retinas, and turn your head slightly towards him. He shifts a little closer, positioning his body so he’s facing you.
“Nervous?” He asks rhetorically, knowing full well that you are. He’s still holding your hand, playing with each of your fingers one by one.
“Obvious?” You reply, managing to laugh at yourself, despite your nerves.
San grins, his eyes turning into crescents, and that dimple in his cheek reappearing. “Only a little bit. But, I’ve seen worse.”
You hum in response. Being reminded of his experience, leaps and bounds ahead of yours, does nothing to help your anxiety. You just hope you can live up to the fantasy version of your own self. That’s the version of you he invited.
Where’s Britney when you need her?
You push your hair back, a minute attempt to self-soothe in some way. You only realize halfway through the action that Rina probably just clutched her pearls somewhere past the lights, cursing you for messing up her work. Oh, well. According to what you’ve seen and the information you’ve gathered, your hair’s gonna be plenty messed up anyway.
The room is starting to become a lot less crowded. Just like Hongjoong had said, only the essential people stay on set to make sure everything goes smoothly and safely. Everyone else becomes fading background noise, filtering out into the hallway you first came in from.
But less distractions means you notice the man right next to you even more.
You can feel San’s eyes on you.
It’s not an uncomfortable feeling, quite the opposite actually. The weight of it is light, soft around the edges as he appreciates how he managed to practically will you onto this set with him. You’d been sure you may be insecure around him because of his almost unnatural beauty, but… actually, having his eyes on you right now makes you a bit more confident. He’s not looking at anyone else but you. Not just looking, but admiring.
His gaze drifts down, greedily drinking in the sight of your collarbone and legs – the only skin you’re revealing at the moment. If the crew would just hurry up, he’ll be able to see more.
Fortunately, he’s never been one to wait to get what he wants. Especially not in this industry. And right now, he wants you.
“I meant it, by the way,” he says quietly, “you’re beautiful.”
Without any water to choke on, or an interruption from the director, you simply look up at him, finally meeting his eyes. There’s no trace of irony anywhere. Not in what he said, and not hidden somewhere within his features. The genuinity, and the doubling-down of the compliment takes you aback.
“Thank you… you’re quite beautiful yourself.” You compliment him back, shifting how you’re sitting to face him as well.
By now, your knee is touching his. Even this small amount of contact between you makes your shoulders tense again. You’re not sure why, but you just want to melt into him already. Perhaps due to the undeniable attraction you feel towards him.
Maybe it’s the insane sexual tension between you both, that very well could be the root cause as well.
You remember how real his scenes look… this must be how the chemistry is kindled. Starting before the cameras capture anything, it makes it all seem less like a show. And you know what? Until the director yells ‘cut’, you’re more than willing to match that energy.
His hand moves from yours to rest on your thigh, slowly, like he’s silently asking for permission to continue. When you don’t flinch or push him away, he hikes up your skirt just an inch or two higher, exposing more of your skin. The light ghost of his touch makes you freeze in place. It’s already dizzying enough to have him in such close proximity, and now adding in the electricity of his touch, it’s a whole other level. And this, you assume, is just the warmup. Getting you used to the feeling of his hands on you. It’s nice that it doesn’t feel wrong.
The lighting crew dims one of the lights and one of them loudly asks the director if it looks good on camera. Distracted, you turn back to look their way again, but San gently cups your face with his hand, making you face him instead.
He hums, looking down between your still-clothed bodies. His other hand dips under the hem of your skirt, and your breath hitches. Worrying too much about the crew still, you look back to see if this is alright to do before the cameras start rolling.
“Don’t look at the camera, kitten,” San purrs, “I believe that was rule number five.”
“Oh, shut up,” you mumble without any real bite to your words.
That smile of his returns, and the energy between you becomes even more charged. The moment right before someone gives in after holding back for too long.
San never looks anywhere else, entirely focused on you. It doesn't matter to him that there’s about twenty people still in the same room, all witnessing this ‘warm-up’ unfold. It barely fazes him. He’s experienced in this setting, way more used to it than you are. You just have to roll with it.
His hand on your face drops back down to the mattress as his wrist turns, and you inhale sharply when he lightly drags his fingers through your wet folds. He hums again, clearly satisfied.
“What’s got you this wet already, kitten?”
Your lips part to answer, but he finds your clit before you can speak. This time, you gasp quietly before you can stop yourself. Once again, you glance over at the crew, wondering if anyone is watching the two of you. You can’t see very well because of the lights and the various equipment in the way, but several of the crew and team are.
San smirks, pressing the pads of his fingers harder against your clit. “You like the attention?” He asks, following your gaze. “It’s different from your little camshow isn’t it? Now the audience is only a few feet away…”
His fingers begin to move in small circles, occasionally dipping further down to collect your wetness before bringing it back up to your clit.
“San–” you breathe, catching his wrist in a semi-firm grip. Not to move it away, but just to hold onto something. Jesus, the shoot hasn’t even officially started yet, but you’re about to beg them to hurry up so it can.
San just moves closer to you, his eyes greedily drinking in your cute expression. His voice is quieter, so only you can hear him. “Already thought about all the ways I’m gonna make this pretty cunt cum for me. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.”
Another promise.
A shiver runs down your spine, and that’s the moment the crew decides that they’re ready to shoot.
San pulls away like nothing happened, even smoothing down your skirt for you. You force yourself to breathe through your nose, steadying your pulse. You quickly look down, checking to see if your top is still on straight.
Director Choi walks up to you both for final notes. “Alright, no script so we’re mostly gonna follow your lead, just let us know when one of you needs a quick break. All three cameras are going to be rolling, and one handheld. You remember all the rules?” He looks over to you.
You nod quickly, unable to meet his eye right now. The back of your hand lifts to your cheek to check how hot it’s gotten – as if you need additional confirmation. You hope you didn’t smudge your makeup or wipe some of it off by accident, but you imagine that if it shows up on camera, they’ll stop to fix it.
“Okay, then we’re ready to go.”
San thanks him as he walks off, turning his attention back onto you. Your gaze has dropped down to your lap, breaths kind of erratic from the little show you and him just put on, and from nerves. But you manage to pull yourself together, externally at least. All you really have to do now is look pretty for the camera. You can do that. Except for the live audience, this isn’t much different to a camshow, really.
And aren’t you here for your fans anyway? Sure, you also wanted the opportunity and experience, but it’s also for your fans. The ones who supported you enough to even get noticed by Afterdark and San in the first place. You imagine they’ll make up at least half of the view count whenever this video drops. You’re performing for them. Not for the strangers in the room.
Once that clicks for you, all your anxiety melts away, freeing you to finally just… enjoy this. Why not? You deserve it.
Plus, you’re quite eager to pick up right where you and San left off just moments ago – and it seems that San is too.
His gaze becomes heavier, darker as he shifts into his on-screen persona.
“C’mere, kitten, want you on my lap to start.” He says, moving back on the bed a little more and gently pulling you towards him.
You straddle his legs, slow to sit down fully. Now slightly above and closer than before, you can’t look anywhere else but at him. His hands slowly trail up your thighs again, watching you the whole time. You stop breathing when his fingertips tease the hem of your skirt again. He can probably feel through those dress pants he’s in how wet you are. Equally though, you can feel how hard he’s getting.
Subtly, you grind your hips down onto him. The immediate pleasure of the friction against your bare pussy makes your eyes roll back. One of his hands sneaks to your hip, gripping it tightly, and you meet his eyes again.
“It’s just you and me,” he says quietly, breath fanning across your cheek.
You nod, eyes fluttering closed again as you grind into him once more. “Okay…”
Through your pleasurable hazy fog, you faintly hear someone yell, ‘Action!’.
And San stops holding back.
The hand on your hip pushes you back and pulls you in, encouraging you to keep grinding on him – and to not stop anytime soon. His other hand moves to your hair, keeping your face close to his as he finally kisses you. His lips are pleasantly soft, and he tastes like peppermint. You hope you do too, you probably brushed your teeth at least four times before the driver showed up outside your apartment building. San seems to have no complaints as he moans quietly, his hand tightens in your hair.
Your whole body feels electric, every touch amplified by a thousand. He makes out with you slow and deep, savouring the taste of you, and groans into your mouth with each roll of your hips.
San tilts your chin up to kiss your neck, hiding his face from the camera. “Never answered my question,” he whispers, barely audible so his voice doesn’t get picked up by any of the overhead microphones.
You disguise your response as a moan, “Hm?”
He licks a small stripe up your neck, right up to your ear and looks down between you. You follow his gaze, only to find a wet patch staining his pants already.
Ah.
His question from mere minutes ago: What’s got you this wet already?
“So wet for me,” he murmurs, a bit louder. It’s alright if the microphones pick that up. “Wonder why…”
It’s the knowing smirk that does it. You move to undress him first, intriguing him. He didn’t expect you to be so bold right out of the gate. But, you have an on-screen persona of your own. Now both of your characters are out to play.
In your dwindling patience, you come close to just ripping the shirt off when you fumble with one of the buttons. San finds your lips again as you push the offending fabric off of him, eager to explore his newly exposed body. But you’re next.
Both of his hands lift up your shirt until it comes off over your head, forcing you two to break apart for a moment. Neither of you wait to make up for that lost time. You drape your arms around his shoulders, one of your hands lightly tugging at the roots of his hair. At first, your whole body erupts in goosebumps from the cold air now hitting your upper body as well, and not just your arms, but you can’t blame your reaction entirely on the temperature.
San must notice how your shoulders hunch a little and how you press further into him, because he is quick to warm you up.
One arm around your waist, he pulls you closer, chests touching. The first brush of your peaked nipples against his skin makes you gasp into his mouth. He nips at your bottom lip, distracting you while his hand moves from the back of your head, down to one of your breasts. His thumb flicks over the sensitive bud there and you have to duck your head down to catch your breath for a second. You grind down onto him again, adding to your arousal tenfold.
Refusing to prolong this any longer, San suddenly flips you onto the bed, underneath him. His hand returns between your legs, fingers shallowly dipping into your entrance and circling your clit. He keeps just out of your reach, his lips so frustratingly close to yours. You glance down to watch him. The visual of his hand disappearing underneath your skirt, the veins in his arm beginning to rise and pop, and the heat of his body against yours is all starting to add up.
You tug at your own skirt, looking up at him with doe eyes. He nods twice, understanding. In no time at all, your skirt is unzipped and pulled down your legs, discarded somewhere onto the floor.
Now fully exposed, San pauses.
The tempo of the scene slows abruptly as he takes his time to look at your body, laying so prettily beneath him. He looks at your body like he’s deciding where to start first, with too many enticing options. You drag your hands down his chest, lightly scratching him and making him shiver in the process. This, you realize, is how he makes every scene feel legit. He takes his time to admire his partner, make them feel admired and wanted. You have to admit, it does work its magic. Not just for the audience, but for you as well.
He catches both of your wrists, bringing your hands together to kiss them both before guiding them down above your head.
“Keep them here,” he murmurs, kissing you once more.
You barely have time to enjoy or savor the taste of him again before he moves to kiss your neck. Eyes closing, you sigh into the feeling, wanting to commit this to memory. He doesn’t stay in one place for long, moving down to kiss your chest next. Soft, wet warmth once again wraps around your nipple and you arch your back to try and get more of it. You twist your hands in the sheets above you, keeping them anchored there just like he instructed.
San then moves further down, ghosting his lips past your stomach. You part your legs to accommodate him, and he kneels on the floor, gently pushing your legs further apart. He drags this out, just to torture you, you think. His intentions and what he’s about to do are clear, but he’s a professional at driving his partners crazy. The kisses turn to licks, right next to your labia. So tantalizingly close.
If your eyes were open, you’d see that he’s been watching you the entire time, trying to pace himself as best he can. You’re actually lucky there’s a job to do here because if it was just the two of you alone, he doesn’t think he’d be holding himself back from just taking what he wants.
To him, this is all just a chance for him to prove himself to you. To him, you’re the star. And he’s going to make sure you leave this set more than satisfied. Wanting for nothing.
But he’s not going to start until you beg him to.
His breath fans across your wet lower lips and your hands find his hair again, trying to push his mouth where you need him. You hear him laugh, exhaling through his nose before moving your hands away.
“Thought I told you to keep your hands up there, kitten,” he reminds you, with a slight warning edge to his voice.
Oh, shit, you realize all too late. The last video flashes through your mind, and he feels you tense up. He kisses your hipbone to calm you down.
“Be a good girl and keep them above your head,” he repeats his previous order.
You nod quickly, “I’m sorry–” but he cuts you off by licking a thick wet stripe through your folds. Your breath hitches, and your hands stay cemented to the sheets, to hold on for dear life.
When he repeats the action, the tip of his tongue flicks at your clit, making you see stars already.
“Oh my god…” you moan, eyes fluttering shut again.
Your hands itch to move back down to his hair, wanting to pull him closer and to push him away. You want to touch him again, but the fear of him reenacting the ‘Fantasy’ video keeps you frozen.
As expected, his mouth is just as perfect as the rest of him. The softness of his lips against your core only stokes the dull heat in your lower stomach. He alternates between focusing more on your clit, and dipping his tongue into your entrance. The most addicting part is that he’s moaning while he eats you out, like the taste of you is getting him off. You hope he lets you return the favor.
He readjusts his hands on your thighs when they threaten to close around his head, opting to push them back towards your chest. Your toes curl as he sucks your clit hard, and you can’t help the high-pitched sound that escapes your mouth. He does it again, and again, getting you louder each time.
“Look at me, baby,” he breathes, his nose brushing up against your sensitive clit as he speaks.
You whimper as you lift your head up, resting on your elbows to not strain your neck. He meets your eyes for just a second before shoving his tongue into your hole, rubbing his nose against your clit again. You cry out, throwing your head back as the pleasure increases and squirm in his strong grip. Legs shaking and breath uneven, it’s clear that you’re close. Now you’ll get to see what he has planned for you. The two boxes you checked off, ‘Rough’, and ‘Gentle’ come back to haunt you.
A moan cuts you off as you try to warn him that you’re close, but he can tell without needing to hear you say it. He’s been the cause of enough female orgasms to see the warning signs of one approaching. Two of his fingers suddenly dip into you as he sucks on your clit, hooking deep inside and prodding your g-spot over and over again.
His voice is rough and gravelly against your pussy, “Cum for me, baby. Wanna taste it.”
A bolt of electricity runs through you as you cum, shaking and moaning while it gradually subsides. The heat in your lower stomach cools off but stays simmering now, waiting to be rekindled again. You whimper, raising your head back up to look at him. He’s in his own world between your legs, gently licking your pussy and your inner thighs clean. Your core clenches around his fingers when he slowly starts to drag them out, and he smirks. He lowers your legs back down, kissing your knee and doing a quick check to make sure you’re okay to continue.
You answer that check by sitting up and pulling him towards you, kissing him even more hungrily than before. He hasn’t even wiped his mouth yet, but you don’t care. Without breaking the kiss, he follows you back down onto the bed, sucking on your tongue and wrapping a hand around your throat. Not tight enough to restrict airflow, but just enough to make your head feel light. He grinds his still-clothed erection into you, and the friction makes your head spin. You don’t know if you’re allowed to move your hands or not, but you just want to touch him so badly. You want to grip his length, make him feel just as good, taste him too.
For now, you just roll your hips up into his, moaning into his mouth.
“Want it…want you,” you mumble, parting from his lips for just a second to tell him that.
San hums, lazily kissing your jaw. “What do you want, kitten? Be specific.”
You groan inwardly, but you know he has to prolong this a little. Damn… for a while, you forgot about the reason you’re currently underneath him. You sneak a glance over to your left, seeing where the set ceiling abruptly stops and opens up to the industrial interior of the Afterdark building. He notices your focus straying, and he’s quick to act.
“Tell me,” San redirects you, blocking your view by kissing the left side of your neck and distracting you from everything else by keeping his hard-on pressed right up against your bare pussy. His voice is firmer. A small warning and reminder of rule number five.
You take a deep breath before you voice what you want, “Wanna suck your cock… please, sir.”
It’s the ‘sir’ that nearly kills him. You really have done your research, haven’t you? You know that’s what he likes to be called, especially when his scene partners are feeling extra submissive to him. Are you feeling that way already? Maybe you just really want to do this for him. San studies you for a second, confirming the latter. He can see how much you actually mean it by the way you look up at him, pleading with your eyes.
And who is he to deny you? Especially when you ask so nicely. Plus, he’s been wanting to feel your mouth wrap around his cock since he watched your livestream.
“Yeah?” He asks, biting the space where your neck meets your shoulder and pressing up against you again.
You give him your best doe-eyed look, really tapping into your innocent act. “Yes, sir.”
San helps you sit upright again and stands at the foot of the bed, starting to undo his belt. Wanting to be an active participant, you lean forward, dragging your lips down and across his abs, occasionally licking at his soft, honeyed skin. His belt hits the floor, and your hands are quick to do the rest. It’s a little hard to get the zipper down, but you manage it, successfully removing his pants. You’re just about to deal with his underwear next, but he grabs your wrist, pulling you towards him. You stumble a little as you find your footing on the floor, and let him lead you over to a chair against the set wall. It’s a better angle for the cameras, you assume. For him, he just wants to watch you do this properly. He wants nothing to obstruct his view, or the camera’s.
San pushes his hair back as you drag the final piece of clothing away from his body. You avert your eyes until the very last second, tossing the garment off to the side to join the sad little pile of discarded clothes on the floor. Now you take your time, pressing a kiss to his knee, slowly rising up onto yours the further up you move. You hear his breath shift, and you finally glance up to face his cock.
Somehow, it’s bigger than it looks on camera.
You have no idea how that’s possible – you know about the fish eye lenses and tricks the porn industry will use to make someone’s dick look bigger than it is, but right now, you’re presented with the exact opposite. It’s larger in real life. This, you were not expecting, but it is such a pleasant and welcome surprise. And of course, it’s just as pretty as the rest of him.
Both of these things combined only make you want to put your mouth on it even more.
When you delicately wrap your hand around it, he hisses at the long-awaited contact. A hand tangles into your hair, not pulling you towards him, just resting there for now. San leans back against the chair, his toned body a feast for the cameras and for you. You remind yourself not to rush, and to savor this.
Wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine, you tease him a little by ghosting your lips up his length, watching him shiver and bite his lip. You kiss the tip, and linger there for a second, acting like you’re about to put him in your mouth, only to move away, kissing his hipbone next and stroking him with your hand.
His grip tightens in your hair. Knowing he wants you to hurry up, you let go of him for a moment to spit in your hand before quickly returning to it. He groans a bit louder, head falling back a little as you gently twist your wrist, squeezing at the base of his cock.
Finally, you lick him from the base to the head before wrapping your lips around him. His other hand balls up into a fist, but that’s the only reaction he gives away for now. You relax your jaw as much as you can, trying to accommodate his size before sinking down lower. You can taste his pre-cum in the back of your throat, coating your tongue.
If you were annoyed with his apparent perfection before, you’re pissed now. How does he also taste good too?
As if to get back at him somehow, you wrap your lips tighter around his cock and suck hard, which earns you a choked moan from him. You hum around him, amused and pleased with yourself. His hand shakes slightly as he pushes your hair back, the other one in your hair starting to guide you even further down. The tip hits the back of your throat and you gag on it, forcing yourself to relax and remember to breathe through your nose.
“Fuck, baby…so good,” He groans, starting to struggle to keep his eyes open.
The visual of you choking on his cock is better than he could’ve ever imagined it to be. You don’t try to fight against him when he pushes you down or pulls you back up, simply letting him use your throat as he wishes. Even though you’re gagging and your eyes are watering, you don’t try to pull off. Not even when he shoves you down, making you fit his entire length into your throat, and holds you there for ten seconds. The longest ten seconds of your life. Your nails dig into your thighs, creating angry red crescent-shaped indents in your skin. His cock twitches in your throat and you whimper, keeping your gag reflex at bay. When the ten seconds are up, he lets you pull off of him completely to catch your breath.
You cough into your shoulder, one of your hands wrapping around him again to make sure he still feels good. San can't help but praise you, leaning down to kiss your forehead, cupping your face with his hand to make you look at him. It’s a subtle check-in moment. Nothing between you is said out loud, but he searches your face for any signs of discomfort or stress of any kind. He’s rather relieved to find none, only your glossy eyes staring back at him, lips parted and breath heavier than before. Ready to go again or continue on.
Whatever he wants.
San shivers as you gently twist your wrist again, returning your lips to the head of his dick, kitten-licking the pre-cum that still leaks out there. You hope he’ll cum in your mouth. A rare hope, as you’ve never quite enjoyed the taste of it before, but with his track record so far, you’re willing to bet you’ll enjoy it this time. To encourage this dream to happen, you spit onto the head of his cock twice, collecting some of it with your hand already around his length, and the rest with your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip.
You hear soft footsteps behind you, and naturally, your first instinct is to whip around to see who it is. Luckily, your conscience kicks in, reminding you of where you are, and you’re able to stop yourself before you can even move an inch. It’s probably one of the crew leaving the set, you figure. But it sounds close by.
As if to prove you right, soon there’s a figure or a shadow looming just out of your peripheral vision on your left, holding something. To combat every urge within you to turn around, you close your eyes and steal another kiss from San, who lazily kisses you back. He doesn’t seem to mind that your lips are covered in spit and pre-cum. Not one bit. His groans have increased the more you stroke his cock, one of his hands grips the arm of the chair in an attempt to ground himself. Harder, faster, your wrist begins to burn from exertion, but determination keeps it going. You’ll get a damn brace if you need to.
“God–” he grunts, looking down at your hand.
“Want you to cum too,” you say, looking up at him, almost pleading.
San’s eyes squeeze shut for just a moment, a full body shudder wracking through him before he is able to compose himself again.
“And where do you want me to cum, kitten?” He asks, his volume raising slightly, caressing your cheek.
“In my mouth, sir.” You reply, also loud enough for the microphones to pick up.
He all but shoves you down. You barely have time to make sure your teeth aren’t grazing his dick with every bob of your head as his hand returns to your hair, guiding your movements once again. This time, with just a fraction less of his notorious self control. You’re able to keep up easily, sucking harder whenever you’re closer to the head of it, and using your tongue as much as you can.
San swears under his breath, hissing at your previously unknown skill level. It takes every ounce of composure to not fuck your throat the way he wants to. He’d be so mean to you if you’d let him. He wouldn’t have kept himself down your throat for ten measly seconds, it would’ve been until you tried to push yourself off, desperate to breathe again. That would’ve been heavenly, to feel your throat constrict around his cock, in search of air. But not for the first scene together.
If there’s a next time, maybe that’s when he’ll let go just a little more. Show that side of him and see how you cope with it. For now though, he’s content to just enjoy the sight of you taking him in your mouth, wanting to make him cum. And you’re damn near close to achieving that.
He ignores the cameraman standing barely two feet from you, and leans back again, relaxing his body as his dick twitches incessantly in your mouth. Every time his tip hits the back of your throat, sparks of electricity shoot up his spine.
“Fuck… ah, fuck, I’m gonna cum… mmf–” San moans, head tilting back against the chair.
You don’t change anything about what you’re doing, just continuing until finally, he releases into your mouth. Just like you wanted him to. And it’s just as you predicted. The taste of it makes you want him to cum in your mouth again and again, surprisingly pleasant. Slightly bitter, yes, but not overly so. You swallow around him, not pulling off just yet. You won’t until you suck him dry, until he pushes you off from overstimulation. Maybe subconsciously, it’s because you know he loves to overstimulate his scene partners – a subtle payback for all of them. You try to hide your grin as you finally release him. Not a single drop wasted. You swallowed everything.
San looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, fighting to keep his chest rising and falling in a steadier rhythm. You lick your lips just for good measure, and he snaps.
His hands return to your face and the back of your head, pulling you towards him to kiss you deeply. You moan into his mouth as his tongue slips into yours, not caring in the slightest that can taste himself. As you straighten up on your knees, you can feel how wet you still are, and you can’t help but be a little surprised. You’ve never gotten wet from sucking dick before. If he finds out, it’ll go right to his ego, no doubt.
But before he can, there’s an abrupt, loud clacking sound to your left, and at first, you think someone must have dropped something. San makes a quiet, irritated sound before pulling away, glancing towards the director. The cameraman right next to you moves away, going back over towards the others and adjusting something on his camera. You feel slow to catch up on what’s happening, looking back up at San for help.
“We’re breaking for a second,” he explains, still out of breath.
Ah.
“Are you alright?” You ask him, without thinking. You’re not even sure why you asked that.
San blinks, processing your question as well before nodding once, “Yeah… yeah, I’m good.”
There’s a fleeting moment between you that you can’t describe. Something deeper than the scene now that you’re out of it. It’s the way he’s looking at you, void of any facade or persona meant for the cameras. Almost like he’s curious about something.
No one ever really asks him if he’s alright.
Just as quickly as the moment appears, it’s gone. You hear a flurry of movement and murmured conversations on your left as you sink back onto your heels, processing everything. Your eyes close as you try to focus on your breathing now that nothing is blocking your throat, deep inhales and slow exhales.
“You okay?” San asks as well, eyebrows furrowing in what appears to be genuine concern.
“‘M okay… honest.” You nod as you speak to emphasize that you’re truly alright. One more prolonged exhale, and you roll your shoulders back, heart-rate decelerating back to its default speed. One of your hands reaches up to massage your aching jaw.
Opening your eyes again, you accidentally make eye contact directly to his cock, still right in front of your face. It’s laying against his stomach, still slightly twitching, but… not softening. At least not as much as you’d expect it to. Surely, he can’t still be hard after coming. However, at this point, you wouldn’t put it past him to have a practically nonexistent refractory period. Might as well tack it onto the list of things he has been blessed with in life.
San runs a hand through his hair, looking over towards someone who must be talking to him. You watch his eyes follow them until you see for yourself who it is – one of the assistants that had been in his little circle when he first walked out of his dressing room. He hands him a robe, and quickly walks off. You feel a small nudge at your shoulder and find one of the other assistants – the one that had handed you the blanket earlier – extending a robe towards you. You take it gladly, your body heat crashing down again now that nothing is happening, and the frigid air conditioning reminding you why you asked for a blanket in the first place. He also gives you a water bottle with a straw poked through the plastic cap, and you drink it down gratefully.
Director Choi calls over Youngmi and Rina, and they’re quickly by your side, touching up your hair and makeup. You scoot back a little on the floor, giving San some space as his own team descends around him. Still, through the quiet rush of activity separating the two of you, your eyes stay glued to him.
Once the four hair and makeup girls leave, you hear Hongjoong from somewhere behind you. You both look towards his voice, standing near the director. A young woman you haven’t seen milling around the set before stands right next to him, also in a short silk robe almost identical to yours from what you can see of it past the lights. Your chest burns. She’s gorgeous, and seems to only get prettier the more you look at her. She looks between Hongjoong and San expectantly, as if waiting for a regular cue. Totally relaxed. You look back down at your hands in your lap, toying with the hem of your robe. It’s obvious what she’s there for. You wonder if she’s been watching the whole time as well.
But San is quick to rid you of any worries.
Actually, he seems a little annoyed as he waves Hongjoong and the woman off, before turning his attention back to you. He helps you stand up, slowly to ensure you won’t get dizzy, and leads you back over to sit on the foot of the bed. Back where you started, in your own little bubble together in front of the lights and the cameras.
Once settled again, San tilts your head up, his pointer finger under your chin, and holds it there, effectively disrupting your train of thought. He can almost see the self-doubt threatening to cloud your mind, even if you try to hide it behind your on-camera mask. He simply won’t have it. His other hand cups your cheek, making sure you don’t try to look anywhere but at him right now.
“‘M still hard for you, kitten,” he says quietly, just for you. He moves closer, his thumb running over your bottom lip. “Made me feel so fucking good… doing so well…”
You can’t help but blush at his praise. He’s so attentive, it’s a little shocking. You expected him to be, due to the videos you watched, but off-camera as well?
To thank him, you wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking on it lightly, maintaining eye contact with him the whole time. You want him to snap again. To just fuck you stupid already, to not wait for the production team to be ready. God, you just want to stop thinking and overthinking. You lean into the hand holding your cheek, humming at the comfort it provides.
One of your hands wanders between you, trailing up his thigh. You want to feel it for yourself, even though the robe does little to conceal the truth in his statement. Nevertheless, your confidence is rekindled once more when you feel him through the silk, hard and ready for you. He hisses at the contact, resting his forehead against yours for a moment or two before straightening again. A low groan from him makes your thighs clench together.
“Sorry, sir,” you whisper, grinning mischievously now that you’re the one teasing him.
San laughs once, breathy and short.
“You really have done your research on me, huh?” He smirks, watching you slowly move his robe aside to touch him properly. He tenses a little at the initial contact, but gradually relaxes again as his body gets used to it.
You shrug, playing it cool. “Wanted to see what I was getting myself into,” the corners of your mouth twitch as you slowly stroke his cock, watching for his reactions.
“And–” he clears his throat before continuing, “what do you think so far?”
Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and you’re taken aback again by his genuineness. He’s not just asking to ask or to boost a sky-high ego, he really does want to know. Still, you want to keep him intrigued. Maybe you even want him to try and prove himself to you a bit.
“Well… I’m still wet for you,” you admit, casting your eyes down towards your lap. “But I think I’ll give you a final verdict later.”
San hums, remembering the taste of you, and how wet you were for him to start. His eyes trail downwards, towards your chest, which is slowly becoming more and more revealed as your robe loosens.
“Deal,” he whispers, slowly leaning in to kiss you.
Before he can though, you squeeze his member a little harder, your thumb circling the tip, making his mind nearly go blank. San shudders and leans back on his hands, his robe also loosening little by little, revealing his chest and the top of his abs to your hungry eyes again. He steals a quick glance over to the crew, before just taking matters into his own hands.
As soon as his robe comes off, he tosses it in the camera’s direction. A rather obvious way of telling everyone the break is over. Director Choi quickly stands from his chair, shooing away a production assistant and waving another one over to collect the robes. You take yours off as well, tossing it onto his, and San eases you down onto your back, kissing you just as deeply as before.
You shiver, finally underneath him once more. The promise of what’s to come thunders through your mind. He slots his knee in between your legs, keeping you open for him. You whine into his mouth when that knee raises slightly, pressing against your pussy. You can almost hear his smirk, confirming that you are indeed still wet for him.
Well, he won’t make you wait any longer.
And just in time too, because someone over on the left shouts, ‘Action!’. You feel kind of bad for stressing out the crew this much, but you can’t dwell on those guilty feelings when San is rubbing your clit again.
“Fuck… please…” you whimper, hips grinding up in search of something else.
San moans, working himself up as he feels your pussy slicking all over his knee.
“Are they gonna stop us again?” You ask, whispering in his ear.
“They better fucking not,” San breathes, pressing one more kiss to your cheek before pushing himself up, spreading your legs further apart so he can kneel between them.
You prop yourself up on your elbows again, intent on watching. You clench around nothing as he grips himself, angling his dick down towards your pussy. Every muscle in your body locks in anticipation and impatience. Your brain goes haywire just at the sight of his cock near where you need him most, knowing he’ll stretch you out, and knowing that you probably won’t last too long with his size. Hopefully, you won’t cum as soon as he bottoms out.
San presses the tip to your hole, and you hold your breath. It’s so big, but you’re ready. You’re definitely wet enough to help get him inside without any help from spit or lube. Nevertheless, he spits right on your clit, pausing to make you feel it drip down through your folds. He taps the head of his cock against your clit a couple times, greedily watching your reactions.
And much to your despair, he doesn’t push inside just yet. Instead, he drags his cock up and down your pussy. Slowly. Forcing you to feel every inch of it, just not where you need it. Your clit is so sensitive, every time he rubs up against it, you can’t help but whine pathetically.
San hums, mocking you. “Hm? What’s wrong, kitten?”
“Please fuck me already,” you exhale, whimpering at yet another tap of his cock against your clit.
“Louder,” he instructs, not just to make you beg for it again, but also so the microphones pick it up. You’d forgotten all about them again, to be honest. “Ask me properly.”
Another shiver runs through you, and you gasp when you feel the head of his cock return to your entrance. Just barely enough so you can feel it’s there. But it’s enough motivation. You spread your legs further apart to convince him, holding them up and back by hooking your arms around your knees. Fully exposed to his eyes, open and ready to be filled.
“Please, sir, please fuck me. Want it so ba–”
Your voice is cut off by a choked noise as he finally pushes into you. Quickly, you look down, watching him breach you. All of your air is punched out of you as he stretches you out, sinking deeper and deeper, inch by inch. He takes over the task of keeping your legs apart, and he stills for a second to give your body time to adjust to him. He’s just barely halfway in, and your brain already feels like mush.
Maybe it’s a good thing because the same cameraman from before comes back, aiming the camera right at you two. Your body is so tense from the intrusion that you can’t look towards him, even by accident.
San swears under his breath, watching his cock disappearing into you as well.
“So fucking tight… god, baby…” he grunts, adjusting his knees slightly closer to your ass so he can feed you more of his length.
One of his hands tilts your chin up again, silently telling you to hold eye contact with him. His eyes flicker down only for a split second.
Then he shoves the rest of his cock inside.
A mix of a gasp and a yelp punches its way out of you. Your whole body is like a livewire. Alert, teetering on an electric edge. Your hands grip the sheets next to you, biting your lip. You can feel everything. Every inch, every vein dragging against your walls when he slowly pulls it back again. You both crave and dread the next time he pushes in, knowing it’s going to feel so overwhelmingly good.
The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You’re close to coming already.
Wide-eyed, all you can do is stare up at him as he rolls his hips into yours. Your walls flutter around him, legs already beginning to shake. There’s no hiding it anymore.
Amused, San leans down, pushing your legs back even more, deepening the stretch. He groans as your pussy contracts around him tight, wanting more.
“What, kitten? Already?” San smirks, a windfall of pride rushing through him. As if he needed any more validation for how good at this he is.
Your face burns, having been found out.
The next roll of his hips is sinfully languid, taking his time. Then, he really betrays you. One of his hands leaves the back of your thigh and he uses his thumb to rub your clit. You yelp, body buzzing from pleasure, and he takes this time to start fucking you properly, thrusting into you in a steady rhythm.
“Mm, that’s it,” he says, twisting his wrist so he can rub your clit with two fingers instead. “Let me feel it.”
You’re starting to think all you need in order to cum is for him to tell you to do it. Your second orgasm of the evening is a bit stronger than the first one because of the addition of penetration. It makes you feel very floaty once it hits, clenching around his cock in order to prolong it.
Unlike last time, he gives you no recovery period. The second he sees your eyes refocus, he’s fucking into you again. Like he never stopped. Your hands grip his shoulders, knowing you’re in for it. The tags for this future video flash through your mind, overstimulation being one. You lay flat on your back now, unable to keep holding yourself up as another strong wave of pleasure crashes into you. A third orgasm building up again.
His fingers on your clit press down harder, making tight circles over the sensitive bud. He only relents for a second, just to hook your legs over his shoulders, letting him get even deeper inside of you. Your eyes roll back for a moment, whining at the feeling. Your hands try to push at his chest, to make him stop, to make him straighten up, you’re not entirely sure yourself.
There’s no energy behind your actions, but San still subtly checks in. “Feel good, kitten?”
You choke on another moan, his cock getting dangerously close to hitting your g-spot. “Mm- I’m– good, feels s-so good.”
“Yeah? You liked coming on my cock?”
“Yes…”
“Yes, what?” San punctuates his question by ramming into you hard, unexpectedly.
You’re quick to correct yourself, “Y-yes, sir!”
“There you go,” he brushes some hair away from your face, “my good girl.”
Your body melts at the praise, replaying it over and over again as the feeling builds up higher and higher. You don’t realize until San winces that your nails started to dig into his chest, leaving some red scratch marks in your wake. As soon as you see that, you instantly take your hands away, feeling so bad that you’ve hurt him unknowingly.
But he puts them right back where they were.
And he leans down to your neck to return the favor, biting and sucking the skin there to create dark red and purple bruises wherever he can. His thrusts become more powerful, angling down into you to make you see stars. The simmering heat in your stomach is stoked with each direct hit to your g-spot. It’s getting to be more of a challenge to breathe normally like this.
Especially as your third orgasm begins to crest.
“‘M coming–” you warn him, but he knows already. He can feel it.
He hovers over you, moving his hips precisely and slightly faster. He wants to watch you again. To see you fall apart for him again. Truthfully, he already feels a bit pussy-drunk. Starting to get addicted to the feeling of your warm, wet cunt wrapped so tightly around him, coming for him so prettily. And you don’t disappoint him the third time either.
You’re loud this time, unable to control your volume. The third orgasm hits you like a truck, and it only builds higher and higher instead of gradually diminishing. You cry out, halfway through it. Something feels unfinished about it, and you’re desperate to chase it. Luckily, San knows exactly what you need.
He quickly lowers your legs from his shoulders, jumping right into action to catch this. Your legs are held back, like the previous position they were in, and he returns his other hand to your lower stomach, pressing down hard. You can feel him moving inside of you. Your head falls back and you moan loudly, suddenly feeling everything tenfold.
The sound is obscene, definitely pornographic. Wet, sloshing sounds, accompanied by your loud cries and moans fill the warehouse-like room of the eighth floor. His cock prods your g-spot every single time, building something insanely powerful that you’ve never felt before. You grab his wrist, looking up at him with slight fear in your eyes, but he doesn’t seem concerned. He’s determined, if anything.
“Good girl,” he purrs, so affectionately it makes your brain melt.
He adjusts his hand on your stomach just a little further down. At the same time that you feel him rubbing your clit again, he ducks down to suck on one of your nipples, and fireworks explode behind your eyelids. The quadruple stimulation makes you scream.
“Gonna make a mess for me, kitten? Yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock again?”
You don’t even have time to nod or reply in any way. A strong surge of pleasure smashes into you from all sides, whiting out your vision. It’s a feeling of release unlike any other that you’ve felt before, much harder than any orgasm you’ve ever had. He keeps fucking you through it until your pussy forces him out, watching your body shake uncontrollably underneath him, soaking the sheets below you, and his lower body. Now you know damn well what kind of ‘rough’ you’ll be getting from him: overstimulation. Making you cum until you beg him to stop.
San growls at the sight. It burns into his brain, and he can already say for certain that he’ll be jerking off to the memory of this later tonight and for days to come.
Just to prolong it, he taps his heavy cock against your pussy and clit again, enjoying how you try to squirm away from it.
You’re so wet, it’s audible. Every tap is loud, and a thin, stringy mixture of his spit and your slick clings to him for as long as it can whenever he pulls away. You reach for him, not knowing exactly what you want, but knowing you want him closer to you, and he obliges. He leans down over you again, slowly sliding his length between your puffy, wet folds.
A familiar, faint voice from the left is ignored totally by you and him, too busy coming down from the most intense high of your life, and him holding you through it.
An aftershock rattles you from head to toe, and you gasp when you feel it. The intense pleasure you felt gives way to sudden emptiness, and you realize you do not have anything to clench down on anymore. Though his dick is right there, dragging up and down your outer lips, it feels so far away from where you actually want it.
Thankfully, sensing your dilemma – and hearing you whine for it – he doesn’t make you wait any longer. In your post-orgasmic haze, he guides you over onto all fours, now facing the foot of the bed. Ever the gentleman, he moves your hair out of your face. However, you imagine it’s so the camera can see your fucked out, dazed expression.
His cock slips back inside of you easily, without any resistance, and the two of you groan in unison. In both relief and pleasure.
That familiar, faint voice comes back. Clearer this time, and closer as well. “San… San! We’re taking another break now.”
San kisses your shoulder blade, barely paying attention. “Okay, have fun,” he brushes the voice off, impatiently.
You’d laugh if you had any coherent thoughts or spare energy left. No, you’re a bit preoccupied at the moment, your body trembling around his cock, and so happy that he’s pushed back into you. Truthfully, you don’t even care if you’re stressing out the crew anymore. All of your thoughts are about San.
San smooths a hand up your spine, slowly pushing inch by inch into your soaked hole. He shushes you gently when you whimper, interlacing his fingers with yours when you try to reach back to find his hand to hold.
“I know, kitten, it’s okay. Just relax.”
Easier said than done.
He lightly presses your lower back, signalling you to arch it for him a little more. You nearly regret it when you feel him deeper than before in this position. Your elbows threaten to buckle, body shaking like a leaf. Yet, you still want more. Even though you’re nearing a certain point, wavering between overexertion and exhaustion, you crave more. You want to chase that feeling with him again. Make him glad he asked you to come here. Make him come back for more. So, you grit your teeth and keep yourself from face-planting into the mattress. For now, at least.
San’s powerful pace resumes in no time, stealing every breath from your lungs. Another vague, quiet plea falls from your lips, and in response, he squeezes your hips, pulling them back to meet every thrust. Your throat is raw from all the noise you’re making, and you know you’ll have to drink some tea or honey tonight to get your voice back to normal. Not this thin, broken voice you have now. Your lower back aches from staying in this position, but you do your best to ignore it.
It helps that his cock is basically in your stomach, that does a lot to distract you from a mere ache in your back. It also helps that your pussy is extra sensitive, coming three times – twice in a row without a break – and squirting for the first time. On camera, no less. Your viewers are going to lose their fucking minds. The image of your donation box on your livestreams, and your Venmo accounts skyrocketing after this video releases is motivation enough for you to want him to make you do it again.
Your back arches even more, hips grinding back against his to get more of him somehow.
Such a little natural.
“Mmm, there you go. That’s it. Keep fucking yourself on my cock, pretty girl.”
You make a noise, halfway between a whine and a moan and do as he says. Your chest grazes the sheets below you, chin buried into the mattress and arms gripping the edge of the bed in front of you.
“Fuck,” you whimper, a couple of stray tears threatening to fall. “You’re s-so fucking deep.”
San groans, increasing the pace. You yelp when you feel him smack your ass, and again when he hits it a second and third time. By the time the third strike lands, he doesn’t even give you any time to process the stinging pain he’s left behind before there’s a new one on the back of your head.
Slightly dizzy, it takes you a second to realize you’re upright, on your knees. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling at the roots, and the other rubbing incessant circles on your swollen clit. His chest presses into your back, and he moves your head to face him so he can kiss you again. Mind threatening to wipe completely, you can’t fight to hold back your tears anymore. You shudder violently, and he groans as he feels your body struggle to keep up with him. He knows you can take it, though. You’re a fighter, he can tell.
“Doing so well,” he whispers in your ear, “such a good girl for me, baby. Knew you would be. Knew I’d get this pussy to fall apart on my dick. Thought about it so fucking much…”
You whine against his mouth, tears wetting his face now as well. The blatant admission that he had thought about you like this before today goes straight over your head.
All you hear is his praise. You’re doing well. Good enough for him, like you were so stressed about being. Nothing else matters to you anymore, now that you’ve earned his approval. A proud smile creeps across your face, and he grins at the faraway look in your half-lidded eyes. You’re so far gone. Completely pleasure-drunk.
The hand in your hair tightens again and loosens, like it’s an afterthought now. Just something for him to hold onto. To keep you steady, if anything. Warm pressure building and building again in your stomach, you round your back as another shiver wracks its way through your body, making your spine tingle. His hand moves down to hold you by the back of the neck, and he slows his pace just enough to guide you back down onto the bed. This time, totally flat. Your pussy forces him out at this new position, but his other hand is quick to spread one of your ass cheeks apart, cock sliding back inside of you.
He doesn’t ease you into his pace anymore. The first brutal thrust makes your eyes roll back, and your jaw falls open. Your nails claw at the bedding, every muscle in your arms straining while you hold onto the fabric for dear life.
He’s so fucking deep. Impossibly, almost.
He may just make you cum like this, without even needing to touch your clit. He’s making you learn so much about what your body can do when in the right hands. No wonder people are so obsessed with him. He’s become so in tune with your body so quickly, just by paying explicit attention to you this whole time. It makes you really appreciate his expertise, because he could easily have just used what has worked for other girls in the past. He probably could’ve made you cum like that as well, but he tailors himself for each girl. Adapts for them. For you.
And he’s learning you pretty well. Probably read you like a fucking book.
Every precisely angled thrust punches a moan out from deep within your chest. Each sound is partly muffled by the bedding, and you try to keep quiet, not wanting to be annoying. You can’t help it, though. Not when it feels this good. Certainly not when another orgasm is building, more rapidly than the others.
You squirm under him, toes curling and nails digging into the mattress.
“I– mmf–! You’re… you’re gonna make me cum again,” you have to speak quickly before it hits you.
San leans over you, hands planted right next to your shoulders, fucking you harder. “Give it to me, pretty girl. I want every fucking drop.”
Someone dressed in all black stands right in front of you, pointing something towards you. It doesn’t register that it’s the camera guy with the handheld camera for a couple seconds. You imagine he’s zooming in, capturing everything. He must know the future audience does not want to miss a single second of how you react to coming again, and how San won’t let up on you once you do… again.
Your eyes shut tight once your fourth climax thunders through you. Pure ecstasy erupts in every vein. Euphoria clouds your brain. The sheets beneath you two become even more soaked, and you can feel your release dripping down your thighs. You must’ve been loud because your throat feels scratchy and rough all of a sudden, but your head is in such a rush that you don’t even hear anything.
San holds you by your throat now, making you keep your face up.
Just as you predicted, San doesn’t stop or slow his pace whatsoever. True to his promise that he’s ‘gonna make you feel so good’. Well, that promise is currently turning you into a limp, fucked out mess. You’ve never had this many orgasms so quick in succession before. It’s making your hormones go absolutely wild, and you cry harder, wetting San’s hand with your tears. The camera loves it.
There are some sounds near you that you can’t be bothered to discern, and you just lean into San’s hand on your throat. Fully intent on just letting him do whatever he wants to you at this point. He pretty much already is. Although, you’re not entirely sure how many more times you can cum without passing out. You hope he’ll stop before that happens. You don’t want to embarrass yourself like that.
San subtly taps your throat, getting your attention, before raising your head a little higher.
You blink stupidly up at the cameraman in front of you, eyes half-lidded and heavy, struggling to keep them open. You flinch a little when you see that there are two more people in front of you, the director included. When did everyone get so much closer to the bed? All of them, you notice, are at least semi-hard. Director Choi nods behind the camera, muttering inaudible praises. Your hands grip the sheets, knuckles turning white, and pull them up towards your mouth to muffle your screams. Out of frame, Director Choi motions for an assistant to pull the sheets down, ripping your comfort away, exposing how loud you’re being. Tears sting your eyes, both from exertion and from the intense pleasure San is giving you.
“Pussy’s so good… so tight and wet… could fuck you forever.”
Director Choi silently motions for San to keep talking like that.
San grunts, fighting to catch his breath enough to speak again. “Such a good girl… gonna make you cum again.”
And he does.
Before you even realize that it’s been simmering and building, it knocks into you sideways. This time, you can’t even scream. Your mouth drops open but no sound comes out due to your body locking up. San releases your throat, worried that you’re not breathing – and he’s right. He slows down considerably, moving your hair away from your face to check on you. Your body slowly relaxes again underneath him, one muscle at a time, and a low, guttural groan tears itself from your throat.
You can feel every inch of him dragging past your inner walls, and every slightest movement makes your pussy clench, trying to simultaneously push him out and suck him in further. Instead of continuing again, though, he pushes all the way into you one more time, and then stops.
It’s somehow both torture and a relief. You feel so fucking full, but he isn’t doing anything to continue the dull flames that engulf your lower stomach, and yet you know it’s better than being empty. He could pull out, leave you to deal with that emptiness before you felt ready. He doesn’t. Appreciative thoughts swirl around your head and you cry harder, trying to hide your tears in the sheets.
When the camera crew and director see that he’s not continuing, they call for another break. Everyone moves away, and there’s no longer a black cloud in front of you.
San doesn’t move an inch, though.
He brushes through your hair with his fingers, comforting you. He’s intent on waiting until you calm down, not wanting to push you too far before you’re ready. He knows he went a little crazy, instantly getting addicted to the feeling of you coming around his dick, and you deserve a break. As long as you need.
But you’re addicted yourself. A real glutton for the pleasure he’s given you thus far. You push back and wiggle against him, trying to get him to move again. His hands push you down by your hips, keeping them still. You whine at the denial, looking over your shoulder at him with teary, red eyes. He almost gives in.
“I know, baby. Just relax with me for a moment.”
You pout, another tear roaming down your cheek. Deep down, you know he’s right. Your body has been pleading for a break two orgasms ago. It’s high time you listen to it. You collapse, finally letting yourself relax, solely focusing on the quiet murmur of the crew off to the side, and San’s fingers running through your hair.
It’s a nice moment.
Nicer still when San litters your shoulders and back with gentle kisses, helping you calm down. Clearer thoughts slowly begin to reenter your mind, and your breaths even out, relatively back to normal. Better than the mixture of shallow inhales, long periods of holding your breath, and gasps for air. Because of the improved air intake, your head finally feels like it’s stopped swimming. Little by little, your energy comes back.
You take a deep inhale, sighing contently as you exhale it back out. Looking behind you again, you catch him already watching you.
“Hi,” you mumble, half-smiling.
San smirks, his hand cupping your cheek. “Hey, pretty girl. Feel okay?”
You nod, humming, and you subtly push back against him. The feeling of his cock pressing into you doesn’t shock your body as much as it did before. Now it’s a welcome, familiar feeling. Sought after. You really are addicted. Maybe even insatiable when it comes to how well he fucks you.
With the other hand, he places a water bottle in front of your face, the same one with a straw poked through the cap from before. You don’t bother wondering where he got it from. You have a pretty good idea. They’re always everywhere during a break.
Once you’re done with the bottle, he places it against one of the pillows, where it will no doubt be collected by a production assistant within seconds.
You push back again, trying to get him to move. You hear him chuckle behind you.
“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?”
Instead of contradicting his statement, you just nod. Why lie?
“Wanna make you cum too,”
San hums, just barely rolling his hips into yours. “How do you wanna do that, kitten?”
You steel yourself for what you’re about to do. Hoping he will let you go through with your plan, you pull yourself away from him, and he slips out of you. The emptiness hits just as hard as you thought it would, and you whimper at the initial feeling. If all goes to plan, you won't be for long.
San watches you carefully as you turn to face him on the bed, gently pushing him back against the pillows. His hands instinctually rest on your hips as you straddle him, and he looks up at you, patiently waiting for your next move. At least, coming across as patient externally. You don’t miss how his dick twitches, eager to be engulfed by your warmth again. He must feel something equivalent to the emptiness you felt when you pulled away.
You’ll fix that gladly.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the crew start to come back to their spots – lights, camera, microphones. They must have learned not to stay too far away when it comes to filming you two. You do your best to hide your grin.
San helps you line up the head of his cock to your entrance, and you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders as you slowly sink down. His eyes flutter shut, eyebrows furrowing as he exhales shakily. Following his lead, you don’t give him much time to adjust before you start moving.
You swear you hear him whimper. Just once, but you catch it nevertheless.
He keeps his eyes down, locked between you, watching your cunt swallow his dick over and over again. You bite your lip, nails digging into his shoulders as his hands become more firm on your hips. The next time you sink down, he pulls you down hard. You gasp, not expecting it, and he attacks your lips once again.
You kiss him back just as eagerly, increasing your pace. Your thighs already start to protest from the strain, but you can’t bring yourself to care or stop. Not when he’s moaning into your mouth like this. Every noise you pull out of him is pure music to your ears. A rhapsody you could hear a thousand times and not get bored of. You pull away from his lips just to hear him clearer, and he chases you. He nips your bottom lip, one of his hands slowly travelling up to knead one of your boobs again.
Breaths mingling, you shiver in his hold. His other hand dips down to rest on your ass, squeezing the flesh there as you bounce on his cock.
The heat of it all consumes you, drives you to get him to cum. You want to hear him. You want to repay him for making you cum four times, and put in just as much effort.
It’s a battle to try and ignore your own pleasure, building up for a fifth time. You’re not convinced you can cum again. However, now you’re willing to see what happens. If you faint, you faint.
You clench around him on purpose, grinding into him and rolling your hips, your gummy walls massaging his length and successfully driving him crazy. His head falls back against the headboard, and his fingers begin to leave bruises on your skin.
“So fucking good,” he hisses, “such a good girl… gonna make me cum so hard.”
The thought and image that accompanies it gives you a second wind of energy. Your hands move to his chest, and you press down as you continue to fuck him.
“Want you to cum inside me,” you beg him, hot breath hitting his neck. You feel him shudder underneath you.
San only nods, unable to speak. You lick a stripe up his neck, tasting the slight saltiness of his sweat and kissing the hinge of his jaw. Right next to his ear, you moan again, enjoying how he tenses up.
Suddenly, both of his arms are wrapped around your waist, and he sits up a little more. One of his hands presses into your upper back, supporting you as he starts fucking up into you, seamlessly matching your rhythm.
He lets out a choked moan, cutting it off by kissing you one more time before his eyes shut tight.
“Gonna cum…fuck, I’m gonna cum so deep inside you, kitten. Gonna feel me for days.”
You whine at his words, and he seems to have worked himself up further by saying it as well.
“Please, sir, need your cum inside of me. Please give it to me–”
San pushes you down onto your back before you can blink. Your legs wrap around him, and the pleasure increases for you almost instantaneously. When you look down, you swear you can see a slight bulge in your stomach. His lips attach to your neck, sucking and biting to muffle his moans as much as possible. Every sound he makes is so pretty.
He pounds into you without any more room for mercy, concentrating on coming again. And he can feel that you’re close again too.
“Cum with me,” he pants against your neck, “give me one more. Let me feel your pretty cunt cum on my cock one more time, baby.”
One more. You nod, eyelids growing heavy again. Everything is perfect in this moment. The feeling of his cock dragging against your walls, the head of it pressing against your g-spot and fanning the flames of your arousal until it engulfs you like wildfire; his soft, plush lips on your neck, his words in your ear, and his warm, firm skin under your hands.
As if that all wasn’t enough, San spits on his fingers and starts to rub your clit again.
Everything adds up to push you over the edge.
You cry out, body completely spent as you weakly squirt for him again. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, adrenaline and euphoria taking turns to run through your bloodstream. The sheets beneath you are completely soaked through. Every sense is both heightened and dulled. Exhaustion pulls itself over you like a weighted blanket.
And your climax triggers his.
True to his word, he comes deep inside of you, filling you up until it’s leaking. The additional warmth is comforting for a second, until your stomach begins to cramp a little bit. Not enough to hurt, but just enough for you to notice. You’re definitely not used to coming this much.
San shudders violently before dropping to his elbows, careful not to crush you under his weight. Both of you catch your breaths, chests heaving as you coax air back into your lungs. You tangle one of your hands in his hair, holding him close to you as you take this moment to settle down. He buries his face in your neck, small, audible sighs occasionally escaping him.
Unbeknownst to you, he’s never cum that hard before. Years of experience behind him, sure, he’s gotten close to this level, but never was able to reach it until now.
Reluctantly, he slowly drags himself out of your pussy, eyes immediately glancing down to see his cum leaking out. He smirks as he watches you fight to keep it inside, not wanting to let it go yet.
Then, like he does every single time, he ducks down to lick one more long, slow path up your pussy. Entrance to clit. A silent ‘thank you’. You whimper, legs closing when he pulls away.
“Cut! Print it.”
And he’s gone.
You feel you just got a violent slap back into reality.
What…just happened? You slowly push yourself up, with admittedly great difficulty.
Half of the staff flutter around you, while the others flock to San’s side, covering him up in his robe and starting to lead him towards his dressing room. The production assistants assigned to you don’t say much, handing you the same water bottle as before and urging you to drink it all. You watch the cameraman and the director talk, leisurely packing everything up. Just another day at the office. It’s all over just like that.
Meanwhile, you feel… stunned. Maybe even a little empty, and not just physically this time. You never thought about how aftercare is pretty much nonexistent in shoots like this. Everything is strictly business. Professional. Void of any emotion for the other ‘actor’. Still, as someone runs a brush through your messy hair, and someone else wraps a silk robe over your shoulders, you find that you cannot tear your gaze away from the direction of San’s dressing room door. Your eyes threaten to tear up, a dull yet powerful feeling of rejection blooming in your chest.
Maybe you aren’t cut out for this type of thing, no matter how many offers you receive. Not if this is how it ends, as if nothing happened. Like none of it mattered. Another notch in Choi San’s belt.
Director Choi suddenly appears in front of you, and you’re quick to act like nothing is wrong. “You did great,” he says, “thank you for your time today.”
You manage a fake smile and thank him as well, apologizing for any issues you may have caused by being impatient or loud.
He simply waves it off, “Happens more than you think. Have a good rest of your night, Miss Y/L/N. Maybe we’ll work together again in the future.”
‘Maybe’.
His words stick to you, gnawing at your skin like leeches. He truly didn’t mean to make you feel worse, you know that, and yet he really drove home just how… common you feel. Not special whatsoever after all.
You imagine going back home and going live again. The notorious four exclusive viewers will want to know how it went, and you’re going to have to tell them something. You doubt you’ll be able to lie. Woo will probably be able to tell something’s wrong.
Maybe, once this check hits, you can just disappear for the foreseeable future. If you’re astronomically lucky, everyone will forget it happened so you won’t have to relive the very tail end of it. You run a hand through your hair. You’re so fucking dramatic.
It hurts a little extra when even Hongjoong doesn't stick around to check in on you, tending to his star first and foremost. You can’t say you really blame him, though – that is his job. San should be his priority.
It’s just that you desperately wish for a friendly face, or someone to genuinely check in with you. Comfort you.
Not to be surrounded by strangers who won’t look you in the eye.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
You’re not sure what the plan is.
You don’t even know if he’s still here. But here you are, standing in front of his dressing room door like a fucking idiot. Another girl obsessed with him. Nothing new, just another number they’ll have to delete.
Even so, you want to try and talk to him. Ask him why the fuck he left in such a hurry. Your hands readjust their grip on your purse, with half a mind to swing it at whoever opens the door.
Gathering up all the courage imaginable, your hand raises in a fist, and you softly knock on the door three times.
To be honest, you’re not really expecting a response. Half of the staff are gone already, it’s unlikely that he’d want to stick around here any longer than he has to. When you checked the time on your phone in your dressing room, you were surprised to see that it’s already nearing nine o’clock. Your stomach had growled almost immediately upon seeing it. You look over your shoulder, watching the rest of the staff still here turning off some of the lights and gathering wires.
Distracted, you jump about a mile in the air when the door opens, revealing San, now also dressed and looking like he’s ready to leave. His eyebrows raise in surprise at the sight of you.
“Hey,” he says, so casually. “What’re you still doing here?”
Embarrassment hits you like a brick wall. Yep, just another girl on the callsheet that stuck around to beg him for more. Ugh.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you,” you say, already giving up on the whole idea of confronting him. Britney can’t help you now.
You start to turn on your heel, but he opens the door wider, stepping aside as if to invite you in. “No, no. Not bothering me. What’s up?”
Your mouth dries. Okay, now you got to follow through. But god… does he really not know? You wonder if this has never come up before. If all of the girls before you are just collectively tougher than you emotionally and can handle no aftercare, no follow up, nothing. You should be, too, honestly. You know what porn is and what it isn’t. It’s not exactly a dating service. Two hot people fuck each other and go their separate ways, money wired to them before their heads hit the pillow at night.
Still… you and Yeosang aren’t dating, and after your collab with him, he redressed you and cuddled you for an hour straight. He made sure you knew he wasn’t going anywhere, that the friendship is still intact. You weren’t being used.
You hesitate to step into his dressing room, and ultimately decide to just stay put. Stand your ground. You don’t want to take too long, you just need an answer.
Out with it.
“I was just wondering why you left so quickly? Did I do something to offend you in any way?”
San blinks, slight confusion clouding his face. “Oh, no, I just– I saw your form. Didn’t want to hang around and make you uncomfortable.”
Now you stare at him, just as confused. “Wait, what? What about my form?”
“You checked off ‘Hard No’ to aftercare.”
…Pardon?
No way.
He must see the bewilderment in your face because he fishes his phone out of his pocket to show you.
“Yeah, Hongjoong said…” he trails off, the light of his phone screen reflecting in his dark brown eyes. “Yeah, look.”
He holds his phone up to show you, and you step closer to it, squinting to see for yourself. Sure enough, amidst all of the other dozens of checkmarks, you accidentally fucked yourself over and selected ‘Hard No’ for aftercare. Luckily, you didn’t select one of the bodily fluid options as a ‘Hard Yes’ in your evident past confusion. You bury your face in your hands.
“Oh my god. That was meant to be a ‘Hard Yes’.” You groan. Guilt threatens to eat you alive for all your negative thoughts towards him, and the texts you sent Yeosang while in your dressing room after the fact. You’re going to have to do some serious damage control to get Yeosang to not hate him forever. It’ll surely start with a screenshot of the form you fucked up, followed by a dramatic statement of your stupidity.
San pockets his phone again, almost sheepish. He hesitantly steps closer to you, unsure of how to fix this.
“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, “I should’ve double checked with you.”
“No, no, please don’t blame yourself when it’s my own mistake.”
“Still…” he trails off, looking down at the floor.
It hits you that he’s really hurt by this. Hurt for you.
“San…” you tilt your head to try and meet his eye. “It’s alright, really. I feel much better now that I know it wasn’t on purpose or because I did something wrong.”
“I’d never do that to you, or anybody. I always stress how important aftercare is to the directors I work with so they don’t try to rush through it.” San runs a hand through his freshly-washed hair as he speaks, exasperated. You vaguely remember him saying something akin to that in one of the interviews that you watched.
Damn, he really is nice. Here you were at the start of this, thinking he’d be a cocky son of a bitch who has the world at his feet, and anything he wants within arms reach. The last two parts of that description may be right, but your assumed attitude is definitely not. Well… maybe not entirely. The cockiness isn’t used to make anyone feel small, that’s the important difference. It’s confidence, more than anything.
“I know,” you smile, trying to make him feel better. “Really, it’s okay.”
He seems unconvinced. “Can I make it up to you in some way?”
You shift your weight from one foot to the other. If you wouldn’t immediately cringe at yourself for doing so, you’d maybe ask for a hug or something. Physical contact in any way to comfort you, make you believe it. But the guilt he obviously feels is enough. The knowledge that he truly thought it’s something you were so against, and he respected it anyway, is more than enough.
“You don’t have to, San.”
“I want to, Y/N.”
Your pulse skips a beat, wondering what he has in mind. The way he said it was so final, like he made up his mind already. His phone reappears in his hand, texting someone quickly and sending it off. He then reaches into his dressing room, turning off the light after doing a quick scan of it and closing the door behind him.
“Can I walk you out?”
That, you’ll allow.
“Sure. Are you going home?” You ask, changing the subject as the two of you start walking towards the exit doors.
“Nah, not yet. There’s a gym on this floor I’m gonna go to first.”
You just nod in response, wondering how on earth he has the energy to go to the gym right now. You have a very special date with your bed for the foreseeable future. It’s highly doubtful that you’ll wake up before three in the afternoon. Truthfully, you can’t wait. Maybe you’ll sleep off some of the soreness you’re sure to have tomorrow.
“Oh, by the way, do you have an agent?” San asks you out of nowhere, right before you get to the doors.
You blink once. Twice, processing. “No…?”
Yeosang’s the only one who may even come close. He’s the one you ask before doing anything, wanting his opinion and blessing. But technically and professionally, no, you’re an independent artist as far as you’re concerned.
“I’d find one soon,” San says, glancing towards the bed, soaked through. “You’re about to get a lot of offers.”
You blush furiously, reminded of everything that transpired between you barely an hour ago. “Maybe I should just take yours.”
San groans, “Honestly, do it. I’m sure Joong could use a break from my bullshit.”
You laugh, trying to hide it with your hand. San pretends to be offended that you agree, clutching his heart in betrayal, which makes you laugh harder. The doors push open, the white fluorescent lights blinding both of you after being so used to the golden studio lights on set.
“Maybe I will let you have him,” he says, a smirk growing across his face. “It’s good manners.”
He looks at you like he knows something you don’t, and it bothers you. The word choice sounds familiar, but you can’t place it. Before you can ask, he steps closer to you, invading your personal space for the first time since being intimate with each other. You hold your breath.
“Goodnight, baby.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead before walking down towards the opposite end of the hallway, where you can only assume is the direction of the gym.
Fuckin’ hell…
You stand there like an idiot for another couple of seconds, still processing what just happened in the span of five minutes. You also try to figure out the implication behind his word choice. ‘Manners’. It bugs you so much, you know you heard something about it recently, but can’t pinpoint where or when.
The question of what he meant follows you all the way to the lobby. You press the down button on autopilot, just now remembering to text the driver to tell him that you’re ready to be picked up downstairs and taken home. From down the hallway, you hear the door to the studio swing open again – probably some of the crew heading home as well. You glance towards the stairs, not exactly jumping at the chance to be stuck in an elevator with a bunch of strangers who watched you have sex an hour ago.
But the footsteps that follow the sound of the door closing are what gives you pause. They’re hurried, and headed towards the lobby. The elevator dings behind you. You turn around just as the mystery runner comes around the corner.
“Oh! Hi, Mr. Kim–”
Hongjoong jogs over to you, catching you before the elevator doors open.
“Sorry if I startled you. San is wondering if we can arrange another collab, but this time on your livestream.” He speaks quickly, like time is of the essence.
You stutter, brain trying to connect with your vocal cords.
“What?” You ask, even though you heard and processed everything Hongjoong said just fine. You’re just wondering if you actually heard him right. Today just keeps getting stranger and stranger. More interesting, definitely.
He’s quick to repeat himself, almost pleading with his eyes for you to say ‘yes’.
At least with the emails you had some time to think everything over. Now Hongjoong is staring dead at you, waiting for the response he hopes to hear.
You can’t help it. You want to make him chase you again.
“Tell him I’ll think about it,” you say as sweetly as possible, stepping into the elevator.
You try not to enjoy the perplexed look on Hongjoong’s face until the doors close completely.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
You have no idea how he does it, truly.
Everything in his world is immediate. You’re not used to it whatsoever.
Those are the thoughts you have as you step out of the elevator in your apartment building, walking up to your door. You're more than ready to throw your shit down in the kitchen and go the fuck to bed. Your phone is in the process of being fished out of your pocket, intent on texting Yeosang to ask if he's around for a debrief.
You stop dead in your tracks when you look up, about to unlock the front door. Perched tall and proud, is a beautiful bouquet of purple flowers in a glass vase right outside your door. A card is placed in between the overlapping petals, and you can’t help but gawk at the sight of it.
How the hell did he find your address?
Oh– Hongjoong, probably. Your initial creeped-out feeling vanishes. Hongjoong can just find anything for San, you’re sure.
Punching in the keycode to your door, and switching the kitchen lights on, you place the flowers on the counter, taking a second to admire them. Purple, you note. Your favorite. Again, Hongjoong must have told him, but you can’t help but smile – he really did want to make it up to you.
You pluck the small card from the flowers and read it, sitting down at your kitchen island.
Hope you had a good time today.
Sorry for being such a stupid slut </3
-San
Your smile widens, laughing and rereading it. You flip it over, and on the back is a phone number, scrawled in blue ink.
Perhaps you missed a hidden clause in the forms that makes you promise to not fall in love with him.
choi san. your hopelessly obsessed boyfriend. you ask one innocent question about what he does when you’re not around and immediately regret it .. or do you?
a/n : hi guys! after almost a year away, i figured my comeback should be the successor to my fic 'keep talking'. thank you for 800+ followers. i love yall
You’re wrapped around your boyfriend like a koala, half in his lap, half sprawled across his chest when the thought suddenly hits you.
You pull back, narrow your eyes, tilt your head all suspicious:
“Wait… when I’m not here… do you, like… get yourself off?”
San freezes mid–back rub.
“…Huh?”
“Answer. The question.”
Your eyes squint even harder.
He sighs, looks away, rubs the bridge of his nose.
“Baby, why would you ask me something like—”
“Cause I wanna know!”
He stares at you… then gives up.
“I watch our tapes.”
“Huh?”
“Our sex tapes.”
“San—”
“And I look at your Instagram pictures.”
“San.”
“And sometimes I screenshot your bikini photos before you delete them.”
“San???”
“And sometimes I use the ones where you’re adjusting your top because you always look flustered and—”
“Stop—”
He keeps going, dead serious, like he’s reading a grocery list:
“And that one video where you’re laughing and your boobs bounce a little? Yeah. That one goes crazy. Top-tier.”
“What????”
“And those mirror selfies where your hair is messy. And the ones where you’re not even trying. Those are the worst.”
He shifts under you, already getting hard just thinking about it.
You smack his chest.
“You’re SICK.”
He shrugs.
“I’m in love.”
You slap him harder.
“You’re DEPRAVED.”
Another shrug.
“You’re SEXY.”
You bury your face in your hands, dying.
He gently pulls them away, lowering his voice:
“You asked, baby. You really think I jerk off to random women? No. Everything I do, I do to you.”
He leans in, kissing your cheek, jaw, neck.
“And if you want… I can show you exactly how I do it.”
You slide off his lap just a little, sitting between his knees, eyes wide and way too curious for his sanity.
“…Show me, then.”
San blinks once. Twice.
His Adam’s apple jumps.
“…Yeah?” he asks, voice already dropping into that low, dangerous tone.
You nod.
He drags a hand down his face like he knows he’s about to ruin you with this demonstration alone.
“Okay,” he mutters, leaning back into the couch, legs spreading a little, “but don’t— don’t laugh. I’m serious.”
You bite your lip.
He sees it. He groans.
Then he slips a hand under the waistband of his sweats, pulls himself out, already half-hard from the conversation alone. His breaths get shaky, on purpose, because he knows you’re watching.
“Normally…” he starts, eyes flicking to yours, “…I start slow. Just— thinking about you walking around the house, tiny little outfit, pretending you’re not teasing me.”
His thumb glides over the tip spreading the precum, — and he sighs, deep, breathy, borderline whimpering.
You swallow so hard he hears it.
“And then,” he continues, pumping slowly, “I think about how you look when you ride me… all loud and needy…”
You shift on your knees.
He definitely notices.
His lashes flutter, and he lets out a soft, broken “mmh—fuck…”
You scoot closer.
He moans again, high, pretty, shameless, because he’s absolutely doing this on purpose now.
“You like watching me, baby?” he breathes out, jaw clenching, hips lifting into his own hand. “Yeah… you do…”
You nod, dazed.
He groans, throwing his head back for a second, biting his lip dramatically, exaggerating it because he knows it gets you.
Then he looks at you through heavy lids.
“You always make me this hard,” he whispers, voice cracking just a little. “Even when you’re not here.”
Your thighs press together.
He smirks, then lets out another deliberate whimper, soft and choked, like he knows it shoots straight into your bloodstream.
“Come here,” he murmurs, hand stroking himself faster. “If you’re gonna watch… watch up close.”
You crawl into his lap.
He pulls your hand to his stomach—
so warm, tense, shaking, and keeps moaning softly, messy and pretty, just for you.
He’s doing all of this on purpose.
You lean in so close he can feel your breath on his throat, eyes glued to every movement of his hand, every twitch of his stomach, every shaky inhale he lets slip.
And San loses his mind over it.
“Jesus…” he whispers, voice cracking when he looks down and sees your face—eyes blown wide, lips parted, studying him like he’s something you want to taste. “You’re really watching me like this…?”
You nod slowly. His chest stutters.
He bites his lip so hard a muscle in his jaw jumps.
“That’s— fuck— this is the hottest thing you’ve ever done,” he mutters, voice warm and breathless. He spreads his legs wider, giving you a better view, pumping his hand a little harder… slower… letting you see everything. “You’re looking at me like you wanna eat me alive.”
“San,” you breathe.
His eyes darken instantly.
“Oh my god…” he laughs under his breath, ruined already, “you’re obsessed with me.”
Your face heats.
He cups your chin with his free hand, forcing you to hold eye contact while the other keeps stroking, wet and filthy and slow enough to make your stomach twist.
“You like how I do it?” he whispers.
You nod. His smile is evil.
“You like seeing what I do when you’re not home?”
Another nod.
His grip tightens. His thighs flex under you.
“Y’know what I think about?” he murmurs, leaning closer until your noses almost touch. “You. On your knees. Mouth open. Eyes like that. Waiting for me.”
Your breath catches.
He groans.
“Keep watching,” he says, voice low and trembly. “Don’t look away. Not once.”
You don’t.
Your eyes track the movement of his hand, the veins on his forearm, the way his stomach tightens every time he pumps upward. He notices. He feels your stare. It makes him moan again—soft, involuntary, almost shy.
You whisper, barely audible:
“…You look so hot.”
He chokes on a breath. His hips jerk.
And his voice drops even lower, wrecked and proud and starving:
“Say that again.”
You whisper it again, slower. “So fucking hot.”
You slide closer—slow, curious, innocent in that way that makes his whole body seize up—and tilt your head.
“Can I help…?”
His hand falters on himself, eyes snapping to yours like you just offered him the cure to every problem he’s ever had.
“…yeah,” he whispers, voice already breaking, “yeah—baby, c’mere.”
Your smaller hand slips under his, replaces his stroke.
The second your skin touches him he whimpers—a real one, sharp and desperate, right against your neck.
“Oh—fuck—”
His head drops to your shoulder.
He’s trembling.
He grabs your wrist gently, guiding your rhythm, but you’re already doing it exactly how he likes—soft at the base, tight at the top, twisting up just a little—
“Baby,” he gasps, breath hitting your collarbone, “you’re—fuck—you’re so good at this—”
His hips buck into your palm.
His hand is gripping your thigh, hard enough to bruise.
You look up at him through your lashes and his knees actually shake.
“That’s it,” you whisper, teasing, “you like when I do it?”
He moans.
A pretty, broken, breathy sound right into your ear.
“I love—when you—help me—god—fuuuck”
He’s collapsing, chest heaving, face flushed, thighs tense beneath you.
The wet slick sound of your hand working him faster fills the room and he completely loses the last bit of control he had.
“Y/N—baby—oh my god I’m gonna cum—”
You tighten your grip, stroke him exactly how he likes—
His whole body jerks—
He lets out the most ruined groan you’ve ever heard—
And he finishes right into your hand, warm and messy and so much more than you expected.
He collapses into you, panting into your shoulder, completely melted.
Your sticky hand is still resting on him when he finally breathes again.
“…you’re gonna kill me,” he whispers, voice wrecked, trembling all over. “You’re actually gonna kill me.”
You hold your hand up— dripping.Absolutely covered in him. A warm, glossy mess.
Your eyes go wide on purpose.
“…San.”
He looks up from your shoulder, dazed, hair a mess, breaths still shaking.
And you wiggle your fingers.
“Look at this! You're. SO. Desperate.”
His whole face flushes scarlet.
“Baby—” he groans, grabbing your wrist to hide the evidence, “don’t… don’t say it like that…”
But you lean back, smirking like the menace you are.
“You made a huge mess. This is—San, this is ridiculous. You couldn’t even hold it for a second??”
He hides his face in your neck, mortified, whining like a grown man being scolded.
“You can’t tease me after what you just did to me,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin, “I warned you—I told you I was close—you kept going—baby, you know what you were doing—”
“No,” you say, faking innocence, showing your sticky palm again, “you’re nasty. Nasty. Look at this.”
He pulls your wrist down, panicked.
“Stop showing it to me!”
His voice cracks. “I know what I did!”
You laugh so hard he swats your thigh lightly, embarrassed, still breathless.
Then he looks up at you—eyes heavy, lips parted, totally ruined—and mutters:
“…clean your hand before you start teasing me again or I swear I’ll make an even bigger mess.”
OH.
You grab a warm towel and clean him up gently, slow little wipes that make him flinch because he’s still sensitive.
You purposely kiss the tip softly just to watch him jolt.
“Y/N—!”
You kiss it again..
He slaps a hand over his face.
“Stop… you’re gonna kill me…”
You hop off the bed, still glowing, still smug, and go to the mirror.
You clean yourself up too—wiping your mouth, fixing your hair—
But then curiosity hits.
You look at your fingers.
You look at him in the reflection.
You drag your tongue over them.
Slow.
Purposeful.
San’s jaw drops.
“…that tastes kinda good.
Somebody changed their diet. Good boy.”
His ears turn red.
“Why would you DO that?!”
You shrug in the mirror, wiping your lips.
“I was curious.”
“That’s not— you can’t just— you—”
He’s literally malfunctioning.
you kind of wished he had never found out about it. not really, but now it certainly seems he likes to use it as leverage against you.
your boyfriend was gentle in all the ways that count. soft touches that made you feel like precious art. sweet words of encouragement that made you feel seen. but sometimes you feel like he might be too gentle with you.
the only times he ever let that soft-handed mask down were when he was fucking you.
and the first time he ever found out about your little infatuation, he seemed to have grown a little more comfortable with roughing it up a little.
“oh god… oh baby. fuck, you feel so good.” on your stomach, face pressed into the sheets, san’s face nudged in the tight space where your neck meets your shoulder. his arms caged either side of your head, resting his forearms next to your ears.
his chest was glued to your back, your spine digging into his stomach. bare and hot and wet, your bodies pressed against each other without an inch of space to speak for. your entire body shivered when he forced himself deeper into you, his curved, thick cock splitting your cunt open.
this position had him so deep, so invasive, so full. his hips rolled against the flesh of your ass, san’s voice dipping low in needy moans when you squeezed around him while he pulled his hips back, listening to the slick sound your pussy made, trying to keep him inside.
“pussy’s so warm today, baby.” he lets his mouth fall open against the shell of your ear, panting and groaning to make your brain melt. “making me feel so fucking crazy, you make me feel crazy, pretty.”
you forced your head out of the pillow when you felt his thrusts slow to a deep grind, pulling a ragged whine from your mouth. you pried your eyes open to watch as his arms moved around your head.
“turn, look at us.” he kisses below your ear, and drags his tongue up the side of your cheek. his right arm reaches and grabs his phone from the corner of the bed, holding it tight in his hand and scrolling and pressing buttons.
you forget he keeps a tall mirror against his bedroom wall, right next to the end of his bed. you can see the top halves of your melded bodies. his big, broad shoulders shadow your littler form under him. his soft, flushed face meeting your eyes in the reflection, his big, meaty arms flexing and twitching around your head every time he moved.
you watch to try and see what he was doing, and he punishes your nosiness with a sharp, deep thrust that makes your calf lock up.
“mind your business, babydoll.” he grumbles, then you feel it. his left arm curls around the front of your throat, tight. the muscles twitch and contract over your neck, just enough to limit your breathing. snug, warm and secure around the front of your throat.
he feels you tighten around his cock, and it makes his skin prickle. “ooh, fuck…” he groans and you feel his voice vibrate against your back. you forced your eyes up and you can see his phone recording your reflection in the mirror. catching the fucked out look on your face, his thick arm wrapped around your throat in an owning headlock.
his mouth spreads into a sly grin when your eyes roll when he pulls back his hips and then sinks his cock back into you so slowly, so smoothly, your legs jerk under him to try and escape the feeling.
“my soft little slut…” san leans down to whisper in your ear, the flash of his camera moving with each thrust. he licks the tears that pool at the corner of your eyes before he drags his head back up to watch you both in the mirror.
“look at you go, baby.” he praises around a heated smile. “drooling all over my arm like some kind of puppy. does that feel good? hm?”
you whimper out an incoherent agreement, and he giggles softly, littering the nape of your neck with soft kisses. he adjusts his hips to drag against that deeper, sweeter spot, that makes you still and lightly sink your teeth into his arm.
he keeps that meaner pace, deep heavy strokes in your guts that you can do nothing but lie under his body and take. his arm around your neck made clouds swim around in your brain. he tightens the hold, and you squeal loudly, barely catching the way he zooms in with his phone to better catch the pretty look on your face.
your cheeks squished by his muscles, your eyes desperate and heavy-lidded. he thought you looked so cute, and who would’ve thought that all he had to do to get you this needy was to put you in a headlock.
san fucks you greedily, the curve of him perfectly hitting that spot that turned your mind off. his voice egged you on, his low moans, and his pretty heavy breaths. groaning ’mhms’ of approval with every thrust into you as if he was grading the feel of your cunt around him. with every stroke, you only seemed to get even wetter, and the proof was the sticky web of your slick that clung to his base.
“mm, i love fucking my baby, slow… and stupid.” he attaches his lips to the pulse point on your neck, sucking and running his tongue over the sensitive spot of skin. “jus wanna fuck you so deep it hurts.”
he’s in your ear, talking to you and only you. all the while his phone catches every moment, every thrust and every moan.
his lower stomach repeatedly brushes against your back, his cock stirring up your insides at the most, torturous and delicate pace. the slow smack of flesh, the sticky hollow sound of your cunt swallowing all of him.
you feel his knees brace against either side of your hips again, adjusting his posture a little. his arm around your throat tightens to your near limit, his head nudges against your neck, his lips whispering against your cheek.
this way he uses your neck as leverage to anchor is body to allow him to fuck his cock into you a little faster, a little rougher.
“yeah, baby, yeah. take all of me. all of me.” san’s voice drops into a breathy purr, pressing his lips directly against your ear, the soft skin tickling you. “givin this pussy a workout hm?”
you groan and kick your feet, and he laughs at you as hand from the arm he’s got your neck trapped in buries itself in your tangled hair and yanks your head to the side so you’re fully facing the mirror, your ear resting below his jaw.
“you like to be lazy. you like to lie here— fuck… lie here and take dick, helpless and limp. let sannie do all the work huh, princess? let this pussy do all the work for you?”
he turns his head and your eyes catch in the mirror. his eyes are lidded, competent and heated. yours are foggy, tear-glazed, spent. he smiles at your expression and growls under his breath when you clench around his dick again.
his fingers scrape against your scalp with every heavy stroke of his hips, his pretty grunts and moans making your belly twist into swirls.
your hands grasp at the sheets, your cries coming out choked and breathy then more san fucked you, and he seemingly forgot that you needed to breathe until you tapped on his bicep to tell him to let up.
he does immediately, loosening the hold on your throat. you gasp and choke, but he doesn’t stop moving his hips, fucking you slow and deep while you regain your breath.
“aww, ‘m sorry babydoll.” he kisses your temple and you could feel him giggle against your skin. his voice lowers to that brain ticking whisper and you feel your air stolen from you again.
“bet you would’ve looked so pretty passed out on my cock.” he finally sets down his phone and takes his now free hand and trails it down your body, running along the side of your waist, his hips never stopping that deep, languid push and pull.
“looking all soft and sleepy.” his hand snakes between your body and the bed and finds your clit with his coarse fingertips. you gasp and squirm under him, your body shaking as a plea for mercy. san only laughs, circling upwards against the sensitive nerves while he splits your pussy open, over and over and over again.
“think i could still make you cum in your sleep princess?” he whispers against your throat and you feel as his arm tightens its hold around your throat once again. you feel the bed start to shake and your cunt start to burn with pleasure as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, filling you long and deep at just the right angle.
“mmhm, soak my cock baby.” he growls under a moan, letting his tongue fall from his mouth and tasting the flushed skin on your throat. “make it smell like you.”
he bites his bottom lip and his eyebrows furrow, his cock pounding into you so full he just might had been close to fucking your cervix.
his fingers on your clit continue to move at that dragging, spherical pattern that helps that pressure build slowly. stroke my stroke, praise by praise. you melt under his body while he uses you as he sees fit. your pussy sucks him in everytime he draws back, your pretty little moans make san’s head spin.
“gonna fuck myself to that video everynight while im on tour.” he promises against your skin, your orgasm dangerously close to sweeping you onto the floor. he rolls his hips with every thrust, forcing his fat tip to press against your gspot.
“eee..every n-night..?” you whimper deliriously, his cock effectively having cut off all cognitive function, a stupid smile spread across your face.
he laughs and kisses your shoulder as he rolls his hips a little harder. “mhm, every night baby. i'll send you some videos so this pussy-” he thrusts hard this time, as if acknowledging her himself. “-doesn't miss me too much. want you to remember how good i make you feel while i'm gone.”
you shake violently when his tip nudges that spot just right, and right at that moment you cum on the spot. your limbs jerk and twitch and once san’s felt you cumming he eases his hips into a faster rut, pounding your pussy through your orgasm, fucking you through it.
“there we go, there we go. let it take you baby, keep cumming, keep cumming for me.” he pinches your clit and teases it with gentle brushes while he mounts you on his mattress.
his arm is covered in your drool, the red indentations of your bite marks inflamed on his skin. san looks back at you in the mirror, and you’re too out of it to notice as he pulls out his phone again and starts to record the reflection.
your eyes are shut and your brows are furrowed in bliss, lips parted in pathetic whines, your cheek resting against his bicep. he keeps his eyes on the mirror as your face twists in overstimulation when he starts to grind his cock deep into you.
his muscles flex, and he can feel the strain in his wrist from continually holding the camera up to capture you two. your shoulder twitches every time he bottoms out into your pussy, and your eyelids flutter every time he presses his palm against your lower stomach. he catches every change in expression, every twitch of your body, every lilt in your moans.
he always misses you so bad when hes away, so he always makes sure he fucks you so unbelievably well that you could probably do without him for at least a few days.
until you’re sore, or your stomach burns, or you physically can’t cum anymore. and he’ll be so methodic, so thorough, so gentle. anything to get you satiated for the first few days in his absence.
he's gotta work you out of his system somehow anyway, or else he'll be a horny, delirious wreck on tour.
genre: non idol!au, college!au, fluff, kind of a slow burn with a very happy ending, mutual pining!!!!!!!! he falls first and hard, she too falls hard and fast :)))
word count: 25k, deadass.
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warnings: acquaintances to lovers, economics jumpscare, reader is a tutor and mingi is your not so average frat dude that does an athletic scholarship, eventual smut, praise kink!!!!!, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dry humping, lowk breeding kink mingi freaky, switch!mingi & reader, softdom!mingi, spanking (?), possessive!mingi, cockwarming (a lil!) / lmk if i missed any!
author's note: guys i finally locked in!!! this story has been such a bitch to write but i'm finally happy with it lmfaoaoo. the only reason why it took so long its cause i deadass remembered all my econ concepts from my first year at uni and i got flashbacks sooooo. if its inaccurate don't come for me. also ngl mingi ain't even that much of a fratboy, he is but he's a little nerd!! you'll see - i hope you guys enjoy!!
permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))
You hear him before you see him. The sound is impossible to miss—someone’s torn the universe open and stuffed it with a live wire; the room buzzes, vibrates, orbits around a single axis. Song Mingi is that axis, black hair messy from hands that are never his own, smile bright enough to reflect off the bottles lining the kitchen counter. It’s the kind of house party that exists more as myth than reality until you’re standing in the middle of it, your feet sticky with last weekend’s spilled vodka, your ears ringing from bass and laughter and the high-pitched screeching of people who either want to be him or be with him.
You don’t want either. In fact, you don’t really want to be here, but your roommate insisted—a rare Friday night without any assignments due—and now she’s traded you for a swarm of sweaty college kids in the living room. You’re left clutching a warm can of seltzer, surveying the landscape like a tourist on safari: here, the drunken pack of freshman girls hunched over a phone for a group selfie; there, the duo of varsity rowers relishing about morning practice, each trying to outdo the other’s misery; everywhere, the constant, inescapable gravitational pull of him.
He’s posted at the middle of it all, a bottle of expensive liquor in one hand and a girl in the other. She’s whispering in his ear, probably promising him things people only say out loud when their inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol and the hope of being remembered. It’s a practised scene, and you can tell from the way Mingi’s eyes slide from her face to the crowd and back again that he’s already bored. He’s hunting, you realise, and the realisation leaves you faintly amused.
You’ve had classes with him before and found his intellect sharper than his reputation suggests, but he’s never bothered to speak to you directly, which is fine. You prefer it that way. You know exactly what happens to girls who mistake the man for the myth.
But tonight, for whatever reason, he looks right at you.
You don’t realise it at first; you’re half-listening to the rowers behind you, half-calculating the economic impact of the university’s new housing policy for the department group chat. There’s a lull in the noise, a momentary vacuum, and then his gaze lands like a physical thing. It takes you off guard—the pure concentration of it, as if he’s seeing you in high-definition while the rest of the house blurs into obscurity. His attention is so heavy, so absolute, that even the girl on his arm notices and goes rigid with annoyance.
Your instinct is to look away. But for some reason, you don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in your veins, maybe it’s the novelty of being the focal point in a room devoted to him, but you meet his eyes and hold them. Mingi’s mouth quirks, not into a smirk but something strange and speculative, and when he finally looks away, it feels less like defeat and more like a challenge accepted.
Within the hour, he maneuvers his way to your side of the party, the girl from before abandoned to the mercy of the crowd. He props an elbow on the countertop, leans in so dangerously close, “Didn’t think this was your scene.”
You arch an eyebrow, the response easy. “It really isn’t, my roommate dragged me out.”
He grins, all teeth and promise. “I have to thank her for bringing such a pretty girl to my party.”
You roll your eyes, annoyed but not surprised. The rest of the party moves around you in a kind of staccato blur. A game of beer pong erupts into a shouting match in the dining room; someone’s Bluetooth speaker dies mid-chorus, leading to a plaintive chorus of off-key singing. People bump into you, apologise, and then linger a beat longer than necessary to see if you’re still talking to Mingi. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. He asks what you’re studying, and you answer. You ask him what he wants to do after graduation, and he shrugs, but the gesture is so carefree yet careful.
“If this soccer thing doesn’t work out, I’ll intern at some start-up company,” he explained. “Or I’ll sell feet pics.”
You cringe at the image. The girl from before stalks past, her glare sharp enough to sever arteries. Mingi watches her go but his gaze falls right back to you.
By midnight, the house dissolves into its constituent parts: the freshies, the clean-up crew, the drunk casualties. Mingi drifts away, then back again—at your side, across the kitchen, never quite out of reach. He offers you a drink at one point; you decline, still nursing the same seltzer. It doesn’t stop him. He keeps finding his way back, as if every conversation eventually leads to you.
You leave before he does. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no exchanged numbers or whispered invitations—just a passing nod, the kind that could mean anything or nothing at all. You don’t look back. By the time you’re out the door (your roommate long gone with a lacrosse player, leaving you to fend for yourself), the night already feels like it’s starting to blur at the edges. Whatever that was, if it was anything, you let it go.
Inside, though, Mingi doesn’t. He’s still watching the spot where you disappeared, gaze fixed a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to reappear. The noise of the party swells back in around him, but he doesn’t move—drink untouched, conversation abandoned mid-thread.
A shoulder bumps into his.
“What’s with that look on your face?”
Mingi blinks, like he’s just been pulled back into the room. “What look?”
Yunho huffs a quiet laugh. “That look. You had heart eyes bro don't even play.”
Mingi scoffs, quick, automatic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, following his line of sight to the now-empty doorway before glancing back at him. Mingi exhales through his nose, finally tearing his gaze away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he can shake it off. He should've definitely asked for your number.
══════════════════
Monday morning arrives with the kind of headache that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with three consecutive all-nighters. Professor Kim’s Advanced Macroeconomic Theory is notoriously brutal, and you’ve spent the weekend buried under supply-demand graphs and inflation models. As you slide into your usual seat, you’re already mentally rehearsing your presentation on fiscal policy scheduled for next week.
Which is why, when Mingi strolls through the lecture hall doors at 8:58 AM, you momentarily forget how to function.
He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his class, or at least it hasn’t been for the past six weeks. You’ve never seen him in this lecture hall before, despite it being nearly midterm. Yet there he is, wearing dark jeans and a simple white button down that somehow looks so irritatingly good on his frame, scanning the room with casual confidence. His eyes find yours immediately, as if it’s magnetised. The smile that follows is different from Friday night’s—smaller, more genuine, it was like he wanted to see you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s navigating the row of seats, stepping over backpacks and laptops until he’s standing right next to you.
“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.
You blink, thrown by the unexpected proximity. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”
“I’m full of surprises.” He drops into the seat, arranging his long legs in the cramped space. “So, how’d you find the party?”
The question is casual, but there’s something careful in his tone, as if your answer matters more than he’s letting on. You notice he pulled out a notebook AND a pen, this was definitely exceeding your expectations of him. Then again, what did you expect anyway?
“It was... something,” you reply, deliberately vague. “Though I’m surprised to see you conscious before noon, much less in an 8 AM econ lecture.”
He laughs, the sound low enough not to draw attention but warm enough to settle somewhere beneath your ribs. “What, you think I spend all my mornings hungover?”
“The evidence suggested a statistical probability.”
“Maybe I’m an outlier.” He leans closer, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—smelling faintly of citrus and cedarwood. “Or I just needed the right motivation to show up.”
Thankfully Professor Kim walks in and begins the lecture, leaving you no time to tweak out over whatever the fuck he said. You expect Mingi to lose interest, to pull out his phone, or to doze off, like half the class inevitably does when the professor starts droning on about aggregate demand curves. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes focused on the presentation slides. Ten minutes in, when he introduces a particularly convoluted model, Mingi shifts slightly toward you.
“Hey,” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If the Phillips curve is supposed to show the inverse relationship between unemployment and inflation, why is he saying it’s unstable in the long run?”
The question catches you off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because it’s astute. “Because expectations adjust,” you whisper back. “Workers anticipate inflation and demand higher wages, which shifts the curve.”
He nods, considering this. “So it’s only reliable as a short-term predictor?”
“Yeah, you got it.”
Throughout the next hour, Mingi continues to ask questions—thoughtful ones that reveal he’s not just listening but actively processing. Each time he leans in, you feel a strange flutter of... something. Not just attraction, though that’s undeniably there, but surprise. Mingi, the guy who supposedly once turned the campus fountain into a bubble bath during finals week, is engaging with macroeconomic theory like it genuinely interests him.
“The Solow model assumes diminishing returns to capital,” he murmurs at one point, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t that contradict what we’re seeing with tech companies? They seem to get increasing returns the bigger they get.”
You stare at him for a beat too long. “That’s... actually a good point. The model was developed before the rise of digital economies. Network effects change the math.”
A smile spreads across his face, pleased and slightly smug, as if he’s won something. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”
The comment should be annoying, but delivered in a whisper while the professor drones on about growth rates, it makes you roll your eyes and bite back a smile instead. By the time class ends, you’ve had to recalibrate your entire perception of him. He’s taken actual notes. He’s asked intelligent questions. He’s made connections between concepts that some of your study group members still struggle with. It’s disorienting, like discovering your cat can suddenly understand what you’re saying. As you pack up your laptop, he lingers, watching you with that same intense focus from the party.
“So,” he says, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I think I deserve some credit for showing up today. Maybe we could grab coffee, and you could explain more about that Phillips curve thing?”
The invitation is transparent—he doesn’t need your help understanding the Phillips curve—but there’s something almost endearing about his attempt.
“Is that your go-to line?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “Pretend to need academic help to get a date?”
“Only with the smart ones.” His grins unapologetically. “Is it working?”
You laugh, shaking your head as you stand. “No. Nice try, though.”
Rather than looking discouraged, his eyes light up with what can only be described as delighted challenge. He falls into step beside you as you head for the door.
“You know what this means, right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Now I have to come up with something better for Wednesday’s class.”
“Wednesday’s class?” You stop at the doorway, genuinely surprised. “You’re coming back?”
Mingi looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course. I paid for this course, didn’t I? Besides,” he adds, his smile turning slightly wicked, “I’ve got a new reason to show up now.”
Before you can protest this presumptuous declaration, he’s backing away, walking backward down the hallway with that infuriating confidence.
“See you Wednesday,” he calls. “Maybe by then you’ll have reconsidered that coffee date.”
You watch him go, torn between irritation and a reluctant spark of interest. The worst part is, you already know you’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the day, analysing his questions, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were a particularly fascinating economic theory he was determined to master. Despite your best intentions, you’re already wondering what he’ll come up with on Wednesday.
══════════════════
True to his word, Mingi shows up to every single class over the next few weeks. Not just Macroeconomic Theory, but your shared Political Science workshop and even the optional Economics Department lectures that most students skip. Each time, he gravitates toward you like you’re the north to his south, sliding into adjacent seats with casual determination.
At first, you’re suspicious—waiting for the punchline, the reveal that this is some elaborate bet or another frat bro prank. The punchline never comes. Instead, he brings you coffee and snacks, asks thoughtful questions about the material, and occasionally makes you laugh with whispered commentary when Professor Kim goes on one of his tangents about his glory days at the Federal Reserve.
You find yourself slipping into a strange routine. He’ll wait for you after class, walking you to your next destination while debating fiscal multipliers or the ethics of quantitative easing. Sometimes his soccer teammates call out to him across the quad, and you watch the transformation—how he shifts into the boisterous, larger-than-life Mingi they expect, before settling back into the more thoughtful version when he returns to your side.
It’s Tuesday afternoon when everything shifts. The library is packed with students cramming for midterms, the air thick with desperation and the smell of overpriced coffee. You’ve claimed your usual table by the economics stacks when Mingi drops into the chair across from you, his expression unusually serious.
“I need to ask you something,” he says, no preamble, no charming smile.
You glance up from your notes, pen hovering. “Okay?”
He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “I need a tutor.”
You stare at him, waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, you set down your pen. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been getting the material just fine.”
“No, I haven’t.” His voice is lower now, stripped of its usual confidence. “I’ve been barely keeping up. The midterm’s in two weeks, and I’m—“ He stops, jaw tightening. “I need to pass this class with at least a B+.”
“You’ve been answering questions in class,” you counter, confused by this sudden admission. “You made that connection about endogenous growth theory that even Professor Kim said was insightful.”
Mingi’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, after spending six hours the night before trying to understand it. Look—“ He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not as smart as you think I am. Not naturally, anyway. I have to work twice as hard just to keep up.”
You study him, searching for signs of insincerity. “Why are you telling me this now? And why me?”
“You’re the smartest person in this class. I–I don’t know who else to ask…” His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable. “I think you might actually help me without making me feel stupid about it.”
Something doesn’t add up. You’ve seen him joke around with teaching assistants, charm his way into deadline extensions. “I don’t understand–”
Mingi glances around, then lowers his voice. “I’m on an athletic scholarship. Full ride, but I have to maintain a 3.5 GPA, or I lose it.” He runs a hand over his face. “My advisor warned me last week. This class is dragging everything down. If I don’t get at least a B+ on this midterm, I’m screwed.”
The admission hangs between you, reshaping your understanding of him. You didn’t expect him to be so honest, let alone be honest with you. You knew you were more than capable of tutoring him, you’ve tutored multiple students and peers in past. A part of you wants to deny him— to encourage him to try the other capable tutors in this course but something about his vulnerability made you hold back on that decision.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you ask, softer now.
“Because it’s embarrassing?” He gives a self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The dumb jock stereotype exists for a reason. I’ve been fighting it since high school.” He hesitates. “And maybe I wanted you to think I was smart enough to keep up with you.”
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. This is a different man than the one who struts across campus with practised nonchalance, who holds court at parties with effortless charm. This Mingi looks tired and worried, seeing him like this made your heart sink a little.
“I can’t afford a professional tutor,” he continues when you don’t immediately respond. “Most of my scholarship money goes to housing and food. I can pay you a tutor fee if you have one. Please.”
You should say no. You have your own exams to study for, your own GPA to maintain. But there’s something about seeing him like this—defences down, pride set aside—that makes it difficult.
“If I do this,” you say slowly, “there would be conditions.”
Hope flickers across his face. “Name them.”
“First, you pay me. My normal rate is sixty per session but considering your situation, I can lower the cost—this is work, not charity.” You hold up a finger. “Second, you actually put in the effort. No skipping sessions, no half-assing the practice problems I give you.” Another finger joins the first. “And third, no messing around. This isn’t a backdoor way to—I don’t know—whatever it is you might be thinking.”
“You think I’m using this as an excuse to hit on you?” For the first time, genuine amusement crosses his face. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme, even for me.”
“I’m serious, Mingi.”
“So am I.” The smile fades. “I need this scholarship. Please.”
You sigh, already second-guessing yourself. “Fine. We start tomorrow. Six pm, here. Bring your textbook, all your notes, and any practice exams you can get your hands on.”
The relief that washes over his face is so raw it makes you uncomfortable. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand briefly. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” you warn. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He stands, some of his usual confidence returning.
As you watch him walk away, shoulders straight but tension visible in the line of his neck, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just crossed some invisible boundary. This isn’t just coffee after class or witty banter during lectures. This is entangling yourself in his future, taking partial responsibility for his success or failure. You turn back to your notes, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the look in his eyes when he admitted he needed help. The vulnerability there was real—you’re almost certain of it. Almost. As you pack up your things hours later, doubt creeps in. You’ve seen how charming he can be, how easily he navigates social situations to get what he wants. What if this is just another performance? What if you’re falling for an act designed to manipulate you into doing his academic heavy lifting? The questions follow you all the way home, lingering as you prepare for bed. You set an alarm for tomorrow and added a reminder to prepare some preliminary materials for your first tutoring session. Despite your misgivings, you’re already mapping out a study plan, identifying the concepts he seemed to struggle with most.
Surely, this little arrangement you have going on won’t be a mistake… Right?
══════════════════
You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early to set up, spreading out practice problems and your own colour-coded notes across the table. You’ve been overthinking this all day—wondering if he’ll even show up, if this whole vulnerable confession was just an elaborate ploy to get you to do his work for him. The clock hits 6:00 PM. Then 6:05. Your suspicions start to crystallise into something like disappointment.
At 6:07, Mingi rushes through the library doors, slightly out of breath. He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that smells suspiciously of baked goods.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you. “The line at the café was insane.”
You eye the coffee sceptically. “Is this a bribe?”
He laughs, quieter than his usual boisterous sound, mindful of the library setting. “No, it’s a thank you. Here, try this.” He slides one cup toward you. “Oh, and I got those almond croissants you mentioned the other day. Though honestly, I might have also gotten them because I’m starving.”
The fact that he remembered your drink order is surprising enough. That he recalled an offhand comment you made about pastries during a five-minute conversation between classes is something else entirely.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, but you accept the cup anyway, the warmth seeping into your palms.
“S’alright, I wanted to.” He pulls out his textbook and a surprisingly organised binder of notes. “So, where do we start?”
For the next hour, you walk him through the fundamental concepts of various economic principles, expecting his attention to wander, waiting for the inevitable check of his phone or glance at the clock. It never comes. Instead, Mingi leans forward, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that reveal he’s been paying closer attention than you gave him credit for.
“So if technological progress is exogenous in this model,” he questions, tapping his pencil against the page, “then what actually drives long-term growth? Since capital accumulation alone has diminishing returns, right?”
“Exactly.” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “That’s one of the model’s main limitations. It doesn’t explain where technological progress comes from.”
He nods, making a note in the margin of his textbook. “Which is why we need endogenous growth theory.”
You stare at him. “You’ve been reading ahead.”
A hint of his usual smirk appears. “Don’t sound so shocked. I told you I’m locked in for our sessions.”
“Reading ahead is a bit more than just locking in,” you point out.
“Maybe I’m trying to impress my tutor.” He winks, but there’s something different about his teasing now—less performative.
You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Focus, Mingi.”
“I am focused,” he protests, gesturing to his detailed notes. “See? I’m being a model student.”
“A model student wouldn’t have waited until three weeks before midterms to ask for help,” you counter, but there’s no bite to your words.
“True.” He stretches, his arm brushing against yours as he reaches for another practice problem. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company on a Wednesday evening.”
You ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Haha. Very funny.”
As the session progresses, you find yourself relaxing into a rhythm with him. He’s attentive, asking thoughtful questions and working through problems with determined concentration. When he gets stuck on a particularly tricky concept about crowding-out effects, he doesn’t get frustrated—instead, he listens carefully to your explanation, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your cheeks warm.
“Like this?” he asks after reworking the problem, sliding his paper toward you.
Your fingers brush as you take it, and neither of you pulls away immediately. You study his work, acutely aware of how close he’s sitting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the drinks between you.
“That’s...actually perfect,” you admit, surprised by the clarity of his work. “You got it exactly right.”
His smile is different from any you’ve seen before—not the practiced charm he flashes at parties or the competitive grin on the soccer field. It’s smaller, more genuine, edged with relief.
“I have a good teacher,” he says simply.
You clear your throat, suddenly finding the library too warm. “Let’s try another one.”
Two hours fly by faster than you expected. Mingi works through problem after problem, his understanding visibly improving with each explanation. When he successfully graphs a complex IS-LM model without assistance, the pride on his face is so unguarded it catches you off guard.
“See? Not just another dumb jock,” he says, but the joke doesn’t land quite right. You hear the insecurity beneath it.
“I never thought you were dumb,” you say carefully. “Unmotivated, maybe. But not dumb.”
He looks up from his notes, expression surprisingly vulnerable. “Most people don’t make that distinction.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he agrees, studying your face. “You’re definitely not.”
The moment stretches between you, taut with something unspoken. You’re the first to break eye contact, shuffling papers with unnecessary focus.
“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “We should probably wrap up.”
Mingi begins gathering his things, but his movements are unhurried. “Same time Friday?”
You hesitate. You hadn’t planned on making this a regular thing, certainly not multiple times a week. But the progress he’s made in just one session is undeniable.
“You don’t have practice on Friday?”
“Not until seven.” He zips up his backpack. “Unless you’re busy.”
“No, I’m not busy.” The admission comes too quickly. “Friday works.”
As you pack up, he helps you organize your notes, handling the color-coded pages with careful precision. His fingers accidentally brush against yours again as he hands you a folder, and this time the contact lingers for a beat longer than necessary.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he says quietly, shouldering his bag. “Most people would have.”
The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”
You walk together to the library exit, the night air cool against your skin after hours in the stuffy study area. Campus is quiet, most students either out for the evening or locked away studying. Mingi pauses under a lamppost, its glow casting shadows across his features.
“I can walk you home,” he offers. “It’s dark.”
“I live in the opposite direction from you,” you point out. “It’s fine, I’ve been walking home alone for two years now.”
He grins. “Just being a gentleman.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”
You laugh at his dramatic act. “Goodnight, Mingi.”
“Goodnight, Miss tutor.” He takes a step backward, still facing you. “Dream of fiscal multipliers.”
“That’s your homework, not mine,” you call after him.
His laughter carries on the night air as he walks away, and you stand watching him for a moment longer than necessary. It’s only when you’re halfway home that you realize you’re still smiling, the warmth in your chest having nothing to do with the coffee you shared.
You tell yourself it’s just satisfaction from a productive tutoring session. Nothing more. Certainly not the way his eyes crinkled when he finally understood a difficult concept, or how his hand felt when it accidentally brushed yours, or the genuine gratitude in his voice when he thanked you. Definitely not that.
As you unlock your apartment door, you find yourself already planning Friday’s session in your head, thinking of ways to explain concepts he struggled with, wondering if he’ll bring coffee again, if he’ll sit as close, if he’ll look at you with that same focused intensity. It’s purely academic help, you insist on yourself. Professional concern for a student who needs help. Even if you don’t quite believe it.
Your roommate is waiting when you get home, practically vibrating with curiosity. “So? How was tutoring Mingi? Did he make any moves?”
“It was just tutoring,” you say, setting down your bag. “He’s actually pretty smart, thought nothing was going on upstairs to be honest.”
Her lips thin out into a straight line, looking disappointed by your lack of gossip. “That’s it? No flirting? No rizz? Nothing?”
You think about the moment he challenged your explanation, the genuine satisfaction in his eyes when he understood a complex concept.
“Nope, nothing at all,” you deadpanned at your roommate.
As you lie in bed reviewing your day, you remember the intensity in his eyes when he thanked you. The way his smile changed when he was actually engaged with the material. The surprising depth of his questions. You wonder what other assumptions you’ve made about Song Mingi might be wrong.
══════════════════
The following Friday, you’re setting up the study materials when Mingi arrives five minutes early this time. You almost burst out in laughter seeing the way he was trying to balance two cups of coffee in his hand.
“Okay once you're done clowning me, you have to try this vanilla latte. It's really good.” He sets them down carefully on your side of the table.
You eye the offerings suspiciously. “Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be a bribe?”
“Hm? For what?” He looks genuinely confused as he takes his seat.
“I don’t know. Extra help? A better grade?” You push the coffee slightly away. “I can’t accept this, you’ve already bought me so much stuff the past couple of days.”
Mingi laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the sterile study room. “It’s just coffee, don’t sweat it. Consider it a thank you for the last session. I actually understood what Professor Kim was talking about yesterday.”
You hesitate before reluctantly pulling the coffee back. “Fine.”
His smiles. “If I wanted to bribe you, I’d need to do better than a coffee, doll. Consider it fuel for our session today.”
The nickname catches you off guard, heat rising unexpectedly to your cheeks. Mingi’s eyes flicker briefly to the colour spreading across your face, but he simply slides the coffee closer without comment. You accept the cup, fingers brushing his momentarily. It’s still hot, and exactly how you like it. The gesture is small but thoughtful in a way you wouldn’t have expected.
“Thank you,” you hummed, setting up your materials. “Don’t think this earns you any leniency on today’s session.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, already pulling out his completed homework—all of it done correctly, you note with surprise.
Over the next few sessions, a pattern emerges. Mingi has become significantly more punctual as your sessions progress, always bringing you coffee (though sometimes he switches it up with tea when you mention a sore throat), and always has his work prepared. The coffee becomes such a fixture that on the one day he arrives without it, you actually feel slightly disappointed.
“No liquid bribery today?” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light.
His face falls. “The line was insane, and I didn’t want to be late.” He runs a hand through his hair, slightly panicked. “I can go get some if you—“
“I was joking,” you interject quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll make it up to you next week,” he shrugs, as if that helps explains everything.
The following week, he brings not only coffee but also a small paper bag containing a blueberry muffin from your favourite bakery across town.
“Wha— Mingi, this is…” you marvelled, eyeing the bakery logo. “That place is twenty minutes from campus.”
He shrugs, focusing intently on opening his textbook. “My morning run took me that way.”
“Your morning run took you four kilometres out of your way?”
He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I’m an athlete. You could say that I’ve got excellent... endurance. A little detour doesn’t bother me.”
You roll your eyes, you want to press the issue but are distracted when he pulls out the work you assigned him the previous session. He’s not only completed all the assigned questions but has tackled the bonus problems you included as an afterthought. His work shows an elegant approach to the material that makes you pause.
“This solution,” you point to his work on comparative advantage models, “where did you learn this method?”
“Oh,” he looks almost embarrassed. “I was reading this paper by Stiglitz that mentioned a similar approach, so I adapted it. Is it wrong?”
You blink at him. “You’re reading Joseph Stiglitz for fun?”
“God no, not for fun,” he says, looking uncomfortable with your scrutiny. “I was trying to understand why the models in class weren’t clicking for me. Sometimes I need to see the bigger picture.”
“You know,” you say slowly, “you might actually enjoy Behavioural Economics next semester. It challenges a lot of the classical assumptions.”
His eyes light up. “That’s the unit with Professor Ryu, right? I’ve been wanting to take that.”
“Wait, seriously?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That class is notoriously difficult.”
“So am I, apparently,” he scoffed, but there’s no bite to it. “At least according to my tutor.”
The sessions continue, and with each one, your perception of Mingi shifts. When discussing economic inequality, he brings up points about systemic barriers that show he’s thought deeply about privilege—including his own. During a session on game theory, he demonstrates an intuitive understanding of strategic thinking that surpasses most of your other students that you tutor.
“It’s like poker,” he explains when you comment on his grasp of Nash equilibrium. “Everyone thinks it’s about the cards, but it’s really about understanding people’s patterns and incentives.”
“You play?” you ask, imagining loud frat house games with red cups and shouting.
“My grandfather taught me,” he mumbled, something softer in his expression. “He was an economics professor, actually.”
The revelation hangs between you, another piece of the puzzle that is Song Mingi. You want to ask more but sense his reluctance to elaborate. Maybe another day, you hope.
══════════════════
As your midterm approaches, your sessions intensify. You meet three times in the final week, once in the campus coffee shop when the library study rooms are all booked. Mingi still insists on paying for your drinks and snacks.
“Okay hear me out, I’m applying economic concepts for when I order us coffee,” he announced before you can comment. “You’re providing a service, I’m compensating you beyond our agreed terms because the value exceeds the price.”
“That sounds suspiciously like something I said two sessions ago,” you point out.
“I told you, I pay attention,” he corrected, and something in his tone makes you look up from your notes.
He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—something more complex than what he shows the rest of the world. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably in your chest in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. The night before the exam, you receive a text from him. Multiple actually.
The night before the exam, you receive a text from him: If monopolistic competition exhibits zero economic profit in the long run, why do firms bother entering the market?
You smile despite yourself and type back: Non-monetary incentives. Brand loyalty, market positioning, the satisfaction of seeing their competitors throw a bitch fit.
His response comes immediately: So spite is an economic motivator? They just like me fr.
You laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from your roommate.
“Is that Mingi?” she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Just a last-minute economics question,” you answered, trying to sound casual.
“Mhmm,” she hums skeptically. “Smiling over econ, right…”
You ignore her, sending Mingi one final message: Get some sleep. Economics rewards the well-rested. His reply makes your heart do something complicated.
I will, doll. Thank you.
On exam day, you spot him across the lecture hall. He catches your eye and gives you a small nod—no flashy smile, no charming wink, just quiet determination. For some reason, this affects you more than any of his rehearsed moves ever did that you observed in the past.
When Professor Kim calls time, you watch him hand in his exam with confidence in his posture that wasn’t there six weeks ago. As students file out, he makes his way to your seat.
“How’d it go?” you asked as you slowly gathered your things.
“I think,” he hums, “that Professor Kim might actually have to give me an A.”
“Don’t get cocky,” you scoff at his delusion, a small feeling of pride swells in your chest.
“Never,” he agrees solemnly, then ruins it with a grin. “I did crush that section on market failures. Turns out my experience with failed relationships was finally useful for something.”
You roll your eyes, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “And here I thought we’d made progress beyond that frat boy persona of yours.”
“Old habits,” he nudges you with his elbow, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom. “Seriously, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”
You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of how his stride has adjusted to match yours. It’s these small, unconscious accommodations that you find yourself noticing more and more lately.
“So,” he clears his throat, breaking the quiet as you cross the quad, “My frat is hosting our end-of-semester bash this weekend.” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “Saturday night, starting around nine.”
You keep your eyes focused ahead. “I’m sure half the campus is already going and planning their outfits.”
“Probably,” he agrees with a light laugh. “But I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to come?”
When you don’t immediately respond, he adds quickly, “As a thank you for helping me ace this exam. I mean, I’m pretty sure I aced it.”
You slow your pace, finally turning to look at him properly. “You’re inviting me to your party? Me?” The disbelief in your voice is unmistakable.
“Is that so hard to believe?” His expression is somewhere between amused and offended.
“Mingi, I don’t do parties.” You adjust your bag strap, uncomfortable with how this conversation is veering into territory you’ve carefully avoided. “You of all people should know that.”
He frowns, “Don’t you want to celebrate? You helped me pull off a minor academic miracle here.”
“I think you’re exaggerating your previous academic despair,” you hesitated. “Besides, I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”
“My crowd?” He scoffs. “You’ve never even met my friends.”
“I’ve seen enough from a distance, I know enough.” You start walking again, faster now. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll pass.”
His long strides enable him to keep up with your pace. “Come on, just for an hour. You can leave if you hate it.”
“Mingi—”
“One hour, doll” he repeats. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll personally ensure no one spills anything on you and tries to bother you the whole night.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I know my crowd.” His smile is softer now, more genuine. “Please? I want you to see that there’s more to us—to me—than the stereotypes.”
You study his face, searching for the manipulation, But all you see is sincerity and hope.
“Fine,” you groaned, not quite believing the words coming out of your mouth. “One hour. That’s it. I’m leaving the second someone tries to get me to play beer pong.”
His face lights up. “Deal. I’ll text you the details.”
As you part ways, you wonder what exactly you’ve just agreed to. You’ve spent nearly three years avoiding exactly this kind of social situation. Loud music, drunk students, the messy intersection of alcohol and attraction. Yet somehow, when Mingi asked, your carefully constructed refusal crumbled.
Your roommate squeals when you tell her your weekend plans.
“You’re going to the end of sem party? With Mingi?” She clutches your arm dramatically. “This is basically getting an invite from the MET gala!”
“It’s just a thank you for the tutoring,” you explain, trying to sound casual as you sort through your closet. “I’m only staying for an hour.”
“Sure,” she drew out the word with obvious disbelief. “That’s why you’re trying on your fourth outfit.”
You drop the dress you’ve been holding up. “I just want to look appropriate.”
“Appropriate for what? Or is it for making mister Song Mingi realise what he’s been missing?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“For not looking like I’m trying too hard,” you correct her, settling on dark jeans and a simple top that manages to be both casual and flattering. “This isn’t a date.”
“Whatever you say.” She flops back on your bed. “By the way, you should know that Mingi doesn’t personally invite just anyone to these things. Especially not someone he’s been staring at across classrooms for months.”
“He hasn’t been—“ you begin, but stop when you remember all those times you felt his gaze on you in the library and the lecture hall.
“Oh honey,” your roommate giggles, “for someone so smart, you are so stupid.”
══════════════════
On the night of the party, you and your closet have declared war. What began as a gentle sifting through hangers two hours ago has devolved into a cyclone of black crop tops, frayed denim, and shoes you forgot you owned. Your roommate’s voice, pitch-perfect for the college musical she never auditioned for, belts a running commentary from the bed: “You look hot in that, but hotter in the other,” and, later, “If you don’t wear that skirt, I will.” For every option you parade, she offers a one-woman panel’s worth of praise, criticism, and lewd suggestions, but when you finally emerge from the pile in a black singlet and the aforementioned denim mini, she sits up so abruptly the bedsprings squeal.
“Yes,” she hollered, pointing both index fingers at you as if firing a pair of pistols, “That’s the one! Fuck you look good.”
You tug at the hem, self-conscious. The skirt is so short your thighs feel like they might spontaneously combust with the friction of walking, and the top is cut low enough to leave no room . The outfit is, by college standards, conservative. By your standards, the edge of a personal revolution. You pace, boots heavy and loud. You layer on a thrifted blazer, then throw it off, then drape it over one arm for insurance. You sit on the edge of the bed, stand again, cross the room to the mirror, assess your reflection from the most punishing angles. You practice smiling in a way that suggests effortless fun rather than “I’m in hell and wish I were home in the comfort of my bed.”
Your roommate paints your lips red, then wipes it off with a tissue, then reapplies in a shade closer to your natural colour.
“There,” she beams, “like you rolled out of bed looking like this.”
You try not to look at the clock, but it’s everywhere—on your phone, on the microwave, in the stomp of boots hitting the tile as you stalk the kitchenette looking for a cup to fill, then abandon. Your hands shake when you pour yourself a glass of water. You spill some on your wrist, wipe it away, then notice your palms are already slicked with sweat.
“Stop fidgeting.” Your roommate’s tone is gentle, but there’s a note of command you recognize from years of friendship.
She takes your hands in hers, holds them steady, and says, “You’re just going to a party. With a boy. Not even a date.” She squeezes your fingers and grins. “You should be more excited! There might be hook-ups, or at least drama. At the very least, there’ll be free food.”
You want to laugh, but your stomach is a tight fist. You’ve spent the last three years avoiding exactly this scenario—rowdy house parties, the unwritten social contract of collegiate fun, the humiliation of standing awkwardly in a crowd of people who all seem to know exactly how to move, talk, flirt. You’re not anti-social, not truly, but your preferred company is to be alone with your trusted circle of friends. The thought of plunging into a frat house, even for an hour, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
And yet. There’s Mingi, the wild card. He’s never made you feel like a project, or an obligation, or a checkmark on a list of collegiate experiences. When he smiles at you, it isn’t the rehearsed, camera-ready grin you see him use on campus tour guides or in group photos. It’s something softer, quieter, reserved for moments when he thinks no one else is watching. You remember the way he said “please” when he invited you, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours even after you tried to look away. He made it sound like this party wasn’t just another party, but an extension of the strange, fragile thing growing between the two of you. You’re not sure you trust it, but you want, for once, to try.
You stall in the doorway, hand poised on the knob, running through possible disasters. Your roommate senses your hesitation, materializing at your side with a pep talk worthy of a sports movie.
“Remember,” she says softly, “you’re not obligated to like it. Just survive the hour, and if you hate it, I’ll be waiting with post-party ramen and a debrief.” She presses the blazer into your hands and shoves you gently toward the elevator.
You take the stairs instead, one flight, then another, legs trembling with anticipation. The campus is alive with spring: the air is thick with the cloying perfume of flowering trees, the distant thump of bass from speakers, the migration of students in clusters, each group moving toward its own temporary destiny. You keep your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversation. You find yourself counting steps, then counting heartbeats, and by the time you reach the block of houses that host the Greek life ecosystem, you’ve rehearsed twenty variations of how to say hello without sounding desperate. You pass a group of girls in matching pastel tank tops, their laughter ricocheting like pinballs off the sidewalk. You duck your head, wondering if they recognize you from Intro to Business Law, but they breeze past without a second glance. In the darkness, your reflection glances back at you from every window: a stranger, confident and composed, even as anxiety gnaws at your insides.
You approach the frat house, the lights already blazing, music leaking from every crack in the siding. In the front yard, a couple makes out with the desperation of people who know they’ll regret it in the morning. A boy in a toga sprints past, pursued by a girl wielding a pool noodle. The porch is a wall of bodies, some familiar, most not, and for a moment you consider walking straight past, circling the block, and returning to your dorm in defeat.
You almost do. You’re on the verge of turning around when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mingi: Where are you? I’ll come out front.
Your thumb hovers over the screen. Before you can reply, the front door swings open and there he is—Mingi, framed in the doorway like some ridiculous cologne advertisement. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your mouth go inexplicably dry. His hair is styled differently tonight, swept back to reveal his forehead in a way that transforms his entire face.
He scans the yard, eyes skipping past you once before snapping back, recognition dawning. When his gaze lands on you properly, something shifts in his expression—his confident smile faltering, eyes widening slightly.
“Oh,” he says, just that one syllable hanging in the air between you. He clears his throat. “I—you—“ He stops again, seemingly unable to form a complete sentence.
You feel heat creeping up your neck, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin. “Is something wrong?” you ask, tugging self-consciously at your skirt.
The question seems to snap him out of his daze. His trademark smile returns, but there’s something different about it—something genuine that settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite name.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally blurts out. “You just look... different.” He takes a step closer. “Good different I mean– Like really good different.”
You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just a skirt and top. Nothing special.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes your blush deepen. His confidence seems to grow in direct proportion to your bashfulness, and he extends his hand to you. “Come on. Let me introduce you to some people who aren’t total disasters.”
You place your hand in his, telling yourself it’s just to be polite, but the warmth of his palm against yours sends a current up your arm. He guides you through the crowded doorway, his body naturally creating a buffer between you and the jostling partygoers. You’re fully aware of his proximity, the cologne he’s wearing, the way his hand occasionally brushes against the small of your back as he leads you deeper into the house.
The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against walls to make space. The kitchen beyond is crowded with people mixing drinks and laughing over red cups. Mingi steers you away from both, toward a slightly quieter corner where a group of guys are engaged in animated conversation.
“Hey,” he calls out, and seven heads turn in perfect unison. “This is my econ tutor, the one I’ve been telling you guys about.”
You’re suddenly faced with an assembly of some of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in one place, each with a distinctive style that somehow works in harmony with the others. They regard you with varying expressions of curiosity and amusement.
“So you’re the one who got our Mingi to actually open a textbook,” a guy with sharp features and an even sharper smile walks up to the both of you. “I’m Hongjoong. House president.”
“Co-president,” Mingi corrects, rolling his eyes.
“Pfft whatever dude,” Hongjoong waves dismissively. “This is Seonghwa—“ he gestures to a tall, elegant-looking man who offers you a polite nod, “—Yunho—“ a friendly giant with dark hair raises his cup in greeting, “—Yeosang—“ a guy with delicate features and knowing eyes gives you a small smile, “—San—“ an energetic man with dimples deep enough to drown in waves enthusiastically, “—Wooyoung—“ a mischievous-looking guy with red hair winks at you, “—and Jongho.” The last member, compact but powerful-looking, gives you a respectful bow.
“Nice to finally meet the person who’s been occupying all our friend’s time,” Wooyoung whistles.
“And thoughts,” San adds, earning him a death glare from Mingi.
You shift uncomfortably under their collective gaze, but their smiles are genuine, lacking the judgment you expected from Mingi’s inner circle.
“Don’t believe anything they tell you about me,” Mingi says, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Especially Wooyoung. He’s a pathological liar.”
“Nuh uh, that’s just not true!” Wooyoung protests. “I only lie on Tuesdays and public holidays.”
The group erupts in laughter, and to your surprise, you find yourself laughing along. There’s an easy camaraderie among them that feels inclusive rather than exclusive, drawing you in despite your reservations.
“Mingi says you’re top of the econ department,” Seonghwa mentioned, his voice calm and measured. “That’s impressive.”
Before you can respond, Yunho chimes in: “He wouldn’t shut up about how you explained game theory using poker analogies. Said it was ‘revolutionary’ or some shit.”
“I did not say revolutionary,” Mingi denies, but the pink tinging his ears tells a different story.
“You did,” Jongho confirms flatly. “Multiple times. Over breakfast.”
You glance at Mingi, oddly touched that he’s spoken about your tutoring sessions to his friends. “It wasn’t anything special. He’s actually really quick to grasp concepts once they’re explained properly.”
Mingi grins at the group. “See? I told you guys I’m not just a pretty face.” He sticks his tongue out at them, more out of habit than real offence.
“No one said you were just a pretty face,” Hongjoong replies, tone even. “We said you’re a pretty face that just so happened to be a little bit stupid.”
Mingi scoffs under his breath, but he’s smiling anyway. “That’s not better.”
“It’s accurate,” Hongjoong snorted.
The banter continues, and you find yourself relaxing into it, surprised by how comfortable you feel among them. They’re not what you expected—not the stereotypical frat boys you’ve spent years avoiding. They’re smart, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful in their questions to you.
After a while, Mingi leans in again. “How are you feeling? Do you want a drink? Or maybe some air?”
You nod gratefully. “Fresh air would be nice.”
He places his hand lightly on your back again, guiding you toward a set of French doors that lead to a back deck. The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of bodies packed inside. The deck is strung with fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the wooden boards, and surprisingly, it’s empty except for a few potted plants.
“The secret balcony,” Mingi explains, seeing your questioning look. “Off-limits to regular party guests. One of the perks of being house leadership.”
“So I’m not a regular party guest?” you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.
“Of course not, you are far from it,” he mutters under his breath that makes your breath falter.
You both fall silent for a moment, the bass from inside creating a muted heartbeat beneath your conversation. You can’t quite decide what’s more surprising—that you’re here like this, or that it’s with Mingi of all people. You settle on not thinking too hard about either.
“Your friends are nice,” you finally break the silence. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” He leans next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
“Loud, obnoxious frat bros talking about the typical one night stand and having the collective IQ of a houseplant.”
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, they can be loud and obnoxious too. But they’re also the best people I know.”
He pauses, looking out over the dimly-lit yard. “We all have our reasons for being here, you know? Hongjoong’s parents expected him to join their firm right after high school, but he wanted to go to college first. Seonghwa supports his younger siblings through school. Jongho’s on a full academic scholarship.”
You turn to look at him, surprised by this glimpse behind the fraternity façade. “And you? What’s your reason?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its usual confident edge. “My grandfather, the one I told you about, He was the first person in our family to go to college. He wanted to see me graduate more than anything.” His fingers tap against the railing, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “He passed away during my senior year of high school.”
“Oh I’m sorry,” you say softly.
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but...” He went on. “I promised him I’d make the most of college. Not just academically, but the whole experience. The brotherhood, the leadership opportunities, all of it.”
“Is that why you’re so determined to keep your GPA up? For your scholarship?”
“Partly,” he admits. “Mainly because I don’t want to just be the party guy, you know? I want people to realise I’m capable and somewhat intelligent.”
Without really thinking about it, you close the remaining distance just enough for your hand to brush his. It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. When he doesn’t pull away, your fingers curl lightly around his. Mingi stills. For someone who’s always in motion, always talking, always performing, the sudden quiet in him is striking. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, like he’s trying to process it, like this—you—is the one thing he never quite learned how to anticipate.
“It’s not a bad thing,” you say softly, your thumb brushing once, unconsciously, over his knuckles. “Wanting people to see more than what meets the eye.”
His hand shifts in yours, not pulling away—settling. Grounding.
“I know what it’s like,” you add, quieter now. “Being reduced to something simple. Convenient. Even if it’s… impressive on paper.”
That earns a small huff of laughter from him, but malice behind it. Just something tired, something honest.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we’re both victims of stereotyping huh.”
You smile faintly. “I guess we are.”
And then it hits you. The warmth. The contact. The fact that your hand is still wrapped around his. Your fingers twitch slightly, awareness crashing in all at once, and you pull back—just a little too quickly to be entirely casual. The absence of him is immediate, the cool night air slipping into the space where his warmth had been. Mingi notices. Of course he does. Something flickers across his face, it was subtle but you saw it there momentarily. A small dip at the corner of his mouth, a hesitation like he almost reaches for you again before stopping himself. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something lighter, easier, like he’s filing the moment away instead of questioning it. He clears his throat, glancing out in the distance.
“Careful,” he teases. “Keep doing that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
You scoff, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically. “Here I was, planning our future.”
“In your dreams.”
“Bold of you to assume you’re not already there.”
You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes you anyway, the tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. For a moment, you simply stand together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold below. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the angles you’ve studied during countless tutoring sessions.
“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, turning to face you.
“You just did.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why did you agree to tutor me? I asked some other people in our class and they said you turned them down.”
You consider the question, surprised by his awareness of your other rejections. “Honestly? You seemed desperate. Plus you actually pay me on time.”
“Ouch,” he winces, but his smile remains. “At least you’re honest.”
“Why did you ask me?” you counter. “There are plenty of other tutors on campus.”
He looks down at his hands, suddenly serious. “You were the only one who looked at me and didn’t see what everyone else saw.”
“And what’s that?”
“You know the usual stereotypes,” He shrugs, a gesture that carries more weight than it should. “Everyone thinks they know me because they hear all about my reputation.”
Something in his tone makes you pause, recognizing a sentiment that echoes your own experience. “I get that,” you say quietly. “People are like that with me too. They think what we are at face value is what we truly are.”
“Isn’t it?” His question is gentle, not challenging.
You shake your head. “No more than you’re just a frat boy who happens to look good in a button-down.”
He raises an eyebrow as his eyes meet yours, “You think I look good?”
“Don’t fish for compliments,” you scold as you bite back a smile. “Your ego is big enough already.”
“There you go again, humbling me.” His gaze softens as he steps closer. “I like that about you. You never let me get away with anything.”
You tilt your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Yeah? I know there’s a lot of things you like about me.”
His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “My intelligence. My work ethic. My incredible patience for difficult students—”
“—woah, woah,” he cuts in, laughing. “When did this turn into a self-evaluation?”
“You asked,” you shoot back. “I’m just being thorough.”
He steps closer, close enough now that the teasing edge softens into something warmer. “You missed a few.”
“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
“The way you pretend not to care,” he responded quietly. “But still show up anyway.”
Your breath catches slightly, but you recover. “That’s not a quality. That’s just… basic decency.”
“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
You freeze. “I do not—”
“You do,”
You swallow, your voice coming out just above a whisper. “What does that look mean, according to you?”
He studies you for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say it.
“Like you’re trying really hard not to like me.”
Your heart stumbles over itself.
“That’s a bold assumption,” you manage.
“Is it, doll?”
There’s barely any space left between you now. You’re aware of everything. How close he was to you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. Your own breath feels too loud in your chest.
“This feels like you’re fishing for compliments again,” you say, but your voice lacks its usual bite.
“Maybe,” he admits easily. “Only from you, though.”
The honesty of it lands heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your side, like they remember what it felt like to hold his hand. Like they want to again.
“Mingi—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say.
He leans in slightly. Not rushed. Not cocky. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Your eyes flick down to his lips for just a second—long enough for him to notice—and that’s all it takes. The air shifts, something unspoken settling between you as you both lean in, slow and almost hesitant—
“Yo! Mingi!”
The moment shatters. You both jerk back slightly as the deck door swings open. Wooyoung steps out, slightly breathless, eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate recognition—and absolutely zero subtlety.
“Oh shit,” he says, smirking. “Am I interrupting something?”
“What do you think?,” Mingi says flatly, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“Tragic,” his red haired friend replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Hongjoong’s looking for you. Something about the DJ setup dying and you being ‘useless but still required.’”
Mingi closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Of course he is.”
Wooyoung gaze shifts back to you, smile softening. “Hey, you’re staying, right? It’s just getting good.”
You hesitate. And Mingi notices.
His attention snaps back to you, something apologetic in his expression. “I—give me ten minutes? I’ll come find you.”
You glance toward the house, the noise, the crowd, the overwhelming swirl of everything you’ve been holding at bay all night. Then back at him. At the almost-kiss still lingering in the space between you. By the way your chest feels too full, too tight, like you don’t quite know what to do with everything you’re suddenly feeling.
“I think…” you start, then pause, shaking your head slightly. “I should probably head out.”
His expression drops, just a fraction. “Already?”
“I stayed longer than I planned,” you say, offering a small smile. “I have an early morning.”
It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he nods slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space—even if he doesn’t seem to want t
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. I can walk you–”
“No need, I can see myself out,” you reply softly. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a really good time.”
There’s a beat. Something unfinished is hanging between you.
“Get home safe,” he adds, quieter now.
“I will.”
You turn before you can overthink it. Before you can look at him again and change your mind and make your way back through the house. The music feels louder now, the lights harsher, the press of bodies more suffocating than before. By the time you step outside into the cool night air, your head is spinning. Not from the party. From him. From the way he looked at you like that. You exhale slowly, starting down the path back to your dorm, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.
Your key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes through the empty hallway. The walk back to your dorm passed in a blur. Your mind replaying those moments on the deck over and over, his face so close to yours, the almost-kiss that’s now branded into your memory as a question mark.
Your roommate looks up from her laptop, eyes widening when she sees you. “You’re back early! I thought—“ She pauses, taking in your expression. “What happened?”
You drop your bag and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”
“What did he do? Babe I swear if he tried anything—” She’s immediately on alert, sitting up straighter.
“No,” you shake your head, pressing your palms against your eyes. “The opposite. He was... perfect. His friends were really nice, funny too. The party wasn’t terrible. And we almost kissed, and then I—I ran away.”
“You what?” She scrambles off her bed and sits next to you. “Back up. You almost kissed him and then you left?”
“We got interrupted, and then I just... panicked.” You sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Your roommate studies your face, her expression softening into something you haven’t seen before—concern mixed with understanding.
“Holy shit,” she mumbled. “You like him.”
“No,” you protest automatically, then trail off. “Maybe. Shit. I don’t know?” Your voice muffles as you bury your face in your hands. “This is so stupid. I’ve spent years avoiding guys exactly like him.”
“Except he’s not exactly like anyone, is he?” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Not if he’s got you this fucked up.”
You groan. “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be this shallow frat boy who only cares about parties and hookups, but then he goes and talks about his grandfather and his friends and looks at me like—like—“
“Like what?” she prompts.
“Like I matter,” you cried out, wiping away the tears from your face. “Not just as a tutor or someone to boost his grade. Like he actually enjoys my company.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”
“That’s because I’ve never felt like this before,” you admit, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve probably ruined it by running away like some character in a bad rom-com.”
“You don’t understand.” You get up, pacing the small space between your beds. “I had this whole image of him in my head…this whole narrative about who he was and what he wanted. It was so much easier when I could just dismiss him as just some guy. But he’s not, and now I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Maybe you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to him?” Your roommate suggests, her tone gently teasing you as she hands you a tissue.
“And say what? ‘Sorry I ran away when we were about to kiss, I’m just terrified because I might actually like you’?”
“That sounds like a start.”
You collapse back onto your bed with a groan. “I fucked up so bad.”
“Maybe,” she concedes, “but not irreparably.” She picks up your phone from where you dropped it and holds it out to you. “Text him.”
You stare at the phone like it might bite you. “Like now?”
“Yes, now. Before you overthink it even more than you already have.”
Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitant. “What do I even say?”
“The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least part of it.”
You take a deep breath and start typing, deleting, typing again. After what feels like an eternity, you hit send on a simple message: Sorry for leaving so abruptly. Ty for tonight.
The response comes faster than you expected, your phone buzzing in your hand almost immediately: All good. Did u get home safe?
Something in your chest loosens just slightly. He’s still talking to you, at least. You type back: Yea, made it back like 5 mins ago.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again: Can I call you tomorrow?
Your heart does a strange little flip. “He wants to call me tomorrow,” you tell your roommate, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears.
She grins. “See? Not ruined.”
You type back a quick ‘Sure’ before you can second-guess yourself.
His response is just as quick: Good. Sleep well, doll.
Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the nickname. Your roommate peers over your shoulder, reading the exchange.
“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says jokingly. “From the looks of it, so does he.”
“This is such a mess,” you sigh, but there’s less despair in it now. “I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. The one who doesn’t get caught up in... whatever this is.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why you need this,” she suggests, returning to her own bed. “When was the last time you did something just because it made you feel good, not because it was the smart, practical choice?”
You don’t have an answer for that. As you lie in bed, sleep eluding you, you replay the night in your head. The way Mingi looked at you on that deck, the warmth of his hand in yours, the honesty in his voice when he talked about wanting to be seen as more than his reputation. You think about how easily you could have stayed, how different the night might have ended if you had just stayed with him.
══════════════════
Morning arrives with harsh sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds and the persistent buzz of your alarm. The day crawls by in a strange haze. You go through the motions—catch up on any missed lecture notes, meet with your friends, grab lunch at the campus café—but everything feels slightly off-kilter. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, conspicuously silent.
“He said he’d call,” you mutter to yourself during lunch, checking your notifications for the fifth time in an hour.
By mid-afternoon, anxiety has settled into a knot in your stomach. Was leaving the party abruptly really such a dealbreaker? Or worse—was the almost-kiss just another moment for him, easily forgotten once you walked away?
Your roommate finds you hunched over economics papers in your dorm, highlighter poised but motionless over the same paragraph you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.
“Still nothing?”
You shake your head, trying to appear more focused on your work than you actually are. “It’s fine. He’s probably busy with frat stuff.”
“He’s nursing a hangover,” she mused, flopping onto her bed. “Those parties don’t exactly end early.”
“Yeah, probably.” You force your attention back to your notes, determined not to care.
The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your desk. You’ve moved on to grading papers for the professor you TA for, a task that usually requires your full concentration. Tonight, however, each essay blurs into the next as your mind wanders back to the deck, to Mingi’s face inches from yours. At 7:38 PM, your phone finally rings. You nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it, heart leaping into your throat when you see his name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, you answer with what you hope is casual nonchalance.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” His voice comes through warm and slightly hesitant. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, just grading some papers.” You lean back in your chair, trying to ignore how your pulse has quickened. “How was your day?”
“Long,” he admits with a soft laugh. “Had to deal with some post-party clean up that was... not ideal.”
“Sounds rough,” you say, picturing the chaos that must have followed after you left.
There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to grab some ice cream? There’s this place near the science building that stays open late.”
You glance at your half-finished work, then at the clock. “Now?”
“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. I just...” He hesitates. “I think we should talk. In person.”
Your stomach drops. Those words never precede anything good.
“Oh,” you manage. “Sure. I could use a break anyway.”
“Great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Meet you there in twenty?”
“Make it thirty,” you say, already mentally cataloguing what you’re wearing—sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, not exactly what you’d choose for whatever conversation is coming.
After hanging up, you change quickly into jeans and a sweater that’s slightly more presentable, running a brush through your hair and dabbing on lip balm before you can question why you’re bothering. Your roommate watches with barely concealed amusement.
“Just ice cream, huh?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your keys. “He probably just wants to clear the air so tutoring isn’t awkward.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”
The walk to the ice cream shop takes exactly twelve minutes—not that you’re counting. When you arrive, you spot Mingi immediately, leaning against the wall outside. He straightens when he sees you, his expression brightening in a way that makes your heart stutter.
“Hey,” he greets you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Thanks for coming.”
“For free ice cream? I’d be an idiot if I refused.” You aim for lightness, but your voice comes out slightly strained.
Inside, the shop is nearly empty, just a couple of students hunched over laptops in the corner. Mingi insists on paying despite your protests, and soon you’re seated at a small table by the window, a scoop of chocolate chip melting slowly in your cup. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You focus intently on your ice cream, hyperaware of his presence across from you.
“So uh,” he finally breaks the tension, setting down his spoon. “About last night.”
You look up to find him watching you, his expression more serious than you’ve ever seen it. “What about it?” you ask, playing for time.
He leans forward slightly. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t... misread things.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. “You didn’t,” you admit quietly.
Relief flickers across his face. “Then why did you leave?”
The directness of the question catches you off guard. You consider deflecting, making a joke, but something in his eyes—an earnestness you’re not used to seeing—makes you opt for honesty.
“I got scared,” you say simply.
His brow furrows. “Of me?”
“No.” You shake your head. “No this. Whatever is happening between us.” You gesture vaguely, as if that could dissolve it. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“The plan?” he echoes.
“My plan,” you clarify. “Graduate top of my class, get into a top-tier MBA program, no distractions.” You poke at your melting ice cream.
The words come easier than they should, like you’ve said them enough times to believe they’re ironclad. You scoop a fragile curl of choc chip into your mouth, watching it soften instantly, the chill doing nothing to settle the rest of you.
Mingi doesn’t look away. But something shifts in his expression—subtle, unreadable.
“You think this is a distraction,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the idea. There’s no bitterness in it, just a blunt apprehension that makes you want to fold in on yourself.
The words thud between you, heavier than any textbook you’ve ever carried. You set your spoon down, forced to confront the truth you’ve been working so hard to avoid: it would be much simpler if you could blame him. If the whole thing could be chalked up to a fluke in your otherwise disciplined trajectory: a blip, a party, a night on a deck that would fade with the semester. However, the real distraction is the way your mind keeps circling back to him even when he’s not there, the way your heart does that ridiculous stutter every time you see his name on your screen, the way—sitting here with him now—you feel some distant tectonic plate in your chest begin to shift. You hesitate. Then, because you’ve already started, you let it spill anyway.
“It’s not just that,” you admit. “I never planned on… this happening at all. And I definitely never thought you’d—” You stop yourself, exhaling a short, humourless breath. “Like, someone like me.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Someone like you?”
You gesture faintly, as if the words make sense on their own. “You know. You. Me. I just— I always assumed you wouldn’t go for someone like me. That you wouldn’t even look twice.”
The admission sits between you, heavier than you intended. Mingi leans back slightly, hands folding together, but not in his usual relaxed way. More like he’s trying to steady something. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief.
“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me.” He says, shaking his head once.
You blink. “What?”
He looks at you properly now, like the answer should’ve been obvious all along. “You think I’m out of your league,” he says, almost incredulous. “I thought you were out of mine.”
That makes you go still. Before you can respond, he continues, voice softer now.
“You’re—” He stops, like the word itself isn’t enough. “You’re genuinely one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And you’re not just smart, you’re…” He exhales through his nose, like he hates how obvious it is. “You’re really fucking beautiful. And your brain? That’s honestly the most attractive part of you. I thought people were dramatic when they said intelligence was sexy, man I was so wrong.”
Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.
“I like what we are,” he adds, a little quieter. “The banter, the way you talk back to me, the way you don’t just—” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fold. It’s fun. It’s different. It’s… real.”
The honesty lands clumsily, unpolished in a way that feels impossible to fake. You look down at your ice cream before it fully melts.
“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” you admit.
“Yeah,” he says, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth. “Join the club.”
“I know it’s unfair to judge you based on campus gossip, but...” You take a deep breath. “I’m scared of being just another story people whisper about in bathroom stalls.”
Mingi reaches across the table, his fingers hovering near yours without quite touching. “Can I?” he asks quietly.
You nod, and his warm hand covers yours, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I won’t pretend I haven’t made mistakes. I have. But I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering.
“How can I know that?” you whisper, voicing the fear that’s been lodged in your chest since the moment on the deck.
“Let me prove it to you,” he says with such conviction that your throat tightens. “Not with words or promises, but with time. With consistency.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me completely right away. I’m asking for a chance to earn that trust.”
You study his face, searching for any sign of the practiced charm you’ve seen him deploy across campus. All you find is raw sincerity that makes your heart race.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Let me show you who I really am,” a small, vulnerable smile touches his lips. “I promise I’ll put all those stupid rumours to rest. No pressure, no expectations.”
“If it doesn’t work out?” The practical part of your brain needs to know there’s an exit strategy.
“Then we go back to being tutor and student, friends if you want,” he says, though something flickers in his eyes that suggests it wouldn’t be that simple for him. “I think we at least owe ourselves the chance to find out.”
You look down at your joined hands, feeling yourself wavering on the precipice of something that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.
“Okay,” you find yourself saying, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “I’ll give us a chance.”
The smile that breaks across his face is nothing like his usual confident grin. It’s wider, brighter, almost boyish in its genuine delight.
“Yeah?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile forming on your own lips. “But I have conditions.”
He laughs softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have any.”
“We take it slow,” you say firmly. “For now, this is just between us. I’m not ready to tell everyone about us just yet.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees immediately. “What else?”
“If at any point I feel like this is becoming too much—“
“We reassess,” he finishes for you. “I understand.”
You nod, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. “One more thing.”
“Name it.”
“No more surprise coffees during tutoring,” you let out a laugh, you hope that he doesn’t take this rule too seriously.
He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Mind you, those were gifts from the heart.”
“The heart doesn’t need caffeine to function properly,” you counter.
“Debatable,” he grins, then grows serious again. “I promise to uphold all the boundaries that you have. If at any point you want outs, just say the word and we can call it off.”
There’s something in his voice—a quiet determination—that makes you believe him, despite all your carefully constructed defences.
“So,” he wonders, leaning forward slightly, “now that we’ve established the ground rules... Can I walk you home?”
“That would be nice,” you smile, finishing the last of your now-soupy ice cream.
Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Your campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at the library or locked in their rooms studying. Mingi walks beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush, sending little sparks of awareness through you each time. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence as you walk side by side through the moonlit campus. Your mind races with everything that’s just happened—the confessions, the promises, the beginning of something neither of you had planned. Mingi’s hand occasionally brushes against yours, each contact sending little jolts through your system, but he doesn’t try to hold it. True to his word, he’s letting you set the pace.
“So,” he says as you approach your dormitory, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner? Whenever you’re free… O-of course.”
The earnestness in his voice makes your heart flutter. “I’d love to.”
You stop at the entrance to your building, turning to face him. The lamplight catches in his dark eyes, making them shine with something that looks suspiciously like hope.
“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly.
His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”
“For being patient and understanding.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling shy.
A smile curves his lips. “I’m full of surprises.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
There’s a moment of hesitation. A breath where you both stand looking at each other, the air between you charged with possibility. You make a decision, stepping forward before you can overthink it. Rising slightly on your toes, you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
“Goodnight, Mingi,” you murmur, pulling back to see his eyes wide with surprise.
“Goodnight,” he coughs out, voice slightly rougher than before.
You turn quickly, swiping your keycard and slipping through the door before you can change your mind. Once inside, you can’t resist glancing back through the glass panel. Mingi stands frozen for a moment, hand raised to the spot where your lips touched his skin. Then, when he thinks you’ve gone, a transformation takes place. The cool, confident frat president dissolves into something entirely different. He pumps his fist in the air, does a little spin, and breaks into what can only be described as a victory dance—all limbs and unbridled joy, like a kid who just got exactly what he wanted for his birthday. He runs his hands through his hair, grinning so wide it must hurt, before composing himself and walking away with an extra bounce in his step. You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sight of him—campus heartbreaker, fraternity president, supposed player—celebrating a simple kiss on the cheek like it’s the greatest achievement of his life.
Maybe there’s more to him than you ever allowed yourself to see.
══════════════════
The following weeks unfold in a series of moments that feel stolen from someone else’s life. Mingi keeps his promise about taking things slow, but he finds other ways to show you he’s serious.
It starts with little things. A sticky note on your economics textbook when you leave it unattended for two minutes in the library: “Study Well!.” A cup of tea waiting for you before an early morning class, with honey already added the way you mentioned you like it once in passing.
Your tutoring sessions continue, but there’s a new undercurrent to them now. You maintain professionalism—mostly—but sometimes his fingers brush yours when you’re explaining a concept, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. Sometimes you catch him watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in the best way.
“Focus,” you scold during one such session, tapping your pencil against his notebook. “Our midterms are in coming up soon.”
“I am focusing,” he protests, eyes never leaving your face. “Just not on economics.”
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Looking at me isn’t going to help boost your GPA.”
“If it means looking at the prettiest girl in the room, it’s worth it,” he shrugs and the sincerity in his voice makes heat rise to your cheeks.
Walking with him after your brain numbing study sessions become so integral to your guys’ routine. It feels a little strange at first but when Mingi’s hand tentatively finds yours, all the stress melts away at his touch.
“You know,” he says during one such walk, “keeping you secret is killing me. The guys think I’ve gone celibate or something.”
You elbow him gently. “Your reputation could use the hit.”
“True,” he laughs, squeezing your hand. “For the record, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting on social media in ages.”
Mingi has been careful about keeping your relationship private. No Instagram stories featuring your coffee dates, no posts of your study sessions that sometimes devolve into conversations about everything and nothing. Just the two of you, learning each other in private moments stolen between classes and responsibilities.
One rainy Tuesday, he shows up at your dorm with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a stack of economics flash cards he made himself.
“I figured we could multitask,” he beams, setting up the food on your desk.
Your roommate, who’s been watching this unfold with barely concealed delight, grabs her jacket. “And that’s my cue to give you two some privacy,” she announces, winking at you on her way out.
Once she’s gone, Mingi turns to you with a sheepish smile. “Too much?”
You shake your head, oddly touched by the gesture. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just not used to anyone doing this for me.”
His expression softens. “Well that's too bad, doll, start getting used to it.”
The study session is productive—mostly. At first, the two of you really do focus, perched shoulder to shoulder with a blanket across your knees, pencils poised as you quiz each other from the stack of flash cards. For a solid twenty minutes, you run through concepts, definitions, and theoretical graphs, congratulating each other with exaggerated fist bumps for every correct answer. Mingi is sharp, more so than you expected, but he keeps getting tripped up on the same three formulas, and each time he stumbles, you make him recite them from memory until he gets it right. By the fourth round, you’re both dissolving into laughter at his increasingly creative mnemonic devices.
Eventually, the flash cards are abandoned in favor of pad thai and mango sticky rice. You eat cross-legged on the floor, passing the container back and forth, chopsticks clacking as the conversation drifts from academics to childhood memories, to music, to the merits of various ramen brands. Mingi tells you a story about getting locked in a janitor’s closet during a fraternity scavenger hunt, and you laugh so hard you nearly spill sweet chili sauce all over your leggings. He grins, watching you with open affection, and you feel your defenses slipping a little more with each shared story, each easy silence.
You mean to get back to studying, really you do, but by the time your plates are empty, you’re both sprawled out on the rug, heads tipped together, trading lazy jokes and favorite movie quotes. The stack of flash cards lies forgotten somewhere behind you. Mingi stretches his arm behind your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. You’re acutely aware that you said you wanted to take things slow, but now, in the soft glow of your desk lamp, with rain pattering gently against the window, slow feels less like a rule and more like a suggestion.
At some point, you roll onto your side to face him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. He catches the look in your eyes and grins, that same vulnerable curve of mouth you saw outside your dorm, and you realize you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for anymore. The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and the kind of laughter that leaves your ribs aching. You don’t kiss—at least, not on the lips—but you end up with your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tracing idle, feather-light circles on your back as you drift in and out of half-sleep. The textbooks are forgotten, the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath and the way it syncs perfectly with yours.
You don’t let him stay the night but you walk him to the door at midnight, both of you lingering in the hallway far longer than necessary.
“Tomorrow again?” he asks, voice low.
“Tomorrow,” you echo, smiling so hard it almost hurts.
You close the door behind him and press your forehead to the wood, equal parts giddy and terrified at how easy this is starting to feel.
That’s how it goes, week after week. Study sessions that turn into late-night conversations, walks that stretch on for hours, endless cups of tea and takeout and inside jokes that no one else would ever find funny. You find yourself looking for him everywhere: in the crowd of the dining hall, in the hush of the library at midnight, in the flicker of lamplight outside your window when you can’t sleep. Every time he appears, it feels like a secret only the two of you share. You start to notice the little ways he tries to care for you. The umbrella he brings when the forecast calls for rain, the pack of your favourite pens he leaves in your backpack before a big test, the playlist he makes for your morning runs, even though he can’t stand three-quarters of your “motivational” music. You tell yourself not to read into any of it, but you do. You’re hopelessly, helplessly reading into every tiny thing.
The night before your economics midterm, you meet up in the library’s quietest corner, both of you vibrating with nerves. He brings snacks and a fresh stack of flash cards, all hand-written in his messy scrawl, and the two of you settle in for a marathon review. For once, you manage to stay on task, quizzing each other with increasing intensity until you’re both exhausted. When the clock chimes one in the morning, you start to pack up, but Mingi hesitates, his hand hovering over the pile of books.
“You’re going to ace it,” he says, voice unexpectedly earnest.
You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you don’t distract me during the exam.”
“That’s going to be impossible,” he laughs, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”
You snort, shouldering your bag. “I sure hope so.”
As you walk him out into the silent quad, he reaches for your hand—not tentative anymore, not asking permission, just doing it. You let him. The campus is empty, the sky ink-black and starless, and it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just the two of you, hands entwined, hearts beating a little too fast. He stops at the steps of your dorm, pulling you in for a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal. You memorize the feeling: the way his arms wrap around you, how he smells like detergent and the faintest hint of aftershave, the way his cheek fits perfectly against your temple. He reminds you to get some sleep, even as he lingers like he has no real intention of leaving just yet. You echo the sentiment back to him, a quiet reminder about his final. There’s a brief pause—something unspoken stretching between you—before you part with a soft, almost reluctant goodbye, the kind that feels less like an ending and more like something paused.
══════════════════
The morning of the midterm arrives with an electric tension in the air. You walk into the lecture hall, scanning the rows of nervous students until you spot Mingi. He’s hunched over his notes, frantically reviewing formulas, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he sees you, his face brightens momentarily before anxiety clouds his features again.
“Doll, I can’t remember anything,” he whispers as you slide into the seat beside him. “It’s all just... gone.”
You reach over and gently close his textbook. “Hey, breathe. You know this material better than you think.”
“Easy for you to say.” His voice cracks slightly. “What if I blank? What if everything we worked on just disappears the moment I see the test?”
You take his trembling hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look at me. You’ve put in the work. You understand the concepts. Trust yourself.”
He exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “I just... I can’t mess this up. Not after everything.”
“You won’t,” you say with such conviction that he almost seems to believe you. “Remember what you told me about game theory? It’s not about the cards, it’s about—“
“—understanding the patterns,” he finishes, a small smile forming. “The incentives.”
“Exactly. And you’ve got this. I know you do.”
Professor Kim enters the room, silencing the anxious chatter. As she distributes the exams, Mingi gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go. You mouth “good luck” to him before turning to your own test.
The exam is challenging, even for you. Two hours of intense concentration, complex problems, and theoretical applications that make your brain ache. Occasionally, you glance at Mingi. His brow is furrowed in concentration, pencil moving steadily across the paper. No panic, no hesitation. Just focused determination that fuels your own.
When time is called, you feel drained but satisfied. Mingi looks up from his paper, meeting your eyes across the room with an expression of cautious optimism.
“How’d it go?” you ask as you both file out of the lecture hall.
“I think... I think it went okay,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “That section on monopolistic competition? I nailed it.”
“See? I told you.”
He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky just because you were right. Again.”
Three days after the exam, your phone lights up with his name: Grades are posted, lock in.
Your fingers fly across the screen as you log into the portal. There it is: Econ1000 - Final Grade: A+. Not surprising, but satisfying nonetheless. You’re about to text him back when another message comes through: Can we meet? I’m outside your building.
Your heart races as you rush down the stairs. Mingi is pacing outside, face unreadable. When he sees you, he stops, and for a terrible moment, you think he’s failed.
“Mingi? What happened? Are you—“
His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “I got an A, I did it!”
Relief and joy flood through you as he picks you up in a spinning hug that lifts your feet off the ground. “I knew you could do it!” you laugh, arms wrapped around his neck.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist.
“Hey give yourself some credit, you did all the work,” you counter, unable to stop smiling. “I just provided occasional guidance—“
“—And motivation, patience, and belief when I had none.” His expression grows serious despite his smile. “Thank you.”
You feel your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “You’re welcome.”
He takes a deep breath, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features—something you’ve rarely seen from him. “So, I was thinking...” he begins, his hands sliding from your waist but not completely letting go, fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Maybe we could celebrate properly? Tonight?”
“What did you have in mind?” you ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.
“Dinner,” he says simply. Then adds, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “At an actual restaurant with fancy ass menus and shit.” His eyes meet yours, surprisingly earnest. “A date. Just you and me.”
The word “date” hangs between you, weighted with meaning. These weren't the standard study sessions or casual hangouts anymore. He wanted to take you out to dinner.
“A date,” you repeat, testing how the words feel.
“Yes.” He nods, watching your face carefully. “I want to take you somewhere nice. To celebrate, but also because...” He pauses, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just want to treat you to a good meal, feels like the right thing to do.”
You laugh, the tension in your chest dissolving into something warm and bright. “In that case, yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you tonight.”
The smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Seven works,” you nod, already mentally cataloguing your closet, wondering what constitutes appropriate attire for an official date with Song Mingi.
As if reading your mind, he adds, “Wear something nice. I made reservations at Stellina.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. Stellina is easily the most upscale restaurant near campus—the kind of place parents take their children when they visit, or where professors celebrate tenure. Definitely not somewhere college students typically go for casual dinners.
“Stellina?” you echo. “That’s... wow.”
“Wait, do you not like Stells?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.
You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just surprised.”
“Good surprised?”
“Very good surprised.”
He beams, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of anticipation. You text your roommate the news, which results in her immediately abandoning whatever plans she had to help you prepare. By six o’clock, your room looks like a boutique exploded—clothes strewn across both beds, makeup scattered across the desk, and your roommate critically assessing every option.
“This one,” she declares finally, holding up a simple black dress you bought for a cousin’s birthday last year but haven’t worn since. “Classic, elegant, but still says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” You slip it on, the silky fabric settling against your skin. It’s more fitted than you remembered, hugging your curves before flaring slightly at the hem. Nothing flashy, but undeniably flattering.
“Perfect,” your roommate nods approvingly. “Now, shoes...”
By 6:55, you’re pacing nervously in front of the mirror. The dress looks good, your hair is cooperating for once, and your roommate has worked minor miracles with minimal makeup. Still, anxiety flutters in your stomach like trapped butterflies.
“What if this changes everything?” you ask, chewing your lip. “What if it’s weird or awkward or—“
“Or what if it’s amazing?” your roommate cuts in, adjusting a strand of your hair. “Stop catastrophizing and let yourself enjoy this. The man is taking you to Stellina, for god’s sake. He’s clearly serious about you.”
Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with a text: I’m outside.
Your roommate practically shoves you toward the door. “Go! And I want all the details when you get back!”
You take one last deep breath, grab your small purse, and head downstairs. The moment you step outside, you spot him immediately standing beside his car, looking almost unrecognizable in a tailored navy suit. His hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes widen slightly as they take in your appearance, moving from your face to your dress and back again with an appreciation so obvious it makes your skin warm.
“You look...” he starts, then shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “I had a whole line prepared, but now I can’t remember it. You look incredible.”
“So do you,” you manage, taking in how the suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. “I didn’t know you owned clothes like this.”
“Special occasions only,” he grins, stepping forward to offer you his arm. “Ready?”
The drive to Stellina is short but charged with a new kind of tension—anticipation mixed with awareness. Mingi keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you catch yourself doing the same. When you arrive, he insists on opening your door, offering his hand to help you out of the car with an old-fashioned gallantry that would seem affected from anyone else.
Inside, the restaurant is everything you expected and more. Soft lighting from crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the gentle clink of expensive silverware. The hostess greets Mingi by name and leads you to a quiet corner table partially secluded by a decorative screen.
“This is...” you begin, looking around at the elegant surroundings.
“Too much?” he blurted out in a panic, studying your face carefully as he pulls out your chair.
You shake your head, settling into your seat. “No, it’s beautiful. I’m just not used to... all this.”
“Neither am I,” he admits with a small laugh, taking his own seat. “I wanted tonight to be special.”
The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, addressing Mingi with practiced deference. You watch, slightly amused, as he navigates the wine selection with surprising confidence, asking questions about vintages and pairings that you wouldn’t have expected him to know.
“Since when are you a wine expert?” you ask after the waiter leaves to fetch your selection.
He grins, slightly sheepish. “I’m not. I spent an hour yesterday watching YouTube videos about how to order wine without looking like an idiot.”
The admission is so endearingly honest that you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy.”
“I wanted to impress you,” he shrugs, no trace of his usual bravado. “Is it working?”
“Maybe a little,” you concede, smiling.
The wine arrives—a crisp white that pairs perfectly with the appetizers Mingi suggests. As you sip and sample delicate bites of food you can barely pronounce, the initial awkwardness melts away. Conversation flows as easily as it always has between you, ranging from classes to childhood stories to dreams for the future.
“So,” he says as the waiter clears your appetizer plates, “now that we’ve conquered economics, what’s next on your academic hit list?”
“Advanced Econometrics,” you grimace slightly. “Not exactly light reading.”
“Sounds intense,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll need a tutor for that one? If so, I know a guy…”
The teasing question makes you smile. “I think I can manage. What about you? What are you taking next semester?”
He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Actually, I registered for that Behavioural Economics class you mentioned. And...” he pauses, “I’m thinking about adding a minor in Business Analytics.”
“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That’s a pretty intensive program.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding, “someone made me realize I might actually be good at this stuff. When I’m not being a, what did you call it? ‘Stereotypical frat boy with the collective IQ of a houseplant?’”
You wince, remembering your harsh assessment from months ago. “I was wrong about that.”
“Not entirely,” he laughs. “I can be that guy sometimes. It’s easier, you know? To be what people expect.”
The honesty in his voice touches something deep in your chest. “You don’t have to be that with me.”
His eyes meet yours across the table, warm and sincere, “I know.”
The main courses arrive—seared scallops for you, steak for him—momentarily pausing the conversation. As you eat, you notice how Mingi keeps finding excuses to touch you: his fingers brushing yours when reaching for the wine, his knee pressing gently against yours under the table. Each contact sends little sparks along your skin, building a current that hums just below the surface.
“Can I ask you something?” he says after a comfortable lull in conversation.
“Of course.”
“When did you start liking me?” The question is direct, curious rather than cocky. “I mean, I know you couldn’t stand me at first.”
You consider this, taking a sip of wine. “I think... it was during our third tutoring session. You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about income inequality and its effects on consumer behaviour.”
He looks surprised. “That’s what did it? An economics debate?”
“You were passionate,” you explain. “And knowledgeable. And you didn’t back down just because I disagreed. I was impressed.”
His expression softens. “For me, it was the party. That first night. When you looked at me and didn’t seem impressed at all.”
“Really? That early?”
He nods, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how refreshing that was. Everyone else was... I don’t know, wanting something from me. You just looked annoyed that I existed.”
“I wasn’t annoyed,” you correct him. “I was... intrigued.”
“Intrigued,” he repeats, smile widening. “I’ll take it.”
As dinner winds down, the restaurant gradually empties around you. Neither of you seems eager to leave, conversation flowing from topic to topic, punctuated by laughter and moments of surprising vulnerability. When the waiter discreetly brings the check, Mingi insists on paying despite your protests.
“This was my idea,” he says firmly. “My invitation, my treat.”
“At least let me cover the tip,” you argue.
He shakes his head, sliding his card into the leather folder. “Next time. You can plan the whole thing if you want.”
“Next time,” you echo, liking the sound of it more than you expected to.
Outside, the night air is cool and clear, stars visible despite the campus lights. Mingi takes your hand as you walk back to the car, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.
“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “It was perfect.”
He stops walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a streetlight. “Thank you for saying yes.”
There’s a moment where neither of you moves. Then, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away, Mingi leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away—the restaurant, the streetlight, even the nervous flutter in your chest. His kiss is gentle at first, almost reverent, like he’s been waiting for this moment and doesn’t want to rush it. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.
You smile, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “What took you so long?”
Instead of answering, he kisses you again, deeper this time. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. Something shifts in the air between you—the careful restraint you’ve both been maintaining giving way to something more urgent, more honest.
Your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, messing up his carefully styled look. He makes a soft sound against your mouth that sends heat rushing through you, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. The kiss turns hungrier, months of tension finally finding release as his tongue brushes against yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence when you respond in kind.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide as he looks at you with undisguised want.
“I should’ve done this at the party ages ago,” he whispers, voice rough. “That night on the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
You laugh softly, feeling dizzy and light-headed in the best way. “Better late than never.”
He grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. “Do you want to go somewhere more... private?” The question is careful, giving you an out if you need it.
The responsible part of your brain reminds you of early classes tomorrow, of the boundaries you set, of taking things slow. But the part of you that’s been dreaming of this moment for longer than you care to admit is already nodding.
“Your place?” you suggest, surprised by the boldness in your own voice.
His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree so readily. “You sure?”
In answer, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your actions speak louder than words. When you pull away, his smile is almost dazed.
“My place it is,” he says, taking your hand and leading you back to his car with renewed purpose.
The drive to his fraternity house is charged with anticipation, the air between you electric with possibilities. His hand finds yours across the center console, thumb stroking over your knuckles in a way that seems both soothing and maddening at once. At a red light, he can’t resist leaning over to kiss you again, quick but deep enough to leave you breathless.
“If you keep doing that, we might not make it to your place,” you warn, only half-joking.
His laugh is low and warm. “Worth it.”
══════════════════
When you arrive, the house is mercifully quiet—most of his frat brothers either out or already asleep. He leads you through the common areas with your hand firmly in his, up the stairs to his room on the second floor. Once inside, he closes the door softly behind you, and suddenly the reality of where you are—in Mingi’s bedroom, alone, after the most perfect date—hits you all at once.
His room is larger than you expected, and surprisingly neat. A double bed occupies one corner, made with actual matching sheets and pillows. Bookshelves line one wall, filled not just with textbooks but novels, economics journals, and what looks like a collection of vintage records. A desk sits beneath a large window, offering the promised view of campus, lights twinkling in the distance.
“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this is where the golden boy lives.”
He pushes off from the door, crossing to stand before you. “Disappointed that there's no mattress on the floor and it’s not covered in beer pong trophies?”
“A little,” you admit with a teasing smile. “Though I do see at least one trophy.” You nod toward a shelf where a single golden cup sits next to a framed photo of Mingi with an older man, both smiling widely.
“Economics award from freshman year,” he explains, following your gaze. “That’s my grandfather, the day I got my acceptance letter.”
You move closer to examine the photo, aware of Mingi following you, the space between you shrinking with each step. When you turn to face him again, he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Something shifts in his expression—the playful fraternity president giving way to something more raw, more honest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip.
His fingers tremble against your cheek as he exhales shakily. “I’ve never been this terrified of messing something up,” he confesses, voice cracking slightly.
“Every time I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.” His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I keep pinching myself that you’re actually here, with me. You’re not just another person to me—you’re my person.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, reverent. “I adore everything about you. The way you laugh, how you challenge me, even how you roll your eyes when I’m being ridiculous.” He swallows hard. “I’m serious about us. So serious it scares me.”
The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You see it in his eyes, the battle between desire and fear. Fear that he’ll scare you away, that he’ll move too fast, that you’ll retreat behind those walls he’s spent weeks carefully dismantling. Your hands, almost of their own volition, drift upward to press against his chest. Under your palm, you feel the erratic thrum of his heart, each frantic beat echoing your own.
“Mingi,” you whisper, and the sound of his name—so soft, so certain—shatters the fragile barrier he’s been holding between you. For a suspended moment, your gazes lock, electric and trembling, and then he moves with a sudden, desperate clarity.
Mingi’s restraint snaps like brittle glass. He surges forward, kissing you with an intensity that’s as bright and blinding as a detonated star—no preamble, no hesitance, just pure want. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, arms banding around your waist so tightly you feel like you might dissolve into him. There’s nothing tentative in the way he holds you; he’s all-in, every muscle taut with reverence and longing. The kiss is a reclamation, a promise, and the culmination of every unspoken thing that’s hung between you for weeks.
You can only cling to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the seismic shift in energy. Your breath is stolen, your senses alight, your mind gone white-noise blank. The room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. Mingi kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second—like you’re the last oxygen left on earth and he’s learning how to breathe. And yet, underneath the urgency, there’s a trembling tenderness, as though every pass of his mouth is asking, Is this okay? Am I too much? Do you want me, too?
You answer with your body, arching into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. His hands slide up your back, mapping the length of your spine; one finds its way into your hair, cradling your head, the other splayed possessively at your hip. He tastes like citrus and hope and the sharp, metallic shimmer of anticipation. There’s nothing careful about it—your teeth clash, your lips bruise, and when you gasp for air, he only uses the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, the delicate hollow at your throat. This is messy, urgent, but it’s also so fiercely sincere you’re left raw by the force of it. When he draws back, just long enough to search your face, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark with wonder and disbelief.
“God, This might be better than the first time we kissed,” he pants, chest heaving as he regains control of his breathing. He brushes your hair away from your face, fingers gentle where his grip had been bruising. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You shake your head, already chasing his mouth again, needing to erase the words and replace them with more—more of him, more of this. He laughs against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones. You feel untethered, weightless, every nerve ending singing. You’re dimly aware of your back pressing up against the closed door, Mingi pinning you there in a cocoon of warmth and want. Every inch of you is alive, hypersensitive to the slide of his hands, the brush of his breath against your skin.
He kisses you again and again, in greedy, overlapping intervals, his self-control disintegrating the longer you let him. But even as the kiss turns molten, there’s nothing careless in the way he touches you—no sense of entitlement, just awe and gratitude, as though he still can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re choosing him. When he finally slows, his forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, foreheads and noses pressed together, steadying yourselves against the aftershocks.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then your ear. “Sorry,” he whispers, not sounding sorry at all. “I got carried away for a second.”
You laugh, shaky and breathless. “It's okay, it was kinda cute.”
He smiles, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“I learned from the best.”
He laughs again, quieter this time, and it morphs into something softer, more vulnerable. “The student becomes the master now, huh?”
You step back, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies, and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s hesitation there too—a question. You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, you place your palms on his chest and gently push. He sits immediately, looking up at you with such reverence that it steals your breath. For a moment, you simply stand between his parted knees, admiring how beautiful he looks like this—waiting, wanting, completely focused on you.
“Can I?” you ask softly, fingers playing with the top button of his shirt.
He nods, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Of course. Whatever you want, doll.”
You take your time undressing him, savouring each new inch of skin revealed. His breathing grows more ragged with each button you slip free, with each brush of your fingertips against his heated skin. Your hands drift lower, finding the buckle of his belt. His eyes never leave yours as you work it loose, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. There’s something intoxicating about the way he watches you—patient yet desperate, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. When you pop the button of his pants, his hands grip the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself down.
“Lift your hips,” you instruct softly, and he complies immediately, allowing you to slide his pants down his thighs. The fabric pools around his ankles, and he kicks them away, leaving him in just his boxers.
You take a moment to admire him like this—the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. Mingi has always seemed larger than life, but here, partially undressed and vulnerable before you, he’s beautifully human. When you trace a finger along the waistband of his underwear, he shivers, a small sound escaping his throat. He tries reaching for you, but you catch his wrists.
“Not yet,” you murmur, and he immediately stills.
“‘M Sorry,” he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll be good.”
Something about the way he says it—like he’s never had to wait before, like he’s never been the one following someone else’s lead—makes the heat pool low in your belly. You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rewarding his patience.
“Lie back, let me take care of you,” you instruct, and he complies without hesitation, shifting up the bed until his head rests on the pillows.
You take your time undressing yourself, hyperaware of his hungry gaze tracking every movement. When you finally stand before him in nothing but your underwear, he lets out the sweetest whimper that’s graced your ears.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re so beautiful. I—“
He cuts himself off, holding back a moan as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands hover uncertainly at your waist, waiting for permission.
“Go ahead, you can touch me,” you grant, and his hands are on you instantly. Feeling the warmth of his hands as they trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.
You lean down to kiss him properly, deep and slow, savouring the taste of him. His lips part eagerly beneath yours, letting you set the pace, following your lead with a pliancy that’s intoxicating from someone normally so in control. You begin grinding against him for friction and he reciprocates. He groans into your mouth, mumbling curses under his breath. You felt his boner poking your ass while you both humped each other so so desperately. His bedroom is filled with the harmony of your heavy breathing, his whines, and the wet sounds of your lips crashing.
“Please,” he gasps. “I need—I want—“
“What do you want, Mingi?” you ask, pulling back slightly to watch his face.
“Need to feel you,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “Don’t want to—haah—cum in my pants like a fucking virgin.”
You giggle at his admission, you slowly reach behind you to squeeze his bulge, feeling it twitch in the palm of your hand. Mingi’s head tips back in bliss, growling at the sensation. The rawness in his voice makes your chest tight. You press soft kisses down his throat, across his collarbones, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, but he doesn’t push or pull—just holds on like you’re his anchor in a storm.
When you finally strip away the last barriers between you, his whole body trembles with anticipation. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, feeling the velvet skin slide beneath your touch as you position his flushed tip at your entrance. His eyes lock with yours—dark pools of need and surrender. You lower yourself with deliberate patience, savouring the stretch as his thick length fills you, watching his full lips part and his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks.
Mingi whines the second you ease down on him completely, hips trembling beneath you. His hands fist in the sheets, as if he’s physically restraining himself from thrusting up into you.
“Fuck, baby—“ he gasps, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful as he struggles for control. “Feels so good around my cock, shit—“
You lean down, hushing him gently, both palms cradling his flushed face. You treat him like something precious, something to be cherished as you press your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss. Your tongue curls against his languidly, unhurried, as if you have nowhere else to be but here, joined with him in this perfect moment.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmur between kisses, your voice soft and sweet and infinitely patient. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He moans at your praise, his entire body shuddering beneath yours. He’s all muscle and barely contained strength under you, his powerful frame completely at your mercy. You can feel how desperately he wants to move, to take control, but he surrenders to your pace instead, letting you have him exactly how you want him.
You remain still, just sitting there with him buried deep inside you, feeling the way your cunt pulses around his length. The sensation must be overwhelming for him because his eyes squeeze shut, his breathing ragged and uneven.
“Is it too much?” you cooed, reaching to brush damp strands of dark hair from his forehead, your touch gentle and soothing
He shakes his head frantically, his grip on your waist tightening. “N-no,” he whines with a soft, shattered sound. “Just—fuck, just need a s-second—feels too fuckin’ good—can’t think—“
Sweat beads at his hairline, eyes squeezed shut in some primal effort to hold himself together, chest heaving under your hands like he’s afraid his ribs will break apart from the force of it. You melt a little at the sight of him—a six foot force of raw sex appeal—now reduced to a mass of shaking limbs and shattered breath, undone and writhing beneath you. There’s something intoxicating about the way he trusts you to see him like this, about the way he lets himself be taken apart so openly, without armour or artifice. You savour it, every trembling, helpless second, and you want to draw it out forever.
You lean down, brushing your lips to his cheek in a soft, featherlight kiss. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he turns his head, chasing your mouth with a need so naked it nearly undoes you. You let him catch you, let him press his lips to yours—not in a kiss, exactly, but a silent plea, a lifeline. You answer by kissing him deeper, slower, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him back to the surface. His hands slide up your back, frantic but reverent, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you by touch and touch alone. His heart beats wild under your palm, a frantic semaphore that reads: I want you, I want you, I want you. You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down the delicate line where his pulse hammers beneath thin skin. He shudders, his whole body rigid and shivery. You thread your fingers through his hair, stroking the side of his face
“Hey,” you murmur, voice as gentle as you know how to make it, “Relax, I’ve got you. Can you do that for me?”
He nods, so obedient and desperate it makes something deep in your chest ache with tenderness. One breath, then another, and you feel the tightness in his body begin to unravel—incremental, but real. You rock your hips slowly, experimentally, watching his face for every flicker of sensation, every micro-expression. His lips part in a helpless moan, but his eyes finally flutter open, dazed and shining. He tries to say your name but it comes out as a whimper, half-beg, half-blessing.
“That’s it, baby” you praise, kissing him again, softer this time. “You’re doing so well.”
The words seem to go straight to his core—he clings to them, drinking them down like water in the desert. You keep up a steady stream of encouragement, every whisper and touch meant to anchor him, to let him know you want him just like this: open, needy, trembling with the effort of holding back.
You draw the next movement out deliberately. The slow, aching drag of your hips, the way you squeeze around him with every tiny shift. Mingi’s hands grip your thighs like lifelines, fingers biting into your skin, but he doesn’t dare take back control—the restraint is exquisite, painful to watch. He’s at your mercy and loving it, if the way his eyes keep darting to your mouth, your chest, your hands, is any indication.
“Gonna let me do what I want, yeah?” you crooned, savoring how your voice makes him flinch with anticipation. “Keep being good for me.”
He nods, lips trembling as he struggles to keep his composure “Fuck. Yes—pl-please, ‘m yours.”
You build your rhythm, slow and steady, each grind calculated to wring the maximum shudder from him. Sometimes you pause, letting him throb helplessly inside you, watching his jaw flex and his throat work as he swallows the urge to move. Sometimes, you bring yourself up just enough that only the tip of him is inside, and let him feel the loss, the emptiness, right before you sink down again in one slow, molten pulse. Every time you do it, Mingi’s head tips back, a sound escaping his throat that’s closer to a sob than a moan. You let the building friction wind both of you higher, but you don’t let yourself get lost in it; you want to see him come apart, to savour every second of his surrender.
You pick up the pace, just enough to make it impossible for him to stay silent. The bed frame squeaks softly beneath you, his hands finally dragging up your ribs, desperate for anything to ground him in this sinful reality. He reaches up and cups one of your tits, rolling and squeezing your nipple until it hardens against his warm touch. Your eyes shut at the sight, your body starts to falter under his grasp. Every inch of him is trembling too, his body strung tight as wire. His thrusts are growing more desperate, cockhead now slamming into your weakest spot, ripping a pornographic moan from you.
“Please, doll,” he rasps, voice gone rough and wild. “Please, can I—?”
You lean in, your lips at his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. “You want to cum?” you hum, rocking down hard and slow, grinding your hips just the way he likes. “You want to fill me up?”
He makes a strangled sound that could be your name, or a prayer, or both. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he says again, as if the word is being pried out of him, as if he’s never begged for anything in his life.
You decide he’s earned it.
“Do it,” you cooed. “Cum for me, Mingi. Wanna feel you cum inside me.”
The effect is immediate. He bucks up into you, helpless, his face contorting with pure, blissful pleasure. His hands drag you down against him, holding you in place as he comes deep inside you, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Your juices drip down his balls and your gummy walls clamp down hard on his sensitive length, throwing into his orgasm and washing his vision white. You feel his warmth spreading in your insides, creamy ropes of cum making you feel fuller than before. You ride him through it, slow and greedy, squeezing him with your cunt until he’s wrung out and gasping, eyes rolling back as he drowns in sensation. His chest trembles under his shaky breaths as he pulls his half-hard cock out of your sticky heat, looking up at you through dampened lashes. You press your lips to his damp temple, stroking his hair until the aftershocks fade. For a moment, the world goes silent save for the hammering of both your hearts, the heat of your bodies, the sweat cooling on your skin.
All of a sudden, the equilibrium tilts.
Mingi comes back to himself by degrees, eyes still glazed but mouth already curling into a grin that’s all sharp canines and mischief. You’re still trembling, the aftershocks ricocheting through your bones, but the way he’s holding you now—possessive—is different from before. There’s a shift in the air, a gathering of purpose behind the lazy drag of his palm up your spine.
“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he rasps, voice rough with spent desire, “my turn.”
Suddenly he’s moving, rolling you onto your back in a single, fluid motion. His hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, your thighs, greedy in their hunger. His body covers yours, heat and weight and muscle, and you realise that he’s been biding his time, letting you have your way only so he could give it back to you tenfold.
“Did you really think you had all the control, doll?” he drawls, the words fiery and playful at once, goading you with the memory of your earlier dominance—all while letting you know it was only ever on loan.
His hands bracket your hips, fingers splayed and greedy, and you feel the faintest quiver in his arms as he holds himself over you, like a predator savouring the moment before the pounce. His eyes never leave yours as he takes himself in hand, his cock already hardening again. You feel the blunt head of him brushing against your sensitive folds, teasing at your entrance. He drags it slowly up and down your slit, still slick with his cum and your arousal, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he continues to tease you, tapping his tip against your cunt with feather-light touches. “Look at how eager you are f’me.”
You moan as he continues his torturous teasing, rubbing his hardening length against your swollen lips, gathering your shared wetness along his shaft. Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the fullness you crave. Mingi just chuckles, keeping his movements shallow, the head of his cock just barely dipping inside before retreating. The emptiness is maddening.
“Use your words,” he commands softly, continuing the torturous tapping against your entrance. “Tell me what you need.”
“I— ohmygod... I need—,” you try to answer, but the question melts on your tongue.
His smile is triumphant as he finally, finally pushes forward, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. He buries himself deeper, hips rolling with a languid, relentless power. Every inch of him fills you, presses you open, makes you ache. He fucks up into you with a slow, devastating grind that leaves your toes curling and your nails digging into his biceps for purchase.
“So fucking tight,” he groans, nipping at your pulse point, tongue flicking over sweat-salted skin. “So wet for me. You like being stuffed by my cock don't you?”
“Oh fuck.. yes!” You whimper, and he grips your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip, enticing you to be louder.
“Let me hear you,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “Fuck—let the whole dorm hear how good I’m making you feel.”
He fucks you like he has nowhere to go and nothing else to do but ruin you, each punishing thrust deliberate and deep, perfectly tuned to hit every trembling, oversensitive sweet spot inside you, drawing out increasingly desperate sounds that seem to fuel his hunger. The room is a riot of sensation: the slap of skin on skin, the obscene squeeelch of your own arousal, the sweat that drips from his brow onto your collarbone as he leans in to bite at your shoulder.
He laces his fingers through yours, pinning your hands above your head, and the new angle is exquisite—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, so intense you can’t manage a sound. He’s watching your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and pain, cataloguing the way your body arches and clenches around him.
“Look at you,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the headboard rattling with each thrust. “You look so pretty like this—spread out for me, fuck. This is what you wanted, right?”
You feel the weight of him first, that heavy press of Mingi’s body pinning you down against the sheets, his hips grinding slow and deliberate as he sinks deeper. Every inch of his cock stretches you wide, the burn mixing with that sweet ache that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into the scarred skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just growls low in his throat, pushing harder, stuffing himself in until there’s no space left between you. All you can feel is him, that thick length buried deep, pulsing against your walls as he drives in again and again. a whimper escapes your lips, broken and needy, your body arching up to meet him even as the overload makes you want to pull away. Mingi notices immediately. his hand shoots up, fingers tangling rough in your hair, yanking your head forward with just enough force to make you gasp.
“Look at me,” He rasps, voice strained like he’s fighting through something sharp and brutal.
His grip tightens, holding you steady so your eyes lock onto his. Yours are wide now, pupils blowing out wide and dark, swallowing the colour until there’s just that hazy black stare reflecting back at him. He watches it happen, the way they dilate under the dim light, pulling him in like you’re lost in the haze of it all. His sounds get louder, desperate almost, grunts turning into these deep, guttural moans that vibrate through his body into yours.
“Fuck—I'm gonna lose my mind,” he groans, the word dragging out low and pained, like the pleasure is edging on torture. his free hand digs into your hip, bruising as he pulls you closer, slamming in one last time. “Your perfect cunt was made for me wasn't it?”
You nod, frantic, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He slows, just enough to let you catch your breath, then leans in, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as comfort. His tongue is rough, demanding, and he swallows every helpless sound you make.
Then, in a cruel twist of fate, he pulls out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching at nothing. Before you can beg, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands manhandling your hips up until you’re on your knees for him, face pressed into the pillows. He lines himself up behind you, the heat of his cock nudging at your entrance, and you whimper in anticipation.
“You're gonna let me fuck you sooo good, right baby?” he promises, voice gone dark and needy, and then he slams back into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke. The sound you make is sweet, involuntary, a sob torn from deep in your chest. He gives you no quarter, hips pistoning relentlessly, the flat of his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends you clenching around him.
“So beautiful,” he purred, running his palm over the stinging flesh.
With every thrust he drives the point home, each one punctuated by a filthy litany—mine—until you can feel the word burning into your skin. He grabs a fistful of your hair, jerks your head back so you’re forced to arch, to present yourself to him, to let him see how utterly, beautifully ruined you are.
“Say it,” he orders, voice raw. “Tell me who you belong to.”
You gasp, barely able to form words. “You! Mingi. I’m all yours—“
He rewards you with devastating thrusts, so deep your vision starts turning white.
You can feel yourself unraveling, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s relentless, fucking you through your first orgasm and into a second, not stopping even when you collapse boneless onto the mattress. He kisses your spine, your shoulder blade, every vertebrae, as he keeps you pinned and takes you, over and over, until your vision blurs and you forget your own name.
“M-mingi! M’ so close, gonna cum—“
“Gonna cum inside you again,” he promises, voice shaking with how close he is, hips stuttering. “You gonna take it for me? Gonna let me breed this perfect pussy?”
“Yesyesyes—fuck!”
The words rip something out of you. You nod, desperate, grinding back against him, greedy for his release.
“That’s my girl, c’mon cum with me baby.”
He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and fucks you through his own climax, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up again, so much it slicks out around the edges and paints the inside of your thighs, messy and obscene.
You collapse together, his arms locked around your waist, breath ghosting warm across your neck. He stays inside you, softening only a little, like he can’t bear to let you go yet. You lie there, bodies tangled and sticky, sweat cooling on your skin, and you feel the heat of him still throbbing inside you, a silent claim.
Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, your breathing gradually slowing to match each other’s rhythm. Mingi’s weight on top of you is heavy but comforting, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite having softened slightly. The gentle pulsing of him against your walls sends occasional aftershocks through your system, little reminders of the intensity you just shared.
“Stay like this,” you whisper when he finally stirs, your hand reaching back to keep him in place. “Just a little longer.”
He makes a soft sound of agreement, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you?” His voice is a gentle rumble against your skin.
You nod, feeling strangely vulnerable in your admission. There’s something deeply intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the passionate sex you just had. Mingi seems to understand, adjusting his position slightly so he’s not crushing you but remains connected, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped possessively across your waist.
“This okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.
“Perfect,” you sigh, melting into the mattress beneath his weight.
The room falls quiet except for your mingled breathing and the distant thrum of music from downstairs. The party continues without you, but at this moment, the world outside this room might as well not exist. Mingi nuzzles against your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the marks he left earlier.
“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly.
“What, sex?” you tease, knowing full well that’s not what he means.
He laughs softly, the vibration traveling through both your bodies. “No, smartass.” His arm tightens around you. “This,” he clarifies, fingers drawing gentle patterns on your skin. “Having someone stay over.”
You twist your neck to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—you’re you. How—”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah I know…I don’t bring people here. Ever.”
“Ever?” You shift slightly to face him better, wincing as you feel him slip out of you. The loss is immediate, leaving you empty in a way that makes you want to chase the connection again. He reaches for tissues from his nightstand, cleaning you both with surprising tenderness before settling back beside you. His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable.
“Never,” he confirms, voice soft. “This room is... I don’t know. It’s mine. My space. I don’t share it with just anyone.”
The implication hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You’re not just anyone. You’re someone he wants in his private world, someone he’s letting see parts of himself that others don’t.
“But all those stories about you...” you begin, confused.
He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “Not saying I’ve been a saint. But those hookups? They happened elsewhere. Never here. Never in my bed.” His fingers trace your cheekbone with careful precision. “Never like this.”
Something warm blooms in your chest, spreading outward until your whole body feels flushed with it. You’ve been the exception to so many of his rules already—the girl he studied for, the one he took to Stellina, the one he waited patiently for. And now this—being the only person he’s ever brought to his most personal space.
“I didn’t know,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.
“How could you?” His smile is small but genuine. “I’ve spent a lot of time making sure everyone sees exactly what they expect to see.”
You reach up, touching his face with gentle fingers. “And what am I seeing right now?”
“The real me,” he says simply. “The one who’s terrified of messing this up. The one who thinks about you constantly. The one who...” he hesitates, taking a deep breath before continuing, “the one who wants you to be his girlfriend. Officially.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. Despite everything that’s happened between you—the tutoring, the dates, the incredible sex you just had—hearing him say it out loud makes it suddenly, overwhelmingly real.
“Mingi...” you start, uncertain how to respond.
His face falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. “I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”
“No, it’s not that,” you say quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “It’s just—this is all happening so fast. A few months ago I couldn’t stand you, and now...”
“And now?” he prompts when you trail off, eyes searching yours.
“Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” you admit. The truth of it surprises even you. “I just need a little time to process everything. Can I... can I give you an answer tomorrow?”
Relief washes over his features. “It’s not a no?”
You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Definitely not a no.”
He pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid you might disappear. “Tomorrow it is. I can wait.”
You fall asleep like that, tangled together in his sheets, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck. For the first time in years, you don’t worry about your schedule or your plans or what comes next. You just let yourself exist in this moment, with him.
═══════════════════
Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. You stir slowly, your body pleasantly sore as consciousness creeps in. For a moment, disorientation clouds your mind—this isn’t your dorm room. All of a sudden, rapid flashbacks enter your mind from the events of last night. Mingi is gone, the sheets cool where he should be. For one terrible moment, panic seizes your chest—did he regret last night? Did he change his mind about wanting you as his girlfriend?
Then you hear footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turning. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart pounding.
Mingi backs into the room, hands full. He’s balancing a tray of coffee cups, a small box of chocolates tucked under his arm, and—your breath catches—a bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas cradled against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, too focused on not dropping anything as he nudges the door closed with his foot.
When he turns and sees you watching him, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Morning,” he says, suddenly looking shy. “I was hoping to be back before you woke up.”
“What’s all this?” you ask, unable to keep the smile from your voice.
He approaches the bed, carefully setting down the coffee cups on the nightstand. “Well, I figured your answer might depend on how convincing my case was.” He hands you the flowers, the stargazer lilies’ pink-speckled petals unfurling beside clusters of blue hydrangeas that catch the morning light. “These reminded me of you.”
You bury your nose in the blooms, inhaling their sweet fragrance. “They’re perfect.”
“There’s more,” he says, offering you the box of chocolates. “Your favourite, right? The ones with the salted caramel centers?”
You blink in surprise. “How did you know?”
“You mentioned it once, when we were studying for the midterm. Said they were your stress food.”
The fact that he remembered such a small detail makes your heart swell. He passes you one of the coffee cups, the rich aroma of your preferred brew wafting up as you take it.
“And this…” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. “This is the most important part.”
You set the coffee aside and take the card with trembling fingers. The envelope is simple, your name written on the front in his familiar handwriting. Inside is a handmade card, decorated with what appears to be hand-drawn economic graphs and formulas. You open it, and a laugh bubbles up from your chest as you read the message:
According to my cost-benefit analysis, being with you yields the highest returns on investment. Our relationship has increasing marginal utility—the more time I spend with you, the more valuable each moment becomes. Will you be my girlfriend and help me maximize our happiness and love function?
It’s nerdy and sweet and so perfectly him that tears spring to your eyes. When you look up, he’s watching you nervously, waiting for your response.
“Soooo?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You set the card aside carefully and reach for him, pulling him down until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. “You're so stupid,” you say, cupping his face in your hands. “Of course I'll be your girlfriend”
The relief and joy that wash over his features are almost painful to witness. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he’s feeling into this one perfect moment.
When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if he’s committing this to memory.
“You know,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, “for someone who was failing economics a few weeks ago, that was a pretty impressive application of the principles.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of you. “What can I say? I had an excellent tutor.”
“Damn right you did,” you tease, pulling him in for another kiss.
Outside, the campus is waking up. Students are heading to class, professors are preparing lectures, life is continuing as it always has. But in this room, wrapped in each other’s arms, you and Mingi have created something new—a world that belongs just to the two of you, built on unexpected connections, shattered assumptions, and the courage to see beyond the surface. As his lips find yours again, more insistent this time, you let yourself sink into the certainty that some economic theories are universal: the most valuable things are often the ones you never saw coming, and the greatest returns come from the investments you make not with your head, but with your heart.
[ex-husband!wooyo x ex-wife!reader] 𓈒𓏸.°• part two to wifey | smut minors dni 18+, raw p in v, creampies, breeding, sweet talk, dirty talk, mommy/daddy, nothing too crazy i turned up the plot this time | 9.7k
there are some special appearances in this from @chimivx 's friends ᢉ𐭩 if you're curious about yunho's wife n kids, read tcmc ‼️ if you wanna know everything about wooyoung and aurora, how yunho and aurora came to be, if you're curious about the lore at all, pls start here :) thank you plum for letting me write a story from your story, i love your people very very very much, almost as much as i love u u terrifying mastermind genius ₊˚⊹♡
Like fucking clockwork.
You close the door to Kyungmin’s room quietly, hearing the soft noise of the latch clicking into place, face scrunching together, silently praying that you don’t hear his small voice call you back inside.
At the same time, Wooyoung’s key turns in your front door, heavy, deep brown wood groaning open. On silent feet he ushers himself inside, closing the door quietly behind him, lips tucked between his teeth to enforce the silence.
From the top of the staircase, you see him dressed in oversized charcoal at the bottom, kicking his sneakers off his feet while throwing his phone, wallet and keys on the entryway table. Skipping down the stairs, you forgo greeting him, whispering, “Be quiet, he just went down.”
“He’s eight,” Wooyoung whispers back, “you still tuck him in?”
“He begs me to,” your brows knit together, “he doesn’t beg you?”
“No,” his lips spread in a grin, “he’s a big boy at my house.”
You scoff, “Shut up, he’ll always be my baby.” Leading him into the living room, you keep your voice low, louder than a whisper, “We have to be quiet.”
“You have to be quiet,” he corrects you, tone teasing, smirking as you lay back on the couch. The TV is on but muted, the lamp in the corner coating the living area in dusky orange even if the sun had gone to sleep hours ago.
“I am quiet,” you pout as he crawls over you, wasting no time, crouching between your parted legs, a hand falling to the back of the couch for purchase as he pecks a short kiss to your lips.
“Don’t tease tonight,” you grab hold of his hoodie, pulling him close enough for your lips to touch, “I don’t have it in me to fight for it.”
He smiles, kissing you again, parting your lips with his own, hands moving to the armrest to keep him steady as he lowers his hips into you. You gasp into his mouth at the friction, your tiny shorts doing nothing to shield you from his weight.
“Then don’t fight,” he moves to kiss your jaw, your head tilts to let him in, his breath is hot against your skin, “lay there and behave for once.”
Your hands find his neck, his cheeks, pulling him back up to kiss you deeper, head lifting off the pillow, calves hooking over the back of his thighs. He makes a grumbled noise, tongue licking into your mouth like he was searching for something, one hand falling from the armrest to tug at the hem of your hoodie, pushing it upward.
“Off.”
One word, a singular order, you sink further down the couch after pulling it off your body in a rush, throwing the pillow beneath your head to the floor, giving him space to plant his elbows above your shoulders.
“Don’t wait,” you murmur into his mouth, “I can take it.”
He hums, taking your bottom lip between his teeth before he answers, “You don’t know how to take it.”
“Then I’ll fucking learn,” your feet tug at his sweatpants, spine bending toward him, “get inside me.”
“Antsy,” he sits back on his knees, pushing his sweatpants and his briefs down in one quick motion. “Like I haven’t been fucking you right or something.”
“You haven’t been here in a week,” you argue, pushing your shorts down to your ankles, kicking them on the floor, “you haven’t been fucking me at all.”
“I had our kid for four of those days,” he pulls your thighs over his, sliding his cock through your folds, “I didn’t see you at my door after he went to bed. On his own, might I add.”
You loose a shaky breath as his tip collides with your clit, hips bucking up towards him, “Shit, I was busy, Wooyoung. What about those three days then?”
He pauses, glancing up at you, “You serious?”
“Yes?” You blink, “What were you doing? You had Friday, Saturday and Sunday.”
He laughs, lining himself up, holding his breath as he pushes inside. Your lips part in a silent scream, head tilting backwards to dig into the couch cushions, hands clawing at your own thighs for something. He stills once he’s fully seated, chest heaving, veiny forearms reaching for your ankles.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he grinds out, voice tight with restrain, pushing your knees up to your chest. “Careful what you say, wifey. Might think you want me for real.”
“Regretting,” you squeak, eyes screwed shut tight, “s’big.”
He’d laugh again if your pussy didn’t look so pretty trying to keep him in. Walls fluttering around the base of him, your clit pulsed, begging for attention already, he started a slow, deep grind of his hips, making sure he filled you up all the way with each one.
“So wet for me, mommy. Didn’t even have to touch you,” he keeps his palms splayed on your thighs, bearing his weight as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the arch of your foot that dangles in the air.
You whimper, face scrunching in pleasure, core clenching around him, he kisses up to your ankle, grazing his teeth against your skin, your hands shoot for his wrists, his forearms, just to hold them. Forcing words out, you say, “Been waiting for this, for you.”
“A whole week,” he picks up the pace, voice leaning into condescending, “must have been so hard.”
Your breath catches, eyes rolling back, a soft moan tumbling off your tongue, “Fuck, ‘t was. It was.”
“Quiet,” he reminds you, “or I’ll stop.”
“You won’t stop,” you mutter, fingers tightening over his wrists, a challenge.
At that he stills, sitting back on his calves, leaving just the tip inside. “I won’t what?”
Jaw clenching, your hips follow him, he lays his palms over bone to keep you still. You stay like that for a moment, a game of chicken, eyes locked on his that stare at you expectantly. Obedience, silence, submission, he loves you bratty, he’s a brat himself, but when it comes to fucking you open on your couch just past nine at night, he expects you to listen.
“Fine,” you shift against the cushions, “fine, you win.”
He pulls you onto his cock by your hips without a word and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to force yourself silent. The angle, the ease in which he mounted you onto him, your eyes slammed shut, gasping out a broken sound into your palm, he fills you up perfectly, carving into you like you were built to take him and him only, it’s war to not cry out in pleasure.
“Fuck,” under his breath, low, he tells you how good you feel in one blurted word. You roll your hips against him, meeting his thrusts, curved cock dragging along the front of your walls with each grind.
“More,” you plead, grabbing for him, “kiss me.”
He crawls over you, elbows beside your ears again, pressing his lips to yours with a softness reserved for you. His hips slow, your ankles crossing over his back, pushing his hoodie up with your heels just to feel more of his skin against you.
“Yes,” you whisper, breathing the same air, bodies moving together now, “just like that, daddy.”
His forehead meets yours, a quiet noise of pleasure rumbling from his chest, “‘m not gonna last.”
You kiss him again, tongue slotting between his lips, hands tugging at his roots, body moving in the shape of his, the only thing you can hear is your breath singing in harmony and the slick sound of your bodies conjoining.
Six weeks of Wooyoung breaking you down on your couch, your kitchen counter, your living room floor, once against the wall just outside of your hallway bathroom. You don’t know what it is, you haven’t spoken any more of what it means, what comes next, the only thing you know is that you can’t stop.
“Want me to fill you up? Fuck you full?”
You’re nodding, tongue catching on his lips, delirious with pleasure, your body ached for him. Burned for him. Only him. Always him– till death do you part.
“Yes, daddy,” you whisper, voice pitched and whiny.
His hips stutter, he tucks his head into your neck to muffle his groan, fingers tightening in your hair that’s sprawled out around your head like a blanket. Losing his rhythm, his slow deep strokes turning shallow, quick– chasing a high he found so easily with you.
Your toes curl over his back, chin tipping up when you feel the warmth spread, the heaviness, the feeling was indescribable. Claimed, owned, like he was marking his territory, it made your stomach swirl with affection, enough to pick his head up by his hair and kiss him again.
Your hips rock, he whimpers. “T-too much, jagi, no.”
So warm, you glide against him, too slippery for there to be any resistance. The sound you make is small but it says everything you can’t, that you need more, you aren’t done.
“D’you wanna sit on my face?" You hold his flushed cheeks instead, doe eyes staring up into his dilated pupils, begging. He shakes his head, “Can’t fuck you again, can’t.”
“Pussy,” you smack your teeth, “are you serious?”
“I’ll make you cum in under three,” he feeds you a peck of his lips, “promise.”
“Mommy?”
Both of your heads turn toward the staircase, the small voice that couldn’t see you from the platform at the top. It takes all of a millisecond for you to push Wooyoung away from you and jump off the couch.
“Coming!” You call, grabbing your shorts from the floor. Pulling them up your thighs, clenching hard to keep Wooyoung inside, you hiss at your ex, “Don’t fucking leave, you owe me.”
“Yes, mommy,” he nods, grin amused and lazy, “duty calls.”
You run up the stairs to find your brown-haired boy standing at the top, one of his fists rubbing at his eye, his favorite Frozen pajamas already pulled up and twisted at each and every hem. Before you have a chance to speak, he asks, “Who’s here?”
“No one,” you speak quietly, softly, turning him around by his shoulders, guiding him back into his bedroom. “Come on, baby, bed time.”
Five minutes of staring at the ceiling feels like a fucking lifetime until his tiny breaths turn slower, deeper. Creeping out of his bedroom once more, closing his door even softer than you did the first time, you nearly sprint down the steps to find Wooyoung still half-clothed.
“Now what if I brought him down here?” You stand before the couch, hands on your hips.
“Why the hell would you do that?” He quips, leaning forward to grab you by the hips, pulling you back down to him. “He’s asleep?”
“Out like a light,” you throw your arms over his shoulders, taking your spot in his lap. “You promised me something.”
“Is that all I’m good for?” His brows raise and the question takes you by surprise.
Wiping the smirk off your lips, your arms lower a little, disarmed. “Sex?”
“Yeah,” he sits up a little, shifting where you sat on his lap. “We’ve been sneaking around for over a month, I haven’t pressed the date thing because you’ve never been one to break your promises and–”
“You were serious?” You push your brows up to your hairline, cutting him off. To make it clear, you repeat, “You seriously want to take me on a date.”
His head cocks to the side, “You didn’t think I was serious? Of course I want to take you out.”
“We’re divorced,” you argue, leaning back, adding space between you.
“I’m aware,” he says, as if he really means no shit. “You’re on my lap right now, I’m still dripping out of you, are you planning on fucking me after the sun goes down for the rest of our lives?”
“Not for the rest of our lives,” you shake your head a little, brows knitted together, confused.
“Oh, then until you’re over it?” He blows amusement through his nose. “We made a tiny human who’s upstairs right now and I’m suddenly disposable?”
“That’s not what I meant,” you rub your palms over your face, sucking in a deep breath. “I just thought this was, like, an agreement. I didn’t think either of us wanted anything more, I’m sorry if I misread the situation.”
“We’d have a chance to talk about it if you didn’t kick me out as soon as you came.”
“Wooyoung,” you gasp sharply, offended, “I do not do that.”
His brows raise, forgoing a verbal response. You think back on the past six weeks, remembering each and every night you’ve shoved him out of your front door as soon as he pulled his pants up, the memories flash through your mind like a medley. Your lips flatten, cheeks heating, guilt and shame forming in the pit of your belly.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, just above a whisper.
“You really don’t want anything more?”
He sounds wounded and your heart cracks beneath your ribs. His brows are upturned, mismatched eyes rounded out, pink lips still swollen from earlier almost pouting. You swallow, taking a second to be honest with yourself and your feelings… This works. The last six weeks have worked so effortlessly, so easily, you’ve been spending your days bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so fulfilled you haven’t even considered what comes next. If anything comes next.
“I haven’t been this happy in awhile,” you reply honestly, “I think I don’t want to fuck anything up, our sex life wasn’t this consistent when we were still married, it’s nice.”
His fingers squeeze your hips, pulling you closer to him, a small smile forming on his full lips. “All I want to do is take you out one time, jagi. We don’t have to put any pressure on it, let’s just go out for dinner, have a few drinks and talk. It’s been a long time since we’ve just talked.”
It puts a smile on your face, too. You run a hand through his hair, locks of coal soft between your fingers, “Okay, let’s go this weekend.”
His face lights up, “Really?”
You snort, “Yes, really. I’ll get a babysitter for Saturday and–”
“I’ll bring him to Yunho’s,” his hands slide up to your waist, under the hem of your tank, leaning forward until his chest brushes against you. “He hasn’t seen Aden in awhile, maybe they can have a sleepover.”
Your hands find the base of his neck, pulling him flush to you, “A sleepover?”
Wooyoung’s lips find yours, a small kiss, his hands traveling upward, cupping your breasts beneath your tank, “Maybe we can have a sleepover of our own.”
You gasp into his touch, brows furrowing in pleasure, “Please.”
“You can have me all night,” he reaches for the hem of your tank, pulling it swiftly over your head before his hands go right back to toying with your chest, pressing his thumbs over your nipples as he says, “We can fuck in our big, comfortable bed, all night if you want to. Just like old times.”
You moan softly, quietly, head going fuzzy like he’d cast a spell on you, “Let’s go up there now.”
He keeps his eyes on yours as he leans forward, tongue poking out to circle over your nipple before his lips wrap around it, sucking harshly. You suck in a sharp gasp, face twisting in pleasure, hips grinding into him beneath you, “Fuck, Wooyoung.”
“Saturday,” his voice is low, gravelly, it sends a shiver up your spine. “Tonight you get to ride my face.”
You can’t argue. Not when he brushes his nose over your spit-soaked nipple, giving you a perfect view of the curve of cartilage, already imagining bucking your hips against it.
Immediately you’re climbing off of his lap, pointing to the rug beneath your feet, “On the floor.”
“Whatever you want, mommy.”
“Damn.”
It’s loud enough for the neighbors to hear. On your porch, fist over his lips, his brows are scrunched like he can’t believe his eyes, he looks you up and down three times before he whistles.
You snort, rolling your eyes, pulling your front door closed behind you. “Shut up, Wooyoung.”
He steps backwards, down one of your cement stairs, watching as you bend over slightly to lock your front door. Voice amused, he continues, “All dressed up for lil’ ole me? The dreaded ex?”
You turn around with a smile, “I’m keeping my word.”
His hand goes over his heart, frowning, “That hurt.”
“Shut up,” you shake your head, fighting your amusement as you move to step down, following him, he keeps his feet planted where he stands, an unmovable force.
Then he cracks a grin. “What, you’re not even gonna kiss me hello?”
You cross your arms over the front of your dress, sleek and red and hugging every inch of your body you want to be hugged. You got it on sale, an outfit you’ve been saving for the right occasion, you can’t believe tonight, of all nights, is the night you took it off the hanger.
You can’t believe you pulled it out for Wooyoung.
“Good things come to those who wait,” you sing, “if you’re on your best behavior maybe you’ll get a kiss goodnight.”
He groans, head tipping backward, eyes squeezing shut, “You’re gonna make me hard.”
“I hate you,” you laugh, pushing on his chest, making him tumble backward a step. You follow him down the staircase, towards his still-running SUV in your driveway, “Where are we going?”
He said to dress nice, two days ago in a short text-exchange that started off with you asking if he forgot to drop off Kyungmin’s backpack, which you found in the corner of your living room approximately nine seconds later. Two texts back and forth before he reminded you of your date tonight, that he’d already made the plans with Yunho and Aurora, Kyungmin would stay over at their house tonight to have a sleepover with their son, Aden.
Yunho was Wooyoung’s friend from college, living only fifteen minutes from where you lived on the outskirts of the city, suburbia with a good school district, which is where Kyungmin had met their son, Aden, the second of four. You wondered how they did it, you had your hands tied with only one.
“It’s a surprise,” he walks to the passenger side, opening the door for you.
“Wow,” you raise your brows, “such a gentleman. Who even are you anymore?”
He holds an arm out for you to grab as you climb in, “I’m just a husband taking his sexy ass wife out to dinner, that’s all.”
“Ex-husband,” you correct, “ex-wife.”
He leans against the door with a smile, “Whatever you say.”
He looks good. Dress pants on his legs, tailored, all his dress pants are. A button-up, rolled up on his veiny forearms, showcasing his tattoo, the top two buttons undone. Dressed in all black so his golden skin gleams in each pocket where it shows, fuck he knows how to dress himself and God it pisses you off. His hair is styled, down, tucked behind his ears, it frames his face effortlessly, beautifully, part of you wants to ask if you can make a pit-stop in the backseat.
It’s a thirty minute drive, filled with the same soft rock playing from his speakers, he talks over it the whole time. From Kyungmin to work to his apartment, which he nags at you that you still haven’t seen the inside of, the conversation is as easy as it always is. Bickering, of course, but you’ve been bickering since you were twenty-two. Fifteen years of partnership, of friendship, of learning each other down to particles and atoms, awkward silence has never existed between you.
A fancy restaurant, one that just opened in the city, dim lighting and red velvet and black leather, you couldn’t tell if you were supposed to eat dinner or each other. Side-eyeing Wooyoung as the hostess brought you to your table, the moment she left you quirked a brow, “Is this foreplay?”
He grabs the drink menu, “It can be if you want it to be.”
So shameless it makes your lips part. “Are we in a restaurant or a sex club?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a restaurant,” he doesn’t look up over the menu, “but we could make it a sex club if you want to make it a sex club.” You snort, reaching over to steal the drink menu from his hands. He scoffs, “No way you’re reading that as if you aren’t gonna nurse one margarita until it’s tequila-water.”
“Shut up,” you grumble, “maybe I’m in the mood for something different.”
You quickly scan the specials, the list of bottles they carry, different brands of wine they have. Pursing your lips, you quickly realize you’re not in the mood for something different.
Shoving the menu back into his hands, you mumble, “Fine.”
He laughs, a high, amused giggle, “You’re so predictable.”
“You just know me,” you huff, “not predictable.”
When the waiter comes by, Wooyoung not only orders his beer, but he orders your margarita, too. Casamigos, salt on the rim, you don’t correct him because you’re as predictable as they come. Your cheeks heat up anyway, you might be predictable but he remembers and it sends a streak of heat up your spine. Whatever.
You’re reading the menu, or trying to with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, seeing words but not ingesting any of them. Maybe you should just let him order your meal for you, too.
“What’s bothering you?” He asks, and you glance upward like he’s ripped you out of a trance.
You purse your lips, shaking your head a little, defensive. “Nothing.”
“I’ve known you for over a decade,” his lips curl at the corner, “I’ve lived with you, I’ve loved you, you’re the mother of my son. Is it so crazy that I know you? One year spent apart out of fifteen is nothing.”
You can feel the heat in the tips of your ears, you forgot he knows you down to your thoughts, too. A small sigh escapes you, “Do you wanna start now? Before there’s even any food on the table?”
He leans forward, smile mischievous, “Hey, there’s bread.”
You push air out of your nose, amused as you sit back in the upholstered chair. “It’s just stupid. We’ve only been divorced for a year, and look at us. We’re in a sex club that has a kitchen.”
His lips thin before he answers. “Did you really think we’d stay separated?"
“Yes?” Your head tilts with the question. “Did you not?”
“No,” he answers honestly, “I’ve been working on myself a lot this past year. All the time spent away from you, Kyungie, it’s given me space that I never wanted. Space I’ve filled with things to better myself, for him, for you.”
“What, did you get a promotion or something?” You quirk a brow, “Work stuff?”
He smacks his teeth, “I went to therapy.”
“You went to therapy?” Your brows meet your hairline, “Like, the couch and everything?”
“No, she made me sit on the floor,” he muses. “She actually has a brown, leather chair. She helped me figure a lot of my shit out, that way when it was time for me to propose the idea of us seeing each other again, it’d be different. I’d be different.”
“Woo, I had no idea,” your heart picks up speed in your chest. “I didn’t even know that you were this… bothered about us separating, to be honest.”
His face scrunches up in disbelief, “That’s bullshit.”
“I’m serious!” You argue, “The divorce process was so smooth, I guess over time I got it in my head that it was smooth because it was mutual.”
“It was never, not even for a second, mutual.”
“You made it easy,” you shrug, picking up your margarita, taking a sip. “You never told me the details, I only knew what I found out from your mother. She never mentioned therapy.”
“You knew what I wanted you to know,” he sets his menu down in front of him. “It’s not like we were exactly on speaking terms, you didn’t give me the opportunity to fix anything while we were still together, either.”
Your stomach churns. “I gave you a lot of chances, Wooyoung.”
“Not enough,” he argues, not sternly, earnestly. He picks up his beer. “You gave up on me.”
“I gave up on being a single mother in my own marriage,” your voice is low, quiet. Your throat feels tight.
The waiter comes, Wooyoung orders for the both of you, something you would’ve chosen for yourself. Your thoughts are too loud for you to pay it any mind.
“I’ll have to live with the fact that I made you feel that way until the day I die,” his face is solemn, his words so honest your heart feels like stone in your chest. “But I thought I was doing the right thing, setting us up for our future, setting our son up for his future. For a long time I couldn’t understand why that wasn’t enough for you.”
“But you understand now?”
He nods, “Strangely enough, you making that deal with me at the conference, about having San speak, it might’ve been the final piece that put everything together. I feel like I can see it clearly now, and it feels so fucking stupid looking back.”
“Yeah?” Your lips curve at the corners, “Did your therapist enjoy my ultimatum?”
“I think she thinks we’re childish,” he laughs a little, “she doesn’t say that, but I can kinda feel it. Like we’re still kids playing at being adults.”
“We are,” your smile widens, “but now I keep wipes and snacks in my purse instead of lipgloss and condoms that we never used.”
“Don’t talk mommy to me right now,” his face scrunches together like you pressed your foot against his crotch. “We’re still in public.”
You stare at him over the salt on the rim of your glass, taking a sip of your margarita before you mumble, “I don’t think anyone here would be bothered.”
“I want to try again,” he wipes the smile off his face, voice a little louder, stronger. “Just to lay everything on the table, I’ve been wanting to try again and if a hookup at a work conference is the start of it unfolding, then so be it.”
You take a second before responding. “Do you really feel like I gave up on you?”
“Yes,” there’s no room for uncertainty, the agreement is crystal clear. “But I know I pushed you to that point, and I know in the end it was my fault. I should have been around more to help you. Just to have been there.”
Your bottom lip quivers, he catches it as soon as the first twitch tugs at your mouth.
“No, no crying,” he reaches his hand across the table, searching for yours. You tangle your fingers with his, his palm warm, fingers encasing your hand within his own perfectly like you were made for each other. “If you’re open to trying again, to giving me another chance, it’ll be different this time. I’m different, but I still love you, I still want to be beside you.”
You wipe at your eyes before tears fall past your waterline, “I love you too, but I did my makeup for this.”
“And it looks beautiful,” his lips curve, “but it’s just gonna get ruined later, anyway.”
“Why would it–” You meet his eye, the mischievous glint. “Oh, fuck you.”
“Hopefully I’m lucky and you will fuck me.”
“Is sex all you think about?” You laugh, then tease him, “Is that all I’m good for?”
He glares across the table, “Too soon.”
“You’re the one who said we were gonna roll around in my bed all night.”
“Once upon a time, it was our bed,” he releases your fingers to point at you, “and I know it’s lonely in that big ass bed without me.”
“Who’s to say I’m lonely?” You taunt, “Maybe there’s been plenty of men warming my bed since we separated.”
“You,” he says it like it’s obvious, “at the conference you said there was no one else, so unless you lied, you’ve spent over a year alone, in that bed, playing with yourself and wishing it was me.”
You think everyone in the restaurant could hear the gasp that erupted from your chest. Wooyoung’s head tips back in laughter and you curse under your breath, whisper-shouting, “We’re in public, Jung Wooyoung.”
“The mom-voice makes it funnier,” he’s still laughing, a hand over his mouth, “scolding me like I’m five. Fuck, do you remember when Kyungmin drew all over the wall in the living room? With fucking Sharpies?”
You groan, digging your head into your palms, elbows propped up on the table. “Still to this day I fucking hate the feeling of Magic Erasers.”
“You sounded just like that,” he takes a deep breath to control his laughter, then puts on his best you-voice to mock you. “Jung Kyungmin, we color in coloring books, not on the walls.”
The memory makes you smile, even laugh a bit under your breath, “It’s only funny now because I got the Sharpie off the wall.”
“It was funny then, too, trust me.”
The food comes hot and perfect, neither of you speak for the first few bites, until Wooyoung catches you staring at his plate, at his food. Mid-bite he pauses, popping a brow, “Want to try?”
You smile, and he smiles back, reaching over, fork in hand. The sound that leaves you is almost fitting for the restaurant you’re in. “I like yours,” you mumble, putting on your best doe-eyed look, making him snort.
“I’d be mad, but I’m too nostalgic,” he hums, satisfied with a smile on his cheeks he reaches over to grab your plate, switching it with his own. “Can I pretend I ordered mine for the sole intent of giving it to you?”
“No,” you hum happily, “it’s better that you gave yours to me. More romantic that way.”
He shakes his head, “First day back and you’re already spoiled.”
“Technically I still haven’t agreed,” you shrug, eyes on your food, about to take another bite before you realized Wooyoung had paused entirely. Looking over the table, you giggle at his deadpanned face, brows flat, lips flat, his entire face flat.
“Not funny.” He tightens his lips again. “Are you agreeing? Do you want to give me another chance?”
“Is this an immediate answer kind of thing?” You ask, food still halfway to your mouth, “Or can I get back to you on it?”
He purses his lips like he’s deciding the answer for himself before he gives you one. Eventually, when your bite is swallowed, he answers. “I guess you can think about it.”
“You guess?” Facing your plate, your eyes flicker across the table.
“Do you understand how long I’ve been waiting?” He doesn’t sound aggressive or forceful, or like he’s urging you towards an answer. “I had you for fifteen years and I just spent over an entire year without you.”
“You say that like I didn’t spend a year without you, too,” you argue, “you aren’t alone in that feeling, Wooyoung.”
“I just want my life back,” his voice settles into something just above a whisper, too raw for the crowded restaurant. “I want you, I want Kyungminnie, I want to come home.”
You swear you can see an entire year of pain in his eyes. Chocolate that’s usually melted, milky sweet, a delicacy, is deepened into something dark; hardened with time spent apart, changed with a life lesson that needed to be felt in order to be learned. He’s the same but he’s different, you can feel it, you know it.
All you can do is pray he doesn’t disappoint you again.
He keeps his hand on your thigh the entire drive home.
Quiet for once, the calm before the storm, you use the silence to think about your time spent apart, how it affected you. He was right, alone in your king-sized bed, but more than that you’ve learned so much about yourself in the year spent away from him. Kids fresh out of college, thrown into the workforce, pregnant before your first paycheck, court-signed documents without a big party to follow, your adult life has been spent entirely by his side.
You’ve learned strength. You’ve learned to trust yourself. You’ve come to fall in love with yourself, by yourself, the you that wasn’t half-Jung. Despite the tears, the nights drowning in self-doubt, of not knowing what the next day would look like, you did it.
And now he’s back, and he promised that he changed.
You don’t know whether or not to trust the tiny voice in the back of your mind, you don’t know if it’s nerves or a gut-feeling. But when you turn your head to the side, to the man you’ve spent fifteen years loving, adoring, his chiseled jaw and his curved nose and the veiny, tattooed forearm that’s attached to the steering wheel, it’s easy to admit that you want him to come home, too.
You missed him. You miss him, and he’s beside you.
You miss him making the bed in the morning, having coffee on the pot downstairs, already prepped for you. You miss him shoveling the driveway in the winter, mowing the lawn in the summer. You miss him taking out the trash. You miss him fixing a toy when Kyungmin breaks it. You miss him doing your fucking taxes. You miss him doing the dishes after you cooked dinner, you miss him stealing the dishes out of your hands when he cooked dinner.
You miss the mundane things.
You miss the way he kisses you goodmorning, when he gets home from work, before bed, randomly, mid-day on a Saturday. You miss him making Kyungmin laugh. You miss the way his skin feels on yours, the way he finishes your thought before you’ve finished it, the way he makes it so easy to believe that it’s possible to love another human so much.
You miss him present most of all.
“If I agree,” you speak into the silence, his fingers add the slightest pressure onto your thigh. “You swear you’ll be around?”
“Yes.” The word is final. “I’ve made the changes already. You’re my priority.”
You don’t answer, you let the words sink in. It’ll take time, learning to believe him, learning to trust his words again, but something settles in your chest, in your gut, something calm. It reminds you that you can still be yourself, you can still be strong, you can still trust yourself, you can still be in love with yourself– but he’s here to love you, to trust you, to lean on you for strength, too. There’s something about it that’s comforting, that’s right.
The house is dark when you walk through your front door. You forgot to leave the lights on, the lamp in the corner of the living room, the one above the kitchen sink. So scatterbrained about being out with Wooyoung, about your kid sleeping at someone else’s house, you huff a curse as soon as the darkness welcomes you home.
While you turn the lamp on, without a word he’s in the kitchen, turning on the other above the sink.
And for some reason that’s enough.
Maybe it’s how he looks, doused in twilight, standing in the kitchen he designed. Shadows finding home in the structure of his face, the tattoo on his forearm, the veins that swirled around it, blending into the vines, rippling each thorn of the rose. Maybe it was just the fact that after all this time, seeing him here, in your kitchen that you left exactly how it was the day you kicked him out, reminded you just how deeply you love him. That even though you’ve spent a year apart and you’ve learned to love so much about yourself, the part of you that you love most, is the half of you that’s him.
You hope he feels it as you kiss him, standing in the space between the two counters, the long, skinny walkway between the sink and the island. Your arms around his shoulders, his find your waist, sliding down to your hips, then behind you, taking two fistfuls of your ass.
You squeak into the kiss and he turns you, scooping under your thighs to lift you, placing your ass on the kitchen counter. You don’t break the kiss, feet hooking around his back, fingers curling into his roots, tongue sliding between his lips like you were the one coming home.
He hikes your dress up, warm palms searing the skin beneath fabric, slipping under the hem just to rest there like he couldn’t deny himself feeling you any longer. You’re panting into his mouth, sizzling under his touch, you whisper, “I need you.”
He pulls away, putting an inch between your faces, “Here?”
“I don’t care where,” your hands find his cheeks, holding him close, “I need you, Jung Wooyoung.”
His eyes flicker over your features like he’s reading your thoughts and it takes him all of a second for his fingers to dart to the hem of your dress. You lift yourself so it pools around your hips, reaching forward for his button-up, getting only three unbuttoned while his fingers work the button and zipper of his pants. Both of you panting, heartbeats uneven, your feet stretch to reach the opposite counter, palms planted on the one you sat on, shifting yourself to the edge as Wooyoung frees himself from his briefs.
Your tongue pokes out to wet your lips, tasting remnants of your lipstick and his saliva on your tongue. The lack of a rebuttal from him, of snarky, taunting comments– this was different than him filling you silently on your living room couch. One hand moves your thin, lace thong to the side as the other grips his length, prodding at your entrance, making you gasp.
He fills you quickly, slipping inside with barely any resistance, the two of you moaning out in relief and pleasure. He grumbles out a curse, reaching the hilt, hands finding your hips, fingers bruising into your skin.
“Jagi,” he whispers. “Wanna give you a baby.”
Your eyes meet his and he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world. Like nothing else matters except you and him, like the outside world melted away, like you haven’t built and ruined a life between you. Like it was fifteen years ago and you’d just opened the first page of your love story.
“Do it, then,” you whisper back, eyes glossy, throat tight. “Give me one.”
“Can I?” He asks, face stone, as if you couldn’t feel his cock twitch inside you. He wasn’t asking permission, he was questioning the possibility.
Counting in your head, you wait a moment to reply, “Yes. Slim, but yes.”
He grins ear to ear, that same shit-eating grin he wears when he gets what he wants whether he fights for it or not. Then he moves, a shallow, promising thrust, grinding into the deepest spot inside you, making you hiss out a curse.
“Have to fill you,” his eyes find your meeting, watching himself as he barely thrusts, keeping himself buried. “Nice n’ deep. Make sure it takes.”
Your head dips backward, arching into him, skin catching on the glossiness of the counter you’d wiped down before you left the house. “Please.”
He grunts, fingers searing your skin, picking up his pace. “Fuck, need to see you pregnant. Belly full of my fuckin’ kid.”
“Wooyoung,” your voice is breathy, shaky, full of arousal as you moan his name, it makes him grunt out a curse, hips slapping against yours, reverberating through the room, bouncing off the stainless steel appliances.
His hands on your hips use the strength of his arms to lift you, pulling you off the counter with too much fucking ease. He slips out of you before your feet hit the floor, but he’s back inside you as soon as your back presses against the cool wood of the kitchen floor, freshly mopped this morning, knowing he’d be here tonight.
His lips are on yours, your legs hooked over his back, panties thrown somewhere you didn’t care to see. His shirt is open, still over his shoulders, trapping you between the open panels like it was shading you from something, anything that wasn’t him.
His hair feels silken between your fingers as you tug at his roots, keeping him as close as possible, never close enough. Murmuring words into each other’s lips, the sound of his skin hitting yours muted it, like the two of you were stuck in a time-warp, a lovesick bubble you entered fifteen years ago.
Pressure builds with each thrust, your moans growing in pitch, and Wooyoung keeps his eyes on yours, his bottom lip touching yours, assessing, watching, feeling, waiting for you to crest your peak without any stimulation to your clit. His eyes flare when your breathing catches, keeping his rhythm unfaltering, his angle locked, muttering yes, yes as you approach the high only he can give you.
He groans when he feels the pressure blow, as you clench around him, the heels of your feet digging into his back, he catches your lips between his own to feel everything, all of it, all of you.
The silence says everything. You’re stuck in euphoria as his cock drags over that same spot inside you, his head dropped down to your shoulder, your nails clawing at his back as he takes you for everything you’re worth. Every drop of pleasure, every emotion, you handed everything over to him, put it in his palms, let him cradle it– had you ever even taken it back for yourself?
“Gonna give you a baby,” he mutters into your skin, voice jagged like the edge of a blade, a man slicing a promise into your skin. “Gonna give you a girl this time. Pretty like her mama.”
“Yes,” it’s a whimper, a plea. “I love you, please– I love you.”
He grunts, heavy and rough, hips smacking yours with fervor, picking up his pace, weighting his thrusts. He picks up his head, palms finding your cheeks, holding your scrunched up face between them before he presses his mouth to yours, and you can taste the I love you too on his tongue.
Into his mouth, weak, soft, you utter, “I missed you.”
And why the admittance brought tears to your eyes, you aren’t sure. But they fell to his thumbs and he seemed to understand even if you didn’t, kissing you deeper, tongue slotting into your mouth as if he was soothing your scars.
He finished inside you with a low grunt that vibrated through you and into the hardwood beneath, cock hilted, buried so deep you weren’t sure where you ended and he began. You wanted to stay there, full of him, in the bubble you’d fucking missed being in, but his phone ringing on top of the counter had you both moving before you could breathe.
“Yunho,” is all he said before he pressed the phone up to his ear, still panting, brows furrowed. You stood up, dress falling over your hips, thighs wet and legs jelly, you leaned an arm over the counter for stability, silent enough to hear Yunho on the line.
Yeah, he threw up… Asking for you… Rory took his temp, he has a fever… He’s on the couch now… Okay, see you soon…
Wooyoung hung up with a sigh, “Rain check for rolling around in our bed?”
You cracked a smile, “What’s your schedule looking like on Monday?”
Wooyoung snorts as he tucks himself into his slacks, fingers working his buttons, “I’ll drive.”
Aurora had the door open before you’d made it up the steps of their front porch. “Sorry for cutting the date night short.”
Her sad smile was full of apology, she had one arm on the door as she held it open for the two of you. Pajama pants on her legs, slippers on her feet, her oversized tee that said Nasara University had one shoulder cut off. Hair tied in a bun on top of her head, bare-faced, so effortlessly gorgeous you felt self-conscious even if you were still in your red dress.
“Thanks for taking care of him, Ro,” Wooyoung replies. “Yunho said he’s on the couch?”
Ro. A nickname you haven’t heard before. Storing the info for later, you followed Wooyoung inside, taking note that their house was full of everything warm and cozy. Toys littered the floor, picture frames on the walls, nothing was tidy or put together. Not dirty, but… Lived in. Like six people lived here and not one of them was hiding the fact. The TV on and playing an old cartoon from when you were all kids, three out of Yunho and Aurora’s four sat on the living room floor just before Kyungmin who was curled up on the couch, blanket covering his body.
You stayed back while Wooyoung crossed the room, saying hi to the kiddos before scooping Kyungmin up in his arms. Aurora spoke while you watched him, “Yunho’s upstairs with the baby, she woke up when the kids started screaming about throw up.”
“Sorry,” you scratched the back of your head, cheeks flaring heat. You hoped you didn’t smell like sex. You also hoped she wasn’t thinking about the fact that you and Wooyoung are divorced and together right now.
But she just waved her hand, “Please, don’t be. She’s a terrible sleeper anyways, and all four of them were playing dress up in June’s room. She was bound to wake up sooner or later.”
“Dress up?” You cracked a smile.
“June has the time of her life dressing up her siblings,” she smiled with you, “and I think Aden enjoys it more than she does. They call it Fashion Runway, and Kyungmin was the star tonight, just so you know. June and Aden said he’s their new muse.”
You snort, not a lick of surprise on your face, “I need to see this.”
“You guys should come over more,” she offers, looking at Wooyoung as he returns with your gray-faced son’s head on his shoulder. “We should do the things the cool families do, hangout while the kids hangout, conjoined vacations and shit. We live so close and we never do anything.”
You look at Wooyoung who nods like he was brushing her off. “Yeah, sure. Don’t you wanna wait til’ Sunnie gets a little older?”
Her brows furrow, “No?”
“Sunnie’s a cute name,” you turn to her. “I didn’t know that was her name. How old is she?”
“Her first birthday is next month, I invited you guys, he didn’t tell you?” Her brows furrow further as you shake your head. Her eyes thin as she glances at Wooyoung, “Sunnie’s short for Woosun. Named after her godfather who apparently doesn’t want to come to her first birthday party.”
You will your face into staying neutral, like you knew Wooyoung was Aurora’s daughter’s godfather. “Woosun’s a gorgeous name.”
“Yunho came up with it,” her smile is proud, and if she could see yours, the one you’re hiding behind your stone features, you think she might be terrified of you. Your eyes find Wooyoung’s and he looks as gray as Kyungmin, face dropped, fear rippling in his chocolate brown eyes.
“Thanks again for taking care of him, Aurora.” You barely hear her response as she gives you a side-hug. She smells clean, like grapefruit and vanilla, a hint of baby formula like she’d just finished feeding Woosun. Woosun.
You don’t speak until after Wooyoung buckles in Kyungmin, your son still somehow knocked out in the backseat, head lolled to the side. Wooyoung tugged on the seatbelt twice, making sure it was locked, keeping him in place. You see the glitter on him then, on his eyelids, his cheeks, his hair, he’s in clothes that aren’t is. God, did he throw up on his own clothes? You didn’t even notice, nor did you ask for his clothes back. You’d have Wooyoung text her tomorrow.
Seated in the driver’s, he flips the engine, eerily quiet. Waiting for you. So you start.
“I thought Yunho was your friend from college.”
He takes a steadying breath before he speaks, “He was, is. But I’ve always been friendlier with Ro.”
“Ro,” you repeat, lips scrunching together. Your head shakes slowly, “Define friendlier.”
“Baby, we went to college together–”
“Don’t baby me,” you snap, keeping your voice quiet to not wake up your son, “you just tried to give me a daughter and then I find out you’re the godfather of someone else’s?”
“I was going to–”
“You were going to tell me nothing,” you snap again, hearing your heartbeat in your ears. “You used to fuck her, then? In college? Is that why we’ve never hung out with them?”
“It was more than that,” his voice is defensive, curt. Your lips snap shut, eyes widening a fraction. “We were together for a while, but it was… complicated. Everything about that time was complicated.”
“She named her fucking kid after you,” your voice is quiet but not any less venomous. “You know everything about me. Everything. And after fifteen years, I’d expect to know everything about you. Why keep it a secret?”
He keeps his eyes on the road, even if they blaze with emotion; fear, guilt, shame, remorse. “I don’t know if I can even explain it, she’s– she’s special. Different from a girlfriend or a hookup, we went through a lot of tough shit together.”
Eyes widening further, throat tightening, you can taste the salt lining your eyes. Your voice comes out hoarse, “She’s so special that you couldn’t tell your wife about her?”
“There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t make you feel like this. She’s married, happily, with four kids. If you knew our history you wouldn’t want me around her.”
“And that’s more important? Being around her? Than me knowing the truth?”
“No,” he shakes his head tight. “No, it’s not. I spent a lot of time at their house while we were separated, and the three of us got really close again–”
“So that’s why she said we should all hangout,” you laugh a little, it’s dry, lacking amusement. “She wants to know what the wicked ex-wife that divorced you is like.”
“No,” he counters, voice raising, exasperated. “I never said anything bad about you, fuck. After the conference I talked to them, and she needs a girlfriend. I basically pimped you out to her, to be her friend.”
“Pimped me out to a girl you used to date. Fuck. Go through tough shit with.”
“We weren’t close during our marriage,” he argues, eyes flickering up to check on the still-sleeping Kyungmin through the rear-view mirror. “I sought them out after you divorced me, I needed a friend, and I knew Kyungmin and Aden were in the same class, I– they helped me.”
“Your ex-girlfriend and her husband helped you. Did they invite you into their bed? Help take your mind off your sad, divorced heart?”
“I’m not going to talk until you stop seeing red. Calm down and then speak to me like an adult.”
Crossing your arms over your chest, you stare out the window, and let the tears fall.
Kyungmin lay on the couch, asleep again after another round of emptying the contents of his stomach into the same stained bowl you use for popcorn on movie nights. You and Wooyoung sat on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, staring at him. So small, his face looks so peaceful, in a deep, hopefully dreamless sleep. He changed your lives eight years ago. Forced you into an adulthood you weren’t prepared for, the greatest blessing you didn’t ask for. A gift.
“Think he has the flu?” Wooyoung asks after too long of staring at the boy you created in silence. His hands stretched behind him, legs in front of him, body sagged with exhaustion. It’s been a long day.
“Maybe a stomach bug,” you reply through a sigh, sitting with your arms curled around your knees. “Time will tell. If his fever’s still up tomorrow, I’ll take him to the doctor.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I’m his father, I want to.”
You swear, it’s grumbled, irritated. You can still feel the stickiness between your thighs, almost like it’s taunting you now. Telling you good job, you get to have another baby with a liar!
“I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Wooyoung’s voice is grave. “Aurora is harmless. I don’t love her, I’m not into her, there’s nothing left between us but friendship.”
“You’re missing the point, Wooyoung. It’s not about her, it’s about the fact that you kept it from me for fifteen years.”
“It wasn’t relevant for fifteen years. But it’s relevant now, and I’m telling you.”
“Because you were put in a situation where you had to tell me,” your head snaps to the side, glaring at him. “You should have told me when we had the whole exes conversation over a decade ago, or maybe when you found out Aden was in the same class as Kyung, or when she named her daughter after you, or when she made you the fucking godfather. You had a million-and-one chances to tell me.”
Wooyoung sighs, “It was a wound I didn’t want to reopen back then, but I should have. I’m sorry.”
“It feels wrong,” you look back at Kyungmin, a frown on your lips. “Knowing you had a relationship with these people deep enough for them to name their child after you, and I don’t know any of it. It makes me feel like I don’t know you, like there’s a side of you that you’ve kept from me all these years.”
“Do you want to know the full story?” He glances sideways, and the look you give him is an obvious yes. He sighs, “Fuck. Alright.”
And you sit there, for an entire hour as he reveals a side of himself that you’ve never gotten a glimpse of. Partying, threesomes, Aurora, men– so many men, and even though that part didn’t take you by surprise, it did make you wonder. The tough shit was about her, Yunho surprisingly, her father, her own personal issues that Wooyoung had adopted like his own and helped her through. Living with his cousin, switching his major, supporting his mother, all the fucked up people who went to his university that married each other. You wondered how well they turned out.
“Her and Yunho, made for each other. Their kids were a blessing, and they started younger than we did. Then kept fucking going.”
It made you laugh a little, and as the sound hit his ears, he finally cracked a small smile. Glancing at you, he muttered, “I did love her, I loved everything about her. But our relationship, me in her life, it was for a purpose, y’know? And when it was fulfilled, after I’d done what I was… destined to do or whatever, her life got a lot better. She got better. Everything got better, actually.”
“You were all too young for all of that shit.” It’s all you could say. All you could muster up seeing Wooyoung’s life twenty years ago pass through his eyes, listening to him describe it like it happened yesterday.
“I know,” he heaved a sigh, laying back on his elbows. “But then I met you and I thought it was my turn to be happy. To feel like I had it all figured out.”
“Then I got pregnant.”
He laughed, a rich, light sound. “Then you got pregnant.” He sat in silence for a moment, glancing at your son on the couch, before he bit his lip in contemplation. “I have something else to tell you. Since we’re being honest.”
Your heart dropped, skin feeling icy-hot. Nervously glancing at him, your voice comes out shaky as you ask, “What?”
“We’re still married.”
You blinked. “No we’re not.”
“Yes we are.”
Fingers meeting the floor on either side of you, you shook your head, warning, “Wooyoung.”
“That’s why the divorce process was so easy,” he isn’t looking at you, his eyes stay on Kyungmin, unblinking. “Because I never filed for it.”
“I filed for it,” you counter.
“With my lawyer,” his eyes meet yours. “Who I paid generously not to file.”
“What? I–”
The walls felt like they were closing in. He continued, “I thought it was hasty. That you would regret it, or that you didn’t mean it, or that I’d fix it, I don’t know. I couldn’t stomach the idea of us not being together, so I faked it.”
“You pay me child-support, Wooyoung.”
“I know,” he shrugs, lips thin. “I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think we’d stay apart forever.”
You stare at him for a moment, a thunderstorm brewing beneath your skin. “Get out.”
His head snaps to the side, eyes wide, “What?”
“Get out,” you repeat, firmer. “Get the fuck out.”
“Wait– Let me explain, I–”
“Jung Wooyoung get the fuck out of my house.”
“I love you,” he argues, voice strained, turning his entire body to face you as you start standing up. “With my entire heart and soul. I can’t live without you any longer, without him, please talk to me– please talk this out, please–”
“I’m filing first thing tomorrow morning,” you bite, voice so fucking harsh and venemous you can’t believe it came from your lips. “With a different lawyer, my own fucking lawyer. You better hope and pray that I’m not fucking pregnant.”
── .✦ You join the gym after a painful breakup, expecting only physical change, but as you grow closer to your trainer San, you rediscover your confidence and find unexpected romance that heals you both.
pairing: trainer!san x afab!reader
genre: strangers → friends → lovers
rating: smut, mature 18+
wc: 11.2k
tw: [themes of body image/insecurity, infidelity/cheating, alcohol use, some strong language]
warnings: [explicit and detailed smut, unprotected sex, creampie, softdom!sannie, making outttt <3]
ᝰ.ᐟ honestly so sad that I didn't focus on san's ass appreciation bc he def loves reader's ass. also, woosan goes crazy sometimes. expanding to ateez again, and trying to come up with something for bts. who should be the first I write for if I do? enjoy hunnies <3
: ̗̀➛ masterlist ੈ✩‧₊˚ message me! ੈ✩‧₊˚
Your sneakers squeak on the polished floor as you walk into the gym. You grip your phone tightly, suddenly aware of your body, your hoodie, and the mirrors along the walls. You remind yourself you’re here for you—no one else.
“Hey.”
The voice is warm. Easy. You look up and immediately forget how lungs work.
He’s tall and broad, making his black joggers and fitted T-shirt look almost too good. His skin is honey-toned, his eyes sharp but softening when he smiles, dimples appearing. He looks strong, but not intimidating. He feels safe.
“I’m San,” he says, holding out a hand. His grip is gentle. “First time here?”
You nod, shaking his hand, hoping your blush isn’t visible under fluorescent lighting. “Is it that obvious?”
He laughs, light and genuine. “A little. But that’s okay. Want me to show you around?”
You follow him past the treadmills and weight racks, doing your best not to stare at his shoulders. He explains everything patiently, tells a few silly jokes, and never makes you feel out of place.
By the time you get to the free weights, your heart is racing. You came for a revenge body, but ended up with a crush instead.
After the tour, he leads you back to the front, where you tell him you’re getting the membership.
You stand there, debit card in hand, nails pressing into the plastic as the gym buzzes around you. Weights clank in the distance. The music thumps quietly, a beat you haven’t caught up to yet. Your hoodie feels too warm, and your leggings feel tight in all the places you try not to think about.
San leans against the counter, clicking through the computer screen with a focused look as he enters your basic information.
“Okay,” he says, tapping the screen and turning it slightly toward you. “This plan gives you full access, group classes if you feel brave enough, and a complimentary trainer for your first week.”
You blink. “Free?”
“Mhm. No traps. No surprise charges. No ‘gotcha’ moment.” He grins. “We’re not completely evil.”
That pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it.
He walks you through the paperwork, explaining everything clearly and never rushing. If you pause on a screen, he stays quiet. If you hesitate before signing, he looks away. He gives you space without making it awkward.
“So,” he says casually, folding his arms on the counter. The black T-shirt pulls across his chest so nicely that you have to avert your eyes. “For the trainer week, you can pick anyone you want. We’ve got a few really great ones.”
He scrolls through a list, pointing as he goes. “Jihyun’s amazing with beginners. She’s terrifyingly strong. Like…casually deadlifts your body weight strong.”
Your eyes widen. “That’s horrifying.”
“She smiles while doing it too,” he adds, dead serious. “Honestly, most of our female trainers could destroy the men. It’s very humbling.”
You snort before you can help it, covering your mouth as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Good to know.”
He glances up at you, amused, clearly pleased he made you laugh again. “I’m just saying. If strength is the goal, they’re your safest bet.”
“And you?” you ask before thinking.
He tilts his head, pretending to consider it. “Me?” A beat. Then, with mock confidence, “I might be the best. Possibly. Allegedly.”
You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Of course you would say that.”
“Hey, I said might,” he laughs. Then his tone softens, more grounded. “But seriously, no pressure. You can choose anyone. Or switch later. Or never train again after the week. Totally your call.”
You look at the screen again, reading the names. You catch your reflection in the shiny surface—small, soft in places you wish you weren’t—standing next to someone who looks like he was made to be here.
Training with him would mean being seen at your sweatiest and most awkward.
“I don’t really…” You trail off, fingers tightening. “I don’t want to feel…worse about myself.”
San’s smile fades, just a little. Not gone, just gentler. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m very professional. And respectful. That’s kind of my whole thing.”
He gestures vaguely behind him. “You can ask literally any of my clients. I won’t be offended if you don’t pick me. I just want you to feel comfortable.”
He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t persuade. Just waits.
The choice weighs on you.
You swallow, then nod. “Okay,” you say, surprising yourself. “We can try.”
His smile returns, slow and bright, dimples carving themselves deep into his cheeks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
San taps your name into the system. “Cool. Then I’ll take extra good care of you.” A pause. “Gym-wise,” he adds quickly, laughing.
You laugh too, feeling nervous and your heart beating fast.
The consultation room is quieter than the rest of the gym, tucked away behind frosted glass and muted walls. The bass of the music outside fades into a distant thrum, like something happening in another life. There’s a small table, two chairs, and a clipboard resting neatly on top. It feels intimate in a way you didn’t anticipate. Less gym, more confessional.
San is already there when you step in.
Black joggers again. A fitted charcoal hoodie this time, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose forearms that look insane. His hair falls in his eyes slightly, parted near the bridge of his nose. He looks great.
“Hey,” he says, standing as you enter. Warm smile. Dimples. Perfect white teeth.
“Hi,” you manage, voice softer than you intended.
He gestures for you to sit and takes the chair across from you instead of next to you. It feels professional and thoughtful. He opens the clipboard but doesn’t look at it right away.
“So,” he begins, tone easy, unhurried. “This is just a vibe check. No pressure. I want to know why you’re here and what you want out of this.”
You swallow. “Well,” you start, defaulting to something rehearsed, something safe. “I just want to get healthier. Stronger. You know. Routine. Consistency.”
San nods patiently, but his eyes stay on your face. They’re sharp but kind, as if he can see what you’re not saying.
“Mhm,” he hums. A pause. Then gently, “That’s the brochure answer.”
Your mouth twitches. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little,” he admits with a soft smile. “But that’s okay. You don’t owe me the real one if you’re not ready.”
He finally looks down at the clipboard, giving you space. The room goes quiet. You stare at your hands in your lap, fingers twisting together.
“I can’t help you properly if I don’t know what’s really going on,” he adds quietly. “And whatever it is, this room’s safe.”
The way he says it makes your chest hurt.
You inhale, then exhale slowly. “My ex cheated on me.”
San’s pen stills.
You keep going before you can stop yourself. “I know it’s not my fault. I know he’s the one who messed up. Everyone keeps telling me that. But…” Your voice wobbles despite your effort. “I can’t stop wondering why.”
You finally look up at him, eyes burning. “Was I not enough? Did I let myself go? Was there something missing?”
You laugh weakly. “He said it ‘didn’t mean anything.’ Like that makes it better.”
The words spill out now, months of quiet insecurity finally finding air. “I feel inadequate. Like, no matter how hard I try, there’s always someone better.”
San doesn’t interrupt once.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to fix it mid-sentence. He listens like this matters. Like you matter. When you finish, the room is silent again, but it feels different. Lighter.
He takes a slow breath, clearly choosing his words carefully.
“You are enough,” he says, voice firm but gentle. No hesitation.
Your throat tightens.
“What your ex did says everything about him and nothing about your worth,” he continues. “People don’t cheat because their partner isn’t enough. They cheat because they don’t know how to sit with themselves.” He pauses, then continues. “Curiosity isn’t an excuse. It’s a character flaw when it hurts someone else.”
He leans back slightly, still keeping a respectful distance. “It wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t okay.”
Then, more casually, as if it’s obvious, he says, “And for what it’s worth, you’re gorgeous.”
Heat floods your face instantly. “San,” you protest, half laughing, half mortified. “Is that professional?”
His grin is immediate, boyish, devastating. “Absolutely not.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“My job,” he says, tapping the clipboard, “is to help you see what’s already there. Strength isn’t just muscles. It’s confidence. And you have more potential than you think.”
Your heart stutters.
“We’ll take this one step at a time. I’ve got you.”
San stands first, the chair legs scraping softly as he reaches for a tray of locker keys by the door. They clink together, the sound grounding you after everything you just shared.
“Alright,” he says, lighter now, like he’s intentionally easing the air. “Logistics.”
You watch him sign a number onto your file, neat handwriting, practiced motions. When he hands the key to you, his fingers brush yours briefly.
“So,” he continues, walking toward the door and holding it open for you, “fitness goals.”
You trail after him, heart still fluttery from the conversation. “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say.”
“That’s fine,” he replies easily. “Some people come in with spreadsheets. Some people come in with vibes.”
You huff a laugh. “I’m definitely vibes.”
He laughs and nods approvingly before continuing. “Common reasons are strength, endurance, flexibility, and body composition. Sometimes all of the above.”
You chew your lip as you think, the hallway to the locker rooms echoing softly. “Okay. Um. Honestly?”
He glances at you. “Always.”
“I want to be skinnier,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can soften them. “I want to feel confident. And maybe…grow my ass in the process?”
The words linger in the air.
San slows down before stopping.
He looks at you, expression unreadable for half a second, then his mouth curves into something amused and dangerously calm.
“You already have a nice ass,” he says, conversationally. Like he’s commenting on the weather. “Doesn’t really need growing. Maybe toning, if that’s what you want. But it’s your body.”
You nearly trip over your own feet.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt, heat flooding your face. “What?”
He keeps walking, as if nothing happened, utterly unbothered. “You heard me.”
No. No, surely not.
You scramble to keep up. “San.”
“Mhm?”
“Can you repeat that?”
He stops again, turns fully this time. Same relaxed posture. Same warm eyes. Same devastating composure.
“You have a nice ass,” he repeats evenly. “And we’ll train based on what you want and need.”
Your brain short-circuits.
He laughs then, low and genuine, dimples flashing. “I’m professional,” he says. A pause. Then, with a shrug, “For the most part.”
Your eyes widen.
“But,” he adds smoothly, “I’m still a man. With eyes.”
He winks.
You stand there, the locker key digging into your palm, your heart racing, wondering if this gym membership comes with hazards you're not emotionally prepared for.
The scale sits in the corner of the assessment room, silently mocking you.
San pulls the privacy curtain halfway closed, not because it’s required, but because he notices the way your shoulders tense the second you see it. He gestures toward it with an easy hand.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says gently.
You slip off your shoes, suddenly hyperaware of everything. The softness of your stomach. The curve of your hips. The way your thighs touch when you stand still.
You step onto the scale, eyes fixed firmly on the wall instead of the numbers lighting up beneath your feet.
San doesn’t react. He writes the number down calmly, like it’s just another data point in the world.
“These,” he says gently, motioning to the clipboard, “are just numbers. They’re not a grade. They’re not a judgment.”
He moves to take your measurements next, tape cool against your skin. He asks before each one. Arm. Waist. Hips. Thigh. His touch is professional, careful, never lingering longer than necessary.
“You don’t need to feel shy,” he adds quietly, as if reading your thoughts. “Not around me. Not around anyone here. My coworkers included.”
You swallow. “It’s hard not to.”
“I know,” he says. “But this is just a starting line. We take these now so later we can look back and say, ‘Wow, look how far you’ve come.’ Or even just, ‘Wow, I feel better.’ That part matters more.”
He steps back, meeting your eyes. “Strength is important. And obviously, health is most important. But mental health is part of that—I want you to leave feeling good in your skin.”
You feel a little more at ease.
You hesitate, then admit softly, “I’ve always been…thicker than everyone else in my family. They’re all small. Petite. I kind of stuck out.”
San glances at your hips, then back up, smiling warmly. “Well,” he says, “people are built differently.” He taps the clipboard. “And some people are lucky to have a little extra.”
Your face goes hot instantly. “San.”
“What?” he asks innocently, dimples deepening. “Nothing wrong with having something to hold onto.”
You laugh, a little flustered, but also more comfortable around him.
The first week is hell.
There’s really no other way to describe it.
You learn this the moment you catch your reflection in the locker room mirror, tugging at the hem of your athletic wrap top. The outfit is new, carefully chosen.
Black leggings, a black sports bra, and a wrap that hugs your waist just enough to help you feel secure. Black hides sweat and shadows. Still, you look cute.
San notices immediately.
You’re halfway through stuffing your things into the locker when he stops short behind you and lets out a low whistle.
“Well,” he says, impressed and entirely unashamed. “Someone understood the assignment.”
You feel heat bloom across your chest and neck, laughing as you shut the locker a little too hard. “You’re distracting.”
“It comes with the job,” he says with a grin. “Ready?”
Fifteen minutes on the treadmill nearly convinces you to quit on day one.
San matches your pace beside you, chatting casually while you struggle to keep up. Your legs ache, and sweat forms at your hairline almost right away.
“Warming up,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta wake the muscles.”
“They were asleep for a reason,” you gasp.
He laughs.
Then you stretch on the floor. Mats, slow movements, deep breaths. San shows each pose with ease, correcting you gently and always asking before he helps. He explains why each move matters.
And then he introduces the workout.
“It’s beginner-friendly,” he promises.
It is, technically. But beginner-friendly does not mean painless.
Squats that make your thighs scream. Push-ups that feel personal. Core exercises that you swear are invented by cruel people with vendettas. San counts your reps, encouraging and praising you, never letting you give up, but never forcing you past your limit either.
“Breathe,” he reminds you. “You’re doing amazing.”
By the end of the hour and a half, you’re drenched, legs shaking, and drinking water as if you haven’t had any in days. San crouches in front of you, eyes bright, still full of energy.
“You crushed that,” he says. “Seriously.”
You groan. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes.”
“And yet,” he grins, “you survived.”
The rest of the week follows the same pattern.
Pain. Sweat. Soreness in muscles you didn’t know you had. Stairs are tough. Sitting down takes effort. Have you ever had to grab the sink basin for support just to sit on the toilet? It was that bad.
San’s constant positivity is almost annoying at first, always upbeat and encouraging. But somewhere between the soreness and the sweat, something changes. You start to feel good—capable and proud.
By the end of the week, when San asks if you want to keep training, his enthusiasm is already there before you answer.
“Absolutely,” you say, smiling.
He grins right away, looking proud. “Knew it,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”
Three months in, the mirror tells a different story.
It’s not a dramatic change or a movie-style transformation. It’s real progress. Your body hasn’t become unrecognizable. It’s still yours, still soft in places, but now there’s muscle underneath. You feel stronger and more grounded.
Your habits have changed before you even noticed. You wake up earlier, drink more water, and stretch when your body needs it. Now you want to move, not to punish yourself, but because it clears your mind and makes you feel stronger. That change alone feels huge.
San did that.
Well, not exactly. He guided, nudged, and helped you change.
You remember the first time you told him you wanted to go into a calorie deficit, how casual you were about it. Like it was obvious.
“That’s all I know,” you’d shrugged. “Eat less. Count everything.”
San had frowned, concerned. “You don’t need to eat less,” he’d said patiently. “You just need to eat better.”
And then he dismantled everything you thought you knew. Explained food like fuel instead of calories entering your body. Taught you to stop demonizing meals and start building them. Protein. Fiber. Real food. He laughed when you complained about cutting dairy.
“Why are you drinking cow milk,” he’d said, deadpan, “if you’re lactose intolerant?”
You hated that he was right.
Somewhere in that first week, you’d exchanged numbers. Strictly practical, he said. So you could send him photos of your meals. Proof you were sticking to the plan.
That lasted about four days. Now you text constantly.
Memes, random thoughts, updates about your day. He sends you gym jokes and terrible puns. You send him screenshots of design projects and ask if the colors look good. One night, you had to drive two hours to your parents’ for an emergency, and he asked you to share your location.
“Just so I know you’re safe,” he’d said casually.
It shouldn’t feel this intimate. It definitely isn’t professional.
But you love it.
You love that he checks in on rest days. That he celebrates your non-scale victories harder than you do. That he notices when you’re tired. That he still hypes you up like day one.
Sometimes he flirts.
A comment about how strong you’re getting. A look held a second too long. A teasing remark that makes your stomach flip and your brain scramble for explanations. Is this confidence boosting? Trainer encouragement? Or is this a man flirting with a woman he’s interested in?
You’re not sure.
What you do know is that you’re healthier. Happier.
Six months changes things in quiet, dangerous ways.
You don’t realize how much until you walk through the gym doors wearing pink.
Not muted blush. Not dusty rose. Pink pink. Leggings that hug your figure perfectly, a matching sports bra that leaves your shoulders bare, your midriff unapologetically visible. No wrap. No safety layer. No oversized hoodie clutched like a shield.
Now you do the pump cover thing. Oversized shirt on the way in, hoodie tied around your waist. You shed it once the heat builds, once your body warms, once you remember that you’re allowed to exist like this. You’re not fully confident. Not bulletproof. But you know, deep down, that you look good.
Your waist has cinched in naturally, like it finally remembered its shape. Your stomach lies flat, especially after San stopped gatekeeping his debloating tea, leaning in close one morning as if he were sharing state secrets.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he’d whispered, glancing around dramatically before murmuring the name.
The gym is quiet today. Too quiet.
You slow near the front desk, fingers brushing the counter as you look around. No clanking weights. No treadmills humming. Just the shitty gym music thumping through the speakers.
You frown. “Hello?”
And then, like he’s been summoned by the sound of your voice, San pops out from behind the hallway with a grin that hits you square in the chest.
Pink suits him too, apparently, because his eyes drop for half a second before snapping back up, dimples carving deep into his cheeks.
“Wow,” he says, not subtle at all. “You’re glowing.”
Your cheeks warm instantly. “You’re staring.”
“I am appreciating,” he corrects.
You cross your arms, pretending not to love that. “Where is everyone?”
“New Year’s Eve,” he replies easily. “Everyone’s either getting ready to go out or already starting parties.”
“Oh,” you say, glancing around again. “That makes sense.”
Then it hits you.
“You’re here,” you point out.
He hums, stepping closer, hands tucked casually into his jogger pockets. He looks relaxed. Very much not in trainer mode.
You haven’t quite adjusted to that yet.
Last week still feels surreal.
When the program ended, you’d panicked. Told him immediately you wanted to extend. That you weren’t done. That you still needed him.
He’d laughed, pulled you into a hug without hesitation, arms warm and familiar around you.
“You don’t need me like that anymore,” he’d said fondly. “Besides, you could train me now.”
You’d laughed, but the fear had lingered. That you’d become just another success story. That he’d give someone else the same attention, the same care. That he’d share locations with new clients. Send them memes. Check in like he did with you.
It had made your stomach twist.
San must see something on your face now because his smile softens. “C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the treadmills. “Let’s warm up.”
You fall into step beside him.
“So seriously,” you ask, trying for casual. “Why are you here if it’s dead?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Because you are.”
Your brain short-circuits.
“Oh,” you manage, voice betraying you entirely.
He grins, glancing sideways. “Relax. You’re stuck with me.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah,” he says, amusement laced with something deeper. “You’re my gym wife. You don’t get rid of me that easily.”
You scream internally.
You step onto the treadmill beside him, pulse racing, the empty gym suddenly feeling charged with possibility. New year. New body. New rules.
You both start your machines, walking side by side, arms swinging loosely, conversation drifting without effort. San talks about a client who tried to deadlift in jeans. You complain about a design project that refuses to cooperate.
Then he bumps the speed up.
“Light jog,” he says.
You groan, but comply, breathing evenly as your ponytail sways behind you. He keeps talking like this is nothing. A minute passes. Then two. Then he grins at you and taps the console again.
“Sprint.”
“What—San!”
But you’re laughing as your legs pump faster, heart racing, lungs burning. He matches you effortlessly, glancing over with that maddeningly calm expression, counting under his breath.
“Ten more seconds.”
You survive. Barely.
Jog again. Then sprint. Then jog. Over and over, until sweat slicks your skin and your muscles sing with effort. By the time he finally slows you down, your chest is heaving, legs trembling, a wild, exhilarated smile on your face.
“That,” he says proudly, “was beautiful.”
You flip him off affectionately.
Since the gym is empty, he connects his phone to the speakers. His playlist fills the space instantly, bass-rich, energizing, so much better than the generic gym loop. You stretch together on the mats afterward, San correcting your form with touch instead of words now, hovering close.
Then it’s squat time. Leg day for him. Glute day for you.
You grab your water bottle and phone, bending to set them down beside your rack. You feel his gaze before he says anything. When you glance over, he’s mid-warm-up, bar resting across his chest, eyes very much on you.
“Yeah,” he says casually. “You can definitely tell.”
You blink. “Tell what?”
“The difference in your glutes,” he adds, nodding toward you. “Especially in that pink set.”
Heat rushes straight to your face. “You’re flirting again,” you accuse. “And staring.”
He shrugs, dropping into a front squat with effortless depth. “I’m not your trainer anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean you stop being a gentleman,” you counter, folding your arms.
He rises smoothly, racking the bar, eyes bright with amusement. “I have my limits,” he says simply. “Especially when it comes to you.”
Your laugh comes out nervous, breathy.
He grins at the sound, clearly enjoying your reaction, then turns his focus back to his workout like he didn’t just unravel you with a sentence.
You grip your bar, heart racing, very aware that something between you has shifted again.
You eye the plates for a long second before you speak. Your bar is loaded heavier than usual.
“Hey,” you say, glancing over at San. “Can you spot me?”
His eyebrows lift, impressed before he even answers. “Going for a PR?”
You nod, nerves buzzing. “Last set.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”
You kick off your shoes first, nudging them aside with your foot. The rubber soles thud softly against the floor. Bare feet feel better. More control. You learned that from him. The bar rests heavily across your shoulders as you step under it, grip tightening, breath slowing.
And then San is behind you. Not touching yet. Just there.
You are suddenly acutely aware of everything. The heat of the room. The sheen of sweat on your skin. The way his chest rises behind you as he mirrors your stance, knees bent slightly, ready. The mirror in front of you reflects it all. Your focus. Your strain. Him, solid and steady at your back.
“Alright,” he murmurs near your ear. “Deep breath. I’ve got you.”
You squat slowly. Controlled. Your hamstrings and glutes burn immediately, muscles protesting as you sink deep. San follows your movement instinctively, his body lowering with yours, close enough that you can feel him without being touched.
“Good,” he encourages softly. “Stay with it.”
You push up with a strained exhale, core tight, jaw clenched. The bar moves, slowly, heavily. But it moves.
Again.
Your legs shake this time, breath turning ragged. You catch your own expression in the mirror. Determination stares back.
“Come on,” San urges, voice firmer now, breath warm against your neck. “You’re strong. Push.”
You drop into the last rep, muscles screaming, lungs on fire. For a split second, you think you might fail, then you hear him.
“Up. Up. You’re right there. Don’t quit on yourself now.”
You grunt, every muscle firing, and rise.
The bar clears. You lock out. Hands shaking, you re-rack the weight with a shaky clank and stagger forward, breathing hard, a soft, involuntary whimper slipping out as the tension finally releases.
Before you can process it, San is cheering.
“Oh my god!” he shouts, bouncing on his toes like a kid. “You did it!”
He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around you, energy vibrating off him. You freeze for half a second.
“Wait,” you laugh breathlessly, hands hovering awkwardly. “I’m sweaty.”
“I don’t care,” he says immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes bright. “That was insane. That was clean.”
His excitement is contagious. You feel it bloom in your chest, pride rushing in where doubt used to live.
“I can’t believe I did that,” you say, still panting.
“You did that shit,” he insists.
And then you’re both laughing, jumping up and down, celebrating like idiots in the empty gym. Your heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the weight anymore.
You find San again at the treadmills, both of you drifting back to the same place. Your legs are tired in that deep, satisfying way, muscles humming instead of screaming.
You step onto the treadmill beside him and set it to a slow walk—cooldown pace. Breathing evening out, sweat cooling against your skin.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then you glance sideways. “Hey, thanks again for spotting me earlier.”
San waves it off like it’s nothing, eyes forward. “You did all the work. I just existed behind you.”
“You existed very helpfully,” you counter.
He laughs, shaking his head. “That was your strength. All you.”
You smile at the console, chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.
A minute passes. Your steps fall into rhythm again.
“So,” you say casually, maybe a little too casually. “How are your other clients doing?”
He hums, considering. “Good, mostly. Progress all around.”
“All girls?” you tease.
He snorts. “Obviously.”
You laugh. “Of course.”
Then he hesitates. It’s subtle, barely there, but you’ve learned him well enough to catch it. There is a slight pause before he speaks again. The way his jaw tightens just a fraction.
“I actually had to cancel a program recently,” he says finally.
You glance over, surprised. “Why?”
He exhales. “One of them kept asking me out, wouldn’t let it go. Made things uncomfortable.”
Your steps falter just a bit. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” he adds quietly. “Just wanted to help her. Sucks.”
There’s no bitterness in his voice, just tired honesty.
You feel something twist in your chest. Sympathy, anger on his behalf, because you remember that first week. How careful, intentional, and genuinely kind he was.
Like that day a few months back, when you were cooling down after your session, and he’d drifted away briefly. You’d watched him approach a teenage girl on the stair master. Plus size. Nervous. Clutching the rails and pushing herself despite her anxiety screaming at her to leave.
You remembered his smile then. Big and encouraging.
“Hey,” he’d said to her, holding out a water bottle. “Hydration check.”
She’d taken it, cheeks burning red as he playfully scolded her. “I don’t wanna see you in here without water again, okay?”
She’d nodded furiously, glowing under the attention, and you’d felt something settle in your chest watching it.
San had never been just his body. Or his face. Or the way people looked at him like he was a prize to win. He was this.
You reach the end of your cooldown and hit stop. Without thinking too hard, you reach across and stop his treadmill too.
“Hey,” he says, confused. “I wasn’t—”
You don’t answer. You step off your machine, cross the small gap between you, and climb onto his treadmill. He barely has time to react before you wrap your arms around him.
He stiffens for half a second. Then he hugs you back tightly. Like he needed it more than he realized.
Your cheek presses against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. “I see you,” you murmur. “All of you.”
His arms tighten just a little more, breath leaving him in a slow exhale. For a moment, the empty gym fades away entirely. The hug lingers with him long after you let go.
San stands there for a second longer than necessary, arms slowly dropping back to his sides, chest warm where you pressed against him. Your words echo loudly.
I see you.
It lands deeper than any compliment ever has.
He’s felt attraction before; he’s not naïve. He knows what it’s like to be wanted for his body, for his face, for the idea people build in their heads the moment they look at him. That part of life has always been loud.
This is different.
He knew it early. Earlier than he probably should’ve admitted to himself. That first week, when you stood at the front desk looking like you might bolt at any second, eyes darting around, shoulders tight, pretending you didn’t need help while absolutely needing it. He remembers thinking, immediately, dangerously: God, she’s beautiful.
Not in a trying-too-hard way. In a soft, real, devastating way. Curvy, pretty face, expressive eyes, a laugh that snuck up on him. A combination that would’ve undone him even if you’d never lifted a single weight. He would’ve taken you exactly as you were.
But he respected you too much not to respect your goals.
And then you started changing, not just physically. You stood taller, looked at yourself differently, and wore less of your old defenses. Confidence grew slowly, almost without you noticing, and that’s when it really felt unfair.
Beautiful. Curvy. Confident. Triple kill.
And yes. That ass.
He’s not blind. He’s not a saint. He noticed the difference the lifting made. The way your body responded to routine. Rounder. Firm in a way that made him have to actively remind himself to look away.
Professional. Be professional.
San knows who he is. He knows he’s handsome. He knows his smile disarms people, knows his body turns heads. He’s never pretended otherwise. But whenever someone compliments his face, he always laughs and says it’s his mom’s doing. That part isn’t his.
His body, though? That’s his work. Years of discipline. Of consistency. And still, none of it compares to how he feels when you smile at him like you trust him.
He’s trained plenty of women. He knows why most of his clients are female. He’s dealt with the awkwardness, the crushes, the crossed lines. He never wanted them.
You’re different. Not because you’re prettier, but you are. Not because you’re kinder, but you are. It’s the way you see him. The way you notice the things no one else does. The way you hug him without wanting anything in return.
He wants to treat you so well it scares him.
He wants to buy you things just because you mentioned them once. Take you places you’ve never been. Hold your hand absentmindedly while you talk. Kiss you slowly like he has nowhere else to be. Wrap you up in his arms and make the world smaller around you.
He even thinks, fleetingly, irrationally, about your ex. About finding him. About explaining, very calmly, what happens when you fail to cherish something soft and rare.
San exhales, shaking his head at himself. Down bad doesn’t even begin to cover it. In his head, quietly, carefully, he already calls you his.
When you finally pull away, the absence hits him immediately.
His cheeks are warm. Too warm. He’s painfully aware of it, the heat blooming under his skin, the way his ears probably match.
You notice. Your eyes flick up to his face for just a second longer than usual. He sees the recognition spark there. The pause. The choice you make not to say anything.
God. That might undo him more than the hug itself.
He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself into something that looks normal. “Uh,” he says lightly, gesturing vaguely. “Cooldown accomplished.”
You laugh, mercifully playing along. “Barely survived.”
“That’s a win,” he grins, relief loosening his chest. “Still alive.”
You both move around each other easily now, picking up water bottles and phones, tossing towels into bins. The tension doesn’t go away, but it becomes something softer and more familiar. It’s comfortable, like you’ve crossed a line but aren’t ready to talk about it yet.
He cracks a joke about your playlist-stealing privileges next time. You fire back that his taste in music is elite, and the gym doesn’t deserve it.
At the front desk, Yeosang is leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone. San lifts a hand automatically.
“Later,” he calls.
Yeosang looks up, smirks, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Later,” he replies, tone knowing in a way that makes San suddenly very interested in the exit.
The cold evening air hits as you step outside, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. San exhales, shoulders relaxing as the gym doors close behind you.
This is usually where it ends. A wave. A casual “text me when you get home.” A routine goodbye. You turn toward him, stepping closer, arms already lifting.
San’s heart stumbles.
He opens his mouth before he can overthink it. “Hey—”
You pause, looking up at him.
His brain scrambles.
Say it.
No, don’t say it.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Do you,” he starts, then stops, breath hitching, then tries again. “Do you want to maybe have dinner later? At my place?”
The words hang there, fragile.
You blink. Once. Twice.
“Oh,” you say, surprised. Then you smile, softer. “Yeah. Sure.” Friendly dinner, you assume.
“Really?” he asks, grin breaking through before he can stop it.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His face fully brightens, boyish and unguarded. “Cool. Cool. I’ll text you.”
You hug him then, quick and easy this time, and wave goodbye as you head to your car.
San stands there for a second longer after you leave.
Dinner. At his house.
Oh shit.
Dinner at his house.
He sprints to his car, realizing he needs to start cooking.
The drive over feels longer than it actually is.
Your hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary as you pull into his apartment complex, headlights washing over neat rows of parked cars. You’re dressed casually but intentionally. Jeans that fit just right, a nice top that you stood in front of the mirror debating for far too long. Comfortable enough to feel like yourself. Pretty enough.
Your stomach flips.
Why was he nervous earlier?
That question circles your head as you park and cut the engine. San doesn’t get nervous. San is composed. The kind of man who knows exactly where he stands in a room. And yet earlier, he’d stumbled.
And now you’re here at his place.
You know, with absolute certainty, that he doesn’t do this with clients. Or former clients. You’ve seen the lines he draws. How careful he is. That’s part of why this feels so significant, so loaded with meaning it makes your chest buzz.
You take a breath, step out of the car, and walk up to his door.
Knock. Knock.
The seconds stretch just long enough for doubt to creep in.
Then the door opens.
San stands there like he hasn’t seen you in months instead of a few hours. Big smile and crinkled eyes. Hair slightly tousled, like he’s run a hand through it one too many times. He looks comfortable in his slightly baggy jeans and T-shirt.
“Hey,” he says, bright and genuine.
Your heart trips. “Hi.”
He steps aside immediately. “Come in.”
His apartment is warm, clean, and lived in. Something savory and delicious fills the air, making your stomach ache in a good way. Shoes sit by the door, and a jacket is tossed over a chair.
He gives you a little tour, pointing things out with easy enthusiasm. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Then the spare room.
“And this,” he says, opening the door with a sheepish grin, “is where I keep my problem.”
You step inside and stop short.
Plushies. A collection of them: big ones, small ones, and everything in between. Carefully arranged on the shelves.
Your hand flies to your mouth. “Oh my god.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t judge me.”
“Judge you?” you gasp. “San, this is the greenest flag I’ve ever seen.”
His ears turn pink. “I win them at festivals,” he admits. “And I can’t throw them away.”
You stare at him, heart swelling. Big gym bro, killer body, and a plush collection.
I want to marry him, you think while looking at each one.
He guides you toward the kitchen before your brain can spiral further. The counters are occupied. That’s when it hits you. Dinner. You’re here for dinner. Not to mentally plan a future with this man. Not to imagine him folded into your life. Not to fall in love.
Too late, whispers something traitorous in your chest.
You clear your throat and look down at the food.
San glances at you, amused. “You okay?”
You nod quickly, cheeks warm. “Yeah. I just—wow.”
He smiles, pleased. “Sit. I’ll grab bowls.”
As he turns away, you watch him for a second longer than necessary before sitting at the table, heart loud, thoughts tangled.
You came here for dinner.
But standing in his kitchen, surrounded by warmth and care and something that feels dangerously close to affection, you’re not sure you’re leaving with just that.
He sets the bowls down carefully, and steam curls upward immediately, carrying the deep, rich scent of kimchi jjigae through the kitchen. It’s warm and spicy and comforting all at once, the kind of smell that settles into your bones before you even take a bite. The pot sits between you, still gently bubbling, red broth catching the light.
“Kimchi jjigae,” he says, almost shyly. “It’s kind of my thing.”
Your eyes light up. “You made this?”
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly feels exposed. “Yeah. I make it a lot. For my family. Friends. Me.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “I’m a Namhae boy. We take our food seriously.”
You grin. “I’ve heard.”
“Oh, Namhae is the best county in South Korea,” he says immediately, pride blooming in his voice without a trace of arrogance. “Best food. Best people. Best views. No competition.”
There’s something about the way he says it—so certain and full of love. Everything he talks about feels cherished, not boastful. You realize how much he appreciates his roots, his family, his job, his home, and the life he’s built here. He never takes anything for granted.
You lift your spoon and take a bite, and nearly die.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, eyes widening. The flavor is insane. Spicy but balanced. Rich without being heavy. Comfort in liquid form. You hum involuntarily and take another spoonful immediately, not even trying to hide it.
San watches with bated breath. “Is it good?” he asks, voice hopeful, eyes searching your face.
You nod vigorously, mouth still full. “San, this is so good.”
He laughs, cheeks flushing, ducking his head like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the praise. “Really?”
“Yes. I might cry.”
That does it. His smile spreads slowly and bright, dimples cutting deep, happiness written all over his face. He eats too, more relaxed now, watching you enjoy it like that’s the best compliment he could’ve received.
Conversation flows easily after that. Stories about each other’s childhoods and work. Laughing over small things, teasing each other gently. The kind of talk that doesn’t need effort, just presence.
When the bowls are empty, you stand instinctively. “I’ll wash the dishes.”
He shakes his head immediately. “Nope.”
“I insist.”
He reaches out, catching your wrist lightly. “I’ll do them later.”
And before you can protest again, he tugs you gently toward the couch, presses the remote into your hand, and says, “Find something good.”
You blink. “You’re not…?”
“Wine,” he says over his shoulder, already heading back toward the kitchen. “Give me a second.”
Okay. Wow. This is not at all what you expected.
You sink into the couch, heart racing, the remote warm in your hand, and realize you’re smiling without even thinking about it.
You scroll through the options longer than necessary, thumb hovering as trailers auto-play silently in the background. Your instinct pulls you straight toward horror. It always does. Something about the tension, the adrenaline, the way it makes your heart race.
But then you remember him.
The way he’d laughed once, almost embarrassed, admitting he scares easily. How he said it, like a confession, as if he expected to be judged for it. You’d found it endearing then. Still do now.
So you settle on an action movie instead. Explosions. Fast cars. Something loud enough to be exciting but not enough to send him hiding behind a pillow.
You’re just settling back when you hear footsteps.
San reappears from the kitchen with two wine glasses balanced carefully in his hands and the bottle tucked under his arm. He looks relaxed. Soft around the edges in a way that makes your chest ache. His smile is bright, easy, pure golden retriever energy as he hands you a glass.
“Here,” he says. “Tell me if it’s too dry.”
He glances at the screen just as the opening credits roll, and his brows knit together in confusion.
“…That’s not horror.”
You freeze for half a second. “Oh. I just—” you shrug, suddenly shy. “You said you get scared easily. I didn’t want to freak you out.”
He stares at you. Then his lips pout. Actually pout.
“I wanted to get scared,” he says. “I wanted you to hold me during the scary parts.”
“I—what?”
Your face burns instantly as you scramble for the remote, suddenly very invested in finding literally any horror movie. “I mean, if you want—I can change it—I just thought—”
He laughs, loud and warm, eyes crinkling so deeply it makes your stomach flip. “I’m kidding,” he says gently, dropping down onto the couch beside you.
Not touching, but close. So close you can feel the heat of him through the fabric of your clothes. His thigh just barely brushes yours when he shifts. He pours the wine carefully, handing you your glass before setting his down.
You put a scary movie on anyway.
You giggle suddenly, nerves bubbling over, and stand up. “Wait.”
He watches you with curiosity as you cross the room and flick the lights off. The apartment dims instantly, shadows stretching, the TV glow suddenly brighter.
When you sit back down, San makes a small, very real whining sound.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs.
But he scoots closer anyway. His arm brushes yours now. You pretend not to notice how your heart starts racing again, how the couch suddenly feels smaller, how the space between you disappears inch by inch.
The movie starts in earnest. Music swelling low and ominous. San leans in just a little more.
You thought he was exaggerating, you really did.
At first, you think the way San edges closer and his arm brushes yours again and again is on purpose. Maybe he’s flirting, using fear as an excuse to get closer. You tell yourself he knows exactly how charming he is.
Then the first real jump scare hits.
A shrill sound cuts through the room, and San yelps. He jerks so hard his knee knocks into yours, and he nearly launches himself off the couch.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, startled more by him than the movie.
He grabs the blanket in a panic, yanking it up and throwing it over both of you like it might save his life. His heart is pounding. You can feel it. Fast and frantic against your arm.
“You’re kidding,” you whisper, half-stunned.
Another tense moment builds on screen. You brace yourself, but San does not. He screams again, higher this time, and clutches your sleeve like you’re a lifeline. His whole body jumps, shoulders up near his ears, eyes squeezed shut as he peeks over the blanket like a terrified child.
You try, you really try. But when he jumps so hard he nearly slips off the couch, a small snort escapes you.
Silence.
Slowly, he turns to look at you, eyebrows creased, lips pushed into the softest pout you’ve ever seen. He looks embarrassed and slightly betrayed.
“That wasn’t funny,” he whines.
You cover your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you laugh quietly. “I just—I didn’t think you meant it like this.”
He huffs, then reaches for you with zero hesitation, grabbing your arm and throwing it over his broad shoulders. He shifts closer, tucking himself against your side, big body pressing into you for comfort.
“Hold me,” he mutters. “It’s scary.”
Your heart absolutely loses its mind.
You should feel bad. He’s genuinely frightened. He’s clinging to you for safety, not seduction. But you don’t hate it. Not when his head dips closer. Not when his arm wraps securely around your waist. Not when the warmth of him sinks into you like he’s made to fit there.
The wine bottle on the coffee table is nearly empty now. He’s clearly more relaxed because of it, movements looser, voice softer, fear less filtered. He reacts dramatically to every sudden noise, burrowing closer each time, hiding his face against your shoulder before peeking again.
“I hate this movie,” he mumbles, voice muffled.
“You wanted scary,” you tease gently.
“Hmph.”
You laugh quietly, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt without thinking, steadying him when the tension spikes again. He sighs contentedly at the contact, melting into you completely.
Still not complaining, you think. Not even a little.
A little while later, he gets up to use the bathroom.
The door clicks shut behind him, and a minute later, you hear the sink run briefly. You stretch your legs, adjusting the blanket over yourself, your eyes flicking to the faintly glowing screen paused in the dark.
Then suddenly—
Footsteps. Fast ones.
San sprints down the hallway like he’s being chased, socked feet slapping against the floor before he all but launches himself back onto the couch beside you. He lands hard, breathless, blanket flying as he scrambles to tuck himself against your side.
“What happened?” you laugh, startled.
He clutches his chest dramatically. “I forgot the lights were off,” he says, voice a little too loud, a little too breathy. “I stepped out, and it was just darkness.”
You laugh harder now. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I hate it,” he mutters, already reaching for the blanket and pulling it back up like armor.
An hour later, the next part of the series auto-plays before either of you can stop it. The opening music hums low and ominous, and San stiffens immediately.
“I can change it,” you offer, thumb hovering over the remote. “We can watch something else.”
He shakes his head quickly, then pauses, correcting himself slower, more deliberately. “No. It’s fine.”
You glance at him. His eyes are glued to the screen, jaw set like he’s psyching himself up for battle.
“I can be brave,” he adds, quieter. “Besides…” He trails off, cheeks faintly pink, and shifts closer. His thigh presses fully against yours now. His arm sneaks around your waist again. The wine has definitely loosened him and made him softer, less guarded. He’s clingy now, unapologetically so, warmth radiating from him as he leans into you.
You don’t move away. If anything, you tug him closer, your fingers brushing his arm, your body accommodating his without thought. Earlier, during the second half of the first movie, you’d laughed at one of his over-the-top reactions and absentmindedly threaded your fingers through his hair to calm him.
He hasn’t forgotten.
He shifts again, this time fully curling into your side, knees tucked slightly, broad shoulders fitting surprisingly well beneath your arm. He pulls the blanket up to his chin, peeking over it at the screen, then reaches up and gently places your hand on his head.
No words. Just a quiet request.
Your heart stutters.
You hesitate for half a second before your fingers move, sinking into his hair again. It’s soft. Warm. He sighs immediately, melting into the touch like he’s been waiting for it, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before snapping back to the movie.
There’s a jump scare. He flinches, but this time, instead of yelping, he presses his face into your shoulder, his fingers gripping your shirt, while you run your hand through his hair again, soothing, grounding.
“See?” you whisper, teasing gently. “So brave.”
He hums against you, not arguing, not pulling away. The screen flickers with shadows and sound, but his focus is elsewhere now. On your hand. Your warmth.
A sudden crack, sharp and close enough that both of you jolt at the same time. You gasp, San yelps, and for a split second you’re both frozen, hearts racing, staring at each other like you’re in the movie.
Then another boom rolls through the air, deeper this time, followed by a cascade of pops and whistles.
Fireworks.
“Oh,” you breathe, realization blooming. You glance at your phone. “It’s midnight.”
San blinks, then laughs softly, almost incredulous.
You pause the movie without thinking, and the room falls quiet again, except for the distant noise outside. Together, you stand, movements a little clumsy from sitting so long, from wine, from nerves. He reaches for the blanket automatically, draping it around his shoulders before tugging you closer and wrapping it around both of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s watch.”
The balcony door slides open, cool night air rushing in, crisp and sharp against your skin. You shiver instinctively, and San tightens the blanket, his arm coming around your shoulders, anchoring you against his side. The city stretches out before you, lights glowing, and above it all, the sky erupts in color.
Red blooms first. Then gold. Then brilliant whites that crackle and fade, one after another, reflected in windows and glass and eyes.
You tilt your head back, watching in quiet awe.
San does too, at first. Then his attention drifts.
He looks down at you without realizing it, the fireworks lighting your face in shifting colors. Gold flashes in your eyes. Soft light catches the curve of your cheek, the shape of your mouth as you smile at the sky. His chest tightens.
He doesn’t remember deciding to stop watching the fireworks. Only that suddenly, they’re secondary—background noise. Beautiful, yes, but nothing compared to you standing there, so close he can feel your breath.
You sense it and turn. Your gaze meets his right eye first, then his left. You swallow, eyes flicking down almost without permission, tracing the line of his nose, lingering on his lips. Full, soft, and oh so close.
When you look back up, he’s already watching you. He doesn’t look away.
The world seems to slow, fireworks still bursting behind you, light and sound framing the moment as if it were planned.
San leans down slowly, giving you time. Space to pull back. To say no.
You don’t.
His lips meet yours gently, carefully. The kiss is warm, unhurried, full of everything that’s been building for months. His hand tightens slightly at your waist, holding you there like he’s been waiting for this moment all along.
Fireworks explode overhead, but you barely notice.
This is the only thing that matters.
When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours in the cold air.
“Happy New Year,” he whispers.
You don’t hesitate. Not for a second.
The moment he pulls back to speak, you’re already leaning in again, fingers tightening at the back of his neck, drawing him back to you like it’s instinct rather than choice. He lets out a soft, surprised laugh that barely exists before your lips meet again.
The fireworks crack overhead, loud and brilliant, but they fade into background noise as San steps back until the cool metal of the balcony rail presses against your back. He cages you there without pinning you, hands firm at your waist, thumbs brushing over the curve of your hips like he’s grounding himself.
He tilts his head just right, careful, practiced, so your noses brush instead of bumping. The kiss deepens naturally, unforced, and you realize with a quiet jolt that he’s very good at this.
Insanely good.
You feel every subtle shift of his mouth, the way he draws you in and then eases back just enough to make you chase him. His lips are warm, soft, and persistent. When his tongue brushes yours, it’s unhurried, exploratory, like he’s memorizing you rather than taking.
You’ve kissed plenty of times before. But this is different.
You’re suddenly aware of things you’ve never paid attention to before him. The way he breathes through his nose when he kisses you. The quiet sound he makes in his throat when you respond the way he likes. The gentle tug of his teeth, more promise than pressure, followed by a soothing sweep of his lips like an apology and a praise all at once.
His hands tighten reflexively, then soften, grip turning into slow caresses over and over again, like he can’t decide whether to hold you still or pull you closer. He chooses both, pressing his body into yours, solid and warm, making you feel small in the best way.
Your arms loop fully around his neck now, fingers sliding into his hair, and he exhales against your mouth.
He doesn’t push you or insinuate anything, but you can feel the pressure building between your legs. You want him. And by the feel of the hardness pressing against your stomach, he wants you too. That alone makes you blush and press into him.
You lean back, breaking the kiss. You’re both breathing heavily, and before San can lean back in to kiss your lips, you press a kiss to his neck, before pausing not to see, but rather feel his reaction.
His head falls back instantly, exposing more of his neck as if inviting further exploration. A soft moan escapes him—completely unintentional but very telling—and his hands grip your hips tighter. The action presses him more firmly against you, leaving no doubt about his arousal.
His pulse point throbs against your lips, matching the rhythm of his heavy breathing. San's body is reactive, honest almost to a fault when it comes to physical touch. And right now, his body is screaming for more. For you.
You take that as a sign to continue, pressing your lips harder against his neck, sucking softly, leaving a mark.
A sharp intake of breath is followed by a low groan that rumbles deep in his chest. His fingers dig into your hips almost painfully as he holds onto you for dear life. He moans your name softly, wantonly.
When you lean back to look up at him, his eyes are closed, his fingers digging into your hips. Not to cause pain, but to steady him.
“What’s wrong?” You ask him, cupping his cheek. You don’t realize he’s trying to show restraint, trying to respect you even though he would love to pick you up and take you to bed. To show you what you do to him.
His eyes flutter open slowly, dark brown irises almost black with desire. San swallows hard, his throat working against your palm. "Nothing's wrong," he whispers hoarsely. But the way his jaw clenches and unclenches gives him away. He's trying so hard to be good when all he wants is to be bad with you.
His self-control is hanging by a thread. One wrong move and he might snap.
"Just... trying to behave," he adds, his voice low and strained.
Ah. There it is. Choi San, the man you are.
You brush your thumb along his bottom lip. “I want you,” you whisper up at him, your other hand trailing up his firm, clothed chest.
His breath catches audibly. San's composure cracks—just a little. His eyes flutter shut again, lashes fanning against his cheeks, and you feel his entire body tense as if savoring the permission.
When he opens his eyes again, they're not soft anymore.
"Say that again," he growls quietly, voice dropping two octaves.
“I want you,” you repeat louder. “Take me to bed.”
Without a word, he bends down and scoops you up in his arms. You gasp, surprised, and instinctively wrap your arms around his neck for support. He holds you close, one arm banded around your waist, the other supporting your thigh. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he strides purposefully towards his bedroom.
The room smells like him—clean linen and the faint spice of his cologne. He closes the door, and the noise of the world falls away. He turns to you, and his expression isn’t hungry, not yet. It’s reverent.
“Months,” he said, his voice a low hum in the quiet. “Wanted you for months now. Let me see you. All of you.”
Your heart hammers, but the familiar, gnawing whispers of insecurity are quiet. He’d dismantled them brick by brick, session by session. So you nod.
He undresses you with a slow, unhurried focus, his knuckles grazing your skin not with lingering intent, but with a steady purpose. Cool air meets your shoulders, your back, your stomach. You stand before him, utterly bare, and his eyes don’t just look. They drink you in.
“You’re beautiful.”
Your throat tightens.
He lifts his hand, brushing his knuckles lightly along your arm. “I thought that the first day you walked into the gym.”
You blink. “You did?”
He nods, eyes never leaving you. “Yeah. I wanted you then. Just like that. Nervous. Soft. Real.”
Your chest aches.
“I would’ve had you exactly as you were,” he continues gently. “But I loved watching you grow, watching you get happier. More confident. That smile you wear now?” He smiles back at you. “That’s everything.”
You swallow, emotions rising fast and sharp. “Even now?”
He steps fully into your space, then rests his forehead against yours. “Always,” he murmurs. “You’re gorgeous to me. At any size. In every version of you.”
His hands finally come up, framing your sides, grounding you there like he’s making a promise instead of a move.
Then he sheds his own clothes, and your breath simply stops.
The faint light from the window paints him in silver and shadow. Tight, defined abs that shift as he moves. Firm pecs that beg for your touch. Biceps that bunch and relax, bulging with latent strength. His shoulders are broad, his back a sculpted landscape of muscle that tapers down to narrow hips. Muscular thighs, a perfect ass. And his traps, rising from his shoulders like the foundations of a statue. He’s a work of art, carved from living marble.
And then his cock. Thick, heavy, already hard, and curving up against his stomach. Pretty wasn’t the right word. It was formidable. Majestic. A promise of ruin.
You reach out, your fingers trembling only a little, and wrap your hand around him. The heat of his skin is a shock. The velvet-over-steel texture makes your mouth water. A low, needy sound vibrating in his chest.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his head tilting back. “Just like that. Feels so good, baby.”
You sink to your knees, the carpet soft beneath you. You take him into your mouth, and his reaction is immediate, vocal. A sharp intake of air. A broken, “Yes.” His hands come to cradle your head, not pushing, just holding. You work him, your tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside, swirling over the slick, smooth head. Every time you hollow your cheeks and take him deep, a guttural groan tears from him.
“Your mouth…fuck, your mouth is perfect. So warm. So soft. Don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”
You don’t. You suck him with a dedication that feels like worship, and he gives you his sounds, his praises, his complete vulnerability. You feel powerful. You feel adored.
When he pulls you up, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “My turn,” he growls, and the softness is gone, replaced by a gentle but firm command.
The switch had been flipped.
He lays you back on the bed, your head sinking into the pillows. He kneels between your thighs, and for a moment, he just looks, the distant fireworks painting his face in fleeting color. Then he bends his head.
His mouth on you isn’t a quick feast. His tongue is soft, tender, licking slow, broad stripes that made your back bow off the mattress. Then it changes—firm, pointed flicks against your clit that has you gasping. He sucks gently, then nibbles with a careful scrape of his teeth that sends electric jolts straight to your core.
He’s making out with you there, his lips and tongue moving with the same tender, then passionate rhythm of a deep kiss. He moans into you, the vibration traveling through your entire body. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you, angling you so he can go deeper, his tongue fucking into you in soft, relentless thrusts.
“Taste so good,” he mutters, his voice muffled against you. “Gonna make you come on my face. Wanna feel you shake.”
And you do. The orgasm builds not like a wave, but like a firework—a tight, coiling tension in your belly that he stokes and stokes with his tongue, his lips, his soft sucks—until it bursts. Your vision whites out. A silent scream catches in your throat as you clench around nothing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He holds you through it, drinking every last pulse, every last shudder.
Before you can even come down, he’s moving up your body, his weight settling over you. The head of his cock pressing against your entrance, hot and insistent.
“This,” he says, pushing forward just an inch. A burning, perfect stretch. “This is going to ruin you for everyone else. Just me.”
And then he sinks in.
Oh.
The fullness is absolute. It steals the air from your lungs. He’s thick, long, stretching you in places you didn’t know could be stretched. He doesn’t move at first, just lets you feel him, lets your body adjust to the invasion. Then he begins to move.
Slow, at first. Withdrawing almost completely, then sliding back in with a deep, rolling grind of his hips. Each stroke is a masterclass in sensation. He angles his hips, and the thick head of his cock drags over a spot deep inside that makes you see stars. He changes his pace—short, hard thrusts that make your tits shake and makes wet smacking noises echo in the room. Then long, slow, deep pumps that feel like he’s reaching your soul.
He fucks you with a focused, possessive rhythm. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip, his fingers pressing into your flesh. His eyes never leave yours.
“You take me so fucking well,” he pants, his breath hot on your lips. “So perfect. Made for me. All for me.”
The fireworks continue outside, a silent, brilliant accompaniment to the ones he’s setting off inside you. Every nerve ending is alight. The world narrows down to the joining of your bodies, the slick sounds of friction, the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of him on your tongue from earlier.
He’s a gentleman and makes sure you come again, his thumb finding your clit and circling with perfect, dirty pressure as he pistons into you. The second climax is sharper, brighter, a supernova that ripples through you, making you clamp down on him with a violent, rhythmic squeeze. He groans, a sound of pure pleasure and strain.
“Fuck, yes…squeezing my cock just like that…I can’t…I’m gonna…”
His thrusts became erratic, desperate. His beautiful body tightening above you, every muscle corded. He buries himself to the hilt, his pelvis grinding against yours, and lets go.
“Fuck! I—oh God—Y/N, baby—” he grunts out, hips stilling.
A hot, wet flood erupts inside you. It isn’t a trickle; it’s a claiming. Pulse after pulse of his release, filling you, marking you. It’s filthy. It’s wet. It’s messy.
And it’s beautiful, because it’s San, and he has a way of making everything feel special.
He collapses onto you, his weight a warm, comforting anchor, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breathing ragged against your skin, pressing slow, lazy kisses.
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 SMUT 18+ MDNI, they’re mean like mean as hell, size kink like ‘tiny’ as a name take it however u want, like a few lines of daddy kink, mxm action but just kissing rly, threesome, wet n’ fuckin’ messy, no more spoilers that’s all u get
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 wc 7.7k
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a/n this was a commission!! thank u to the lovely yestodayys cult member who let me run with her idea and well. create this! i had SO MUCH FUN and i'm glad u love it and now u all get to read it too <3
The bar has been refurbished since the last time you came here.
The overall layout is still generally the same; during your search for your friends, you’ve looked in the ladies’ room - still to the left of the bar, cramped, only two stalls, line way too long, though it isn’t the hospital powder pink it once was - and in the smoking area, thus far. The latter looks pretty much the same, although you admit they can’t really change that much; beneath your denim jacket, you’re still only wearing a minidress and boots and it’s fucking cold.
Escaping back inside seems the best idea. Realistically, if they’re not there or in the restroom or here, in the main room with the bar, you may as well just get over it. There’s no signal in this place for you to text them either - there never has been - and you don’t want to leave this early. You can still have a good night. You undoubtedly know some of the people here anyway - hell, maybe you’ll find a man.
It’s the overall vibe that’s changed more than anything else; you think they must be going for some sort of seventies concept now, while before it was largely unthemed. It seems to bring more customers like this - the place is packed full on a tacky illuminated dancefloor, no one dressed the part, though beneath the flashing lights and disco ball you can't really tell. It’s flashy, somewhat exciting; it’s why you decided to wear your vintage denim jacket, even if no one else was going to play along.
The drink you’ve been nursing is still over half full, so you bypass the bar and go straight to the dancefloor. The music doesn’t match the vibe either, but you’re not bothered, swaying in your spot to the random dance song they have playing and taking a generous gulp of the liquid to ease yourself in.
Okay, it definitely feels like a better time now. Perhaps the rebrand has had some effect. You move your hips, jacket falling down your bare shoulders before catching on the strap of your bag.
Lost in your own world, you almost miss it as you turn around to look amongst the crowd; but no, clear as day, tall and attractive enough to make your heart stop - two men, one in baggy clothes and an obnoxious fur coat and one in tighter, flared jeans, long sleeve tight across a toned, broad chest, sipping on their drinks, staring at you like a pint of water in the middle of a desert.
You see them after they see you. You’re not sure how long they’ve been looking at you, these two men, but god they’re fixated and it makes you stop too. They can’t look away, both of their gazes trailing down your body as you move and sway with your drink in your hand, and your breath catches in your throat - not that you’re complaining, though. They’re handsome, though you assume they came together and will be leaving together too, judging by the way they’re glued to each other’s sides.
The taller one seems to have more of a grip on the situation than the other man, but they’re both intimidating, domineering. He whispers something in the other man’s ear, long fingers brushing at his neck. Their eyes still don't leave you though, and the shorter’s plump lips break into a grin, leering, too satisfied for someone who hasn’t even spoken to you - let alone touched you. He must’ve said something he likes.
You can’t help yourself. You smile back, and he flicks a few dark blue strands out of his forehead, taking a sip of the liquid he’s got in his glass before he slams it down on the table decisively. He says something else to the other man, something you can’t even try to lip read because he turns his back to you. He gives him a cheeky smile, almost like he’s doing something wrong, and begins to push through the crowd on the dancefloor. You stand dead still.
You wonder about the situation between them. Clearly, they’re more than friends, and it seems like the taller is the one in control, but - what’s this? The shorter man is approaching you, his too-large brown fur coat seeming ridiculous in the heat of the bar, but you see as he gets closer that he’s got nothing but a waistcoat and baggy trousers underneath. He shoots a few amused looks back at the other man, who looks less than pleased at his misbehaving, but it doesn’t sway him - once he’s at you, he pulls you into him so your back is pressed against his front and whispers in your ear just loud enough for you to hear him.
“Wanna dance?”
Do you? Fuck yeah, you do - and with his partner too, if he’s up for grabs. For now though, you suppose one will have to do, because as you smile flirtatiously in response and the DJ changes the music to something else - something sultry, heavy, with a solid beat - the man starts to grind his hips so sensually you forget everything else. He’s good at this, angling you with a firm palm on the plush of your tummy, fingers wrapping in the fabric of your minidress so that your hips grind back against him.
The fur of his coat is expensive, you can tell just by feeling it when your hands go back to grip on his arms, and his teeth bite into his bottom lip when you grab at him.He lets you balance yourself with your hold, his own hand moving up to your chest, both of you moving in a sinuous movement that has you realising how good he’d be in bed if he dances like this.
Just before you forget, ring-clad knuckles come to the bottom of your chin and angle your head towards where you were previously looking. He’s still there, the other man, and this time he looks positively engrossed, arms folding over his chest - his eyes don’t leave the two of you, a smirk playing at his lips like he can’t quite believe it. It’s as if you’re performing for him, the two of you, nowhere near in control of the situation; you wonder what it is, this situation, and if it’ll end in you getting fucked by both of them.
The man next to you chuckles before fully humping into the curve of your ass, unashamed; the line of his cock presses against you, half hard, fat and steadily growing like you’re doing a lot more than just grinding on each other in a packed bar. You gasp, muffled by the music but he seems to have heard it despite the noise - he nudges his nose into your neck, impatient.
“We came together, me and him,” he says, tone casual though he has to shout a little to be heard. The words say everything despite being so few, but you don’t falter, hoping that you’re moving against him in a way that’s still inconspicuous enough to be passed off as a dance. “That okay?”
You shrug as casually as you can, skin starting to feel a little heated. This is the jackpot, you think. “I don’t mind taking two.”
“I bet you fuckin’ don’t.” He huffs out a laugh. “Don’t mind putting on a show either, do you? I’m Mingi, by the way.”
“Mm, hi Mingi,” you giggle, and Mingi shakes his head, disbelieving, a smile pulling at his lips. You can’t believe it either, quite frankly, how well the night’s turned out, and your head lolls back against his broad shoulder as you move, fur coat soft under your head, a grounding presence. The other man is still looking, and you find yourself drawn to his eyes, holding eye contact with him as you manage your next question, “what’s your boyfriend’s name?”
A hum, and then plump lips press a gentle kiss to your jaw. A shiver wracks through you, straight down your spine, and he does it again a few times just to watch the effect it has on you. “Yunho,” he breathes, “his name is Yunho. Shake this ass on me, let him see it.”
“He likes to watch, huh?” You say, as if you have any problem with it whatsoever. The song changes, a dance track with an even dirtier beat now and you do as he says - you’re shaking your hips to the rhythm before you can feel embarrassed about it, everyone around you too occupied with their own dancing or flirting.
“That’s a good fuckin’ girl,” he hums, hand moving from your front to your hips, fingers ghosting over the curve of your asscheeks where your hips get plusher and move into your thighs. Hands dig into flesh, and he groans, rutting against you once, twice, enough to have you squirming, starting to worry someone might notice. “Fuck, look at that. Shit, should we just take you back now? I wanna tear this ass apart.”
You can’t help it - you laugh again, hand coming to Mingi’s jaw to pull him forwards, his cheek pressed against yours. Yunho rolls his neck, tongue poking over his bottom lip before he’s placing his drink down and you think he’s made the decision for all three of you.
“And him?” You murmur.
Mingi’s nose brushes against your cheek. “He’ll tear you apart too. Might even be nastier than me.”
“I find that hard to believe.” His hips hit you just right, slow, to the beat, and you breathe heavily when he spins you around to face him like he’s going to kiss you. He’s pretty up close, sharp nose and dark blue hair and plump lips that form a predatory smile. “Fuck, Mingi, take me home.”
“Eager girl.” His head drops down, kissing you chastely square on the lips once, then twice. His lips are buttery soft and you chase them when he pulls away. He doesn’t care that you’re in public, so neither do you - you press yourself against him harder, arms wrapping around his shoulders. “We need to talk to Yunho.”
“No need.” Another voice, and another set of big, big hands that wrap around your waist and pull you back into him. You’re trapped between them now, because despite being unfamiliar with them you know who’s just gripped you and gotten involved. “She’s right, we should take her home. You’re an aching little thing, hm?”
Fingers dip up under the hem of your minidress where it hangs around your thighs, nails scratching against your skin, teasing. You’re not sure who it is this time, but the touch is so close to your panties that you whimper, the sound so broken that Yunho’s head dips into the other crook of your neck with a deep sigh, mirroring where Mingi continues to bite at you the other side. “P-please, I can’t take this anymore, I want you both, can we-”
“Fine,” Yunho breathes, exasperated, and a firm, guiding grip comes to rest on the back of your neck. “Let’s get you home, tiny.”
“On your knees.” A firm hand pushes on your shoulder, forcing you down before you can decide to obey; you drop to your knees in your pretty dress, your legs bare, their carpet scratching against your skin. Like this, they’re looming over you in a different way than before, and all you can see is long, long legs in baggy jeans and firm torsos heaving - they’re waiting, perceiving you, seeing if you’ll do anything else. Yunho’s the first to speak again, grin wide when he turns to his partner, “that’s it. She’s pretty like this, isn’t she? Quiet, so needy she’ll do anything, waiting for us to just say.”
“She’s beautiful,” Mingi says, fingers pulling your hair backwards to force you to look up at them properly. “Slutty, too.”
You whimper, squirming in his grip, though not enough to be told off for it. You wonder if they’re hard already, fat lengths trapped in the confines of their pants, but you don’t have long to think about it - Yunho’s long fingers start working at his belt, and before long the leather is pulled out from the prongs and his button is being pushed open.
It exposes his black boxers, and you realise you’re not even looking at him anymore. Fixated on his crotch, you wait, mouth open and spit pooling at your bottom lip like a drooling dog. They both sound amused, but they don’t make you wait, Yunho pushing down his boxers and revealing his tan shaft.
Thick, long and veiny, it springs against his stomach. It curves upwards, tip a darker shade and swollen, but not leaking just yet. The moan leaves your throat before you can help it. If Yunho’s is like this, you can’t imagine the other man - but fingers tighten in your hair and redirect you back before you can even turn to try and get a lot.
“Mm, no,” Yunho murmurs, and you look back up at him. He looks pleased by how enthralled you are, a smile pulling at his lips, and his hand comes down to slap his shaft against your cheek once, twice. You shiver. “You can show her yours too, Mingi, really get the slut going. She wants two at once, after all, don’t you?”
“I do, I want both.” You nod dumbly, pathetically; Mingi’s resulting groan is delighted, low in his throat. His tongue licks at his teeth as he works at his own belt, and his baggy jeans drop with a rustling noise at his ankles, unashamed. Yunho has tucked his boxers underneath his balls but Mingi’s less reserved, shunning his boxers as quick as he can as Yunho starts slowly stroking half of his shaft inches away from your face.
Fuck.
Mingi’s big too, a little shorter but thicker again and his tip is leaking like a fucking faucet. If he’d left his boxers on a little longer you’d have seen the drops beading upon the fabric but he’s too impatient for that, already stroking his cock quicker than Yunho, moving hip to hip with the other man.
“You want both?” He smacks his cock against your other cheek, laughing delightedly when you moan, nodding eagerly. “Open your mouth then, there’s a good whore.”
You blink, in a daze. “I- I can’t fit both-”
“Obviously,” Yunho scoffs. “Use your hand for the other. Are you stupid?”
Oh. Something must show on your face, a wordless reaction to his words because Yunho’s grin turns predatory then, and when he grips your hair now it’s harsher, firmer than his boyfriend had done. You scramble to say something to quell this harshness, stammering, “N-not stupid, I’ve just never…”
Yunho bursts out laughing. Your gut clenches and your pussy burns in your panties, so slick and needy that you try to rut down the floor, to no avail. “Never had two cocks at once? We all know that’s a fucking lie, baby. I think you need to stop talking.”
He’s forcing you down on his cock before you can retort.
You still try to splutter something out despite your lips being wrapped taut, barely fitting just half his length into your mouth though he tries to fuck past the resistance of your throat anyway. Your words die in your throat, replaced by a strangled whine; Mingi grabs your hand himself, impatient and wraps your fingers around his cock - putting you to use.
He’s wet from his precum already, soaked and sticky and veiny and it makes a slick noise when you start to move your fingers. It’s hard to concentrate on both but thankfully you don’t have to do much thinking; Yunho fucks himself into your mouth for you, skin salty with his own precum. Unable to do anything more than just be a ragdoll for them, you allow yourself to slump a little, mouth wrapped tight around one and hand around the other, hips just barely squirming where you’re sat. A noise leaves your throat when Yunho fucks into the resistance a few times, a deep groan leaving his own mouth.
“Tight fucking throat, hm? How tight is that cunt gonna be?”
Mingi groans, and his fingertips press at your cheeks, feeling the thickness of Yunho’s cock through your skin. He manages to move you over to him, and his shaft burns when it stretches your lips apart, thicker, wetter - you start to drool with tears biting at your eyes and he chuckles breathlessly at the sight of you.
“You like it mean, huh?” He doesn’t expect a response, voice gravelly as he starts to fuck your mouth. He’s sloppier than Yunho, a little more careless, and the strangled noise you make is embarrassing when he forces his cock all the way down. It hurts your throat but he presses your nose into the tuft of his pubes like he doesn’t really care, grinding his hips against your jaw, fingers pressing at your throat where he now bulges it instead.
When you manage to look up through a glassy gaze, you see them both together. Mingi captures Yunho’s lips with his own, one hand leaving you to cup the other man’s jaw, their tongues intertwining messily between spit-slick lips. They both groan, deep and from their chests like they’ve been waiting for this all night - your whine is louder though, nails scratching at their thighs because you’ve wanted to see it since you saw them together on the dancefloor. It forces saliva to bubble down your occupied lips, dripping over your chin and down to your throat, over Mingi’s rings.
If they’re amused by your reaction, they don’t separate for long enough to show it. Yunho tugs you to him again without even glancing your way, long fingers in your hair, and this time you’re able to get a momentum. Your mouth sinks down on him before he has time to force you there, your other hand coming to grasp Mingi’s slippery length, the saliva giving more than enough lubricant when you start to pump.
Like this - not being yanked around - you’re able to focus, and you can’t help the noises that spill from your chest; your pussy is wet, drooling and dumb already, and they continue to make out above your head like it’s nothing that should affect you. Your gut burns, wrenching with need and want and something embarrassing because all you’ve done is suck their cocks and you’re this desperate, but it doesn’t stop you trying to get their attention.
Tongue digging into the underside of Yunho’s tip, you pool spit into your mouth and it bubbles over your lips messily, letting you sink back down on him with a wetter, tighter suction. He’s still too big to take too much comfortably but you force your mouth down, jaw be damned, hand occupied with another cock that you think you’re doing a decent rhythm with, and on the upwards stroke you press your tongue into his piss slit and suck hard.
It works. You hear the sharp inhale of breath, and he pulls away sharply from Mingi, lips parting in a louder noise just as the blue haired man moves to messily press open-mouthed kisses against his neck. He doesn’t stop him, one hand going to his head to hold him there.
“Dirty girl, knew you had it in you,” he murmurs, before his jaw goes slack in a groan, head rolling back where Mingi kisses him. Your hand has paused on the other man but if he’s annoyed, he doesn’t show it, shaft bobbing uselessly as he bites at the curvature of Yunho’s neck with his eyes on you, where you’re kneeling below them. “Bet she’s all gooey down there from sucking cock, too. Little hole clenching around nothing, slicking up her thighs, clit all swollen and hard.”
Mingi grunts, a primal noise. “Can’t wait to look. Taste it, too. I know it’s fuckin’ pretty, all soaked and tight and- ah, fuck this, I gotta-”
Two hands underneath your armpits, and you’re thrown chest first onto the comfortable bed by a very strong grip. You have enough space left in your brain for the moment to present yourself, pushing up onto your knees and letting your front lay flat to curve your spine - Mingi groans in appreciation, wasting no time before he’s pulling your dress up to your waist and your panties down to your knees.
The cold air hits your cunt and you moan, trying to turn your head to the side to have a look at what he’s about to do to you before someone - you’re unsure who - pins it right back down, flat, suffocating.
“Let me have a look,” Mingi coos, and two thumbs come to pull your sticky folds apart. You’re soaked, you can feel it - it’s smeared up to your asshole from how you’ve pooled in your panties, and though you hope he hasn’t noticed it, hasn’t gotten any ideas, a deeper part of you hopes he ignores your pussy and eats that hole instead. “She’s so fuckin’ messy. Fat little cunt too. When did you start leaking like a virgin, baby? When you were on your knees in front of our cocks, us stood above you like we fuckin’ own you?”
You can’t reply - again, you don’t think he wants you to. Is he even talking to you, or is he talking to her?
It was Yunho that pushed you down, you realise, because it’s the same second pair of hands that slide the straps of your dress down over your shoulders. Nudging the fabric down so that it all bunches at your waist, he scratches his fingernails over your spine on the way down, leaving you bare but feeling quite like something animalistic.
“Mm, actually…” A nose nudges at your core and then a tongue, fat and steady, is sliding through your folds and humming when he tastes your arousal, smacking his lips messily like he’s eating a good meal. “You’ve been wet even longer, haven’t you? Since we danced in the bar. Oh, that’s something. How pent up are you, sweetheart?”
You whine. There’s no way he could know that, not really, and you know he’s just teasing you but he’s right - you were.
He continues, wet tongue moving to lick circles over your clit as he slurs. “Can’t blame you, ‘m desperate for this too.”
“Stop talking and eat.” Yunho sounds amused. “Poor thing looks like she’s gonna die if she doesn’t get something.”
At least it makes Mingi move, his lips smacking wet over your pussy before his tongue slides through the plush of your folds. The bridge of his nose is sharp when it bumps into your perineum, his tongue tracing your hole before it pushes inside and he savours your arousal from the inside with a deep, gravelly moan, something that ricochets through you and makes you finally beg.
“Yuyu,” You sound broken, too needy to think, and you feel it too - your head spins and you know you haven’t done well verbalising it but Yunho somehow knows what you need, sliding two long fingers past your lips for you to suck on. It doesn’t help, Mingi’s plush lips kissing down to your clit and making a home there, tongue darting underneath the hood to rub over you so intimately that you would never be able to stop the way you buck. Your hips fuck back onto his face but his strong forearm hooks around your tummy to keep you steady, your eyebrows furrowing in a subdued keen.
Yunho smiles, fucking his fingers into your mouth, watching the way you suck earnestly like it’s a cock - can you even tell the difference right now? It’s like you can see the wonder on his face before he speaks, cock half hard against his thigh, “Do you need something inside, honey?”
Your resulting noise is loud, deep from your chest - you’d forgotten that was an option with the way his boyfriend’s lips are working over you, but before you can beg properly the man grunts, lips leaving you for a moment.
“I’m gettin’ her ready for you, babe. She can wait.”
“Mm.” Yunho raises an eyebrow, confused, although his fingers leave your lips and brush over the base of his tummy almost instantly. “You don’t wanna go first? You were desperate a second ago-”
“Are you kidding me?” Mingi grins, all teeth that nip into your thigh as an afterthought, making you squeak. He ignores you, continuing like you can’t hear him, “a pussy like this is even better when it’s been nutted in already. I love me some sloppy seconds.”
Before you can raise any kind of objection to being talked about like that, right over you while he’s between your legs, Mingi’s tongue dives back between your folds. He licks up your arousal and drools onto your heat, pushing further up, where his hands spread your cheeks and expose the smaller hole, the one that makes your face flush and gut wrench in embarrassment.
“Bet you’d let us fuck this too,” he grumbles, and you nod, squirming in your place, as much as you can with the way his boyfriend’s pushing you down. “How fucking filthy. You just met us and you’d already let us fuck your asshole open. God, you’re amazing, might be fuckin’ made for us.”
Something bubbles in your gut, something so needy that you can’t help the garbled wail you let out. It’s incoherent at first, but Yunho lets your head move just enough to verbalise what you need to, “Want you both, anything, please, please, give me cock-”
“Give me cock,” Yunho giggles, shaking his head in disbelief. “What a bimbo. Fine, I’ll give you cock, honey. Mingi, lemme move her.”
Mingi obeys instantly, pulling away from your slick cunt and thighs, letting you be manhandled again by the taller man onto your side. You know this one, deep in your lust-muddled brain, and you let one leg slide forward to display your core as he slides behind you, chest to your back. He’s fully naked now - you’re not sure when this happened - and the palm he smooths your hair down with grounds you a little, other hand moving secure on your tummy.
“Y’want it?” He murmurs, and you see Mingi moving next to you, naked, muscled, distracting - your mouth waters. His eyes move down your body, over your flushed cheeks, teary eyes and down to your nipples, the curve of your tummy and the swell of your thighs; his hand moves to his cock, and you see his gaze move down Yunho, too, before he finally grips the base and starts to move up the vast length. Yunho’s fingers tighten in your hair a little, bringing your attention back to him. “Don’t get distracted, tiny. Talk to me. Do you want it?”
He moves his cock to the mess between your legs, pushing through arousal to get to your folds and at the resistance of your hole. The weight of it makes you gasp wetly, but he doesn’t let you squirm away when you try, only pulling you back into it.
“S-So big, Yunho, I want it, please.”
“There you go, good little slut,” He coos, satisfied, and pushes just the first inch in. Your hole clenches tight from the stretch, almost pushing him back out and he groans, using his grip on your thigh to pull you back onto it. “Let me in, baby.”
“C-Can’t help it, ah-“
Something shifts in him then, and the next thrust of his cock is stronger, meaner, something that makes your walls give way to more of him, accompanied by a sharp bite to your neck. It hurts a little but it feels so good; your eyes roll back in your head with a keen, and Mingi huffs out a breath.
“Oh, little bitch is so fuckin’ tight,” he moans, one palm coming to push your leg upwards, against your side, trying to open you up further. It doesn’t help - he’s just far too big, your pussy tightening in protest despite how bad you fucking want it. “Do I have to split your hole open to get inside? Funny, ‘cause it’s fucking drooling around me like it can’t get enough.”
One of his hands comes to rest on your breast, idle but firm, and his thumb swipes over your nipple just to make you gasp. You try to fuck yourself downwards but he really is too big, cockhead already hitting your cervix and it knocks the wind out of you. Mingi’s hand tightens on an upwards stroke of his shaft and he smiles, amused, eyes flicking between you and his boyfriend.
“Let him in, sweetheart. He’ll make it hurt.”
You try your best; squirming and whining in Yunho’s hold you manage to slack your gummy walls enough for him to push more of his cock inside but it makes you squeal, too much all of a sudden, and his fingers move from your chest to your clit. His nails dig into it and you gasp, writhing away before his grip pulls your back to his chest again.
“What the fuck is this for if I can’t fuck it? Useless little cunt otherwise, hm? Maybe I should just pull out, leave you-”
“No, nonono, please, Yunho,” You babble, moving around enough that it forces more of his length in. This time he seems to push past something that allows him to sink in balls deep, and it’s so far inside, pressing at your cervix and you think you might cum already.
Yunho huffs, placated now that you’ve let him in, yanking you backwards by your ass, letting the plumpness of it rock him into a bounce. It works, and he starts to fuck you steady, slow at first, letting you get used to it - his knuckles graze at your nipple before he pinches meanly, a breathless, chuckle of pleasure leaving him at your jolt.
“Fu-uck, ‘s so- need more, more, please-”
“More?” He asks, like he didn’t know, and you nod dumbly. You’re shocked by Mingi responding, not Yunho; walking on his knees towards you, his fingers come to your clit and roll it between his fingertips. It’s too much all of a sudden, and Yunho starts to speed up, his long, ridged shaft cutting into your gummy walls. Mingi’s ministrations make your pussy easier, more slack, and Yunho’s able to fuck quicker, cock not prohibited by how tight you’re squeezing around him. “That’s it. There you go, Min, cocksleeve’s gushing like a little whore now.”
“Mm, can feel it,” The man in question murmurs, eyes fixated on you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen. Your eyebrows knit in pleasure, lips parting in a squeal when his thumb rubs over your bud firmly, and this time you feel it, the slick, sticky gush of your pussy with every thrust. It leaks over Mingi’s fingers and further down, to your thighs, Yunho’s balls and his own lithe legs.
You feel dumb with it all, and you’re not even halfway through taking one.
“Feels nice like that, doesn’t it?” Yunho sounds unaffected, and you whimper, nodding, “I can tell. Dirty cunt gushing like that, I’d swear you came already.”
Mingi leans down on the bed, distracting you momentarily before there’s something wet pressing at your clit. It’s his tongue, you realise, and you can’t control the hand that goes to that dark blue hair - he moans at the feeling of your fingers tightening, tugging, and you force his mouth closer, wet lips mouthing over your pussy until he hits Yunho’s cock.
Mingi’s tongue moves over you again, licking over the intrusion of his boyfriend inside of you. It doesn’t stop his movement, his cock still pistoning in and out while you’re forced to take, take, take, and when the shorter man’s lips purse and suck on your bud you writhe away, pleasure all-consuming.
Your orgasm hits you hard, beginning in the base of your tummy and making your thighs shake. One hand holds Mingi steady, and the other moves to Yunho’s side, anchoring you through it, but your pussy clenches dumbly in a rhythm that makes the man inside grunt and bite your neck sharply. Your own noises are abused, loud and too incriminating, but neither men make a move to quiet you.
“Ride it out, c’mon,” Yunho says, voice hoarse, and you find it in your static body to fuck yourself on both men while your legs lock and your toes curl. “Good girl. There you go, that’s it.”
It helps, quelling the strong climax into something steadier, nicer, and Mingi’s tongue flicks over your clit just enough for you to come down from it.
The kiss the older man gives you is controlled, a little awkward from the angle but it tells you everything you need to know. You’re safe, you’re looked after and it’s exactly what you need after an orgasm that strong - his nose bumps your cheek when he kisses you deeper, giving you a few pecks as he pulls away; it makes you want more, but he’s already moving.
You realise too late that Yunho still hasn’t finished, and he pushes you onto your front, leg still slightly raised from the way he had you. His hips hit your ass as he bottoms out again, and you gasp - it’s so deep, so much that you want him to cum soon, hope he’ll cum soon and fill you up, and you remember you have another one to take after this. The realisation makes your pussy clench as he fucks inside and he lets out a stuttered breath against your shoulder, bumpy nose nudging at your jaw.
“You’re okay,” He soothes you, and you nod, whimper soft. “I’m gonna cum soon, baby. Gonna make you take it, ‘kay? Then Mingi’s gonna fuck it back into you.”
“Y-yeah,” you nod, and when Yunho starts to thrust again, punishing, Mingi seals your lips with his and swallows your noises. He kisses messy, teeth nipping at your bottom lip and he lets you suck on his tongue when you need something in your mouth again, not minding at all that your hands scramble at his broad shoulders for purchase.
You feel Yunho pull backwards, hands on the small of your back to hold you down, and it’s the sight of you and his boyfriend kissing that does him in. He gasps, letting out a shaky breath as he presses his hips tight to the plush of your ass, cockhead fucked so deep that it makes you try to squirm away again; Mingi keeps you still, giving you dirty, open-mouthed kisses and licking over your teeth.
Between your legs, you feel thoroughly used - when Yunho pulls out, cock softening a little, your pussy gushes fresh cum and as if it’s his queue, Mingi’s already moving over.
Yunho slaps your ass as he moves away from you, “Atta girl. She’s ready for you, Min.”
Fingers prod at your swollen hole, messy, creamy rivulets slicking down to Mingi’s rings as he spreads it open and inspects. If you had anything left in you, you’d feel embarrassed at the way he’s looking at you so intimately but well, he’s already done it once and you’re still horny. You shift back on the bed and chase his touch when he moves away, although you don’t have long to be disappointed because the feeling of a blunt cockhead against you makes you push your hips up, front going slack again.
“Look at that. Dumb slut knows how to present for a cock,” Mingi chuckles, although there’s no real bite to his words - his breath is shaky as he shuffles towards you, and seconds later there’s inches of fat cock spearing you open because he can’t wait himself at this point.
“O-oh,” You stutter, head raising and knocking back. You see Yunho, in front of you now, face so close to yours but it’s comforting rather than threatening. “Fuck, it’s-”
“Ssh, just feel it,” Yunho murmurs, stroking your cheek with one, big hand, and your eyes roll back into your head when he starts to thrust. His movements are deep and slow at first, letting you feel all of it, every vein and ridge and you swear you feel him leaking inside, too, when he pushes deep and pulls you flush against him like he isn’t fucking your pussy open in front of his boyfriend.
Mingi whines, sharp, “Tiny little pussy, so small, fuck-” his fingers hook around your shoulders, pulling you back onto him, “how are you still so fucking tight?” Your own hands scramble in the sheets until your fingers hook into them for leverage, and you writhe, moaning so viscerally that Yunho pets your hair to calm you down. Mingi’s thicker than him so despite taking the older man first, the stretch of your hole to accommodate him has your eyes watering, his hips stuttering into the creamy mess of a hole that his boyfriend left. “Can I- fuck, I can’t, I can’t, can’t play anymore-“
“Mingi,” Yunho warns, but it’s softened by the grin curling his lips, fond.
“Can’t, fuck, baby, I love your pussy,” Mingi babbles, and his hands move to your asscheeks, spreading them further, watching where his cock disappears into you. It’s slick when he starts to move, a creamy ring around the base of his cock, wet plaps echoing around the bedroom when his balls begin to hit your clit steadily. “Love- love it, love it everytime- I love you.”
Something dawns on you. You’re not playing anymore, not really, not the elaborate scene Yunho came up with late at night before you headed out to the bar you three met at - and your back bows towards the bed, curling away from your boyfriends,
“Mmgh- I love you too,” You whimper, scrambling on the sheets for your third, your other boy. Fingers intertwine with yours immediately and he kisses your hairline, your nose, your lips; you cry out, head lolling against his. “Yunho- Yuyu, Yuyu, love you-“
“I love both of you, although you’re both fucking pathetic,” Yunho laughs, smoothing your hair. “Can’t even roleplay properly. Both of you cry like virgins as soon as I let him get inside of you.”
Mingi’s head drops to your shoulder, his weight pinning you down when he collapses atop of you. You’re separated from Yunho but you don’t mind at all when he starts to drill you properly - this is his favourite position, after all, it didn’t matter if it was you or Yunho underneath him.
His hips don’t stop moving, pistoning into your cunt where you’re flat on the bed, his lips parting in a deep groan, “Pussy’s too good to think. Sorry, Yunho, p-promise it was hot.”
He’s not sorry at all, you all know that. Yunho scoffs. “I know it was. You two acting like sluts on that fuckin’ dancefloor, just like you were all those years ago. Hard, leaking, wet in your pants looking at me. I could see how horny you were.”
“Mmhm,” Mingi nods, delirious. You’re not able to respond, chest clenching in pathetic wails every time he pushes deep, fucking the noises out of you, and his hand moves to your back, soothing over your spine until he slaps your ass hard just for the sake of it. “G-Good little toy, that’s right, don’t have to speak, just take it. Good girl.”
He’s babbling again, nonsensical, praises and degradation into one - he’s always the same, and it always makes you gush easy for him. Yunho slides your hair out of your face, exposing flushed cheeks and spit slick lips, your eyes crossed with pleasure. The sight of you makes them both groan, and the older man plants a gentle slap on your cheek, gripping your jaw when you gasp.
“Fucked dumb,” He muses. “How pretty. Why don’t you cry a little for him, hm? You know he loves that.”
“It’s so much,” you manage, and he nods, cooing at you. It’s that which finally breaks you, and your chest bubbles with a sob, ripped harshly from you. “‘S so much, I can’t- can’t take it, daddy, please!”
They laugh at you again, you hear them, though Mingi’s is a lot more in awe than the other man’s.
“Who’s your daddy, baby?” Yunho’s asking you, and it’s something he asks you often but it feels like you’re trying to move across clouds to respond to him. Everything’s so soft, comforting but your pussy continues to get rammed, overwhelmed, and you squeal, legs knocking together when you feel his thrusts start to get harsher but staggered.
“B-both of you.” You slur. “Both- daddy, fill me up too-”
It ignites something in Mingi - he pulls out, gripping himself at the creamy base and flipping you over by your waist again. You’re on your back now, able to see them both, your boys; Yunho has that cheeky glint in his eyes that you love, looming over you with a half-hard cock and tousled, boyish hair - if you didn’t know him, you would trust him.
Mingi distracts you, crowding into your space with furrowed eyebrows, thick thighs knocking your legs apart again before he sinks back inside. Yunho laughs at his impatience, hand smoothing over the younger man’s back as he starts to fuck you again and you know he’s really gonna cum now, moving so fast and hard that you both get knocked up the mattress a little.
You keen, “Fucking- oh, oh, that’s-“
“Language,” Yunho’s hand moves and pinches your thigh, and you wince, legs locking around Mingi. He pins you back down and then moves his focus to your clit, rolling it between his fingers; it’s so wet that it feels too good too quickly. “Gonna cum, aren’t you, baby?”
Your eyes roll back into your head when his fingers move over you instead, firmer, rubbing circles that make you heave, trying to catch your breath. Unable to answer him again, he hums, displeased.
That’s right, you almost forgot. He lets you get away with some things earlier but you don’t act like that around him, not really, only when you’re pretending like you don’t know them. Now, you know them, and there are rules - that also means you beg to cum, and you thank whatever higher powers there be because you remember before you fall off the edge.
“Please,” You struggle, nails scratching at both of them again, their arms this time, “please, please let me cum. Daddy, daddy, please-“
Mingi growls, fixated, “I’m gonna fuckin’ cum, you better cum with me, tiny.”
“There you go, honey. Your daddy said you can,” Yunho says, almost too sweet for you to believe but no, they did say that, and you’re squealing from it before they can take it back.
You gush again, fluttering and writhing where you lay and halfway through it, Mingi nudges the dark haired man’s head to press his cheek against yours at an angle and kisses you both.
Barely knowing what to do in your haze, they hold you still, tongues both messily sliding over yours, over each other - the man inside of you whimpers, thrusting harshly one last time, gasping against your mouths before he fills you with a fresh wave of cum. His cock throbs with it, pumping into you and when he can’t take it anymore he collapses, head on your chest, full weight a little overwhelming.
Yunho kisses you a few times, fingertips moving to rub soft circles into your shoulders, your upper arms, before moving across your boyfriend’s scalp, massaging him too. He moans gratefully, exhausted, and you feel the same - your limbs are stiff and you groan when Mingi finally rolls off, slumping next to you in the wet sheets.
“I’ll just be cleaning you up, honey.” Yunho’s voice is gentler, and you hum, a smile creeping on your face - there he is, always in control. Mingi mumbles something that you don’t quite catch, arm hooking around your tummy, but your boyfriend hears him, chuckling, “That was referring to you, too.”
You want to laugh. “Don’t tell me he was trying to move.”
Yunho shifts closer, wet towel suddenly soft against your skin, and when you finally open your eyes he’s there, still naked, cock soft against his thigh and you wonder if he came again, sometime during it all. “Like I said, both of you fuck like virgins. Dead afterwards. Perished, even.”
You can’t argue. You’re not planning on moving any time soon; although the sheets are ruined, you’re exhausted after all that. The boys’ roleplay ideas are always crazy but well, there’s some that get a bit out of hand, like recreating the night you all met.
For the second time, Mingi grumbles nonsensically next to you. Yunho kisses the mole on the younger man’s cheek before kissing your hairline again.
“Speaking of perished,” He murmurs, eyes shifting down to you playfully, putting on a dramatic voice, “I still think the next scene should be me, as Spider-Man, saving you and Min from possible perish-“
“Enough,” You grumble, kicking him softly with your foot. “Go to sleep.”
His laugh is so loud it makes Mingi kick him too, half-asleep, but then he really does settle, towel discarded on the floor. As if he was waiting for his presence to drop off properly, the younger man squirms closer on the mattress and reaches over you to tug Yunho in, pulling you into a pile, legs intertwined and a little sticky. It’s soothing though, naked and cuddling with your men, and Mingi starts to snore almost instantly.
The man plastered to your back sighs, though you know he’s not really bothered. “Sleep? With that?”
You huff, “Then just talk to me, duh.”
“Duh. You can actually just watch me play video games, if you want. Remember, my new monitor came yesterday, it’s curved and sexy and it’ll show you everything in-“
You fall asleep before he’s anywhere near finished.
he posted this pic on his story and i dropped my pants in preparation
bsf!seonghwa x f!reader
content: teaching you how to ride, slow and wet, eye contact, choking
wc: 2.3k
thinking about seonghwa...
“never?” he murmurs, nibbling on his inner cheek as he gives you a once-over. not in disbelief, but something else. something dangerous.
you shake your head. “nope.” you shrug and pick up your phone again and start to scroll through your settings apps. “but it’s not a big deal, really, it’s just another thing to cross off the bucket list.”
seonghwa snorts and peeks over to snoop at your phone, to which you angle it away from him with an annoyed scowl. “i think it may be a little more serious than that.”
you type gibberish into the search bar. "why does it have to be serious, hwa? it's just sex."
its seonghwa's turn to scoff this time, and he pinches the skin of your calf, you swat at him with your free hand. but he does it again, and you bite out an irritated "quit it" as he starts to speak again.
"thats a bad mindset to have, y'know that right?" he lowers his voice to that annoying, mothering tone he uses with you when he thinks you're being stupid. "it should never be "just sex."
"okay yeah, but you can't be so picky and choosy all the time. i'm sure ill get with some guy and when he figures it out, he'll work with me or whatever. teach me or something." you speak of it fleetingly, like it was nothing more than a pesky errand.
seonghwa snatches your phone from you and shoves it into the couch cushions, and you sigh loudly.
"some guy?" he questions with a raise of his eyebrow. you move to fish your phone out of the couch, but he reaches out and gently grabs your wrist, encasing it in his slender fingers and rubbing his thumb over your thrumming pulse point.
"why not me?" he speaks lowly, and you snap your eyes up to his. he stares back at you with an intensity that settles low in your gut. his thumb stroked over your inner wrist slowly, and his other hand twitched at his side on the couch.
the air went thick, the quiet of his living room felt encased in a bubble, and the warmth of his skin suddenly burned.
he sees it. your thighs clenching beneath your body, the conflict flashing over your eyes, your free hand digging its nails into the cushion.
when you don't respond, he lets his eyes fall to where his hand held your wrist, watching with illustrated intent as he traces patterns against the fragile skin.
"i could show you, i've always been told i'm a good teacher." seonghwa tickles the skin of your palm with gentle scratches of his nails.
"thats what friends are for, yeah?" he lifts his pretty eyes back up to you, and something else has shadowed over them, and you feel something inside of you crack. you're aware of the way veins in his hands flow prettily under his skin.
the way his collarbones peak through the thin fabric of his shirt. the slick shine on his bottom lip where he licked to wet it. his tongue poked against his inner cheek and his eyebrows raised again to urge an answer out of you.
"c'mon pretty, don't leave me hanging." his voice is softer than usual, a new tone lacing it you've never heard from your best friend, something heated, something needy.
if deciding to have your best friend teach you how to ride dick was a bad idea, then you could mull on it later. because it wasn't long until he was sitting under you on the couch, legs spread nice and wide, his hands pressing into your hips where he held your body above him.
you straddled him, your thighs resting on either side of his, your knees pressed into the rough fabric of the couch cushions. your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the flesh of the blades.
he looks up at you through his lashes, as if you were a gift from god himself, his eyebrows knit together so prettily. "its fun up there, huh?" he smiles, dragging his warm hands up your thighs, holding you like you might melt and slip through his fingers.
you could barely keep yourself together; he was so deep inside of you. your thighs shook around him, his tip nudging against that spot so sweet and so dirty. his fingers kneaded the flesh of your hips, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth with a quiet moan when he felt your cunt clench around him.
"it helps that you're, ah… so wet…" his voice cracks lightly, his cock twitching inside of you and sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.
you shiver and grip his shoulders a little harder, and you begin to lift your hips, but his grip on them tightens, and he pushes you right back down until your ass hits his thighs again, and you groan nice and low as he fills you all the way up again.
"no-no-no-no-no, baby, stop. don't lift." he presses his lips to your collarbone and kisses you there softly, running his tongue over the skin warmly. one hand leaves your hip and runs over your waist before he presses his palm flat against your lower back and pushes until you arch a little.
just enough that he somehow slips deeper into you, and you let out a weak whine when his fat tip presses ever harder against that spot.
"grind." he instructs in a gravelly, soft moan. "rock your hips, back and forth. it'll help me hit that spot for you."
you shake and whimper under your breath, but you obey. you gently move your hips forward, and the feeling is immediate, his cock drags against your soft walls just enough that it feels like pure heaven.
you move your hands and card them through the hair at the back of his head, cradling his skull in your arms as you hide your face in the crook of his neck, moaning softly against his skin as you rock your hips, nice and slow.
it helps that he's so big, each roll of your lower body has him slipping in and out of you just enough to stimulate you, but not enough to where you can consider him fucking you. his tip dragging against that spot like a constant button, your legs shaking uncontrollaby and your whine brushing past his ear like a song.
your clit lightly brushes against his abs, where his shirt has ridden up over his lower stomach. he keeps his hand on your lower back, keeping you arched all the while his other hand stays glued to your hips, pushing and pulling on your lower body, helping you grind his cock into your body.
"there, how's that feel, baby? good?" he whispers in your ear, kissing just below your earlobe as he helps you rock your body around his cock.
you nod against his neck, gripping his soft, dark hair harder and choking out a moan when he teases you with a heavy lift of his hips. then you feel as he encases your hips with both his hands again, and gently he lifts your body ever so slightly.
you squeeze his head even harder, seonghwa's soft moans shaking in his throat as he lifts and pushes your cunt back down on his cock in slow, deep intervals. "don't stop rocking those hips, keep fucking me like you want. grind, deep, slow…"
he guides you perfectly, each time he lifts your hips himself it makes you clench around him harder. you start to feel a little desperate, and your hips start to move a little faster, rocking with a little more rhythm, but seonghwa didn't like that.
one hand finds the back of your neck and grabs it firmly, pulling your head away from his shoulder and pressing your forehead to his. suddenly all you can see is his eyes, and it overwhelms you to the point of tears. you whine pathetically when he thrusts his cock up into your pussy so sharply that a drop of drool falls from your lips onto his chest.
"easy…" he grumbles against your lips, his breath fanning over your face in low, heavy pants. "slow down pretty, no need to rush." his nails dig into the back of your neck, and you shiver when he starts to grind his own hips up into you, so deep it has your stomach caving.
"if i wanted you pounded into the floor i would've put you on your back, but i'm teaching you sweetness. listen to me." his eyes fall low-lidded as you resume your slow grinding, and his mouth falls open in a pretty moan when you tighten around him, the sound of your slickness loud in your ears.
"it's your dick right now, baby, use it. do what feels good, but don't lose your head." he keeps up the torturous movement of his hips, a choreographed grind that makes his stomach roll prettily.
he doesn't let you look away, forcing you to lock in on his needy gaze while he keeps you filled up with him, nudging every deep spot, every nook and cranny of your pussy. there wasn't a single space inside of you that remained untouched.
"s, t-too, mm-" you tried to talk, try to tell him how good you were feeling but it came out in slurred babbles, and he laughed at you. his warm breath shudders over your parted lip,s and he nudges his head up, melding his soft lips with yours and kissing you deep and nasty.
his tongue fills your mouth with a purr, curling and essentially fucking your mouth with it. "it's a lot i know…" he whispers into your mouth, interrupting the kiss with a low moan when you clench so hard around him it makes his entire body fuzzy.
he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, letting go with a wet pop and pressing your hips down so hard onto his cock you thought if you looked down you'd see his tip poking through the flesh of your stomach.
"wouldn't have felt like this with anyone else, baby." seonghwa nips at the corner of your mouth, dropping his head to run his warm tongue flat up the front of your throat. "feel how wet you are? no other man will be able to make you feel this good."
his eyes lift as he sucks marks of possession into the skin of your neck, and when he sees a tear slipping down your cheek, he growls low in his throat and jerks his cock up into you rough and deep, and you yelp as the bliss shoots through you.
"oh no, don't cry. it makes me wanna be mean to you, makes me wanna fuck you til it feels wrong when i'm not inside you."
now he wraps his hands around your throat, pressing his thumbs against those soft spots that melt your brain, his eyes darting all over your pretty little blissed out face, his lips brushing against your in a ghost of a kiss.
"now lift, drop, and roll. fuck me, bunny. its yours, use this cock until you're satisfied. make yourself cum for me."
you coudln't disobey if you tried, working your body and focusing on that rapidly tightening knot in your stomach as you fuck yourself on seonghwa's dick, every delicious drag inside of you forcing your eyes to roll to the back of your head.
he doesn't bother to chastise you for breaking eye contact; he knows you're too lost in it to control yourself. he squeezes your throat tighter, your moans coming choked and broken. seonghwa helps push you over that edge, groaning and purring prettily for you, lifting his hips to match your desperate movements.
"i feel you baby, pussy feels so good around me. so warm, so tight." he lifts his head to press his lips to the shell of your hot ears, moaning and sighing as you ride him to high heaven. your head feels fuzzy with the lack of air, seonghwa making sure that the only thing you could think about was his dick working you out.
“cum as much as you need,” he coos in your ear his voice low and breathless, sinking his teeth into the soft lobe. “ride me, bunny, ride me.”
you absolutely lose it, slamming your hips down onto his dick and shattering, dribbling drool in rivers as you cum. he squeezed your throat in pulsing intervals, giving you air, then snatching it from you, rolling his hips up into your cunt and dragging every drop of your orgasm out of your body.
"oh god…fuck." he grumbles in his throat, overwhelmed by how pretty you looked on top of him, blissed out over your warm, gummy pussy squeezing him so tight he almost came inside of you. "such a quick learner, baby."
he drags his hands away from your throat, cradling your head, smearing your drool all over your cheeks with his thumbs, your face hazy and drunk while he rocks his hips into you in painfully slow, high off the way you shake and whimper, your slick sticking to his thighs and his lower stomach, a messy proof of his effect on you.
"did so good beautiful, yes you did." he praises, and yet his hips never stop moving. rolling, grinding, upwards strokes that make you feel helpless, regardless of the fact that he was beneath you.
"think you can give me another one? lesson's not over yet." he bites out, grabbing your arms and dragging your body down so your forehead rests over his shoulder. then he grips your hips, lifts your body up, and shimmies his hips down just enough so he can plant his feet flat on the floor, before he starts to fuck.
hard, deep, powerful thrusts up into your overstimulated cunt that has your moans coming out in staccato chokes.
"you did your w-work, now let me use this pussy." he groans through gritted teeth, and you feel your body erupt into flames the more he moves. making you feel every inch of him, each thrust touching your brain. making you feel so good.
giving subby bf mingi a wraparound handjob, clean up aisle my pants. like hello are we seeing his thighs??
bf!mingi x f!reader
content: sub!mingi, handjob, teasing, begging
wc: 1.9k
thinking about mingi...
your boyfriend was so big. tall, dark, and handsome as they like to say. you loved when he had you underneath his body, playing with you, working you out until you went brainless with his dick deep in your guts and his hands on your throat like a cockdrunk toy.
but every once in a while, you liked to play with him too. and god as much as he’d whine about it, you both knew he loved it.
“b-baby, not so rough… please.” mingi sat between your legs, his thick thighs spread wide, his head craned down on his neck, staring at your hand between his legs. his hands fisted the sheets on the bed, pretty, low, whiny moans slipping past his shiny, swollen lips with every touch you subjected him to.
you leaned your chin on his shoulder, looking over his broad body to see the pretty sight below, your hand, small in comparison, wrapped around the thick length of mingi’s cock. his thighs twitched when you dragged your hand up the girth of him, your fingers shiny with sticky pearls of precum that leaked from his pretty pink tip.
your movements sounded slick, and every time you stroked him, base to tip, his chest, beaded with sweat, rose and fell with deep labored breaths. you bit your lip as you watched yourself play with him, warm and thick in your palm. his dick twitched and jumped every time you squeezed the base of him.
his moans hit your ears like the prettiest melody, every glide of your soft hand around him sending his stomach into a pleasure-dripped flurry.
“you want it slow, baby?” you whisper in his ear, kissing the vein that protrudes from the side of his throat. “i can go slow for you.”
gently, you stroke upwards along him, squeezing the tip of his dick and running the plane of your thumb along his leaking slit. his moans choke in his throat, and you feel his dick jump in your hands at the increased stimulation.
torturously slow, you drag your thumb over his slit, teasing him with squeezed intervals around his shaft. your other hand wraps around his body and rubs along his lower stomach, caressing his abs in featherlight strokes, feeling his stomach rise and fall under your palm.
“fuck.. oh god, baby please… d-don’t be m-mean-” he interrupts himself with a low groan when you drag your hand back down the length of his pretty dick, moving to gently squeeze his balls.
his cock is shiny and pink, so much pre-leaking from him that it starts to stick to his thighs. his moans rise in pitch when the hand on his stomach pressed down on his hard abdomen, adding a pleasurable pressure. his moans break off into a pathetic whine, the hand at his side comes up and wraps over his eyes, leaning his head back and moaning loudly into the space. looking at you jerking him off was almost too much, and he didn’t want to cum too quickly.
“my pretty boy…” you moan in his ear, and his cock twitches so hard in your grasp it almost startles you. he pants towards the ceiling, his head hanging back over your shoulder, the slick, sticky sounds of you stroking his cock only growing louder as your rhythm starts to become more pressured, more swift.
“don’t you wanna see what i'm doing to you?” you nibble on the shell of mingi’s ear, and he bites back a throaty whine.
“c-can’t… hah- can’t handle i-it.” he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, bucking his hips up into your hand to chase the friction of your touch. but you click your tongue and loosen your grip.
mingi’s eyes widen, and he pants loudly, raising his head and dropping his gaze back down to his lap, where he can see and feel your hand slipping away from his cock.
“n-no, mami, wait-” he whines disappointedly, moving his hand to try and grab your hand back, but you quickly drag your hand out of his reach and wrap it over his mouth, his warm moans hitting your palm. his eyebrows knot prettily in disdain, his hips fucking up into the air as if he might find relief in the nonexistent friction.
“you wanna cum?” you whisper in his ear, dragging your tongue up the side of his neck. he nods frantically, muffled begs and “please’s” hitting your palm. you smile and move your hand so you can hear him use that pretty voice to beg.
“-please! i’ll b-be good, baby, so good for you. your g-good boy… please t-touch me, need you to make me cum-”
you cover his mouth again, and finally, you take your other hand and wrap it around his heavy cock again, squeezing and dragging your fingers up and down over the thick vein that runs up the side of him. his moans hit your hand again, and you feel a little drool slip from his mouth and seep between your fingers.
“then be still, you take what i give you, okay? let me play with my pretty boy for a little…”
you take your hand off his cock, and gently ghost the sharp nail of your finger up the side of him. he twitches uncontrollably, and you can feel his groans shiver under your hand. you could feel the vibrations of his voice travel from his back against your chest, low and heated.
mingi is entranced by your cum soaked hand as it wraps around him again, slow, tight strokes up the length of his cock. he fights the primal urge to thrust his hips further into your hand, to fuck your palm in desperation. but the poor boy wants to be good for you; he wants to earn the right to cum all over himself at your hands.
all the while you litter his strained neck in wet kisses, your own pussy soaked as you feel his voice against your palm, feel his cock jump in your hand, the wet sound of the rhythmic strokes enough to make mingi feel a little embarrassed at how much pre you’ve managed to work out of his body.
his legs start to shake a little, the strong muscles of his thighs twitching under the skin. his pants grow frantic, and his chest rises and falls a little faster, his head falling back against your shoulder. you look over, and you could see his eyes starting to roll into the back of his head, his thick eyebrows knitted together in pure bliss.
“aw, is my baby about to cum for me?” you coo in his ear, and finally, you move your hand away from his mouth to let him speak.
no longer muffled, his moans come deep and unfiltered. desperate whimpers that catch in his throat when you take your free hand and teasingly massage his swollen, pink tip. your other hand continues to stroke him to high heaven, his leg starting to bounce as the pleasure spreads about his body, head to toe.
“f-fuck- baby… fuck-king me so good… hah- mmf-!” mingi drops his head again, and his whine shakes low in his chest when he sees both your hands jerking his dick so beautifully. you coo wet praises in his ear, and you watch as a drop of drool falls from his plushy, bitten lips and onto his stomach.
“g-gonna c-cum, for you…” he whimpers, and he can’t help himself as his hips buck upwards, his dick so wet he just slides right through your hands with disgusting ease.
you click your tongue and sink your teeth into his shoulder, dragging a pained whine from his chest. “oh, baby. didn’t i tell you not to move? you were doing so good for me…”
mingi panics, stopping his hips with quite the struggle, crying out pathetically while he forces himself to let you do the work. “‘m sorry! please d-don’t stop, i’m being a good boy mami, i am. it's just so good, you’re s-so good to me baby…”
he sounds so wet, and wrecked, and pathetic. every twitch of his heavy cock signals as he gets closer to cumming, and really, you just want to hear him fall apart.
“if you wanna cum then ask me nicely. look at me.” mingi turns his head to look at you next to him, and it makes your cunt clench around nothing. those pretty little puppy eyes, watery, sad, and desperate. his wet, puffy lips tremble, parted in low, sweet moans. his skin is flushed, and his brows rise and fall with his chest. he looked so pretty.
immediately, he presses his lips to yours and moans loudly into your mouth, his tongue filling your mouth as he begs and murmurs against your lips. “p-please.. make me cum, please-please-please, i’m begging you, baby. use me, use me. please, wanna cum for you-”
he kisses you so messily, his pleas muffled around your tongue, drool stringing between your lips in a filthy exchange.
“okay baby.” you whisper against his lips, focusing all the movements of your fingers around his sensitive, swollen tip, playing with it like a joystick. he pulls away from your mouth with a wet smack, dropping his head and moaning broken and whiny as he watches you work his cock without mercy.
“cum for me, make a mess all over yourself.”
mingi bucks his hips, his stomach rolling as a long string of high pitched groans fall from his lips. his cock, warm and swollen, twitches in your hand, before he spills all over himself. thick ropes of hot cum spurt all over his stomach, landing on his chest in pretty milky strings.
you stroke him slowly, milking him for every drop he’s worth, his pretty grumbles and whines spurring you on further as he cums all over himself.
“shit… baby. fffuck me… thank you, t-thank you…” mingi’s heavy breaths make your stomach clench, the visible heaves of his big, strong, sweaty chest, the wet trail of drool that drips down the corner of his mouth. the dazed, fucked out look in his eyes makes you want to ride his pretty face until your legs give out.
you kiss his cheek and finish him off with a teasing squeeze to his tip that has his eyes scrunching in painful overstimulation. “such a well behaved boy.” you praise, and you could feel him shiver against you.
mingi’s softening cock sits on his thigh, still so big even when he isn’t rock hard.
“mm, wanna make you c-cum, mami.” he whispers to you, shakily moving from between your legs and gently urging you onto your back on the bed. “wanna eat your pussy, please? can i?”
he asks you so nicely, dragging his big sweaty hands up the outer flesh of your thighs, kissing up your legs like you were his goddess.
you reach down and card your fingers through his soft, messy hair, and he all but purrs against your thigh when you massage his scalp. “of course, honey. i miss your mouth.”
he grins, overjoyed as he offers no restraint, spreading your thighs pretty and wide and suctioning his mouth to your soaked clit with a hungry moan that travels up your spine. your back arches and you watch as he still manages to grind his poor overstimulated cock against the edge of the mattress.
he could never seem to get enough, always so greedy.
Clad in an obscure colored suit, all pristine and freshly ironed cloth. Radiating an undeniable air of authority. His presence demanded attention, demanded compliance. Not a speck out of place. Perfect.
A red flashing light blared on the camcorder in his hand. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over with his arms resting on his knees. Eyebrows knit into an expression that you couldn't quite place. The unmistakable bulge in his pants that made you swallow.
And you, a few yards away, sitting on your knees on the bedroom floor. Eyes glued to his shiny, polished boots firmly planted on the ground, palms resting atop your tightly clenched thighs. Wearing nothing but a pair of panties, lacy enough that they were practically useless when it came to coverage.
"Eyes up here." San's soft voice snapped the silence that lay thick in the air. His tone was gentle, yet commanding. You craned your neck up to meet his eyes.
His gaze was hard, and you noticed the way his grip tightened around the camcorder when your eyes met. "Hi, baby." He murmured softly, like he was coaxing over a docile animal, the small smile on his face making your stomach flutter.
"Come here," San whispered, pointing at the space on the floor in front of him. A simple command, something easy to obey. Yet, when you placed your hands flat on the ground in prepration to stand, San let out a quick whistle, gaining back your attention.
"No, baby." He chastised, shaking his head like he was disappointed. He leaned back a little on the edge of the bed, angling his head down to gaze on you below him, like you were nothing more than a machine to be instructed.
"Crawl to me." He ordered, tapping his foot against the floor. Once, twice. "Get on your hands and knees, like a dog, and crawl."
You didn't give yourself time to question the command, and instead, you obeyed. You sat back on your haunches and placed your hands flat on the ground, on all fours.
"Keep your eyes on me." He murmured. You looked up, eyes locked with his as you slowly crawled to him, one hand after the other. Your eyelashes fluttered prettily as San watched every step you took with drunken earnestness.
You stopped when you were just a foot's length away from him on the floor, his sharp gaze on you never faltering, the camera lens following each slow movement you made.
"So you can follow instructions." He snipped lowly, the purr in his voice sending a visible shiver through your body.
"But, just look at you." San pouted, angling the camera closer to your face. His free hand slid around and cupped your jaw. In response, you nuzzled your face into his hand, your thighs clenched when the warmth of his skin touched yours. "A writhing mess. What makes you think I'd want to touch you when you look so disgusting, huh, sweetness?"
His thumb rubbed slow circles against your cheek, and your eyelids fluttered at the soft contact. San's thumb pressed against your closed lips, and you parted them obediently. He slipped his thumb into your mouth and gently massaged your tongue in languid patterns. You salivated around his thumb, and San clicked his tongue.
"I might as well, just to put you out of your misery. You wanna feel good, huh, baby?" San's thumb continued to rub against your tongue, tilting his head to the side as he took your pathetic form below him in. "You wanna shut off that brain and be my obedient little girl?"
You cower below him, nodding slowly and mumbling a muffled 'yes' around his thumb. San smiled softly, gently maneuvering his fingers to curl around your chin, effectively holding your head by your lower jaw with his thumb still deep in your mouth. He pulled your head closer, urging you to crawl further towards him.
He leaned his head down so that his lips just barely brushed against the shell of your ear, breathing so softly that it was almost as if he wasn't breathing at all.
"Get yourself off on my boot, slut." He purrs in a hushed tone in your ear, and you hear his foot tap against the floor once more, like a sound cue that flipped a switch in your brain. “Work for me. Grind that slippery pussy on my boot until you cum. Show me just how willing you are for my attention.”
Your eyes rolled, and you felt his thumb sink even deeper into your mouth, continuing to pull your head forward until your hips were forced to straddle his shoe. Your hands curled around his calf, your cheek rested against the side of his knee, your gaze wide and watery as you slowly rested your hips down on the edge of his shoe, the open crotch lingerie you were clad in providing easy access to your soaked cunt.
You felt your clit brush against the smooth leather of his shoe, and San felt your sweet voice vibrate around his thumb, your soft moan hitting his ears like a truck.
He set the camera down on the edge of the bed next to him, still perfectly angled at your sweet submissive face, still rolling. His now free hand landed right on the print that presed up against his slacks, thick and heavy through the dark fabric.
He gently palmed himself through his pants, eyes falling half lidded when you started to slide your hips over his boot in a slow, heavy rhythm.
Your clit perfectly caught the rough edges of his boot, his hard gaze on you as you moved.
"Slow down, baby." He demeaned, tapping his boot beneath your cunt, sending a jolt of pleasure through your entire nervous system, your teeth just barely sinking into the thumb in your mouth. "Such a needy girl, have some patience."
You whined around him, reluctantly slowing your pleasure-seeking grind against his boot. San grinned in satisfaction, rewarding you with his thumb slowly sliding back and forth over your tongue, his hand continuing to palm his bulge,
He imagined his cock in place of his thumb, fucking your pretty mouth and watching you choke around his big dick, tears streaming down your face and breaking you down into a pathetic crying mess for him.
Your hands gripped his calf harder as you willed your body to keep the slow pace, but with the leather of his shoe completely lubed with your ever-flowing slick, it was becoming increasingly harder to maintain that leisurely rhythm. You moaned softly as his thumb glided in and out of your mouth, his skin faintly tasting of the strawberry candy he was eating earlier.
"Such a pitiful girl. My pitiful girl, aren't you? Humping me like a desperate slut." His words only spurred you on further, and you found your hips slightly speeding up, chasing that tantalizing orgasm.
"Aw, you can't help yourself, can you?" San's hand slipped beneath the waistband of his slacks, freeing his aching, hard cock from his pants. Pretty, thick, and pink, he slowly stroked the length of himself above you, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue and moaning softly.
"You thinking about me fucking you, baby?" He whispers, tapping his shoe beneath you again, laughing when you whimper loudly. His thumb stroked over the pre-gathering at his tip, smearing it over his cock and stroking himself languidly, the slick sounds of him fucking his hand making you gush even more.
Your breath stutters when a particular drag of your hips sends a jolt of pleasure up your spine, you stop just for a moment to calm yourself, but then San presses flat down on your tongue.
“Don’t stop.” He commands breathlessly, his hand smoothly gliding over his slick cock, eyebrows slightly furrowed in pleasure. “Keeping rocking those hips, slut.”
You whine quietly and begin moving your hips once again, unable to deny his saccharine demands. You wanted to please him, and like San always told you, the best way to please him is to please yourself.
“Gonna give you this recording once we’re done.” He promises sultrily, softly scratching under your chin in a way that made your skin tingle.
“So you can listen to my voice behind the camera, watch yourself fall apart beneath me, make sure you don’t forget how dumb you are when you get so needy for me.”
You felt the blunt nail of his thumb gently scrape against your bottom teeth, the strange sensation sending shockwaves to your brain.
“When you miss me and you touch yourself because all your pretty brain can think about is Sannie's thick cock stretching you out, isn’t that right baby?"
You smiled like an idiot around his thumb, eyes rolling when you felt your body nearing that oh so tempting edge. San’s hand never ceased its smooth glides up and down himself, soft yet heavy breaths and quiet moans making you press your core against his boot even harder.
You should be ashamed, you should be humiliated, and to an extent you were. Reduced to a lusful bitch, humping your needy cunny against San’s boot like he’s all you’ve ever have, and all you’d ever get. Degrading yourself for him, groveling at his feet like he was your God and drooling around his thick thumb like it was candy.
But he looked at you like he couldn’t get enough. Like he was feeding off of your desperation with a hunger that was insatiable. The slick, slow strokes he dragged up and down his cock only proved how much he really admired your overflowing desire for him, and he almost felt bad that he was having you fuck yourself on his shoe rather than laying you out and playing with your sweet plushy body until you were convulsing.
But he didn’t feel that bad, cause fuck… did you look gorgeous right now. His subservient, lecherous girl.
“You cumming for me, sweetheart?” San hummed, finally slipping his thumb out of your mouth. He switched hands, sliding his drool-soaked thumb over his throbbing cock, letting his head fall back as a gravelly growl slipped from his lips.
“Yes.. Sannie..” you moan softly, letting your head loll against his knee, your cheek smushed against the bone cutely. Your hips reduced to a slow, deep grind, the tough, shiny leather perfectly slipping over your clit in a way that made your limbs shake.
San’s breath shuddered silently, eyebrows knit tightly as he focused on the way your hips moved, the little changes in expression on your glowing, flushed face, the way your nails dug into the muscle of his calf like you couldn’t bear to keep your hands to yourself.
“Fuck, you’re so sad baby.” He chuckled lowly, burying his free hand in your tangled locks, craning your head back up in his grip and forcing your pretty wet eyes on him once again. “Go ahead then, slut. Cum. Make a sticky mess on my boot so I can hurry up and ruin that slutty pussy. You want this dick baby?”
You nod, your breath heaving as your spine arches, your stomach tingling, and your hips stuttering. “Mm~, wan it so bad, please Sannie.”
San’s grip on your hair tightens, before he leans his head down just so his plush lips hovered over yours. Parted softly in quiet sighs, he smiled against your lips, before yanking your head hard and bringing your hot ear to his mouth.
“Cum for me.” He coos in your ear. “Let your body speak for you.”
Your vision flashed a blinding white, and you felt yourself drool on his leg, your hips slowing as your orgasm crashed over you so strongly you felt your soul try to leave you.
San’s fingers rubbed soothing circles against your scalp, bouncing his foot a few times to help you ride it out. “There we go, poor thing. You look so miserable, honey.”
He slipped his hand out of your hair and grabbed you by your chin, lifting you to your knees. He leaned closer, his warm cock sitting pretty in his hand. He gently drags the tip over your soft, parted lips. You open your mouth and let your tongue fall out of your mouth; to which San gently taps his mushroom tip on your tongue, smiling at your fucked out expression.
“Such an obedient, beautiful thing.” He whispers. He stands, and you follow in tandem, your stomach already lurching with the promise of more pleasure. His hand cups around the back of your heated neck, nuzzling his nose against your cheek and inhaling deeply, like the smell of your arousal, your sweat got him high. His other hand slips around your waist, holding your body close to his possessively.
“Now lie down, sweetheart," San murmurs against your cheek, his tongue dragging down the length of your face, slowly tracing a wet path down to the crook of your neck, pressing a hungry kiss against your shoulder.
"Gonna fuck you so full of my cum you’ll be leaking out of that pretty pussy for days.”
happy valentine’s day. pssst — it’s always been you.
𑣲yunho x f!reader
𑣲wc: 8.4k (+bonus content of yunho pov at the end!!)
𑣲warnings!: soft smut, some angst if u squint rlly rlly hard, besties to lovers, smitten!yunho, worship dynamic, fluff, he's just a babbling lovesick sweetheart in this ok
this is a valentine's day gift for my secret cupid @eggielix!! writing this for you was so much fun. i have yunho brainrot now lmao, and i really hope it's everything you were hoping for. i tried to pour all my brain power and care i could into it. thank you so much to @everyonewooeverywhere for organizing this fic exchange, ily.
happy reading, and the happiest of valentine's days to you 💌
The saying ‘I hope your pillow is cold on both sides’ is supposed to be endearing, but now it feels more like…quite the opposite.
No heat from another person beside you, no heat coming in from your windows, just cold under your satin sheets.
You’re freezing, you don’t even want to come from under the covers to check your phone, check the date. You probably shouldn’t, it would only add to the despair.
But you do it anyway, because it’s your routine, a routine that maybe you should change because it’s Valentine’s Day, V-day, Love Day.
The day you’ve been trying to ignore in all of your adult life, but it’s evidence of it everywhere. Filters on Instagram, restaurants running themed promotions, the god damn dog being walked outside your window has on a V-Day sweater, even.
You roll your eyes, because what the fuck? Go back under your sheets, groan under your pillow, wish it could smother you itself.
But ma’am, it’s an inanimate object.
You eventually force yourself from under the covers, put on your slippers, and shuffle to the kitchen. Ironic as you look down and notice you’re wearing pink and red themed pjs.
You look in your empty pantry, empty fridge, and there’s nothing but bread to make toast. Just everything, empty.
It’s a holiday you try not to put stock in, but everything around you just reminds you of how lonely times can get.
Just one throw blanket on the couch instead of two, just one toothbrush in the holder, just one profile on your streaming services, one pair of slippers.
Have I finally made it to the age where I want consistent company?
Your home is your domain, it’s done up the way you like it, you’ve made it utterly you, but a piece of you sometimes wants to share that with someone.
Not just for one day, but for multiple days.
You grab your small watering can to water the numerous plants placed around the house, occupy your mind with watering everything else but yourself.
You make it to the big one by the window, the light shining through the curtains, it’s the best spot in the apartment, the prettiest light catches here.
He made sure of that when he placed it.
You see something cherry red peeking out the soil, you mistake it for a ladybug or some other small bug from afar. You definitely didn’t put your glasses or contacts on.
Without looking into it further, you pour water over the plant, notice no movement from the red thing sitting there.
Oh no, is it dead??? Did I just kill a ladybug on Valentine’s Day???? Luck is out the door, ain’t it?
You reach for the tip of what you think is a dead ladybug, but it’s not. The texture is not smooth, there are no spots when looking closer at it, and there are no legs.
Kay,’ not a bug. Then wtf is it?
You pull it completely out the damp soil, almost tear it. It’s a cherry red envelope, closed with a little pink heart sticker.
You hesitate, you think it’s a cruel prank being pulled. Maybe when you bought the plant that’s always been underneath the soil?
There’s no name on the outside, no address, nothing but a cute little sticker. It must be lost. Every odd scenario running through your head besides the practical one.
The light shining from the window almost makes it see through, you can tell there is a card inside. You open it gently, the paper is on its last leg due to drowning it in water.
It opens easily for you, as if it knew you’d find it in the most chaotic way. There’s more paper folded up inside, black ink bleeding through.
You uncrinkle it, and the fresh bleed is what gives it away that this envelope was not buried under the soil when you bought it.
It was just placed there, recently, just for you.
Your heart stops for a beat. Wait a damn minute.
You look around your apartment, taking note of the door, the windows, any shadows in the hallway leading to your room.
Everything looks the same, everything is in its usual spot, but someone was definitely here.
The edges are soft, the sticker is peeling slightly, paper breaking even more under your thumb.
When did he–?
Your heart is outside your body, the realization creeping up your spine. He was in your apartment, he knows where the spare key is, knows you water your plants every morning, knows you’d find this note on this day when you’re lonely and wearing ridiculous pjs.
The loneliness from earlier doesn't feel the same.
He always wrote legibly in the beginning, and it got a little messier towards the end. It’s something you’ve recognized since knowing him.
Since being knee high to towering over you now.
You automatically know it’s a prank, it has to be. You’d never think anything different.
It creates a smile on your face, still, at least the two of you can make some fun out of this otherwise depressing day.
You read it aloud, reading it outloud helps you imagine his voice, and that makes everything ten times better in your world.
“it’s cold, i know ur squinting reading this, so i wrote this in all caps. IT’S C-O-L-D. pls check ur closet for the scarf and earmuffs i left. remember when i said dont give up on me yet when studying for finals? meet me at the science library @ 12.”
You reread it, laugh to yourself, the damp letter that’s slowly falling apart in your hands. He knows you well, too well sometimes.
You have no idea what he has in store at the damn library, no clue why he didn’t just text you and say ‘let’s hang.’
You go to set the card in the windowsill in hopes it’ll dry out, you actually go to check your closet expecting something ridiculous, but it really is new earmuffs and a scarf.
Folded nicely in the deepest corner of your closet, like he intentionally tried to hide them. Must’ve noticed the tears and rips in your old ones.
You read the brand, same brand he wears, also smells like him. That cashmere scent he is always sporting is strong, makes your heart flutter at the mindfulness of it all.
You also noticed there’s a key to your front door underneath once you pick it up. He seriously made a spare key of my spare key, sneaky bastard.
You set the clothes out on your unmade bed, shuffle to the bathroom to get ready. You grab your lonely toothbrush, do your hair, and finally change out the pjs that’s giving you an eyesore.
You put the earmuffs and scarf on, layers on top of layers because you refuse to freeze. You look in the mirror, think he has nice taste, it’s your favorite colors after all. Favorite scent.
He wouldn’t have to buy me this if we just decided to hang at my house! He’s so random, I swear.
You turn off the lights and head towards your front door, grabbing your phone, keys, and wallet. The simple things that actually determine how your day is about to go.
You check your phone before putting your mittens on. It’s 11:30, you’re cutting it a tad close because you have to catch the subway to the library.
He can wait a few. Can’t believe he’s dragging me out in this weather.
You brace for the wind as you walk out your door and walk toward the station, you feel like your eyelids are about to freeze shut, and snowflakes hanging from your coat.
Once you’re out of the way of the wind, you whip out your phone to send a text, you’re that intrigued and annoyed.
you: this better be good or we’re not friends for like ten business days
yunyun: at least it’s not 20 like last time
You roll your eyes and take note of how fast he responded. He normally takes forever to respond, like you’re one of his many hookups since college.
As you’re waiting, you notice how your ears and neck aren’t cold, you hate when he’s right. You’re damn sure not going to let him know.
Matter of fact, I’m going to say my ears and neck are numb and got frostbite.
You get out of your thoughts as you hear the train coming up the tracks, and prepare to scramble for a seat, it seems everyone is on the thing today.
By the time you get off, you check your phone again, you’re right on time, 12 on the dot. The wind gusts are strong and blow your hood off.
You rush down the block to get to the library entrance, to get to some central heating, because you’re over it at this point.
You look up to see your favorite, unfavorite person in the world. He doesn’t notice you yet as he fidgets. His nose and cheeks are red, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the ground.
He really waited for me out in the cold instead of the lobby.
After doing one more glance at the ground, he finally looks up at you with a smile, and you return it. You always adored how his smile puffed out his cheeks, he looks goofy in the cutest way.
Then his face changes, furrowing his brows as he strides over to you quickly. “Why the hell do you not have your hood on!?”
He pulls it back over for you. “It blew off, chill! The dramatics.”
“It’s cold out here.”
“Says the guy who was standing in it for who knows how long.” You tease him, the easiest thing for you to do, second nature. “Why did you pull me out in this, anyway?”
“Just wanted to do something fun, geez, c’mon.” He pulls you by your coat sleeve and leads you inside, the heat finally hitting your face, your whole body unthawing.
Yunho lets go of your coat as you follow him through the familiar library, making you nostalgic for your college days, even if it’s only been about two years.
It’s still dusty, carpet still has coffee stains that’ll never come out, couples studying instead of being on a date, midterm season.
“Soooo Yun, are we here to live in your glory days again? Likeeee?”
He glances back at you, doesn’t say anything, and continues walking. The man lowkey walks fast, and you have to put a little pep in your step.
Staring at other things makes you almost bump into his back. Notice he stopped at the private room you both called WD40 because the door squeaks like no other.
You two would book the room all the time, might as well write your names on the wall in permanent ink, seems like you can’t leave it alone.
He glances at you again, his face finally not as red as earlier. He’s a bit quieter than usual, he’s normally an auctioneer, but not right now.
He seems a little more tense, his shoulders haven’t relaxed since walking into the building. He didn’t make his jokes about the computers not working or his past hookup spots.
Just nothing, and that’s not the best friend you know. It makes you worry.
He’s terrible at keeping secrets. This is too strange.
The door clicks open, something taped to the chair that’s the same cherry red you saw in your apartment. It catches your eye immediately.
You have no clue what he’s playing at when he stands at the door and gestures to the chair. “Go grab it.”
He’s trying his best to be nonchalant about it, but his body shows otherwise. Deep down, he’s nervous and scared shitless, and you have no clue as to why.
You go to gently untape the envelope from the back of the chair. You turn to him, “Yunho, what the heck is this?”
“Can you just open it?”
You roll your eyes, you know how he likes games, but why a game on v-day and in your undergrad library?
You open it, you open this one with a little more intent since it’s not crumpling from water damage. His eyes don’t leave you.
“You want me to read it?”
“Did Sherlock Holmes ever solve a crime by not reading?”
“You’re shitting me right now, really, oh my gosh?????” The sarcasm is thick between the two of you, always has been, never see that changing.
“Read the damn thing even if it’s at a kindergarten level. I know the literacy rates are low nowadays.”
“Fuck you.” You grin as you unfold it, that same handwriting clear as day. You begin to read it outloud, wanna see if you can get a reaction from him.
“remember when i found u sleeping here after studying all night? u just finished crying ur eyes out about the boy who didnt know 2+2. u told me not to give up on you yet, seems like everyone was leaving ur world at the time. i’d take a look underneath the table if i were u :)”
Tears prickle at your eyes a bit, but you don’t let them flow. He pretends he’s looking away when you glance back at him, but you know he’s watching.
You listen to the instructions and look under the table. The Pocky he’d brought you that same night is taped to it, a small pick-me-up when you felt like your world was crashing around you.
It was so so small, but meant everything—
Means everything to you.
You don’t know why he’s doing this, you’re done trying to guess it. “Why are you being strange? What is this for?”
Yunho shrugs his shoulders with a slight smirk on his face as he stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, “It’s V-day. Can’t I do something nice for my best friend?”
“You’re never this nice.”
“Yes, I am!” He fake gasps, “How dare you!”
“Anywayssss–what’s next? Or did you only bring me here for the Pocky?” You whisper the next words, “Thanks, by the way, for then and now.”
He doesn’t respond right away, you’re still holding the Pocky, and you look down at it, notice it’s the same flavor from that night.
How does he remember the flavor, hell I barely remembered or didn’t wanna remember, but he did.
You look at him, he’s looking away again, rubbing his neck. You see him a bit differently for once, something softer in his expression, but before you can dive deeper, he’s perking back up.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and gives you coordinates to a place that reads, 15h 34m, +26° 44’ “We’re not on an expedition, Yunho.”
He deadpans as he looks at you. “You have a phone gps that will take the coordinates and tell you where to go, duh.”
“Why couldn’t you just put the address?”
“That ruins the fun!”
“Fine, whatever, let’s go.” You huff as you enter the coordinates into the phone, it’s not too far from the library, but that does mean you have to walk in the cold once more.
You begin walking as Yunho moves you to the side of him, away from the street. He always did it subtly when walking along the street.
He’s quiet again. You glance up at him, he’s staring ahead with his hands in his pockets, tense.
The V-day decor haunts you on the walk there, flower vendors for last-minute shoppers, hearts on business windows, just love in the air. It’s just background noise.
Your phone buzzes, you’re expecting another name like your mom asking if you ate for the day, but it’s Jongho.
The guy from work who’s been trying to take you out for the longest.
Choi Jongho: happy valentine’s day! still down for drinks later?
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You were going to say yes earlier this week, or let’s say you thought you were.
You glance up at Yunho, he’s not looking at you. His eyes flicked to your phone screen for half a second before he looked away. His jaw is tense, hands shoved deeper into his pockets.
Hmmm.
You notice the shift between you, it feels wrong, not natural, and you can’t stand it. You don’t know if you’ll even see Jongho later, he’s a nice guy, you’ve considered it.
Never felt an urgency to see what Jongho’s about, though, and right now, walking while Yunho won’t look at you, you definitely don’t have that feeling.
You pocket your phone again without responding to the text, like your body is in autopilot.
“So,” you try to pull him back. “The coordinates thing is very, very extra, by the way. Did you have to Google how those work or—?”
“Probably.”
That’s it, just one word, so finite, no laugh, no ‘I spent an hour on Reddit figuring it out,’ nothing!
You look at him, he’s walking faster than before, you’re struggling to keep up the pace.
Does he care? If so, why?
You wonder if he’s being a protective friend, although he’s never been the one to be overbearing in your past relationships. He trusted your judgement always.
Maybe he thinks Jongho is a jerk? Doesn’t want this scavenger hunt to be interrupted?
Why, why, why.
“Yunho—” You stop yourself, you don’t know if you’re scared of the answer, if there even is one. So many possibilities running through your mind.
The silence just feels even heavier, like snow is piling up on your shoulders as you walk.
Yunho breaks it. “You should go.” His voice comes out tight, a little strained. “If you wanna.”
You stop in your tracks, look up at him. “Go where?” You know what he means, but you need to hear him say it, to mean it.
His expression is just off, wrong, his eyes are dark, and you can see the clench in his jaw. “Drinks. With–”
He doesn’t finish, can’t even utter the name. Your mittens are off, thumbs already moving.
you: no thxs, busy today.
sent.
You stare at your phone, confused, wondering what really triggered you to do that when you were planning to say yes before. But leaving Yunho feels impossible right now.
Choosing him like you’ve been doing for years and never clearly realized it.
I still don’t know why he’s upset, or why it matters so much, but I’m not gonna go.
You slide the phone back in your pocket once more, neither of you speaks.
You walk the rest of the way in near silence. Your breath fogs in the cold air, his does too. He fogs up his glasses in the process, but neither fills the space with a laugh or words.
You both have no clue what to say.
The energy from the library, the teasing, the mystery, the fun, it’s gone. Poof. Being replaced with something that feels like standing on a tightrope that’s about to snap.
You begin to see where your location is as you hear kids playing and see couples walking on strolls despite the weather.
You see the bench on the corner, the ice cream truck that’s always parked near the entrance. You pull out the gps again, then look up ahead, and your stomach flutters. You’re at the park.
The park.
You continue to look at where the gps is leading you by the exact coordinates.
To the spot where you’d drag blankets during sophomore year, where he’d bring hot chocolate in the most unconventional container that would go cold anyway. Where you learned what Alphecca looked like.
The small hill where the flowers and trees hold your secrets.
But it’s cold out, and those secrets seem to be dying out.
The grass is dead now, brittle under your shoes, the sky is in overcast with no stars in sight. You stop at the top and look around.
Seeing the city in the distance, couples laughing together, kids throwing woodchips. The air is harsh against your face, but you lean into it.
Yunho is looking at you and hasn’t moved his line of direction since.
“Where—” you begin, but then you see it.
Tucked under the edge of the bench, the one with your initials carved in the back from summer junior year, there’s another red envelope.
Your hands shake as you pick it up, not from the cold. You open this one slower, more cautious. Yunho is standing a few feet away from you.
This folded note has lines with dots in the margins, your initials scribbled, a little smiley face in the corner. You start reading the opening lines.
Your heart immediately flutters.
“you asked me once if anyone still loves like that. enough to make someone eternal–”
You smile at the first two sentences.
“you told me about the crown in the stars, how ariadne got hers. u wanted that too. i remembered, dont give up on me yet.”
Your heart gets tugged on even more. This is so sweet, so thoughtful.
This note is a bit longer as you continue to read it.
“i think about that night on this hill. junior year, midterms weeks. you were crying over a test you thought you failed—”
Your breath catches, a puff of air evident in the sky. “and i brought you here bc u said the library made you feel like u were suffocating. i pointed out alphecca. u said the stars didnt care about ur gpa.”
You’re smiling even bigger now. You remember that night so clearly, the way he made you laugh, how you felt safe just being in his presence.
“you told me you felt like you were drowning. that everyone expected you to be fine all the time and you didnt know how to ask for help.”
You smile falters just a bit. You said that and remember say it, but that was—
The cold air stings, but you barely feel it. You didn’t post about that night, didn’t text anyone after. It was just private.
“ –i told u the stars were older than any test score. that failing one exam wouldnt erase you.” That’s exactly what he said, word for word.
Your chest tightens, reread to make sure nothing was misread. This isn’t paraphrased, nor is it a general memory someone could’ve pieced together from stories.
It’s exact, it’s what he said when no one else was listening.
You glance in the margin again, there’s another note scribbled there, super small and slanted.
“(i wanted to hold ur hand that night. i didnt think i was allowed to)”
You burn holes into those words. I wanted to hold your hand.
The closeness of it makes your throat tight. It’s not just remembering a nice moment. It’s someone confessing their thoughts, feelings, what they wanted to do but didn’t.
Your fingertips trace the ink.
You look up at Yunho, he’s already watching you. His fingers pressing into his temples, his rings catching the light as his hands shake.
His face has gone pale, but his cheeks are still red, and when his eyes meet yours, they look terrified. Like he’s been waiting for this moment and dreading it at the same time.
He opens his mouth, closes it, then looks away.
Only two people were on that hill. You and him.
You try to rationalize, come up with a different theory. Maybe you’d told someone else? But no, you didn’t, and you know that.
And Yunho wouldn’t tell someone else about it…would he? Why would he give someone else that story to use?
Unless.
The pieces are forming a puzzle, and you don’t want to see the final picture.
Now your heart is pounding for a totally different reason.
You force yourself to keep reading, there’s more.
“you asked me if i thought you’d ever figure it out. figure out what you wanted to do with your life. i said yes without hesitation.”
There’s another margin note, it’s messier, like it was added at the last minute.
“(i knew even then. i think i’ve always known)”
Known what?
Your eyes skim down to the bottom of the note, “don’t give up on me yet.”
That phrase has been present in every note, below it, coordinates to another location. They show an address you don’t need to map.
amity ln.
You know that corner, it has a broken streetlight. Where it rained last spring, the kind that soaks through your jacket no matter how waterproof it is.
You’d both been laughing, because you two were never the type to check the forecast before heading out. You’d said something along the lines of the universe hating you, not being in your favor ever.
That’s when he stopped walking, just stopped, right there on the corner. Water streaming down his face, glasses completely useless. He’d looked at you like he was drowning in more than just rain.
Like he was about to say something that would change everything, and then he didn’t. You’d pulled him under a bus stop awning, the moment passed, and you never asked.
But you remember the look, it’s seared into your mind now. Your chest is caving in and you can’t control it.
You don’t look at him, you can’t. If you look at him now, you’ll ask, and if you ask he’ll answer, and if he answers…
You start walking.
Not toward the park entrance, but to the street, Amity. You hear him behind you, his footsteps are moving quickly, trying to keep up.
The cold really bites at your face, but your legs are moving, and your mind is trying to make sense of what you’re doing.
Please let me be wrong.
You don't remember walking there. Just footsteps behind you. His, too close. Then you're standing in front of Amity Lane.
The broken streetlight's still there. Same fractured glow on the wet pavement, slush everywhere because February can't commit to snow or rain. The corner looks exactly like it did.
Red envelope taped to the light post.
Your initials in his handwriting.
Oh, fuck.
Yunho's gone completely still behind you. Close enough, you could reach back.
Don't. Don't think about that.
His breathing is uneven. You turn around, and he looks wrecked.
Hair everywhere from the wind, glasses fogged up and crooked, eyes red like he's been crying or trying really hard not to. His jaw keeps clenching. And his hands, he's adjusting his rings. One, then the other, then back. Over and over.
He won't look at you, but you're looking at him.
"I'm sorry."
Oh no no no
His voice is so quiet a car driving past almost drowns it out. "For what?" Wrong question. You know for what. You know.
His hand goes to the back of his neck, fingers digging in. "For—for doing it like this. I didn't—I couldn't—"
He stops, adjusts his rings again, stares at his hands.
God, his hands are so pretty, I can't even—
FOCUS.
"I didn't know how else to—" He swallows. "To tell you."
And there it is.
Your heart is beating so hard, everything's clicking into place and you're actively trying to un-click it. The notes. The memories. The way he's been looking at you all morning.
"This isn't a prank." Your voice comes out flat and dead.
"It's you."
He finally looks at you, the answer's written all over his face, and it's killing him.
"It's—yeah. It's me." His voice cracks. "It's—I—"
"It's always been me."
Silence, just traffic and your heartbeat and the sound of your world ending.
"Since—" He drags a hand down his face. "God, since high school? Maybe—I don't even—I don't know anymore, I just—"
He's not making sense, he's breaking apart in real time.
"I didn't tell you because you're—you're my best friend and I couldn't—" His voice breaks completely. "I couldn't lose that. Lose you."
Oh my god.
"Every time I thought about saying something I'd just—I'd imagine you looking at me different. Like I ruined it. Like I made it weird and you'd start—you'd pull away and I—"
He stops. Swallows. Starts again.
"I couldn't. I couldn't risk it."
His glasses are completely fogged. He takes them off, rubs the bridge of his nose with shaking fingers.
"So why now?" Your voice barely makes it out.
"Because yesterday I saw you on your phone and you were smiling and I thought—" His laugh is broken, hollow. "I thought maybe you were texting him. Jongho. And then this morning you got that text about drinks and you looked—you looked like you wanted to say yes."
Well shit.
"And I just panicked, because I realized I was gonna lose you anyway. Not because I told you but because I didn't. Because I was too scared and someone else wasn't and—"
His voice cracks. "I'm so tired of pretending I'm not in love with you."
No. Wait.
Wait wait wait—
"I almost told you that night," he says, quieter now. "Right here. In the rain. We were laughing, and then you looked at me, and I thought if I said it and you didn't—if you didn't feel the same, I'd lose even that. The way you looked at me."
Your eyes are burning, but you're not crying. I’m not.
"So I thought if I could just show you. Remind you of all the times I was there, all the moments that mattered, maybe you'd—"
"The notes," you say.
"Yeah." He still won't look at you. "I kept writing 'don't give up on me yet' because I was scared you'd just walk away."
You're frozen, every word landing like a punch, he's been carrying this for years.
All this time. It's been him. The whole time. And I—
The thought won't finish. It catches, snags, dies.
Because if it's been him, then the way you always text him first when something good happens.
The way you'd rather crash on his couch than sleep in your own bed.
This morning. Standing outside the library in the cold, the pocky thing. The way you've replayed that memory over and over without understanding why.
The park, the stars. Every single time he showed up and you let him, wanted him to, without question.
Jongho's text, the way you said no without even thinking about it.
No no no.
Because that would mean…Oh god, you absolute idiot.
Every time you thought about moving on, you called him, every time someone else looked at you, you compared them to.
"In love with you."
The words echo in your head and you can't breathe because you thought you just loved him safely. Thought what you had was too important to name.
Thought if you never said it out loud it wouldn't be real, wouldn't be dangerous, wouldn't be something you could lose.
But it's been there, growing, rooting so deep you didn't even notice until he ripped it out into the open.
I've been in love with him too. I've been in love with him too.
How did I not—
"You thought I'd—" Your voice comes out strangled. "Yunho, I—"
The words are stuck. You can't, you can't do this.
You can't stand here and watch him think you're about to walk away, so you close the gap.
You kiss him and it's a mess. His glasses dig into your cheek and your noses bump and you don't care. Your fingers grip his coat, pulling him closer.
His hands find your face, shaking, desperate.
When you break apart you're both breathing hard, cold air between you. His eyes are still closed and you can feel him trembling.
He laughs, broken, disbelieving. "Don't give up on me yet?"
You kiss him again, softer this time. It's your answer under the broken streetlight on Amity Lane, where it almost happened before, it finally does.
You don't remember deciding to go back to his place.
Just his hand in yours the entire subway ride. You took your mittens off because you needed to feel his skin and now your fingers are freezing but you don't care.
Are we—? Is this—?
Every time the train jolts he steadies you, hand at your waist. And it's stupid but your chest does that thump thump thing again, and you're trying not to think about it too hard because if you think about it you'll spiral.
Oh my god, I kissed him. Under the streetlight.
He said he's been in love with me since high school and I just—
You glance at him, he's staring at your joined hands. His thumb keeps twitching, not circles or anything romantic just nervous energy he can't contain and it's so him you want to cry.
Don't cry on the subway. Do not cry on the subway.
When you reach his building he fumbles with his keys, drops them.
"Sorry, I—" He bends down, picks them up, tries again.
You just stand there watching him struggle with the lock like an idiot because what are you supposed to do? Help? Say something?
What do you even say after???
The door finally clicks and you follow him inside.
His apartment is warm, always tidy. You've been here a thousand times but it feels different now. He helps you out of your coat and his fingers brush your shoulders and you both freeze.
"Sorry," he says.
"Stop apologizing."
"Sorry—I mean—" He stops. Laughs. Runs a hand through his hair. "God, I don't know what I'm doing."
"Me neither."
That seems to help. His shoulders drop a little and you're just standing there. In his doorway. Like you haven't been here a million times before.
Why is this so weird? It's not weird. It's definitely weird.
You reach up and fix his glasses because they're still crooked from the kiss and your hands are steadier than you expected. He goes completely still, eyes locked on yours, and for a second neither of you breathes.
"Do you want—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "Juice? Water? I can—"
"Yunho." He stops.
"I'm okay. Are you okay?"
He laughs again, breathless and a little broken. "I don't know. Are you actually here?"
"I'm here."
His hand comes up like he's going to touch your face, hesitates halfway, then does it anyway. Palm against your cheek. Thumb under your eye, his hand is still shaking so bad.
"Yeah," he whispers. "You are."
Then he drops his hand and disappears into his room. No warning, no explanation, just gone.
You stand there listening to him rummage around. Drawers opening and closing, something hits the floor, he swears under his breath.
What is he—?
When he comes back he's holding a shoebox.
Old and beat-up. The kind that used to hold his basketball sneakers in high school, you remember because he wore them until they literally fell apart and you made fun of him for it.
He sets it on the coffee table. "I, uh." He swallows. "I wrote you letters. A lot of them. I just—I never sent them."
Your brain stalls."What?"
"You don't have to read them," he says quickly. "I just thought—I don't know. I wanted you to know it wasn't just today. It's been—" He stops. "A long time."
Letters? How many is "a lot"?
You move to the couch and sit. Stare at the box as it might explode.
It's worn, edges soft from being opened over and over. The lid's dented like he's gripped it too hard too many times.
You lift the lid, and there are dozens. Envelopes, folded notebook paper, napkins, receipts, whatever he had on hand, apparently. Some are sealed, some aren't.
The dates span years. One from high school, sophomore year of college, and last spring. Your hands are shaking when you pull one out at random.
Last spring.
"i dont know how to tell u this, so im writing it down instead. maybe one day ill be brave enough (i wont be)"
You can't breathe, another one.
"you fell asleep on my arm bc you had horrible cramps. i didnt move for hours. my arm went completely numb and i didnt even care."
Another.
"you said you didnt believe in soulmates, but i think ive been trying to prove you wrong since we were sixteen."
Your vision blurs and you're trying not to cry. You set the letters down carefully because your hands won't stop shaking and you look up at him.
He's watching you, waiting for it to be too much, waiting for you to leave.
"You've been—" Your voice breaks. "God, Yunho, you've been doing this the whole time and I didn't—"
"You couldn't have known."
"But I should've—"
"No." He shakes his head. "I didn't let you."
You cross the space between you. You're kissing him and his hands find your waist and pull you closer and you end up half in his lap, fingers in his hair.
When you pull back just enough to breathe, his eyes are wide. Lips red and parted and oh so gorgeous, like he’s pleading.
We're really doing this. "Don't stop," you whisper.
His hands tighten on your hips. "Are you—are you sure?"
"I'm so fucking positive."
He stands, pulling you with him, and you follow him down the hall.
You make it to his room, and the door clicks shut behind you. He kisses you, backing you toward the bed until your knees hit the mattress.
But you press a hand to his chest, stopping him. His eyes open, confused and worried, like he’s done something wrong.
“Sit,” you say softly.
He blinks, “what?”
“Sit down, Yun.”
He sits immediately, sinks onto the edge of the bed without question, looking up at you. His hands hover at his sides, uncertain of what to do with them.
“You can touch me,” you tell him, stepping between his knees.
“I just—I’m gonna wake up and hate myself.”
His hands find your hips gently, his fingers tremble against your jeans. You cup his face, tilt his chin up so he has to look at you. “If you wake up, I’m gonna haunt you anyway soooo.”
He exhales, and you lean down to kiss again. You pull back just enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. He lifts his arms without you having to ask, and you pull it over his head, tossing it behind you.
For a moment, you just look at him, the lean lines, the way his chest rises and falls, his long limbs, the redness creeping up his neck.
“You’re staring,” he mutters, trying to sound normal about it. Eye’s still locked on yours.
You smile, drag a finger down his chest. “You stood in the cold for me. I think that earns you a little attention.”
His eyes widen. “You–”
“Shh,” you cut in and work his belt loose. “I’m appreciating the view.”
He helps you with his pants, lifting his hips so you can slide them down, and he’s sitting in just his boxers, looking up at you.
When you start undressing your layers, his hands hover like he wants to help. You guide them to your shirt, and he pulls it over your head slowly.
“You’re so—I’ve thought about this so many times, and it’s—you’re—”
You kiss him so he stops, and he makes a broken sound against your mouth. His hands are all over your skin. When you’re finally down to just your underwear, he presses his forehead to your stomach, breathing hard.
“I love you,” he whispers against your skin. “I love you so much.”
You tug at his hair gently, “Show me, please.”
He kisses your stomach, you giggle as it tickles, and the space between your breasts, every touch leaves you aching. You push him back onto the bed, his eyes never leaving yours.
When you climb onto his lap, straddling his hips, he goes to grip your thighs. “You good?” You ask, rolling your hips, and he gasps.
“Yeah, I—” His head tips back, exposing his throat, his adam’s apple. “Fuck, yes.”
You take your time as you trail your hands over his chest and shoulders. You like watching the way his breath catches and the way his fingers grip your skin, the way he bites his lip trying to hold himself together.
“Please,” he breathes.
“Let me—”
He nods, and when you reach between you to touch him, he buries his face in your neck. “Is this okay?” you ask, even though you can feel how much he wants this.
“Yes. Yes, please I—” he can’t even finish the sentence, holds you tighter, hands sliding up your back.
You learn what makes him gasp, what makes his grip tighten, what makes him say your name. He's so vulnerable for you, every reaction clear on his face.
When you shift to slide your underwear off, he helps you, and when you finally sink down his reaction is overwhelming. He buries his face in your shoulder and makes sounds that make your heart flutter.
"Oh my god," he chokes out. "Goodness gracious, I–"
You stay still so you both can adjust, he's trembling beneath you.
Fuck, I love you.
You start to move slowly, and he follows, wait is this too much? No, he's matching you perfectly, his hands are all over, but every touch asks for permission.
You lean down to kiss him, and he kisses you back so desperately that you can feel the years of want between the two of you.
"You feel—" he starts, then loses it, a breathless laugh catching in his throat. "I'm sorry. I can't get a full sentence out."
"That's okay," you lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth. "You don't have to."
His head tips back again, and when you kiss along his jaw, he lets out a sound that's half gasp, half a laugh. Like he's almost embarrassed.
You pull back just enough. "You okay?"
He nods, but his eyes are glassy and his hands won't stop shaking where they're gripping your hips. "Yeah. Yeah, I just—"
He's overwhelmed.
You slow down, stop. His eyes snap open.
"Don't—" His voice cracks. "Please don't stop."
"I'm not." You brush his hair back from his forehead. It's damp with sweat and sticking up and he looks destroyed already. "Just checkin’."
"I'm good," he breathes. "I'm so—good, you have no idea."
Actually, I think I do.
Because he's looking at you like you’re the crown in the stars he’s been trying to earn. Like every letter was a breadcrumb back to this exact constellation.
Years. He waited years.
The thought hits you sideways and you have to kiss him again just to ground yourself. He makes a sound against your mouth and his hips shift up.
You start moving again, slower this time, and his hands slide up, god his hands are everywhere, my favs.
"You're so—" He tries, fails, tries again. "I don't know how to—you're everything."
He wrote you letters he never sent.
He planned an entire scavenger hunt just to tell you.
"Yunho," you whisper, and his eyes focus on you. Waiting, always waiting for whatever you need.
You lean down and kiss him. His hands come up to cup your face and when you pull back his eyes are wet.
"Are you crying?"
"No." He laughs, breathless. "Maybe. Shut up."
"Little bit."
"Sorry."
"Stop apologizing." You roll your hips and he gasps, fingers tightening on your waist. "You're allowed to feel things."
"I'm feeling everything," he chokes out. "I can't—I don't know how to. It’s so loud."
You pick up the pace and he follows you as his head tips back against the pillow again and you watch his face.
"Look at me," you say. Perfect, he’s so perfect.
Then his hips shift up to meet yours, you both gasp, and you lose the thought. Just sensation. The weight of him beneath you, the sounds he's making.
"I love you," he says again, "I love you, I love you."
"I know." Your voice breaks. "I know, I—"
Say it back. You should say it back.
What if you say it wrong? What if it's not enough after everything?
"Hey." His hand cups your face, thumb under your eye. "You don't have to say it yet."
How does he—?
"I can wait," he whispers. "I've waited this long."
That undoes you completely.
You kiss him so hard you both lose your breath and your teeth hit his. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you're moving together now, no rhythm.
He's saying your name between kisses, and you're trying not to cry because this is Yunho.
Your Yunho.
Who's been in love with you since you were kids and never said a word because he didn't want to lose you.
"I'm close," he gasps against your mouth. “I'm sorry, I can't—"
"What did I say about apologizing!" You're breathless. Shaking. "Just—"
His whole body goes still beneath you, and buries his face in your neck. You feel him trembling, feel the way his hands grip you.
"I love you," he whispers into your skin. "I love you so much."
God, you..."I love you too." It comes out quiet, but it's there.
He pulls back, those big, pretty eyes wide and wet and so full. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You're crying. "I love you. I'm sorry it took me so long to—"
He kisses you, and when he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. Foreheads pressed together.
"Hey there," he whispers.
You laugh, broken and wet. "Hey."
"Can we just—" He swallows. "Can we stay like this for a second?"
Duh, of course we can.
You nod, and he pulls you down against his chest. His heartbeat is racing beneath your ear. His fingers trace patterns on your back.
"I can't believe this is real," he murmurs into your hair.
"You and me both."
You tilt your head up to look at him. His glasses are somewhere on the floor. His hair's a mess. He smiles and pulls you closer.
–
You wake up to sunlight filtering through curtains and the weight of an arm draped across your waist.
For a second, you lie there. Processing.
The events of yesterday crash back in waves, the scavenger hunt, the park, the confession, the oh my god we had sex part that your brain is still trying to categorize as "things that actually happened in real life."
Yunho's still asleep. You can feel his breath against the back of your neck. His fingers are loosely curled against your stomach.
This actually happened.
You should probably freak out. Do the whole "what does this mean" morning after spiral. Panic about how this changes everything. But instead, you just feel warm.
Safe, like the cold side of the pillow wasn’t supposed to last this long.
Yunho shifts behind you, mumbling something into your hair. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel him wake up in stages.
The slight hitch in his breathing, the way he goes very still, the soft "oh" against your shoulder when he remembers.
His voice is rough with sleep, muffled against your skin. "You didn’t run away, impressive work."
"Where else would I be?"
"I don't know. I thought maybe I dreamed it." He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade. Then another. "Thought I'd wake up and you'd be gone and I'd have to pretend yesterday didn't happen."
You turn in his arms to face him, he's squinting at you without his glasses and he looks so soft it makes your chest ache.
"I'm not going anywhere," you say.
He smiles, small and disbelieving, and cups your face with one hand. "Okay."
You lie there for a while, just looking at each other. His thumb traces your cheekbone. His cheeks puff when he smiles, dimples cutting in deeper on one side. You noticed it freshman year, memorized and never admitted to it, but now you’re allowed to stare without pretending it doesn’t make your heart ache.
"I'm starving," you finally admit.
What if I'm bad at this?
What if I'm a terrible girlfriend and he realizes he's been in love with an IDEA of me and not the actual disaster human who forgets to text back and leaves dishes in the sink—
He's still looking at you like the stars.
Okay, we're fine.
He laughs. "Yeah?"
"Scavenger hunts and emotional devastation really work up an appetite."
"We could—" He hesitates. "We could go get breakfast? If you want. There's that place you like with the—"
"Those special waffles?"
"Yeah." He's watching your face. "We could do that. If you want."
He's nervous like this is a first date and not the morning after we finally got our shit together.
"I want to get breakfast with you."
His whole face lights up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. But you're buying. You owe me after putting me through emotional hell yesterday."
He laughs, pressing his forehead against yours. "Fair. That's fair."
"And I'm getting extra strawberries."
"Whatever you want."
"And whipped cream."
"Done."
"And—"
He kisses you. "I'll buy you the whole menu if you want. Just—" Another kiss. "Just don't give up on me yet."
You freeze and pull back to look at him.
He's grinning now, that stupid grin. "Did you just—"
"I've been waiting to use that in context," he admits. "Thought it would be romantic."
"You're an idiot."
"Your idiot."
"Yeah," you whisper. "My idiot."
He kisses you again, and you lose a few minutes to the taste of him and the overwhelming reality that you get to have this now. That you get to keep him.
"Breakfast," you manage.
"Right. Breakfast." He doesn't move.
"Yunho."
"I know. I just—" He cups your face, looking at you like he's trying to ingrain this into his brain. "I really love you."
I’m going to cry again.
"I love you too," you whisper. "Now feed me before I change my mind."
He laughs and kisses your forehead and rolls out of bed to find his glasses, and you lie there for a second, watching him move around his room in the morning light, and think.
You're allowed to be happy, you absolute disaster.
You're allowed to—
He glances back at you, still shirtless, glasses slightly crooked, smiling.
Yeah, okay. I can do this.
♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ
BONUS CONTENT [YUNHO POV]
୨ৎlove letter
march 23
okay so i'm writing this at 2am which is probably a bad sign but whatever. you're never going to see this anyway. i'll shove it in the drawer with the other six (seven? i lost count) letters i've written and been too chickenshit to send.
i don't even know where to start. that's a lie. i know exactly where to start but i don't know how to say it without sounding completely pathetic.
you chew the inside of your cheek when you’re lying. not big lies. little ones. “i’m not tired.” “i’m fine.” “it didn’t bother me.” you always do it twice before you say the sentence.
you hum the same notes when you’re scrolling. they’re wrong every time. i’ve tried to figure out what song it is. it’s not a real song. it’s just you.
you pretend you don’t like physical touch but you fall asleep on my shoulder every single time we watch something past 10pm. you say it’s because you’re tired. it’s not.
you read the last page of books first when you’re anxious. you told me that once and then made me swear not to judge you. i don’t. i just think about how badly i want to know what you’re going to do before you do it.
you say you don’t believe in soulmates but you still look up at the sky when you see the first star. every time.
i don’t think you realize how obvious you are. i don’t think you realize how obvious i’ve been.
your sense of direction is terrible. i know it stresses you out. i know you hate asking for help. but i love that you ask me. that you grab my arm when you think we're lost and look up at me like i have all the answers.
i don't. i'm just as lost as you are. just in a different way.
i'm not the guy who says this stuff out loud. i'm not smooth. i'm not confident. i'm not the guy who makes grand gestures or knows what to say.
i'm just stuck. completely stuck on you and i don't know how to be anything else.
i've tried. i've tried to be happy when you date other people. tried to be the supportive best friend who listens and doesn't leave the room when it gets too hard. tried to move on.
but i can't.
i can't watch you fall for someone else and pretend it doesn't kill me. can't keep acting like this is fine.
it's not fine. i'm not fine.
i've been in love with you for so long i don't remember what it felt like before. and i know you don't feel the same way. i know i'm just your friend. the guy you call when you can't sleep or when you need help with directions or when you just want someone to sit with you and not talk.
maybe that's enough. maybe it has to be.
but god i wish i was braver. wish i could tell you this to your face. wish i could risk everything just to know if there's even a chance.
anyway. it's 2:55 now and i have work in five hours and i'm still writing this like it matters. like you're ever going to read it.
you won't, but maybe someday i'll be brave enough to tell you for real. maybe someday i won't be so terrified of ruining everything.
maybe someday you'll look at me the way i've been looking at you.
don't give up on me yet.
— y
(god that sounds so dramatic. i'm leaving it though. it's 2am and i'm allowed to be dramatic.)
୨ৎtext exchanges
12:26am> did you eat
i typed it. deleted it. tyyped it again. i know she hates when people ask that, so i rephrased.
12:26am>did u survive dinner
she sent a picture of half a granola bar and said, “thriving.” i sent skull emojis and offered to drop food off. i was already in my car.
11:11pm>make a wish
i've been sending that for years, i never tell her what mine is, i don’t need to. she knows now.
my love> you’ve been like this the whole time haven’t you
i stared at that text for a full minute, because “the whole time” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
i typed: yeah. sorry.
because loving her quietly for years feels like something i should apologize for.
my love> don’t be.
and for the first time, i didn’t feel stupid about it.
୨ৎmusic playlist: wd40 door
wave to earth – bad
i can't stop replaying it. the way she said my name today when she was distracted, just yunho like it was nothing. my phone's still in my hand. screen's too bright. i should sleep. i'm not gonna sleep. i know how long it takes her to text back. 3 minutes if she's busy. 30 seconds if she's not.i know her breathing changes when she's about to fall asleep on my couch. i know she touches her neck when she's nervous. i know too much. way too much. this song is so slow it makes my chest hurt. if i just don't say anything maybe it'll stop.
mau narrator voice: it will not stop.
sza – garden
she laughed at his joke. his. not mine. i was sitting right there and she was texting someone. i don't know who, i didn't look, i'm not that guy except i kind of am because my stomach did this thing. this ugly jealous thing. and i smiled. i smiled like "oh that's funny" and i wanted to throw my phone into the moon. the bass in this song sits wrong. like something heavy. lie to me, lie to me, yeah. i don't even want her to lie. i want her to look at me the way she looks at literally anyone else when they're funny. i came home and laid face-down on my bed for 20 minutes. mingi asked if i was okay. i said yeah. i'm such a liar. i'm not the chill best friend. i'm actively losing my shit on a daily basis and no one knows.
beverly – again
okay so this song. this fucking song. it starts quiet, right? like you could still back out. like you could still just not say it. keep it in. stay safe. but then it builds and it's like my heart is louder than the street noise, louder than the train, louder than every single reason i have to keep my mouth shut. i listened to this on the way to buy the cards. i listened to it again while i was writing the last one. it's the streetlight song. it's the what if i just song. the moment right before i decide that losing her because i stayed quiet would be worse than losing her because i told the truth. i'm gonna do it. i'm gonna tell her. oh my god i'm gonna throw up.
josh makazo & jean seizure – sights
where do i put my hands. no seriously where the fuck do i put my hands. i've looked at her a thousand times, across the table, across the couch, in the driver's seat while she picks the music, in my peripheral vision while pretending to watch movies. but now she's in front of me and i'm allowed to touch her and my brain is just. gone. static. i can hear myself breathing. that's embarrassing. she says my name and it doesn't sound like teasing. this song builds, it leans in, and that's what i'm doing. i'm leaning in. slow. trying not to rush. trying not to fuck this up. just me finally putting my hands on her after years of keeping them to myself. my mouth is so dry. i'm terrified. i'm doing it anyway.
rocco – in the morning
she's still here. i woke up and she's still here. i'm not moving. if i move it breaks. if i move she disappears. this is the dream, right? this is the one where i wake up and she's gone. but i can feel her breathing. i can feel her. i press my face into her shoulder and i'm thinking please don't disappear please don't disappear please, and then she turns toward me. and she's still here. she's still here. oh my god she's still here.
pairing﹢jung wooyoung x fem!reader x choi san
genre﹢smut. inspired by this song. usage of weed and aphrodisiac. consensual, relationship hinting at friends with benefits, cunnilingus, squirting, fingering, blowjob, slight hair pulling, cumeating, threesome, soft dom!san + mean dom!woo, praising, degradation, overstimulation, usage of petnames (baby, angel, princess, doll), reader gets called a whore once, spit roast + double penetration (all vaginal sex), piv (unprotected sex), creampie, aftercare.
synopsis﹢three best friends, a connection that doesn’t exactly follow the rules... and cookies baked with a little extra something.
word count﹢6,4k
the room smells faintly sweet; at least, you think it's sweet, too used to it to be anything else. smoke curling in foggy circles toward the ceiling as you cough out another giggle, slumping back into the couch. everything feels warm, maybe too warm… you don’t even know, it’s so nice, and SAN'S voice is honey-thick, pulling another laugh from you even if you don’t fully understand the joke.
“it’s not even that funny,” WOOYOUNG mutters from the floor, but his grin betrays him, lips pink from the joint that his best friend passed back at him. you tilt sideways, head falling against san’s shoulder as you blink up at him with heavy-lidded and soft eyes. you laugh, high on how good it feels to say it, confessing again and again to the boys you love the most.
it’s one of those nights where you invite them for a sleepover, promising that you will have fun, watch a movie, or play video games. however, the three of you know activities like that would be quickly forgotten once wooyoung brings some of his leftover or unused weed.
san stiffens as your laughter puts him in a trance, when you’re already moving, climbing into his lap, straddling his thighs as your fingers fumble with the hem of your shirt (it’s actually a shirt you stole from him) until it’s over your head. tossed carelessly aside, leaving you in a laced bra that makes his cheeks turn bright red, flushed not only from the consumption of cannabis.
“i think about you touching me right here,” you murmur, your own voice sounding far away and dreamlike as you guide his hand between your thighs, pressing his palm against your clothed heat. his eyes go wide, mouth parted as if he might say something, but the words never form. because then there’s movement, the couch dips next to him, and suddenly you’re not in his lap anymore — you’re in wooyoung’s.
“so you think about only him?” wooyoung’s voice is lower now, a smirk ghosting across his face even though his hands grip your hips like he’s claiming territory. his gaze flicks toward san, who’s frozen, pupils dilating as he doesn’t know whether to smile sweetly or grin manically.
your head falls back, laughter bubbling up again, not realizing the tension between them. “nooo,” whining with your fingers slipping into wooyoung’s hair to play with it. “i think about you too... both of you like… always.”
then you’re kissing him, sloppy and eagerly, your chuckles breaking against his mouth as he swallows the sound. tongue pushes past your lips, greedy and oh so needy, as his hand slides under your skimpy shorts to press firmly against your heat. san shifts closer, unable to look away, the smoke making everything hazy. his hand lingers against your bare thigh, hesitant but aching to feel you.
you’re giggling again, hips rocking against wooyoung’s fingers through your panties, and he feels the dampness of how wet you are already. the couch creaks beneath the three of you. san’s breath catches when your hand blindly reaches back, finding his and tugging him closer, because you don’t want him watching only, you want him touching you too.
“feels so good...” you whine, words slurred with haze, it comes more out of a moan, and it's not that you haven't behaved like that with them before, but it was a whole lot different. two pairs of eyes are narrowing toward the empty plate on the table, and a shocked expression colors wooyoung’s face.
“oh, shit.”
san blinks. “what?”
“the cookies.”
silence stretches upon the realization. you’re rubbing your thighs together absentmindedly, skin warm, breath shallow. you are trembling, for one reason or another, making wooyoung look at san, and san looks at you, when it all starts to make sense.
“bro,” wooyoung mutters, voice strained. “we put aphrodisiac in those.”
“fuck." san winces, "we were high when we made them… i forgot.” and they didn’t tell you, not because they meant to hide it, but because they forgot about it.
that explains it. the way heat coils low in your stomach, blooming and spreading under your skin until you are flushed, feverish even. your body reacts faster than your thoughts can catch up — pulse loud in your ears, nerves wrecking, making you addicted. you barely have the time to think, maybe not because of the weed, or those yummy chocolate chip cookies you had, because what’s wrong with them? they were baked well. wooyoung always knows to add more chocolate because you like them more stuffed… you wish you were stuffed full instead, wouldn’t that be so nice?
“we made her extra horny now,” wooyoung says, and he is not even panicked; he is so chill about it that his dazed eyes are glued to the way you squirm. “shit... she’s hot though, but what the fuck do we do?”
“i dunno,” san shrugs, but he’s not really present, gaze locked on how you're trembling in his best friend’s arms. his hands are steady when his thumb brushes your waist. “she does feel… really warm.”
your bra digs into your skin, panties too tight, air against your neck making you shiver. the fabric suddenly feels unbearable; it’s getting so hot in here. even your own heartbeat feels intrusive and distracting as you whine softly, clutching at wooyoung’s shirt, as if it might save you from the sudden adrenaline rush.
you thought you learned your lesson, playing by the book, self-improvement, distancing from substances like that. all of it crumbles the second they look at you like this. holding you close just for tonight, wanting to last until morning light, and even in your dazed state, you know one thing, and that is — their affection is more addicting than any drug.
“so do you think i’m just desperate…” you ask, breathless and aroused, fingers twitching between keeping them to yourself or touching the one holding you. they choose for you, sliding up his chest, feeling his heart race under your palm. “or do you know that i’m obsessed with how it feels when we fu—”
he doesn’t let you finish when he kisses you hard, like he’s been holding it back for the last time he had you like this. mouth warm, insistent, teeth biting your lower lip until you melt into him. you arch, while his hands roam down your back, over your ass, squeezing like he’s memorizing, no matter that he knows every part of your body by heart.
then strong hands lift you, and your world spins, as the other black-haired man presses you against him, lips claiming yours next, slower but deeper, kissing you with his hands exploring already claimed territory, thumbs brushing over your nipples through lace until you’re whining into his mouth.
san sits you back down between them, and this time they don’t hesitate. wooyoung slips your bra off, throwing it somewhere, kisses a wet trail down your throat to your chest, tongue flicking until your back bows and toes curl. san’s fingers hook into your panties, dragging them down to your ankles until they hit the floor, spreading you open like he’s ready to enter heaven.
“we’re gonna take care of you,” his eyes searching yours, but they were closed from the pleasure. “okay?”
you nod frantically like a lovesick junkie begging for one more little puff of whatever this is.
they prepare you like an angel needing all the care and love, but your divine being seeks warmth from the devils instead. their fingers are slick, mouths everywhere, every touch feels magnetic, overwhelming in the best way, until you’re aching for more: who could blame you for that?
am i crazy for wanting us to be mutually obsessed? the thought barely forms before san settles between your legs, careful as he lifts them and puts them over his shoulders, adjusting until you’re comfortable. his kisses are hungry, and he can’t resist licking and biting your inner thighs. he got the urge to bite from his best friend, who just loved to mark and munch on your sweet skin.
everything is too much, and somehow, still not enough.
wooyoung’s breath is hot against your shoulder, his mouth following san’s example, biting where he knows you’ll feel it most. they’ve always had a thing for marks, bites, and hickeys: little reminders that are so hard to cover and linger for days.
letting yourself want it all, when the man between your legs' mouth finally finds its place on your slick and wet folds, a breathy whimper slips out before you can stop it. the way his tongue pushes in, sucking as his hands tighten their hold on your hips, which twitch instinctively.
woo’s hand comes up from behind, as he toys with your nipples with his fingers, making your stomach twist, then wrapping them around your throat, squeezing gently, with you barely registering when they’re in your mouth.
“atta boy,” he murmurs, gazing down at his friend. “save some for me, alright?”
you can’t focus on anything else when san is completely gone. “sannie…” his name slips out softly from your lips, a muffled moan with wooyoung’s fingers still inside your mouth until he drags them out, so you can take a breather.
“baby, you’re so wet for me… look at you,” the beast down there glances up at you then, eyes filled with adoration, mouth curved like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and for some reason, you can’t look away. being extremely needy, and open in a way that feels overwhelming but pleasantly nice. god, his tongue. san doesn’t hold back. he licks, teases, and hums low against your cunt, as he whimpers, while his tongue plunges deeper. “so perfect, ah– so sweet too.”
you’re trembling, thighs clamping around his head, your hand grips his hair, your hips bucking involuntarily, and he just keeps going, whispering filthy praises every second, accompanied by whimpers and groans. he is literally slurping, mouth and tongue impossible to stop because you are just so delicious, leaving no other way for him but to give in to the temptation to devour you all.
“that’s it, yeah? that’s my good girl… come on, let it all out for me,” his voice is low, and teasing all at once. then it happens. your breathing goes rigid, stomach twists, and your walls clench, pussy gushing over his tongue, spurting uncontrollably as your legs tremble, back arching, making wooyoung drag you back until you hit his chest.
“angel,” san groans, licking up every drop, chuckling against your skin, “look at you squirting for me… making such a mess.” he doesn’t stop moving his fingers and tongue, coaxing out every last drop, because he didn't expect you to squirt instead of just orgasm like normally… he is not complaining, not even a bit. you were already a hot mess, and san couldn’t pretend that you weren’t ready for him at this point.
maybe the cookies weren’t such a bad idea after all. or whatever they stirred in only made this inevitable heightened desire, the kind of want that makes them both cherish you and completely ruin you.
there’s a strange tug-of-war happening inside you. the weed wants you calm, to drift away, pulling you downward into something soft and floaty, like sitting on a cloud or melting inside a cotton candy. it hushes the noise in your head, tells you everything is fine, and you are fully relaxed.
the aphrodisiac does the opposite.
it lights you up from the inside, sparks racing under your skin and it's spreading fast. your body feels like it’s moving a second ahead of your thoughts, responding before you can decide anything. you’re aware of it, at some point, you think you are. it’s confusing and intoxicating, like being set on fire, but it doesn’t hurt at all, because you want to seek the warmth a little bit more.
and then there’s san. his presence alone makes you want to squirt again with the way he focuses on you, so devoted when every movement of his mouth makes you ache in places you can’t even name properly. thoughts scattering like puzzle pieces, and you can’t focus on anything, because it’s like you are hanging upside down, all the blood going directly to flush your face.
wooyoung is everywhere else. hands firm, teeth grazing, reminding you that everything is indeed real and not some wet dream or a figment of your imagination. his touch keeps you from floating away entirely, even as your head feels light and as if you have no thoughts behind those eyes, you know one thing for sure.
you love them — the realization is simple, stripped of overthinking. love in a way that feels consuming and addictive. you don’t know where the line is anymore, between friendship and this rather strange relationship: friends, best friends, maybe… soulmates, if you believed in something that big and unexplainable.
when they praise you, the obsession you pretend isn’t there, hits you straight to the core.
baby, one of them murmurs, doll, the other follows. angel, princess, pretty girl, dove, bunny, sweet thing. each petname is reserved only for you, sending little shocks to both your body and brain. it makes your chest ache, your eyes sting faintly, as you might cry just from being seen, loved and desired all at once.
feeling like you’re in outer space, glowing like the brightest star, as if nothing exists beyond their bodies and voices, that can either make you shine even more, or suck you like a supermassive black hole. and you don’t know what this makes you, just some girl with bad habits, or what it makes them; however, all you know is you never want it to stop.
your thoughts are still high in the endless vast sky when san finally pulls back. heavy breaths, lips still coated with the essence of you, as he settles beside you, shoulder brushing yours, staring up at the ceiling, needing a second to come back to himself. his hand doesn’t let go, though; it’s possessively gripping your thigh, thumb pressing at your still trembling body. the weed keeps whispering slow down, but your suddenly spiked up libido refuses to listen.
you are needy, extremely needy, that you don't even know what to do, think, or say. should you cry or laugh? shaking all over, feeling the wetness under you on the soft cushion… did you make this mess?
for some reason, you wanted to cry — not because you disliked it, but because the feeling swelled up from somewhere deep inside, overwhelming you with nothing at all, and the show hasn’t even started yet.
wooyoung raises his eyebrow at you and how you’re suddenly zoning out with those pretty dilated eyes of yours, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. poor angel, he thinks, you're so sweet and beautiful that he can't wait to ruin you. he shifts closer, knowing exactly what he’s doing, by wasting time with this mindless toying, watching you squirm and whimper without meaning to.
“feeling needy?” he sweetly asks, as you nod, turning slightly to him to nuzzle your head in his shoulder. cheeks burning, because you need more than being toyed with, more than the slow build that’s driving you out of your mind.
“look at you,” twirling a lock of your hair between his fingers. “so pretty when you’re like this.” the way he says it makes something snap in you when your own hand goes to clutch at his shirt without thinking, “woo, please…”
he tilts his head instead, looking down at you with almost apologetic eyes when it was nothing but a mocking stare. “hmm?” humming at the sound of you and how desperate you are. “what was that, princess?”
shaking your head, embarrassed by how badly you want him to do something, anything but his wandering fingers. “woo… i–”
“no,” he cuts in, fingers tightly pulling the locks he just twirled, and it didn't hurt, but it made you hide your face entirely, “come on, say it, use that pretty mouth of yours.”
you swallow, heart is pounding so loud you’re sure they can hear it. “please…” the word comes out shaky like you are begging for mercy, but oh dear angel, the fun part hasn't started for you to beg like this.
wooyoung leans in closer, his lips brushing your temple, leaving a quick kiss. “please, what?”
“please…" he makes a quiet, pleased sound, dragging the moment out on purpose, letting you sit in the want until it’s only him you can think about. "i want you,” his hand never stops pulling your hair, gently of course, but he will get to the point of being the meanie he is, reminding you exactly how little control you have right now.
“again,” he murmurs. “tell me what you want, don’t be shy… we are here to make you feel good, alright?
"please," each repetition of the words please strips you down further. "please, woo, i need you, i-i just..." your voice gets softer and needier, just the truth spilling out of you. san is at your right, as you didn’t even notice when his hand went up, fingers playing with your clit, massaging and toying with it, and you can only feel even more ashamed that you were so open for them.
wooyoung is closer to your upper body, and you turn into him instinctively, face still tucked into his shoulder, as your hands move on their own, drifting downward his body, finding what you were looking for without having to search.
“yeah,” his voice low and teasing, almost cooing, as you even turned to him with wide eyes as if you were feeling him for the first time, “of course i am hard, baby… how can i not be?”
he’s entertained by how obvious it all is. really how could he not be, when it’s you? when you’re like this — pretty, horny, exposed, pressed between them. his hand comes up to your back, fingers caressing your spine as you shiver slightly, keeping you right where he wants you.
“our pretty doll,” he adds, mockingly gentle. you don’t even realize when san’s touch changes when he starts pumping slowly with two of his fingers, it pulls a quiet moan from you, and you try to hide by biting your lips, embarrassed by how easily you react. your legs are shaking, you're even more aroused, and you don't just want their fingers and mouths. you want the real sweet pink lollipops.
wooyoung notices the way you shake, how tears start to slide down your cheeks, and his hand slides up, fingers tilting your chin so that he can murmur against your mouth. “listen to yourself,” he pecks your lips, “it sounds even sweeter when you don't know what to say or do. isn't that right, san, don't you agree?”
between them, there’s no sense of being used, because they don’t take from you… they share you.
some days it’ll be just san, leaving you glowing and aching for hours. other days it’ll be wooyoung, all teasing smiles, watching the way you wobble afterward. and sometimes, like tonight, it’ll be both of them: messy and too much into it.
they spoil you like a princess, and ruin you like a slut.
san is somewhere else entirely. all he can think about is being inside you too, so while you weren’t looking, being distracted by wooyoung, who loved teasing and edging you… he’d been stroking himself, fingers slipping between your thighs at the same time. he’s leaking, fully hard, pre-cum sliding down his tip as he whimpers, cheeks flushing red and warm, answering only with a breathless:
“hah– yeah… yeah, i uh– what was the question again?”
wooyoung chuckles, turning toward his friend just in time to catch him with his cock out, then his gaze drops to you, eyes fluttering shut at the way san’s fingers work you, lips parting as you unconsciously lick them. that’s when wooyoung decides he’s done waiting.
“san,” saying calmly to his best friend, “just fuck her.” it’s not advice or a suggestion, it’s an order. between the three of you, he’s the control freak, the ringleader if anyone had to be given a role. then his attention shifts back to you, fingers already pulling your hands away from his pants.
“as for you, my pretty girl,” he adds, smiling wickedly at you, “i’ll find a good use for that mouth. just don’t try to choke, yeah?”
the zipper comes down as you watch the black denim pools at his feet, leaving him in boxers darkened with damp stains. he catches you staring, clicks his tongue, tells you to behave “eyes up,” and your gaze meets his. he’s about to explain the position he wants when san beats him to it.
suddenly you’re on all fours on the couch. san is right behind you, his cock presses against your soaked entrance. you swallow hard, breath catching, only to lift your head and find wooyoung right there — his length waiting at your lips.
san is slowly fucking you from behind, hands settling firm on your waist, your back arches instinctively, offering him everything, and the sight of your ass: plush, plump, bouncing every time he draws back, has him biting his lip hard. he has always been an ass guy, and always will be. “fuck…” he breathes, voice wrecked already, thumbs digging in to leave marks.
he doesn’t push all the way in at once; rolling his hips forward carefully, stretching you slowly, letting you feel every part as you clench around him, when he finds a rhythm that makes your eyes roll.
“you’re doing so good, angel,” grunting and growling, letting his breathy deep voice come to life. “so pretty like this… taking me so well.” your answer is a broken moan, walls fluttering around him, and he can’t help the soft whimper that slips out when you squeeze him even thighter, the sound of skin slapping making you think about how it’s been too long. you can feel it in the way he tries to find a pace, because it’s been what… four months, maybe? long enough that this feels like a reunion.
and then there’s wooyoung. you look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, lips parted and glossy, and he groans quietly as his hand tightens around his flushed cock, pressing the heaviness of it against your mouth, smirking down at you like he already knows you’ll take it all.
“look at you,” he scoffs softly. “open wide, princess.”
and you do, because being stretched open is the thing you are phenomenal at, best of the best.
he slides in, just the tip at first, dragging it slowly across your tongue, letting you adjust to it. “that’s it,” he mutters, thumb brushing your cheek when you relax your jaw. “good girl. you’re really made for this, huh?”
pushing a little deeper, watching your throat work as you take him, wet sounds filling the room. “don’t get shy now. you’re so good at being used.” behind you, san groans your name, throwing his head back, hips slamming hard when he feels the way you squeeze him while reacting to wooyoung’s voice.
“she’s so… beautiful,” san whispers, fingers rubbing soothing circles into your skin even as he starts to thrust more firmly. “taking both of us like this… god, baby, you’re perfect.”
your moans turn muffled around wooyoung, drool slicking his cock as he guides your head, hand gripping your hair for better control of your movements, “yeah,” a low praiseful whisper, fingers dining into your hair, “just like that, don’t think about anything else.”
san’s cock hammers into you from behind, hips rolling harder, pulling you against him as his hands grip your waist tight. every curve of your ass makes him bite his lip, low groans rattling out, “fuck… so tight…” he’s praising as he slams into you deeper and faster, loving the way your gummy walls love him. every moan that spills from your lips has him whimpering with you.
at the same time, wooyoung’s cock stretches your mouth wide, tip pressing past your gag reflex, making you cough and choke slightly. drool and saliva slide down your chin, your palms dig into the soft couch cushions, knees braced, tears spilling freely down your cheeks as you try to catch a breath.
“don’t start with your crocodile tears, you’re not fooling anyone,” wooyoung snaps, tugging your hair with one hand, while the other has his thumb pressing against your chin to keep your mouth open. “i won’t slow down just because you can’t take it… like you’ve never sucked a dick before.”
you’re not faking it; your body genuinely can’t handle it. he doesn’t like hesitation, and that just makes him smirk cruelly, pushing deeper, head brushing the back of your throat. “doll, don’t pretend you don’t want it.” his tone is so devilish, “it’s not every day i feel generous enough to give it to you directly instead of teasing.”
eyes rolling at the overwhelming sensations, at the slick heat filling both your pussy and your mouth. san’s thrusts are needy and hard, pounding into you with heavy sounds of skin slapping. wooyoung’s words sting even as he praises you, and it’s too much, making every nerve scream. you want more, crave both of them at once, but your mouth is already full, and your body is shaking from overstimulation.
san groans your name, your back arching, thrusts growing desperate. “(name)… baby, i–” he chokes out just before spilling inside you in thick, hot waves. your mouth freezes mid-suck around wooyoung as you squeeze san, pussy clenching him deeper, milking him as he moans, whimpers, whines through the pleasure, slowly fucking his cum in you.
wooyoung doesn’t like that — doesn’t like when you slow down or stop. his grip on your hair is tightening, cock twitching violently. “hey, hey,” he hisses, “you’re not done with me, little whore. you don’t get to stop just because he came inside you. open up.”
he pushes forward, pressing even harder against your throat, making your gag reflex spike, and the room fills with your muffled whines, moans, and the wet slaps of two cocks at once.
everywhere you feel it: inside, dripping on your legs, and on your tongue. you’re overstimulated, crying, whining, clenching, and still craving both of them. being used exactly like this, at their complete mercy, it’s too much, but you can’t stop, and neither of them wants you to.
san doesn’t pull out, not even after you’ve milked him dry. his hands stay firm on your hips, cock still buried deep, because your pussy feels too good to leave just yet. “look at you,” he pants softly, can’t get enough of the sight. “squeezing me like that.”
your body follows him with another broken cry spilling out as you come with him. slick heat dripping down your thighs while he slowly fucks his cum into you, shuddering through whimpers, staying buried in you.
wooyoung doesn’t have that patience. he’s already close, the grip tightening in your hair as he starts fucking your mouth again, meaner now. you choke, cough around him, tears still spilling, and he laughs under his breath. “aren't you a pathetic little thing?”
his thrusts slow suddenly, until only the tip of his cock presses past your lips. you barely have time to register it before he groans, cumming straight into your mouth. it spills thick and warm, hitting your tongue, your lips, dripping down your chin and onto the couch. he watches proudly of the mess you make. you try to pull back, just a little, however, he doesn’t let you.
“don’t you dare…you don’t spit,” wooyoung growls, fingers pushing under your chin, cockhead nudging your lips. he stuffs it back into your mouth, making sure you swallow every bit. “good, that’s it. take it.”
you’re too fucked out to fight him and be a brat, overstimulated, tears still sliding as you swallow, and it feels humiliating and too much all at once.
he finally pulls out, stroking himself lazily while still slick with his release, smearing it over his hand, adding to the mess already ruined on the couch. you sob openly now, choking on broken sounds, body trembling. wooyoung’s hand shifts from your hair to gentle strokes, fingers combing through slowly, almost tender. san’s hands follow suit, rubbing soothing paths over your hips and spine.
that’s when you choke out, his cum still dripping out from your lips as you wipe with your hand, “m-more… i want more, p-please, i–”
they look at each other, because you really want more? usually that’s it, they both cum, and so do you, cuddles and aftercare follow. san’s about to ask you if you could really handle more because look at you… you're like a wounded rabbit, you can't move, you just tremble. with two bullets, they killed you good.
when wooyoung’s phone buzzes on the table, face down, it breaks all three of you from the trance, finally taking a breather, when san asks, still gently caressing your body to calm you down. “who is it?”
wooyoung scoffs. “don’t fucking care. probably yeonjun or changbin wanting me to give ‘em weed.”
he ignores it, doesn't want anyone to ruin the mood, since your body is still clenching around san. wooyoung exhales slowly, as he looks back at you, then at his best friend. “sannie” casually asks, “you wanna be under her?”
the man blinks, ready to open his mouth and say okay, and the other just smirks. “i’ll take care of her, don’t worry. i’ll be gentle, but no promises~”
the three of you already know what it means. san has to pull out, and even as he does, he murmurs promises, telling you he’ll be back inside you before you can even miss him. wooyoung makes him guide you instead, watching closely, eyes never leaving you for a second.
san pauses, holding your hand as you sit at the edge of the couch, having already switched places with the other stoner. “do i really need to lie down?” he asks, glancing at the mess. “it’s all dirty…”
wooyoung pulls his sweatshirt over his head, as he shoots a look to his friend, “you’ve got a shirt on. what’s the problem?”
san exhales, flustered. “i– nevermind then…” then his voice softens, sweet again when he looks at you. “(name), princess… come here.” that gentle tone makes you always follow without thinking.
you do exactly that, letting him guide you as you line yourself up again, sinking slowly onto his thick cock, until you’re seated fully, then lying back, feeling his toned body on your back even through the fabric. “good,” san breathes, arms wrapping around you. “that’s it, baby. so good, mm?”
you nod against his shoulder, when one of his hands slips up to your chest, squeezing your tits briefly before both hands move to your thighs, opening you wider for wooyoung.
when you finally lift your eyes to him, really look, your gaze softens despite everything. he’s beautiful too — toned, veins standing out, tattoos stark against his skin: the rose on his forearm, the latin quote along his ribs, the others you know by memory, tho you can’t see the matching one he has with san. his abs, his v-line, it makes you wet all over again.
“angel,” wooyoung says softly for once, “want you focused.”
dropping to his knees, the couch dipping under his weight as he lines himself up. you maintain eye contact, even when he hisses under his breath, cursing quietly because san’s girth already fills you so much there’s barely any room left.
but it’s fine. you’ve done this before, more than once. third time now, right? they say the third time is the charm.
your pussy is swollen, sensitive, still warm from before, but you stay open, and obedient. they’ll be gentle, at least… one promised so, you are worried about the other.
wooyoung finally slides inside you, and you scream at the stretch of it: too full with two cocks inside you at once. your body trembles, breath breaking as they start to rock into you together, slow at first, letting you adjust. your hands try to hold your legs open, but give up quickly.
the man above is already gripping one of your legs high up, holding you open as san mirrors him, his left hand spreading your other thigh while his right slides down your waist, fingers finding your clit. the touch pulls a sharp moan from you, blessing their ears, eyes and souls.
“woo… san– fuck, ah–” you chant their names, the only other words you know besided more and please. you are surely under some kind of spell, but the truth is, you are under some substances that you will definitely try out again.
san watches over your shoulder, breath hitching at the sight of him and his best friend inside you, making your body give out even as you take it. “such a good girl,” he murmurs, because you always take it, even if you think you can’t.
wooyoung tightens his grip, opening you wider, forcing you to take them deeper. you hiss at the burn, eyes squeezing shut; however, the pleasure crashes over it immediately, and it’s so overwhelming. “yeah,” a breathy grunt coming from him, “that’s it, pretty. keep saying our names like that.”
and you do, again and again, orgasm after orgasm, all night long. maybe you are a greedy little whore — because you let two men fuck you at the same damn time and you keep asking for more. wooyoung stays gentle only for so long before his thrusts grow rougher, more demanding, while san stays slower beneath you, forced to match what your body can take.
the sounds take over with the skin slapping, balls hitting, wet and obscene, when your moans mix with soft whines. then again, the phone couldn't stop ringing, but he ignored it, not now, he thinks to whoever decided to call him. san grunts and whimpers under you, fingers never leaving your clit, while wooyoung just groans low and deep, hips snapping harder. both of them praise you, voices overlapping, each trying to outdo the other, both in words and in how deep they push.
“i need to… woo, s-san please... ngh–” they both know what you need.
you’re already right there, their cocks leaking, heads pushing deeper as they pick up the pace just enough. then it hits you, hard and sudden, a blissful wave tearing through you, soaking their lengths as your body clenches uncontrollably.
wooyoung comes first, much to everyone’s surprise, cursing under his breath as he spills inside you. san follows moments later, fingers still working your clit until he finally grabs your waist, holding you down as he empties himself too.
you’re wrecked and completely full.
wooyoung doesn’t soften completely after, but the praise doesn’t stop. “that’s it, baby,” a little rough even as his hands steady you. his thumb presses lightly into your thigh as san continues, “easy now… we're so proud of you.”
they stay inside you until there’s nothing left to give, both of them shuddering through the last of it before slowly pulling out. san lifts you carefully as he helps you sit up. you hiss from the impact, lungs struggling to pull in air, body ruined in the most beautiful way, eyes are glossy from crying, and you don’t even know where you are anymore.
it’s warm, their release spills out of you in slow, obscene trails, dripping down your thighs. it’s so much that it almost makes you dizzy. they’ve never cummed like that before, never ever you have seen so much cum in your life or felt it in you.
and then they’re there again next to your sides, hands brushing hair off your forehead, thumbs wiping tears from your cheeks. kisses pressed softly to your shoulders, collarbone, and your face. san murmurs about a bath, clean clothes, and being tucked in bed. all the care and tenderness you’ve earned.
they’ll take care of you because their pretty doll always knows how to offer her heart, body and soul.
you don’t hear them talking over you, because you’re already halfway asleep.
“i’ll go prepare the shower,” san says, standing and stretching, and then it hits you that you are all butt-naked. “you get towels from her room.”
you sway slightly where you sit, exhausted beyond thought. wooyoung stays close, arm slipping around your shoulders, pulling you into him. water starting moments later, and you hear the sound, it’s a little calming actually. you’re exhausted, and for half a second, you smile and wonder about shower sex.
wooyoung reads your thoughts because he knows what that sleepy smile of yours is about. “angel,” he says, pulling you gently against his side, arm around your shoulders. “as much as i want to… no more sex tonight.”
you hum instead of answering, eyes sliding shut, listening to the water run. “sorry for being mean,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another. “but i know you like it.”
after that, everything is warm water and gentle hands. you’re clean, wrapped in a fluffy towel, skin smelling like coconut and orchids. wooyoung dries your hair carefully, fingers gentle even as the dryer hums, while san prepares your bed by straightening sheets, making space for your plushies where you like them when you sleep.
they dress you in fresh panties and an oversized shirt, guiding you until you’re tucked in, plushie hugged to your chest. they kiss you goodnight, eyes, nose, lips as you murmur, “i love you,” and they say it back without hesitation. "we love you too, doll."
then your best friends leave you to rest and return to the living room that still smells like sex. the couch can wait to be cleaned; towels are thrown over it for now. they’ve showered too, changed clothes, and are playing something quietly on the tv not disturb you.
because monsters or not when they fuck you, aftercare is a must.
already sitting side by side, the half-lit joint from earlier rests between wooyoung’s fingers. he finally takes a drag and offers it to san, who hesitates before accepting, smoke curling lazily between them. only then does wooyoung finally check his phone.
“shit.”
“oh,” san frowns at his own screen. “looks like i’ve been spammed too.”
your phone lies abandoned on the table, and they pick it up, curiosity getting the better of them. when they unlock it, the screen floods with notifications and missed calls, far worse than theirs. they exchange a glance, the same thought settling between them without a word.
how the hell are they supposed to explain to your boyfriend, yunho, that some addictions you just can't quit?
.✦ ex-husband!wooyo x ex-wife!reader
݁.✦ porn w a little plot, they have a kid together and it's kyungmin lol, smut minors dni 18+, p in v unprotected, hella dirty talk, wooyo is dominant but kinda just a little shit, oral f!receiving, degradation, hella teasing, big ole breeding kink, n creampie, they call each other daddy/mommy, omfg i used the word jagi pls lmk if u fw jagi im nervous, they argue a little, they're deffo still in love lowk i could have made this a story but i had brainworms. uhhh lmk if i missed anything i don't feel like rereading it
.✦ wc ~9k | straight up copying @chimivx's layouts lately shoutout plum
.✦ wooyoung brainworms 🧘♀️
“When will Daddy be here?”
Suitcase packed, carry-on zipped, as soon as the words left your eight year old son’s mouth, the doorbell rang. A grin breaking out across his face, he cheered, jumping up from his spot on your bed to race down the steps.
“I’m coming– I’m coming– Daddy!”
You hear the front door rip open and the laugh rolling off your ex-husband’s lips, you could bet money on the fact that he just picked Kyungmin up in his arms and spun him around. Throwing your carry-on over your shoulder, your purse on the other, you rolled your suitcase out of your bedroom and into the hallway, stopping at the platform at the top of your stairs.
You should have bet the money. Hoodie on his upper half, baggy jeans on his lower and tucked into the boots on his feet, Wooyoung has Kyungmin tucked into his chest, one arm around his back, the other cradling the back of his head. He stops twirling, smile staying as he catches your eye at the top of the steps, taking a second before softly placing Kyungmin back on the floor.
“You’re late,” your voice comes out clipped, one hand still wrapped around the handle of your suitcase.
He runs a hand through his long, black hair, “There was traffic.”
“I have a flight to catch,” you bite back.
His head tilts, smile deepening to a smirk, “And who’s driving you to the airport?”
“An asshole,” you mumble under your breath, hiking your bags higher over your shoulders, free hand reaching for the railing to keep you balanced before you start for the stairs.
“Here,” he springs into action, taking it two stairs at a time, taking your luggage from your hand before you can get a word out. “I got it.”
“I had it,” you argue, looking down at him, he just smiles.
“I know very well how capable you are, wifey.”
You smack your teeth, huffing down the rest of the stairs, “How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?”
“Come on,” he sings, “it’s funny. Wanna open the trunk for me, Kyungminnie?”
“Yes!” Your eight year old shouts, hauling ass out of your front door and sprinting down the lawn to your driveway. Looking at Wooyoung again, it dawns on you like it always does how much the two look alike, especially as your son gets older.
“You’re seriously not going?” You ask Wooyoung as you close your front door behind you, locking it with the silver key on your split ring.
He calls over his shoulder as he rolls your suitcase down your driveway, “Unless they call me in, no.”
A conference for your job, two states over. You and Wooyoung have always been employed in the same line of work, opposing companies, but essentially the same job. It’s how you met in the first place, fifteen years ago, when you were both fresh out of college and ready to enter the workforce. The conference was held annually, usually you and Wooyoung would travel together, before you divorced him.
You hum, storing the information. You whole-heartedly think he was asked to go already, especially since all of your coworkers have already told you the higher-ups in his company were attending, the higher-ups included his name on the list. He must not be going to spare you, and in a way, you’re grateful for it.
Opening the backseat of his SUV, you throw your carry-on inside, brow quirking at the sight of his bare backseat. “Where’s Kyungie’s booster seat?” You ask over the seats to Wooyoung who’s throwing your suitcase in the trunk.
“Let me press the button!” Kyungmin shouts, and Wooyoung gruffs a strangled noise as he picks your son up by his waist, lifting him high enough so he can press the button to close the trunk.
“He’s big as shit, he doesn’t need one anymore,” Wooyoung says casually after putting him back on the ground.
“Bullshit.” Kyungmin is tall as shit for his age. “He’s only eight!”
Wooyoung opens the door on the other side of the backseat, leaning over Kyungmin after he crawls inside to click his seatbelt into place. “Have you read up on it?”
Not recently.
“He can sit all the way back, bend his knees over the edge, the lap belt is across his hips, the shoulder belt is on his shoulder,” he eyes you from the other side of the car, hand on the car door. “He’s fine.”
“Why didn’t you tell me daddy lets you ride without a booster seat?” You ask Kyungmin, ignoring how Wooyoung clearly did his research.
Kyungmin smiles and it’s the exact fucking replica of Wooyoung’s sly grin, “You would be mad and then I can’t be big anymore.”
You sigh, tucking your carry-on in once more before closing the car door. Climbing into the passenger seat, your voice is laced with irritation, “There are some things you should discuss with me, y’know.”
“You research everything,” Wooyoung pushes the button beside the steering wheel and the engine roars to life, “my bad for assuming you’d research car safety, too.”
Cheeks hot, you cross your arms, settling into the comfortable seat of his SUV. He had you there.
It’s a thirty minute drive to the airport, spent listening to soft rock through the speakers, Kyungmin humming along in the backseat to songs you had no idea he knew. So much changes in a year, your son growing like a weed, building a different relationship with his father you weren’t there to supervise. You didn’t need to, you knew that, their time together was theirs, but it’s been a minute since the three of you were together for an extended period of time, outside of pick-ups and drop-offs.
Pulling up outside the airport, while Wooyoung unpacks your luggage and your carry-on, you’re halfway into the backseat saying your goodbyes to your son. Tears prickling your lashes, it’s always hard to leave him, even if the conference was only for the weekend.
You close the door and meet Wooyoung on the other side of the SUV, wiping the tears from your eyes, “Call me if anything happens.”
“Nothing’s gonna happen,” he takes the carry-on from his own shoulder and slips it onto yours with care. “Text me when you land, I’ll call you after he showers so you can say goodnight.”
“Thanks again for driving me,” you give him a tight-lipped smile, “I’m sorry, my dad was busy–”
Wooyoung cuts you off by shaking his head, his smile warm, “Go have a drink before your flight, sleep on the plane. Don’t apologize for something I was happy to do.”
“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his eye, “Thanks, Woo.”
“Have fun for me, wifey. Tell Mingi and Seonghwa I say hello.”
Rolling your eyes, you snort as you turn on your heel, “Tell them yourself!”
You always forget how big this conference is until you’re here again.
Mingi and Seonghwa on either side of you like pillars, you enter the foyer space, the hotel decked out in red and gold detailing, fancy. Men in suits, women in pantsuits, everyone looked about the same, in different fonts. All here for networking until the schedule begins, splitting off into the theater rooms for speakers, boardrooms for workshops, or sneaking off to the hotel bar to ease the chip of performance off their shoulders.
“Wooyoung’s really not coming?” Mingi asks, gray two-piece suit clinging to his body, buff and broad but slim.
Seonghwa, Mingi’s smaller, shorter half, adds, “I thought he was guest speaking this year.”
Your brows raise, news to you. Mingi shakes his head, blonde hair gelled back not moving an inch, “I heard he gave it to Choi San.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” you argue, approaching closer to the check-in table. “That would give San the upper hand, he wouldn’t let him have it even if it killed him.”
Greeting the red-haired woman at the table, you tell her the three of your names, and she hands you all lanyards with a tri-fold paper schedule. You thank her, and as you split off towards the theater room, Seonghwa continues, “What if he gave it to San because you’re here? Maybe he just wanted to have Kyungmin for the weekend.”
Black hair, short and cropped, faded along his temples, his deep onyx suit makes his skin appear even more golden than usual. He stands out, beautiful and chiseled, like he should be on a runway instead of in an office. You scoff, “He has Kyungie every other weekend, Hwa. This job is like his second baby, his first baby, he wouldn’t just let San have what’s rightfully his.”
Mingi chuckles, stealing your attention, shoulders shaking with each laugh. Rings on his fingers, tie dark and patterned with streaks of silver, Mingi adds his own style into strict, corporate fashion, you have to respect him for it. You can’t be bothered, half of your closet is from a department store.
“I seriously think he’s not here because you’re here,” Mingi shrugs, “just my opinion, though.”
“I’m here every year!” You argue, “We’re divorced, not archnemeses.”
Seonghwa shrugs, “I agree with Mingi.”
“He said hi to you guys, by the way,” you look between the two, taking three open seats at the edge of a row in the middle of the audience, “when he dropped me off at the airport.”
“Wow, he dropped you off,” Mingi feigns surprise, brows pushed up, “intimate.”
You smack your teeth, “Don’t be stupid.”
The crowd gets quiet, the projected screens on either side of the stage lighting up, you cross a leg over your knee and settle into your seat, waiting for the speaker to walk onstage. You should have called Wooyoung this morning, you think, you wonder what Kyungmin’s doing today, if he misses you.
Reaching into your purse with the intention of texting him, checking the pocket you always keep your phone in, you realize it isn't there. Furrowing your brows, panic in your blood, you pull your purse onto your lap, sorting through it, pushing past the old ziploc bags of snacks, lip balm, hand sanitizer, wipes, tissues, a small bottle of sunscreen. No phone. Eyes blowing wide, you whisper to Mingi, “I don’t have my phone. What if Wooyoung calls me?”
Seonghwa nudges your side, eyes on the stage, “I don’t think he’ll call.”
Looking at Seonghwa confused, you hear his voice blow through the room. Speaking into the mic, voice smooth and velvety yet strict and powerful, your jaw drops to the fucking floor. Wooyoung is onstage, long hair pinned back, in the dark gray business-casual outfit he used to keep in the back of your closet instead of a suit.
“Where the fuck is my kid if he’s here?” You’re rigid with terror, ass at the edge of your seat like you were ready to get up and walk onstage, fists squeezing the absolute shit out of the straps of your purse. “He’s supposed to be at home, with my kid.”
Mingi’s hand lands on your flexed bicep, “Kyung’s probably with Woo’s parents, right? He probably got called here last minute, breathe. He wouldn’t leave him stranded or home alone.”
The reminder etches a semblance of relief in your stone bones, but you don’t let yourself feel it. Why didn’t he tell you? You talked to him just last night before he put Kyungmin to bed, he spoke nothing of hopping on a flight and overnighting himself here.
You could kill him. You hear nothing of his speech, not a single word, too consumed by rage and confusion to even hear the topic. You sat with a rigid spine and bouncing knees for the entire hour, jaw clenched, fists tucked into your purse to hide how they didn’t uncurl once. The moment it was over you were up on your feet, barreling through the side of the theater room up to the side of the stage, face bent down in anger.
He sees you before you see him.
“Where the fuck is your phone?” He asks, pulling you by your arm behind one of the screens, standing facing one another, parallel to the back wall of the room.
“Why the fuck are you here?” You whisper-yell, “Where is my son?”
“Our son is with my parents,” he whisper-yells back, “which you would know if you picked up your goddamn phone, I’ve been calling you since last night.”
Your brows furrow, head shaking in utter confusion, “I-I I left it in the room, maybe it’s dead? I–”
“What, did you get laid as soon as I got off the phone last night?” He looks dead serious, “Too important to answer my call about getting put on a red-eye here in the middle of the night?”
You’re replaying the events of last night in your head, did you not plug in your phone after you ended the call? You ate your room service, watched a movie, you wish you would have gotten laid, but a hotel room means you’re free to be alone with your right hand, watching– Oh.
Your cheeks flush, “No, Wooyoung, it must have died, I didn’t even think this morning, I was rushing here after the alarm clock went off.”
“You didn’t think to call me?”
“No!” You shake your head, voice a little louder now, “I didn’t. I think you’re more than capable of taking care of our son without me breathing down your fucking neck, Wooyoung.”
He straightens, face calming, a brow popping in question. “Really?”
“Yes,” you heave a breath, running a hand through your hair, “Jesus Christ. Kyungie’s with your mom?”
Wooyoung nods, “I dropped him off around midnight, I told her we’ll pick him up when we get back, she wants us to stay for dinner. Parked my car at the airport, I got a seat on your flight back.”
Your top lip lifts, “She wants us to stay for dinner?”
“Definitely gonna convince you to take me back,” Wooyoung’s lips flatten in a line.
You fake a cough into your first, “I think I’m coming down with something.”
He rolls his eyes, “I already told her no, don’t worry. Do you want to call her from my phone?”
“No,” you shake your head, “he’s probably having the time of his life. I’ll leave them alone.”
“Are we all free from the shackles of your velcro- parenting?” He grins, eyebrows wiggling.
“Fuck off,” you grumble, “I’m going back to my seat. Nice presentation, by the way.”
“Thanks, wifey,” you can hear humor in his voice, the sly grin on his lips. You shoot him the middle finger behind your back before you’re in front of any eyes.
The rest of the conference is boring. Networking is the only fun part of it, but only when the person you’re talking to hates their job as much as you do. Other than that, it’s small talk of shareholding and statistics, each word off your lips makes you thirsty for liquor.
“Ah, Wooyoungie’s wifey.”
Eyes pointed, you turn your head to find the perpetrator who approaches your back, you were now seated at the bar to avoid this exact thing happening. Choi San, senior executive of his company, a ray of fucking sunshine if he isn’t talking about the direction of your company or trying to fully recruit you for your skills.
You force a smile on your cheeks, “Not Wooyoung’s wife anymore, you know this.”
“Is that why you’re drinking alone at the bar?” He raises his brows, coming up beside you, forgoing the bar stool to stand with his elbows planted on marble.
Your brows slant inward, more annoyed than anything, “Come on, San.”
He chuckles, head dipping low between his shoulders, his dimples visible even engulfed in shadow. He picks his head up, voice teasing, “Are we on a first-name basis now?”
“Mr. Choi,” you correct yourself, voice playful, a grin clawing onto your own cheeks. “Apologies, sir.”
“I like that better,” he eyes your drink, a margarita half watered-down, “now can I ask why you’re drinking alone at the bar?”
“Boredom,” you say through a breath, “nothing better to do than drink tequila. Maybe then I can convince myself I enjoy talking numbers when I’m not being paid to do it.”
His lips purse, smile evident even with the scrunch, “Usually you’re on top of this event.” Humming, he pulls the barstool under him, sitting facing you with his knees spread. “Not interested this year?”
“I miss my kid,” you sigh, cheek landing in your closed fist.
He frowns, “Most single mothers would be enjoying a weekend of freedom.”
“Then I guess I’m not most mothers,” you bring your drink to your lips, eyeing him with low lids over the rim. You can feel it radiating off him, the attraction, the want. You make a show of batting your lashes.
A rivalry he and Wooyoung have, ever since San started at the company, a constant petty, childish fight of who will come out on top. Who makes more money, who’s more successful, Wooyoung has used your marriage and your son for years in spiteful arguments, something Wooyoung has but San does not. You don’t know if he’ll ever marry or have kids, you don’t know if he has any interest in it at all.
“Are you flirting with me, Mrs. Jung?” San cracks a smirk, it makes a shiver run down your spine. You’re most certainly not, but maybe the tequila and utter boredom has pulled something frisky in your tone, especially sitting beside a man like him. You don’t answer, placing your glass back down on the bar carefully, and San’s smirk grows. “Dangerous, I can see why Wooyoungie tied you down.”
You pop a brow, “Yeah? Please, do tell.”
There’s no harm in not denying it. Or allowing him to continue, at the very least. You haven’t gotten laid in awhile, haven’t been flirted with, haven’t felt desired in too long. You don’t really care about attention from him, of all people, but it’s kind of nice, in a way– even if you know very well how off-limits Choi San is, and that you won’t let it go any farther.
San’s voice is hushed, eyes low, drinking up your figure like he’d been waiting for this day to come, “You’re intelligent, successful, you don’t let your kindness make you vulnerable.”
You can’t help the giddiness that begins to form, “So you’re the type that likes brains and not beauty?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know I’d fuck you brainless,” he chuckles a little, settling into the barstool, pulling his suit jacket tighter. “You’ve known that for a long, long time.”
And you’ve ignored it for even longer. It still makes your feet shift on the barstool, deepening the ache in your gut you didn’t have before he sat down, he’s never been so bold before. Over the years, in your marriage, you always blamed his flirty tone, wandering eyes on his and Wooyoung’s rivalry. Which is probably exactly what this is, something to hold over Woo’s head, or at least he’d plan to if you went through with it. Which you won’t, but it’s fun to hear what could be if the circumstances were different.
“I have,” you nod, picking up your glass again, “is that what you want, Mr. Choi?”
“I’d make you forget Wooyoung exists,” he leans in, voice low, eyes piercing, “I’d fuck you better than he ever did.”
You hum, swirling the watered-down drink in your glass, “Good to know.”
His lips pursed, eyes dancing with thought before he says, “We’re staying in the same hotel, meet me at the bar tonight if you want it, too.”
You give him nothing but a short, small nod before bringing your drink up to your lips again. You watch him as he walks away, his tailored suit painted onto his ass, his thighs, he exuded money. Poise. He’s never gone as far as this, never been so blunt, never fed you a real option. But you suppose he never could, you’ve been married every time he’s talked to you, up until now.
You laugh a little to yourself before throwing the rest of your drink back.
Exhausted was an understatement for how you felt after the first day of the conference. Tomorrow would be filled with more guest speakers, more workshops, your body dragged as you hitched a ride with Mingi back to the hotel. Your phone was right where you left it, plugged into the charger, but your charger wasn’t plugged into the fucking wall.
Undressing yourself, you called Wooyoung’s mom upon your screen lighting up again, having a quick chat with her before she put Kyungmin on the phone. After he ditched you for ice cream, Wooyoung’s mom was back on the phone, asking you how the conference is, then diving into how crazy it is that they put Wooyoung on a red-eye, how important and successful he is, how you’re so lucky to have him.
“I know mom, thanks, I know,” you mumble between every sentence, face twitching in annoyance, your back pressed to the perfectly made bed, body sprawled out with exhaustion. It’s like she doesn’t even care that you aren’t together anymore.
“You two are coming to dinner on Sunday, yes?” She asks, and you kick your feet out, face scrunching together in a silent whine. “I already bought food at the grocery store today.”
After a silent, agonizing sigh, you answer, “Yup, we’ll be there.”
How could you say no after Woo dropped your son off in the middle of the night?
Her voice raises ten octaves in excitement, “Oh, thank god, we miss you, sweetie. I’m so excited to see you!”
“Can’t wait to see you, too,” your lips fold into a tight, flat smile. “Tell Kyung I said goodnight.”
“I will, we’ll call you in the morning,” you can hear her nod, her voice shaky from sheer joy, “sleep well, sweetheart.”
“You too,” you hang up the phone, then groan, long and low, a sigh following it. Fuck. The most pure-hearted woman, you think you broke her heart worse than Wooyoung’s when you divorced him. Fuck. You can’t believe you agreed to dinner. It’s the least you could do.
You need a fucking drink. The hotel room only has airplane bottles of wine, all white, nothing red, even in the overpriced fridge selection. Sighing, you drag yourself into the bathroom, taking a quick shower before throwing on comfortable clothes and heading to the elevators at the end of the hall.
The bar was empty save for one, probably the only person on the entire earth who you didn’t care if they saw you with wet hair and baggy sweats on. “I just got off the phone with your mom,” you say, pulling out the barstool beside him.
He picks his head up, still dressed in business-casual, “Yeah? I called her when I left the conference, Kyungmin’s having fun.”
“I told her we’d stay for dinner on Sunday,” you reluctantly admit, flagging down the bartender.
“Put it on my tab,” Wooyoung adds after you gave him your drink order, making you scowl.
“I can pay for my own drinks,” you mutter.
Wooyoung smiles, “Consider it my pre-paid thanks for dinner on Sunday, wifey. It'll make her whole year.”
“I’m only coming because she’s watching Kyungie,” you shoot daggers at him, ignoring the nickname, “even exchange. No need for you to pay my tab.”
Wooyoung groans, leaning back in the chair, “Can you go one day without arguing with me?”
Shaking your head, you simply respond, “No, that’s why I divorced you.”
Wooyoung stares at you for a second before snorting, “Ouch.”
“Thanks,” you mumble, both to Wooyoung and the bartender as he places your drink on top of a cocktail napkin. “You didn’t even go up yet? You’re still dressed.”
“Needed to think,” he shrugs, fingers playing with the label on his beer bottle. “They want me to speak again tomorrow, someone didn’t show.”
“Oh, shit,” your face scrunches up as you take a sip, “you gotta make up a new presentation tonight?”
He nods, lips bent, staring at his beer bottle. You lean onto the bar, “Why don’t you let San present?”
He looks up at you, eyes pointed, “Fuck no.”
“Why not?” You make a face like that was the only clear, viable option. “He has one ready to go, does he not?”
“I was asked to present,” his voice grows harsher, “me. Not him.”
“I know, but–”
“You know what, let me ask you something.” He sits up straighter in his stool, eyebrows bent above a look so sharp it could kill. “Are you sleeping with him? Is that why you didn’t answer me last night?”
You blink at him, thrice, “What–?”
“I saw you at the bar today,” he continues, voice utterly venomous, “then he said something to me, insinuating that you fuck. Or fucked. Or are fucking.”
“Do you think that low of me?” Your laugh is out of sheer disbelief. “That I’d fuck him, of all people? He flirts with me, and I don’t exactly stop him, but–”
His laugh mirrors yours, “Exactly. That’s exactly why he said that shit to me.”
“Why should I stop him?” You argue back, “It’s nice to hear that someone fucking wants me, my life is nothing but work and Kyungmin. Even when we were still married my life was nothing but work and Kyungmin, you had no interest in–”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” his voice is steady but bruising, “I’m not starting this argument with you again.”
“What, did you forget why I divorced you or something?” Your hands fly, eyes wide and piercing, “That I was sick of being married to a fucking machine?”
Wooyoung turns to face the bar again, shaking his head, “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m unbelievable,” your laugh has no warmth in it, “you just started being a father and I’m unbelievable.”
“I just started being a father?” He turns his head again, eyes wider than yours now, baffled. “Did you hit your fucking head or something?”
“We split up over a year ago,” your voice is nothing short of theatrical, “drop the fake-surprise, Wooyoung. It’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”
“And it’s all the same bullshit you’ve been spewing for years,” he takes a long sip of his beer, “maybe you should fuck San, he might be a better fit for you, you’re both liars.”
Slowly nodding, you sink into your seat, voice taunting, “He did say he’d make me forget you ever existed. That he’d fuck me better than you ever did. Should I find out? He’s coming down here tonight to get me, to bring me back up to his room…”
Wooyoung’s grip tightens around his beer bottle, eyes laser-focused onto the bar like the swirls in marble was the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. You grin.
“…He seems big, real strong, too. Bet he’d throw me around the room, maybe even get me pregnant again. Kyungmin would like a sibling, don’t you think?”
“What are you doing?” He finally looks at you again, voice ragged, angry and blunt.
You shrug, “Since you think me and Sannie would be so great together, I’m exploring options.”
As if it were a movie, something straight out of fucking Netflix, Choi San walks through the deep oak double-doors, still in his tailored suit, a cocky smirk spreading when he sees you. It widens, dimples showing when he spots Wooyoung beside you.
Wooyoung lets out a nasty chuckle, “You’re not kidding.”
“Why would I joke about it?” You lift a brow, “I told you, it was nice to feel wanted.”
“You wanna give Kyungmin a sibling?” He’s looking at you again, and his mismatched eyes are asking more than one question. Heat curls low, it’s been a long, long time since he’s looked at you that way, since he’s said anything more than a passive joke.
You swallow, words caught in your throat.
“Answer me, jagi,” he leans in closer, voice still laced with anger, but it’s morphed into something deeper, rooted in jealousy, in possession. He hasn’t called you that since before you brought up separating, it makes your lips part, eyebrows folding in just enough to crease at the center. “If you’re gonna give him a sibling, it’ll be with his father.”
Licking your lips, seeing nothing but truth and determination in his eyes, you find yourself nodding, whispering a short, “Okay.”
“Charge it to my room, 1117,” he tells the bartender, slamming a bill on the marble before grabbing you by the wrist, dragging you right past San without as much as a glance. You don’t even look at him, you don’t need to, clearly you’ve lost your fucking mind following Wooyoung to the elevators.
The moment the doors open he’s pushing you inside roughly, caging you in against the wall, forehead pressed to yours. “You wanna get fucked?”
You arch into him, whispering, “Yeah.”
“You want me to fuck you full? Get you pregnant again?”
“Fuck,” you whimper, fingers finding his jacket, “yes.”
You tug him closer by his jacket, tilting your head up to find his lips with your own. Your head is fuzzy, body charged with electricity from your argument, being in a goddamn elevator with him pressed to you, your leg lifts to clamp over his back, tugging him impossibly closer.
Nostalgic isn’t the word, it’s like muscle memory, how your lips messily tangle, tongues slotting into each other’s mouths how you’ve always done, two people who know each other better than anyone else. He groans, hips rutting into yours, making you moan into his mouth, hands flying up to his hair, tugging at his roots.
“You don’t want San,” he mutters into your mouth, breath heavy, voice rough. “You want me.”
“Shut up,” you mumble back, chasing his lips, he doesn’t let you have them.
“Say it,” he urges, fingers digging into your sides, pushing you harder against the wall. “Say you want me.”
“I want to be fucked,” your voice is clipped, annoyed, “do it, before I go back to the bar.”
His chuckle isn’t amused nor entertained, it’s harsh and unforgiving and makes a chill down up your fucking spine. The elevator dings and he pulls away from you, turning around, leaving the elevator as if he’s completely unaffected. You follow after him, on his heel as he makes for his room, he doesn’t say anything as he places his card up against the sensor, pushing the door open when it rings green.
“Oh, you’re coming in?” He asks, face unreadable.
You pause with one foot through the doorway, “Does it look like I’m coming in?”
He lets go of the door as you walk inside his room, light walls, bare, it mirrors yours. He takes off his jacket, hanging it in the closet, “Thought you were gonna go get fucked by San, you want him to throw you around, don’t you?”
You whine, “Wooyoung.”
He pulls his shirt over his head, exposing his bronzy skin, his sculpted abdomen, his hipbones that poke out from above his waistband. You’re salivating taking in the sight of him, it’s been so long since you’ve seen him, touched him.
He starts unbuttoning his slacks, staring at you like he’s bored, “You want me or him?”
You don’t know why you’re putting up a fight. You agreed to this already, your lips still feel swollen, your fingertips are buzzing with need– but admission is letting him win, and you can’t let him win.
“I want,” you mumble as he pulls his zipper down, purposely flexing his body, staring at you through lowered brows. Your breath grows shallow, licking your lips as he pushes them down his thighs, “I want–”
“What?” He tilts his head, voice taunting as he kicks them off his feet, taking a step toward you. His length is prominent through his briefs, a wet spot clear on onyx nylon, “Tell me, jagi.”
“I want,” your fingertips tug at the hem of the zip-up on your upper half, eyes locked into how his veiny hand curls over his length, voice small from how deep into the daze you’ve sank already, “you.”
Approaching you, his height engulfing you, making you feel small, your head tilts upward to see him. His smirk grows, two fingers landing on your zipper, “You want who?”
He slides it down before you answer, jacket falling off your shoulders, revealing the black, lacy bralette you wore underneath. It’s comfortable, and you wore it for that sole reason, despite how it looks, but his jaw ticks when he sees it, chocolate eyes going deep, melted, burnt.
You watch as his fingers find the center, tugging on the elastic band, letting it snap back against your skin. You gasp, a small sound, looking back up at him with glassy eyes, “Stop toying with me and do something.”
“I’m not touching you until you do as I say.” Fingers sinking into the waistband of your sweats, he bends to tug them down your hips, leaving you nearly bare, slowly standing up straight again, his nose so close to your skin he nearly touches you. “Tell me who you want to fuck you.”
“You, you fucking prick,” your back arches as he reaches his full height again, “I want you to fuck me.”
An amused smirk spreads across his cheeks before he feigns a pout, “That was mean, mommy.” Taking his hands to your shoulders, his fingertips trail down your sides, dancing against your skin, his touch, that word, his tone making you shiver. “Be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you.”
“Why are you teasing me?” You huff, each touch feeling like zaps of electricity, it’s clear he wants to take his time, wants to get you worked up. You want him to fuck you, to ruin you, to put a baby in you, you don’t want him nice. “Fuck me already, Wooyoung.”
“We have time,” his hand hinds your hair, scratching into your scalp before running his fingers through it, cupping your cheek afterward. “No kid, no interruptions, just us. When’s the last time we had that?”
“Way before we split up,” you melt into his palm, soft against your skin, comforting. Home. Your voice comes out airy, almost a whisper, “Fuck, we shouldn’t be doing this.”
Guilt– already sneaking up your spine, he catches it before it has the chance to spread. “Why not?” His hand that was on your cheek slides down to your jaw, smiling down at you viciously before his grip tightens, “You want a baby, don’t you? Wanted to get fucked so badly you planned to fuck my coworker.”
You whimper as he moves you backward, eyes wide, skin sizzling. He pushes you down onto the bed with nothing but his palm on your face, “You wanted this, and you know there’s no one else who fucks you like I do. Say it.”
“No one else,” you whisper, back already arching as he crawls on top of you, “just you, Woo, no one else fucks me like you do.”
He sucks in a breath, almost a hiss, brows furrowing as his fingers hook into your panties, knees pressed to the mattress on either side of your legs. “You want my mouth? Or my cock? When’s the last time this pussy was stretched out, huh?”
“Mouth,” you lift your hips easy for him as he tugs your black panties down your thighs, “long time.”
“Long time?” He smirks, back to taunting, “Was the last person me?”
“Fuck you,” you grumble out, “do something.”
He sits up straighter and you can feel the cool air of the room on your already-wet core, knees pinning together. “Hiding from me now?” His voice makes you want to rip your fucking hair out. “When I’m the only person who can make this pussy cum? Be nice to me, mommy.”
“Stop calling me that,” your fingers tighten in the comforter below you, “it’s fucked up.”
“I used to call you that all the time,” his brows furrow, “you remember what you used to call me?”
You shake your head, whining, “Stop playing games, Wooyoung.”
“Just give in,” he smacks the side of your thigh, “I’m here, right in front of you, waiting for you to hump my nose like a bitch in heat like you always fuckin’ do. Just say the words, jagi.”
His words, the sting makes you moan, thighs tightening just to get some friction. Resistance is a band pulled taut, you finally feel something vital in you crack, the band snapping, your lips move before you can think about the defeated words leaving them. “Yes, the last person was you, daddy. Need your mouth, your cock, need you to do something– fuck me, please.”
His smile is feline, “There she is.”
Two hands on your knees spread you wide, he dives down to press his tongue flat to your core, eyes flying back into his head when he tastes you. You moan at the same time, your fingers flying down to tangle in his slick roots as he starts lapping at your folds, drinking up every drop you’ve accumulated.
“So sweet,” he moans into you, “missed this pussy.”
Your breath is leaving you in short, shallow puffs, but a cocky, hazy smirk forms on your lips despite the pleasure, “Who’s pussy?”
“Mommy’s,” he says with a smile, eyeing you from between your legs, so shameless it makes you giggle, cut off by a sharp, strangled moan when his nose runs over your clit. “Forget I know you? Like the back of my hand?”
“Been a long time,” you lift yourself up on one elbow, your other hand in his hair, feet hooked over his back as you grind your hips up against his mouth, his nose. “Fuck, feels good.”
His eyes flutter closed, letting your hips grind against him, tongue pushed out pointed, catching on your entrance with each grind of your hips. Your clit ghosts his nose and you gasp, you’re sensitive, you haven’t gotten head in years, you think. “Sh– it,” you stutter, “so good, Woo, ohmygod.”
He groans into you, arms wrapping around your thighs, fingers digging into your hips. Keeping you in rhythm, not letting you falter, he fucks your hips onto his face with perfect pace, each movement strategic, practiced like he did this regularly. It has you weak, toes curling, head dipping back, hips moving recklessly, quicker with each drag over his hot, wet mouth.
He’s loving it, face knitted up in bliss, his hips rutting into the mattress like he needed the relief. The noises you make are loud, lewd, a hymn of pleasure only he could give you, in harmony with the squelching sounds of his mouth against your core, so dirty and nasty it edges you further, brings the pit in your stomach forward like his mouth was a toy.
“Close,” you gasp and his fingers tighten on your hips, head nodding faster, in tune with your rocking hips. Your breath catches as his nose flicks over your clit, the same pace, same pressure, same rhythm, you stutter babbles as the pressure in your gut builds, sounds growing in pitch, muddling closer together, “Fuck, daddy, I’m g’na fucking cum.”
He moans into you like he knew the vibration of his voice would push you over the edge and it fucking does, the sound that leaves you is strained, loud, vulnerably shrill. Joints locking up, face scrunching, head tucked into your chest, you spasm beneath his hold and he rocks you through it, keeping you steady, his rhythm never once faltering as your pleasure hits his peak, rushing through you like a tidal wave, the strongest orgasm you’ve had in a long time.
He slows down with your shaking limbs that lose their speed, breath finally returning to you, heavy and desperate and relieving all at once. “Holy shit,” you breathe through the words, fingers loosening in his hair, tucking your arm beneath you, leaning on both elbows to look down at him. “Intense.”
His smirk returns tenfold, “Of course it was, I made you cum.”
You flatten out on the bed, a soft giggle escaping you as you roll your eyes, “Cocky.”
He presses one more soft kiss to your clit that makes you gasp, body jerking, “For good reason, did you hear yourself?”
You smack your lips, voice amused, “I have half a mind to leave now, asshole. Thanks for the big O, baby daddy, I’ll go back to my room now.”
He crawls on top of you, pulling your thighs down, flush to his own, leaning down so your foreheads are mere centimeters apart, “Baby daddy? Ex-husband is a better title than baby daddy.”
You tilt your chin up, smiling, “How about sperm donor?”
He presses his lips to yours, rough, soul-sucking, you arch into him, hips bucking up to gain friction again. He smiles into your lips, “So mean for someone who just came on her ex-husband’s face like a dirty fuckin’ slut.”
Something small, pitched and shaky leaves you from the tip of your throat, you throw your arms around his shoulders, pressing your lips to his again like you needed him. Tucking him into you, his hips dig against yours, his bare chest pressed flat, elbows landing on either side of your head. You kiss for a while, sloppy and messy and nostalgic, swapping spit like it was candy, tongues gliding into each other’s mouths like you were making up for lost time.
His hand slips between your bodies, two fingers adding pressure onto your clit, he groans at the wetness, the heat that bleeds into him. “So wet, she missed me, huh?”
“S-shit, inside,” you gasp, grinding your hips against his fingers, “please.”
He presses his lips to yours, kissing you once, twice before pulling away, keeping your chins touching, both of your lips parted and touching as he slips two fingers inside, moaning into each other’s mouths.
He curls them immediately, making you cry out, hands finding his hair again, fingertips clawing into his scalp. He hisses, “So tight, fuck, how am I gonna fit, huh?”
“You’ll– shi– ah, y-you’ll fit,” sensitivity looms, body twitching underneath him, clenching around his fingers that sink so deliciously deep. You kiss him again, grinding against his fingers that scissor you open, “You’ll make it fit.”
He smiles against you, fingers making quick work of your leaking core, “Missed this pussy, can’t believe you haven’t given it up to anyone else.”
“No time,” you whisper and he crooks his fingers angrily, making you squeal out a cry, “fuck!”
“Try again,” he slows, bottom lip ghosting yours, “get it right this time, or I’ll stop.”
“It’s yours,” you whimper, “I’m yours, fuck, I’m yours.”
He’s chuckling as he kisses you again, smiling into your mouth as his fingers massage the front of your walls, calculated and angled, like he was trained to make only your body sing. He stops only to tug his briefs down his legs and the chill that engulfs you is conscious, it reminds you who’s on top of you, who’s pulling these noises from the deepest part of your gut.
Tattoos on display, minus the one at the tip of his spine, skin littered with droplets of mocha, spots you’ve kissed enough times to be burned into your memory. Body lean, strong, angular and unforgiving, all you can do is stare at his beauty, let it calm you, excite you, resurrect you from the loneliness you’ve endured.
His cock springs up between his hipbones, leaking, red, it begged for you even if Wooyoung didn’t, you wonder if this is how he’s felt this whole time. “Missed you,” it slips out of your mouth, two involuntary words pulled straight from the back of your mind, an area gone untouched for over a year.
“Yeah?” He crawls back on top of you, “Missed me or fucking me?”
“Both,” your hands come up to cradle his cheeks, hooking your ankles over his back, “come over more.”
He laughs as he rests a hand on the back of your thigh, unhooking your legs as he pushes it backward, lining himself up with your entrance, “You haven’t invited me over since I moved out.”
“It’s not like you’ve asked to come over either.”
You gasp as he starts pushing inside, hands falling, back arching as he sinks into you inch by inch. His cock is heavy, the stretch is tight, it renders you silent, face scrunched up, a streak of searing heat with each new inch.
“Take it,” he sounds rough himself, voice edged with restraint. “Open up, jagi. This pussy’s mine, it wants me, it’s made f’me.”
Your fingers find his forearm, other hand clawing into the sheets as a broken cry leaves your lips, “Fuck.”
When he sheathes himself fully he leans down, planting a kiss to your slacked jaw, a soft press of his lips that makes you twitch, breath shaky. He plans another one on your lips, voice low, “I haven’t asked to come over because I know you don’t want me there.”
“I want you there.”
“You divorced me.”
“Then let’s get married again,” your whine is loud, core clenching, grinding your hips against his cock.
He laughs again before pulling out, a slow drag of his veiny cock against your walls, mushroom tip dragging against the spot against your inner walls, “You’re cockdrunk.”
He slams in all the way and your body locks up so hard you can’t breathe, his smile is condescending, pushing himself up until his back is straight, grip iron on your calf as he holds it over your chest. His abdomen flexes with each roll of his hips, fucking into you so deep you can feel it in your throat, you hold his gaze, eyes watering, brows furrowed, lips pried open.
“Look at you,” he cooes, “like the day I fuckin’ met you, so hungry for it. So desperate for my cock you wanna marry me again.”
“Shut up,” you whisper, bending your other knee just to feel him deeper, “just fuck me.”
“I am fucking you,” he argues, exuding something vile, “and you’re acting like you can’t get enough, it’s pathetic.”
You moan, back arching, holding your other leg back by tucking your hand under your knee, “I can’t.”
“I know, jagi,” he nods, eyes sliding down to where you meet, watching his own cock split you open, how your folds pulse around him, clit twitching. “No one fucks you like I do, right?”
You shake your head, body burning at the sound of him bullying into you, so wet and loud it’s obscene. Your voice comes out raw, shaky, “No one else, just you, daddy– shit, just you.”
He grunts, reaching for your other leg, bending down to throw them over his shoulders, hands planted down on the mattress on either side of your head. “You want me to fuck you full? Give you another baby?”
You reach for him, pulling him down to kiss you, all teeth and broken noises, “Y–es, daddy, please.”
The noise of wet skin slapping skin dances with your cries of pleasure in the air, Wooyoung’s muddled grunts mixing into the symphony, your hips raised to meet his thrusts and his cock dragging against that spot inside you that has you seeing stars, you wail. It’s too good, it’s overwhelming, you’ve never felt like this before, so consumed by pleasure and passion you don’t notice the tears spilling down your cheeks.
“Cryin’ for me?” He leans down to lick the tear that runs down your cheek, his tongue heavy, warm. He kisses you after, sloppy and slow, so unlike the brutal pace of his cock. “Gonna take care of you, mommy. Gonna give you another baby.”
You’re clenching around him nonstop, the pleasure sharp, his words making it so much worse. He frees one leg from his shoulder to tuck his hand between your legs again, pressing his fingers to your clit, “Cum around my cock, jagi. Let me feel it, wanna feel you cum.”
Your hips are bucking with no rhythm, an animalistic, pathetic need to obey him, you need him to reward you, to fill you up. His fingers work in precise circles, tight and harsh, it doesn’t take long for the pressure to build with his cock moving in the same flow. You go silent, breath caught, and he smiles.
“Gonna cum on daddy’s cock? Gonna give it to me?”
All you can do is nod, fingers curling into his hair, all you can do is lay there and fucking take it.
“Cum for me, mommy, c’mon.”
It pushes you over, pressure blowing just as intense as the first time, he fucks you through it, moaning, head turning to sink his teeth into your calf. You seize beneath him, nerve endings fried, mind-blowing pleasure the only thing you can feel, you don’t know what sounds are leaving you, what you’re saying, it’s all too much. He chokes on another moan, cock pulsing inside you, hips stuttering, you watch with glassy eyes as he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, tilting his head to watch himself fuck into you.
“Please,” a small, broken word, it’s the only word you can manage, body still locked tight.
“Did so good,” he shakes his head, “fuck– gonna fill you up so full.”
“Look at me,” you whisper and he picks his head up, face contorted in pleasure, hips bucking. “Look at me while you fill me up, please.”
It makes his face twist, hips stuttering, a loud, extended moan pushing from the base of his gut before his hips move out of rhythm, fucking into you like you’re a toy, relentlessly chasing his own high.
“Gonna,” he stutters, you nod with each word, “gonna fill you up.”
“Uh-huh, please.”
His hips finally still, body falling forward, down to his elbows as he gives you the last few thrusts, deep enough for his release to hit its mark, to do as he promised. Warmth spreads through you, heavy, full, it racks a shiver through you, swallowing down a moan.
He tucks his face into your neck, breath heavy, he plants a soft kiss against your sweaty skin. With nothing to hold him back, he whispers, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you answer, too earnest for what just transpired, arms wrapping around his back, nails trailing against his soft skin. “We haven’t said that in a long time.”
Face still buried, his words are muffled against your skin, “I think I’ll always love you.”
“So will I,” you say it like it’s obvious, voice heavy with exhaustion, “we have a kid together, Wooyoung.”
His cock twitches inside you, soft and spent, you can feel him smile. “Maybe two.”
“I’m not ovulating,” your hands come up to his hair, pulling his face away from your neck to look at you, “chances are low. You really want another one?”
“I thought you did, too,” his brows furrow, “what did we just say all that shit for?”
You shrug, “It was hot.”
He snorts, lowering his head to press his lips to yours, softer than the rest, slower. Filled with all the time you’ve gone untouched, spent separated, each one tearing down the tall, thick wall of resentment between you, brick by brick.
“Does this mean anything, then?” He finally pulls away to ask, and you’re becoming uncomfortably aware of him still inside you.
“Depends,” you whisper, shifting beneath him. Cocking your head, you ask, “Are you still a selfish, narcissistic asshole that only cares about his job?”
He shakes his head, mumbling, “No.”
“Okay,” you lift your chin, “prove it, then. Let San speak tomorrow.”
He snarls, “What the fuck does this have to do with San?”
You smack your teeth, brushing sweaty strands of hair out of his pretty face, “It’s a step forward. Do it and I’ll let you take me out on a date.”
He sits back on his calves, careful in his movements, he slips out of you slowly, intentionally. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your overly sensitive clit and it makes you gasp, hips twitching once. You smile through the stimulation, the feeling is nostalgic, something he used to do every time you had sex. You look up at him through heavy lids as he runs his hands up and down your thighs like he doesn’t want to stop touching you.
He finally huffs, “Okay, but I have to make a few calls and get it cleared first.” Leaning down to press a kiss to the side of your knee, he asks, “Do you wanna stay here tonight?”
“Can we shower and order room service and watch a movie?” The question comes quick, as if you knew he’d ask, you lift yourself up on your elbows as he starts crawling off the bed.
“Duh,” he grins, “c’mon, shower time and then we’ll call Kyungminnie.”
You gasp, a smile breaking out across your cheeks, “My baby.”
“Our baby,” he corrects, grabbing you by the ankles, pulling you to the edge of the bed, “Up.”
title: come touch the line
pairing: jeong yunho x fem!reader
genre: neighbors to lovers, neighbors au, smut (mdni!!)
word count: 23.3k
summary: your next-door neighbor is both incredibly insufferable and insanely hot.
author's note: really desperately needed to write brat tamer yunho, so here he is! i hope you enjoy. you can find this fic on ao3 here! also I will never not hate making graphics/making these posts cute so I hope u can tolerate that dkfgjskjfs ily guys so much thanks for reading <3
tags/warnings: brat tamer yunho, reader is a menace, reader is a brat, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, blow jobs, teasing, general brat/brat tamer dynamic, begging, dirty talk, safe sex (I did it!), multiple orgasms, face-fucking, yunho does the tongue thing, best friends jihyo & wooyoung, hongjoong mentioned
The moment your eyes flew open, it was to the sound of video games and swearing. Unfortunately, from learned experience, there was no waiting this out. No staying in bed until the problem eventually removed itself. This problem loved to overstay its welcome, loved to take a seat on your couch until it rotted there.
You lay in bed for as long as you could stand the background noise. You tried to fall back asleep, but the sounds of intermittent fucks and sporadic yelling made it entirely impossible.
When you did finally drag yourself out of bed, still half asleep and grumbling to yourself about the inconvenience, it was in baggy sweatpants and a loose-fitting shirt, your hair tied up into a bun.
Creaking open the door to your bedroom, you watched him momentarily. He didn’t notice the disturbance, just remained locked into the game, lighting up bright colors and explosions on your television.
Your fingers easily found the spot they always managed to settle on your face when he was around, pinching the bridge of your nose in stress.
One of your mugs sat on the coffee table in front of him, filled to the brim. You ignored the problem at hand, the man intruding on your living room before noon without your permission, for the second, or maybe third time that week, and walked toward the coffee maker instead.
He didn’t acknowledge you as you passed, his eyes instead remaining laser-focused on the screen. You didn’t speak either, hoping that maybe if you continued to ignore him, he’d go away. Though, based on past encounters, it never really worked out that way. Though a girl could dream.
Pulling down a mug from the cabinet, you attempted to place it carefully on the counter before you, tempering your anger. It didn’t matter anyway, even if you slammed the thing down so hard it shattered into pieces, he still probably wouldn’t have looked up.
It was when you reached out for the coffee pot, hand just barely touching the handle, that the anger bubbled over.
You whipped around, coffee pot in hand, face screwed up into a scowl that only Jeong Yunho could produce. “Are you serious?” you asked, raising the coffee pot above your head, directing that scowl in his direction—not that he even looked up to see it.
He was too locked into whatever video game he busied himself playing on your PlayStation. It drove you over the edge, how little regard he had for you. How he used your apartment like a landing ground, a place to escape—and then dared to ignore you while inside it.
You walked around the counter, coffee pot still in hand, and stopped in front of the television with your arms outstretched. “Earth to fucking Yunho—what are you doing here?”
You knew the answer before you asked, knew why he was there based on the sheer lack of sleep you’d gotten during the night.
He shifted to the side in an attempt to see the screen behind you, but you moved with him, waving your arms to get in the way as much as possible. Finally, with a groan and a roll of his eyes—like you were inconveniencing him—he set down the controller.
With his attention free, he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. His legs were spread, and he took up way more space than he needed to.
His eyes dragged over you slowly, making a show out of looking at you. It made you squirm in a self-conscious kind of way. The kind of way that also made you want to chuck something at his head.
With a lazy smile, he finally leaned forward again, balancing elbows on the tops of his thighs. “Good morning to you, too,” he said.
You closed your eyes, sucking in a deep breath to keep yourself from screaming at him this early in the morning. “You know, if you’re going to use my apartment as a hideout, the least you could do is save me some fucking coffee.”
You had to admit—you understood why his apartment had a constant stream of one-night stands filing in at night and out in the morning. He had this way of looking at someone like they were the only person in the entire universe, like nothing else mattered. He looked at you like that, now. All attentive eyes and half-quirked up lips.
“Your charm doesn’t work on me,” you said with a roll of your eyes. Because it didn’t. All that charm, it was nice. There were split seconds where you understood, sure. But that feeling always passed even faster when you remembered every other thing about him.
“Not sure about that,” he teased. It was always this push and pull. Him trying to get under your skin, and you always reacting.
You pushed past the teasing because you just couldn’t deal with his entire personality that early in the morning. Instead, you got back to the matter at hand. “Is she still in there?” you asked, placing the empty coffee pot down on the table in front of you, simply so you could cross your arms.
Yunho shrugged, accentuating his uncertainty with a slight lift of his eyebrows. “Why don’t you go over and find out?”
“We’re not doing this,” you said, looking at him with that same pointed expression.
“Doing what?” he asked, mocking ignorance.
This would not be the first time, nor the second, nor the third that you’d provided Jeong Yunho with this kind of turn-down service. The first had been a mistake. Knocking on his door to ream him out for being loud throughout the night. The second time he’d tricked you, asked you to come over. And the third, well, it went something like this.
“We’re not friends. This is not something I just do for you,” you said. “And stop letting yourself into my apartment.”
“So, are you going to do it, or?” Yunho asked, one brow raised, and you knew he wasn’t planning on relenting. No, he would be insufferable about it until you gave in. He was always stronger-willed than you in that matter—more stubborn. More annoying.
“Make some coffee,” you said. It was in exasperation that you turned and stormed out, choosing to face the innocent woman left behind in his apartment rather than continuing to have this conversation. Plus, if there was anything you’d learned, it was that once you’d scared her away, he’d leave, too.
You didn’t understand why he did it. The whole one-night stand after one-night stand thing. He was charming enough, and any of the many girls you’d kicked out of his apartment probably would have made for a great long-term partner. Even just a situationship. It was his biggest red flag. The thing that turned you off. But you got it, too. Because if he didn’t live next door, if you didn’t get to witness the parade and the payoff, you would probably fall for his tricks and charms just as easily.
But you’d seen the man behind the curtain. You knew the game. And so you knew, too, that he didn’t give a single fuck about any of those women. Not even enough to reject them himself.
Even though it wasn’t the first time you’d done this, it still felt strange. Pretending. You knocked on the door. Crossed your arms over your chest. Tapped your foot. Directed the annoyance you felt toward Yunho into pretend anger.
Someone did, inevitably, answer the door.
“Hey bab—” the woman started. She had long black hair and warm brown eyes. She wore a long button-up shirt that stopped above her knees. Yunho’s. You witnessed the slow furrow of her brow as she put together the situation before you started whatever badly performed rant you chose this time.
You scrunched your face up to match, mock irritation appearing in the creases at the corner of your eyes, the slight scowl of your lips.
“Who are you?” the girl asked. It was always their first question, and sometimes you even felt bad about having to crush their dreams—you shattered the ideal image they had of Yunho in their heads, before he could find a way to do it themselves. You framed them as a mistress, the other half of a cheater.
Why couldn’t he just reject them himself? Wouldn’t everyone leave with more dignity in that circumstance? You and whatever girl he’d involved included?
But you stood firm, trying to imagine what it would feel like to show up at your boyfriend’s apartment only for the door to be answered by another woman.
“I’m Yunho’s girlfriend,” you said. You’d said it before. It still felt strange. A label you would never want to have. Probably because it would land you in a situation too close to this one. “Who are you?” you asked.
“I’m—uh,” the girl said. You didn’t stay to listen, instead pushing past her into the apartment, looking for your cheating boyfriend. It was enough to send her into high gear, throwing her clothes back on and ducking out the front door before you could so much as turn around.
Once she was gone, you took your time leaving. There was nothing interesting in his apartment, no secrets to glean by snooping. For the most part, he was an open book. All games and pick-up lines, without any actual substance.
You headed back to your apartment. Yunho stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, waiting for the pot of coffee to brew.
“She’s gone,” you said.
He chuckled under his breath, like he couldn’t believe you’d actually done it. The first time, you’d both had a laugh about the situation. The incidental scaring off of the woman he’d invited over. It wasn’t as funny anymore. At least not to you.
You studied him, watching his face for any shred of emotion, finding none. He truly didn’t care about these women or what happened to them after they left his apartment. It wasn’t like he’d speak to them again, so why would it matter how things ended?
“Come on,” Yunho said. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” you said. But you could feel the scowl, still pressed into your features. Disgust.
He took a step forward, towering over you and craning his neck to meet your eyes. He loved getting into your personal space, like he was trying to figure you out just the same. But if he wouldn’t give away any shred of his real personality, then neither would you.
He was just an annoyance. A neighbor who thought the two of you were friends. That didn’t mean you actually had to be his friend.
“Well,” he said. “Say it.” His head tilted slightly to the side, waiting for whatever opinion you so clearly wanted to share regarding his dating habits.
“You should go home,” you said, instead. “Thanks to you and your little house guest, I didn’t get any sleep last night—and I have to work later.”
This made him smirk, a slow crawl across his lips as he enjoyed the thought of you listening. It wasn’t that you wanted to listen—because of course you didn’t. But he made it difficult. Your bedrooms shared a wall, and it wasn’t exactly thick.
“Don’t start,” you said, stopping whatever thought process was going on behind his eyes, whatever words he was planning on using to get even further under your skin.
He took the hint, holding his hands up in defense. He stepped away from you, taking out the full coffee pot to fill both of your mugs. He scooped one spoonful of sugar into his own mug, stirring it a few times before grabbing the mug and walking out of the kitchen. “Have a good day at work,” he said, before the door to your apartment opened and closed.
“I just don’t understand what his problem is,” you said, standing behind the bar, mixing a drink. Jihyo sat across from you, nursing the first drink you’d made for her. It was a quiet Thursday night, so for the most part, your bar was occupied by friends and a few other regulars who didn’t require that much attention.
It was Wooyoung who responded. “Maybe he likes you,” he said. It wouldn’t be the first time this idea was floated by the board. But it only earned an eye roll from both you and Jihyo, who refused to believe this asinine idea. “It’s guy logic,” Wooyoung said.
“Maybe you should move,” Jihyo suggested.
You pointed a finger at her, but looked at Wooyoung. “Now these are the types of solutions I’m looking for.” You laughed. “Maybe I should move.”
Wooyoung and Jihyo have been your best friends for ages, ever since college. They’ve been there for you throughout more challenging circumstances than just Yunho. If anyone were going to help you get through this, it would be them.
“You can’t move,” Wooyoung pointed out. “Your place is too nice.”
You’d talked in this circle with them countless times before. There was no obvious solution, aside from putting up with him.
“I could threaten to call the police,” you suggested. “Next time he shows up in my apartment.” You placed the finished drink on the counter in front of Wooyoung, taking his empty glass.
Jihyo pressed a finger to her lips. “Or,” she said. “You could lock your door.”
“I do lock my door,” you said. “He just knows where I keep the spare.”
“Okay, so hide the spare somewhere else,” Wooyoung said.
“I’ve tried that,” you said.
“Do you really need the spare?” Wooyoung asked.
“You made me get one,” you said, pointedly. “When I kept locking myself out.”
“Right, yeah,” he said. “You could give your backup to Jihyo instead—then there’s no Yunho problem, and I don’t have to worry about you calling me at two in the morning when you lock yourself out.”
Jihyo said, “No, no,” with a wag of her finger.
With a sigh, you picked up a collection of shot glasses, placing them on the bar between the three of you. They both had regular people jobs—i.e., ones that required them to be up early the next day, but neither did they protest when you started filling the glasses.
Just as you filled the last of the three, the bell atop the front door chimed. Pushing open the door was the topic of conversation himself. He wore a black leather jacket, snow dusting the tops of his shoulders. His cheeks were a soft pink from the cold, and his eyes found yours immediately from across the room.
His pleased smile was met by yet another scowl on your end. He closed the distance between the door and the bar in only a few steps, coming up behind Jihyo and Wooyoung. He reached forward and took Wooyoung’s shot as you pushed it forward.
Wooyoung looked at you, brows drawn together in shared annoyance. You and Jihyo already had your glasses raised, and Yunho was quick to join in on the cheers he hadn’t been invited to participate in.
He didn’t say anything, and neither did you. He just raised the shot to his lips, tipping it back and swallowing the clear liquid as if it were water.
You watched in stunned shock.
“Damn,” Yunho said. “You’re hanging out without me?”
You let your eyes fall shut for a second, trying to process the situation, trying to figure out what words to say aloud without coming off like a complete and total asshole.
Jihyo took the lead instead. “Why would we invite you?” she asked, a pretty smile appearing on her lips. One that might have looked harmless to an outsider, but you know meant I’ll fucking kill you.
Yunho placed a hand on his chest. “And here I thought we were friends.”
“You’re delusional,” you said.
He lifted his eyes to yours and smiled warmly, like he really was that delusional. You poured Wooyoung another shot, holding it while you waited for Yunho to sit anywhere else. Of course, he didn’t, instead opting to sit on the other side of Jihyo, who promptly turned her back to face Wooyoung completely.
You put the replacement in Wooyoung’s waiting hands.
Just as you were raising the shot glasses, Yunho cleared his throat. “Can I get something to drink, beautiful?” He had one arm on the counter, and he leaned forward over it, looking at you with those big brown eyes. You might even be attracted to him if he weren’t so god damn annoying.
You ignored him, instead, looking back to your friends. Your shot glasses clinked in the center before you all threw them back.
“Why is he here?” Jihyo asked in a low voice.
“He can hear you,” Yunho quipped, and you could hear the smirk in his tone without even looking in his direction. “And this is a public bar. You do know that, right?”
Jihyo pressed her lips into a tight line, glaring at you because she refused to turn around and glare at the source of the problem.
“What do you want to drink, Yunho?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest and attempting to press a smile to your lips. It was your job, after all, to provide good customer service. You couldn’t be the one asking him why he was there or what he wanted from you. At least not when you were on the clock. You would leave those questions to Jihyo and Wooyoung.
“Do you know how to make an Old Fashioned?” Yunho asked.
Jihyo did whip around to face him, then. “She’s a bartender, you idiot. She knows how to make an Old Fashioned.”
That same slow smile crept across his lips. “You’re pretty when you’re mad,” he said, eliciting an immediate groan from Jihyo.
“Oh my god,” she said. “What is your problem?”
You looked to Wooyoung, who attempted to hide a laugh with his hand. This was pretty much how it went whenever the three of you were together. You and Wooyoung stopping Jihyo from getting into yelling matches with whoever didn’t agree with her. It was charming, in its own way.
“It’s fine,” you said, not wanting to make a scene in front of the four other customers in the bar. “Just ignore him. I do.”
You started making the Old Fashion instead, letting Wooyoung and Jihyo get back to their own conversation. All the while, feeling Yunho’s eyes trailing your hands, watching your movements.
Maybe Jihyo saw your cheeks turning red, or maybe she was just really curious about your love life, because she diverted the conversation away from Yunho, distracting you from his watchful eyes in one swoop. “How are things going with Hongjoong?” she asked.
You placed the drink in front of Yunho, saying, “Oh, yeah. They’re good,” while making direct eye contact. There was something quizzical in his gaze that you couldn’t quite place. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t voice whatever question it was that plagued his brain. “We’re going out tomorrow night.”
“Third date, right?” Jihyo asked.
“Mhm,” you said.
“I hope he puts out,” Wooyoung said, and Yunho choked on his sip, setting the glass down to cough into the collar of his jacket, hiding the redness blooming on his cheeks.
Your eyes widened at Wooyoung, a pointed glare.
“What?” he said, unsure why you were looking at him like that. “You’re the one who said it had been a while—”
Jihyo elbowed him in the stomach, and that was the end of that conversation.
You printed out Yunho’s receipt and placed it on the table in front of him without meeting his eyes.
“Actually, can I start a tab?” he asked.
You grabbed the receipt, crumpling it into a ball. Through gritted teeth, you said, “Of course,” taking his card out of his outstretched hand.
Customers thinned out one at a time for the next several hours, with Jihyo and Wooyoung finally departing a little bit before midnight. But Yunho stayed.
At 1am, he was still there, watching you clean up from across the bar.
“So,” he started.
You threw your head back in exasperation, even though the conversation had hardly begun. You just knew, because it was Yunho, that it was going to be exhausting.
“You’re dating,” he said.
It wasn’t what you expected, and it caught you off guard. The way he said it so casually, aloud to the empty bar.
“Is there something strange about that to you?” you asked. “Me dating?” You tried not to go on the defensive. But there was something so inherently cutting about the way he’d said it. Like he couldn’t believe it. Did he think there was something wrong with you? Something fundamentally unlikable? Or were you just projecting?
“No,” he said. “Of course not.”
Silence. Deafening. Your ears had a heartbeat.
“So, it’s been a while…?” he asked, and that stupid fucking smirk reappeared on his lips, like he was proud of something.
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” you said.
“You know, if you don’t remember how to do it, I can give you a crash course,” Yunho suggested, leaning back in his seat.
“I’ll kill you.”
“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
You took your phone out to check the time, waiting for the numbers to flip forward just enough. When they did, you smiled. “Sorry, we’re actually closed.” You turned to face the register, printing out his receipt. You placed it in a book, then in front of him.
“You want a ride home?” he asked.
You couldn’t help the look of surprise that appeared on your face.
“What?” he asked. “I’m a gentleman.”
“You are not.”
“Just because you don’t like me, doesn’t mean I’m not charming,” he said. “So, do you want a ride home or not? It’s cold.”
He signed the receipt and closed the book.
You shook your head. “No,” you said. It sounded too firm. “Thanks,” you tacked on. You’d face whatever winter weather you had to in order to get home without his help.
Yunho stood up, and for some reason, you watched him. You always forgot how tall he was, how broad his shoulders were, until he was standing in front of you. He tossed his leather jacket back on, shoved his hands into his pockets, and left without another word.
You followed, locking the door behind him. Then, finishing your tasks, you grabbed the book off the counter and pulled out his receipt. On the few drinks he’d ordered, he tipped nearly thirty dollars. And there was a note scrawled across the bottom, too. Sorry for being an ass. You looked at it for a while before putting the tip into the system, storing the receipt, and shutting everything down.
It was a short walk between the bar and your apartment. Only about ten minutes. There was never any point in getting a car. On weekend nights, you could always count on Jihyo or Wooyoung to bring you home. Other nights, the walk wasn’t so bad. Besides, you kept pepper spray and a knife close at hand in case anyone dared try something with you. It wasn’t masked murderers in the middle of the night that caused a problem, though.
It was the torrential downpour that came on like a light switch, drenching you in ice-cold rain in seconds. You held one arm above your head as you walked, but it barely shielded you from the storm.
There were hardly any cars on the road, so when a motorcycle pulled up next to you, you were fairly certain you were about to be kidnapped.
So when the rider took off his helmet and extended it to you, revealing a quickly drenched Yunho, you couldn’t keep the shock from your face.
“Come on,” he said. “Get on.”
“What?” you asked, because your brain wasn’t exactly functioning properly. You didn’t even know he had a motorcycle, and you certainly weren’t going to get on the back of it.
“Come on,” he said again. “It’s pouring. You’ve made it ten feet. Let me take you home.”
You hated the way he said it, but your clothes were getting heavier as he spoke, so you stepped forward and took it.
“Isn’t it dangerous?” you asked. “You don’t have another helmet?”
He shook his head, freeing some of the wet hair that was stuck to his forehead. “Stop talking,” he said. “Just get on.”
You swung a leg over, keeping your distance from him. “What—how do I?” you asked.
“Hold on to me,” he said. You hesitated. “Just do it, it’s pouring, if you haven’t noticed, and I’d like to get going.”
You scooted forward and placed your hands delicately on the sides of his body. One hand at a time, he pulled you forward even more, putting each of your palms on his chest. “You’re such a baby,” he said. “Just hold on to me.”
“Fine,” you grumbled, pressing your body against his. You hated how large he felt. His back was wide and strong, and his chest felt warm underneath your hands.
Before you could think about how much you liked being close to him, he started driving. You hardly even had time to worry about him driving without a helmet in the rain before you were pulling into the apartment complex’s garage.
You were still clutching his chest when he said, “You can let go.”
“Oh,” you said, not loud enough to be heard through the helmet. You did, however, jump away from him, pulling your arms back and scooting backward before clambering off the bike altogether.
Your heart raced, and a clamminess had settled on your skin beneath all the layers of drenched clothing. When your hands touched his body—even through his clothes, it felt like being electrocuted. No reason for that could be justified by hatred. But you hated it, still. That he was so hot that just touching him made your body react. You convinced yourself it was purely animalistic. That how much you hated him couldn’t negate how attractive he was. It made you hate him more.
He turned off the bike and swung a leg over to stand up, reaching a hand out to you. You stared at it for a second too long. “The helmet,” he said.
Right, you thought. What was making your brain lag behind? Why couldn’t you fucking think straight? Surely it couldn’t be the dripping wet 6’1” man in front of you.
You took the helmet off and handed it to him. He secured it on the back of the bike, then lifted his hands to grasp his shirt, twisting it. Water fell in droplets onto the floor between you, but your eyes lingered on the patch of exposed skin, the curve of a few abs under the thin shirt. You could barely even process the fact that you were looking, let alone that he looked good. It was only when he cleared his throat that your eyes flicked up to meet his and that stupid smirk that never seemed to fade fully.
“Thanks for the ride,” you said abruptly before taking a few quick steps away toward the elevator. Unfortunately, he followed, slipping inside before the doors could budge.
Right, you wanted to say. We’re neighbors. At least you wouldn’t have to listen to him engaging in his usual extracurricular activities that night. Unless he magically found some way to get a girl back to his place in the middle of the night. Maybe he could summon one from the internet with the power of dating apps. You didn’t know how he did it, anyway.
The elevator immediately felt small, the ride up to your floor longer than it had ever been. Every time you looked up, he was trying to find your eyes, watching you intently. But neither did he say anything—and of course, you kept quiet too. Kept actively trying not to look at him. But you were curious, and you couldn’t help yourself sometimes. Because who was this man? This man who grated on your nerves and got under your skin and was so god damn annoying, but also left you big tips with nice notes and drove you home from work in the rain? This man who was absolutely gorgeous, whose body you wanted to touch again?
“You seem like you’re panicking,” he said.
“What?” you asked, lifting your head to meet his eyes. He leaned casually against the railing in the elevator, watching you with his hands in his pockets. “I’m not panicking. Why would I be panicking?” you asked, but it was immediately too defensive, too much talking.
He raised a brow, nodding almost imperceptibly. “Right,” he said. “All things someone who isn’t panicking would say.” He kicked off the wall, striding toward you, only to stop a few inches short.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“Just trying to figure you out,” he said.
“I don’t need figuring out,” you said.
“Really?” he asked. He reached out, then, because he couldn’t help it. Because he wanted to touch you. His hand skimmed your bicep, and you shivered. He leaned forward. “Are you sure you don’t like me?”
“Yes,” you said, through gritted teeth, trying to sound as sure of yourself as you possibly could.
This only elicited a smile and a dry laugh from Yunho. “You don’t sound sure.”
“I could kiss you, and I would still feel absolutely nothing,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. Who was he to question your feelings, especially when all you’d ever given him were snarky comments and sass? Did he think a few longing looks at his abs equated true desire?
“Prove it,” he said.
“What?”
“Kiss me,” he said.
Later that night, when you struggled to sleep—you’d argue with yourself about the reasons. You’d say it was a matter of impulse. A desire to prove him wrong. But there would be something in the back of your head, too, a nagging, whispering like the devil on your shoulder—you did it because you wanted to.
When you stepped forward and stood on your toes, you weren’t thinking about any of that.
It was a challenge, and you weren’t one to back down. Simple as that.
The kiss started soft. Yunho took a moment to react, his lips still against yours for only a second before he stepped forward into you, forcing you backward into the wall. His hands moved, first grabbing your upper arms, then the sides of your face as he tilted your head back to deepen it—slipping a tongue between your lips.
You didn’t hold back. Your hands gripped the zippered edges of his jacket, pulling him toward you needlessly.
The kiss was not kind or soft, but passionate and aggressive, like something pent up was spilling out for everyone to see.
Only the ding of the elevator reaching your floor was enough to separate you. You pulled away, letting your hands drop from his jacket as your thumb came up to wipe away some inevitably smeared lipstick—probably worse than you could save with a simple action, anyway.
“See,” you said, rolling your shoulders back. “Nothing.”
Then, you slipped out from under his grasp and walked out of the elevator, trying to keep your pace even and calm until you were inside your apartment, breathing heavily with your back against the door.
Yunho turned to watch you leave, but didn’t follow. Instead, he stood stock still in the center of the elevator, fingers touching his lips, until the doors started to close.
“You what?” Jihyo asked. She leaned against the door frame as you dusted blush across your cheekbones.
You hadn’t exactly planned on telling her—or anyone—what happened, but it just slipped out. There weren’t really words to explain the situation. You couldn’t figure out why you’d done it, anyway. He’d tested you, and you weren’t one to back away from a dare. You wanted him to know, for certain, that he had no chance with you.
But why, then, had it been so difficult to stop thinking about him?
“I don’t know,” you said, because they were the only words bubbling to the surface in your otherwise Yunho-occupied mind. The heat of his lips on yours, the way his hands roamed all over your skin. You were starting to understand why the women he shared a bed with sang his praises all night long.
“Well—why? How?” she asked. “When?”
When you didn’t respond right away, Jihyo’s eyes widened expectantly, waiting for you to reveal all the dirty details of the situation.
With a sigh, you put down the brush and turned, leaning against the sink. “He gave me a ride home last night, after my shift.”
“He stayed that late?”
“Yes,” you said. “And I thought it was just to get on my nerves—but I don’t know. He left me a big tip and apologized for being such an ass.”
“He what?”
“He left a note on his check. Sorry for being an ass,” you explained.
“And then he kissed you?” Jihyo asked, one brow raised.
You shook your head. “No. He left. I started walking home. It was cold. It started raining. Yunho found me. I don’t know how. Maybe he was waiting. I don’t know. He gave me a ride home on his motorcycle, by the way.”
“You got on a motorcycle with Yunho?”
Your eyes narrowed. “Is that so unbelievable?”
“A little bit, yeah,” she commented.
“Anyway, it’s pouring. He drives me home. We’re in the elevator on the way up, and he just accuses me of looking at him differently.”
“Were you?” Jihyo asked.
“Hm?”
“Were you looking at him differently?” she clarified.
“Oh.” You hesitated. “Of course not. But I don’t know what I was thinking. The words just kind of came out. I said something along the lines of, I could kiss you and still feel nothing.” You, of course, did remember the exact words you’d spoken—but you were trying to be aloof. Trying to pretend that it wasn’t affecting you.
You weren’t very good at it. And besides. Jihyo could always see through your bullshit.
“And then he told me to prove it,” you said, your voice a bit smaller than before, ashamed of the act so many hours past it. An entire night's sleep and you still couldn’t believe you’d actually done it. You should have just laughed in his face. Should have ignored him, like you always did.
“So you did,” Jihyo said.
“So I did,” you echoed.
“But you felt something,” she said.
“But I felt something.” Your stomach flipped. You turned away from Jihyo, facing the mirror again, your hands gripping the edge. “And I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Jihyo, ever the pragmatic, said, “Well, stop thinking about it. He’s an asshole, remember.”
You weren’t naive to believe that his apology truly fixed anything. Besides, maybe this was the long con. Step one: apologize. Step two: get you on the back of his bike. Step three: kiss you in the elevator? Then what?
Who would he send over to kick you out in the morning? Some other neighbor?
It wasn’t feasible, these thoughts. They couldn’t go anywhere. It almost made it worse—that they just had to stay in your head. Trapped. Because acting on them, well, it was a fucking horrible idea. And he was probably just playing with you, anyway. That’s what he did.
“I remember,” you grumbled.
“Do you remember Hongjoong?” she asked, and you could see the way she smiled reflected in the mirror. Pointed, obvious in the point she was conveying.
You picked up a lip gloss and ran the wand over your lips. “I didn’t cancel the date, did I?” you said. “I’m wearing a cute outfit. I’m going.”
Jihyo smiled. “Okay. Good.”
“You know, you can be really judgmental,” you said, a hint of a laugh escaping between words.
“That’s why you love me.” She smiled big and wide. “Now have fun tonight. That’s an order. And try to get laid, for the love of god.”
You were standing in front of your door, a little bit tipsy, trying to unlock it, when the one down the hall popped open. You couldn’t help the groan that fell from your lips, knowing just who was going to appear in front of you in no time at all.
He took his time. You had to give him that. He leaned against the door frame to his own apartment for a little while, watching you struggle. Which was annoying in its own way—but at least it was from a distance.
The distance didn’t last. He got closer.
You held up a hand in his direction. “No,” you said. You weren’t drunk enough that your words were slurring, just tipsy enough to say exactly what was on your mind. A dangerous thing, considering what was on your mind lately regarding the man in the hallway. “You stay over there.”
Thankfully, you got the key to work, letting the door to your apartment swing inward. Yunho was faster, though, and more determined. He caught it with one hand before it could slam closed.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and those weren’t the words you expected to come out of his mouth. They weren’t suggestive or annoying. He actually seemed genuine. Had you ever met a more confusing man? One who could flip back and forth between strange softness and playful humor faster than you could process it?
He wore black jeans, the same leather jacket he basically lived in. His near-black hair fell just past his eyebrows, only partially obscuring brown eyes that met your gaze. There was a slight crease between his brows, like he was just as confused as you were about the state of his personality—about the way he was acting toward you.
“Yes,” you said. Yunho closed the door gently behind him. “And you can’t just invite yourself into my apartment whenever you want.”
“Date didn’t go well, I take it?” he asked, that playful tone coming back at half power. The smirk that appeared put in a lot of work.
You pressed your lips into a tight line, gritting your teeth. You couldn’t help the blush that rose to your cheeks as you grew embarrassed. Any normal person wouldn’t have commented on the fact that you’d come home alone after a third date—especially after your friends announced so loudly your desire to get laid.
“Can we not do this right now?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest as if to cover some of your obvious discomfort.
“You know,” he said, taking another step closer to you. You didn’t move. Of course you didn’t. You wanted him closer, even if you wanted to pretend otherwise. And ultimately, your body beat out your mind the moment he intruded upon your personal space. “The offer still stands.”
Your brain wasn’t working. “What offer?” you bit out.
He didn’t touch you, but his hands might as well have been all over your body with how hot you felt. “You know—if you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be with someone.”
It was enough to make you take a much-needed step back, sobering you some. “Oh my god, get a grip, Yunho.”
He just laughed. It wasn’t a big deal to him. It was just another joke, another way to get under your skin.
You steeled yourself for the lie you needed to speak aloud, to really get the point across. “I don’t want you. I’ll never want you. I like my men with a little more… dignity.”
For a split second, you were certain you’d hurt his feelings. His eyes softened, and his shoulders lowered. But then he was back to smiling again, acting like it hadn’t affected him in the slightest.
When had this turned from him asking you if you were okay to him propositioning you again? And why had you wanted to say yes? If it weren’t for the voice of Jihyo playing in the back of your head, reminding you that he was an asshole—over and over again—you might have let it happen. You were feeling just dejected enough, anyway.
Hongjoong had basically rejected you. It was rightful, too, since you’d barely paid attention to him during your date. Your mind had been on other things. Other people. And besides, there’d been no spark. He didn’t push your buttons. He didn’t make you laugh.
“Really, though,” Yunho said, taking a more serious tone again—enough to give you whiplash. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you said.
“You don’t seem fine,” Yunho said.
“If I needed a friend, I’d call Jihyo. Or Wooyoung.”
Again, that look of hurt. Like he’d been struck.
“Right,” he said. “Obviously.” He took a step away from you, toward the door. “Sorry.” You were too stunned to speak. “I’ll see you later.”
When you woke up the next morning, there was no woman to escort out of Yunho’s apartment. Your apartment sat empty. Quiet. It continued like that for several days. Nearly a week. You let Jihyo and Wooyoung talk you out of going over there, of making sure everything was okay with him. That he hadn’t died or moved out or something.
No matter what excuses you made up, however, you still couldn’t get him out of your head. Even when he wasn’t around to bother you. You found yourself hoping to catch him around a corner, in the elevator, or by his bike in the parking garage. You didn’t.
He was strangely absent.
Not only that, but his apartment was quiet, too.
That should have resulted in better sleep, but you found yourself awake for other reasons, staring at the ceiling. You could find any reason to doubt yourself. Maybe you’d been too quick to judge him. The way his face had fallen the last time you spoke haunted you. Eyes open or closed, you could still see the ghost of his disappointment. The soft tenor of his voice and the way he sounded so genuine.
Convincing yourself that it was a fluke did not help.
And somehow, you always ended up back in that elevator, his lips hot on yours.
Yunho was hot. Of course, he was. You had never questioned that fact. You had explicitly tried to ignore it. But he wasn’t your type. He liked to push your buttons, get under your skin. He didn’t respect basic boundaries.
Now, he was gone. The firm boundary you’d put in place was being respected, and you found yourself being the one who wanted to cross it.
Maybe that was growth. Or maybe it was all a part of Yunho’s grand scheme to get in your pants. If you thought about it for too long, you could believe anything. It was the only the long con, a way of getting to you by disappearing when you were finally interested—or, it was the first genuine thing he’d ever done.
And it made you feel bad.
Something shot through your nervous system, a realization that you didn’t want to make eye contact. You missed him.
It was nearly a week later when you spotted his door clicking shut just as you were leaving to run a few errands.
Maybe it wasn’t a good idea. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to you. But after all the times he’d barged in uninvited, you figure it was okay to intrude on his space just once. Walking the short distance from your door to his, however, did cause a strange anxiety to settle in next to your heart, tucked away in your ribcage. A thrumming that whispered, “What are you doing? Why are you doing it?” over and over again.
It didn’t stop you from raising your hand to tap your knuckles against the door.
When Yunho opened the door, he looked a little worse for wear. His hair was fluffier than usual, sticking up in places like he’d spent the last seven days running his hands through it. He looked you up and down. A smile appeared on his lips, but it wasn’t the same as the proud one you’d grown used to. He didn’t say anything, just watched you.
“Hey,” you said. Attempting to be casual didn’t exactly suit you.
“Hey?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” you said. “Hey.” You tried to meet his gaze, but his eyes kept moving away, finding something else to look at whenever you got close.
He had one hand on the door, holding it open. It would be easier that way, to close it whenever he needed to. Because he wanted to look at you. He wanted to meet your gaze. But there was this ball of anger in the pit of his stomach, too. A tightly wound piece of hatred. Not for you, of course. He couldn’t hate you. No. He hated himself. And he would never say it out loud, not to himself and certainly not to you—but he hated himself for being someone you didn’t want.
But all he could do was look past your eyes and force a smile.
Unfortunately, the hatred he felt toward himself manifested as anger. “Do you need something?”
The sharpness in his tone sliced straight through you. “What?”
“You made it clear you don’t want me,” he said.
“Well—” you stammered. “That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
“You have Jihyo and Wooyoung, right? That’s what you said.” He paused and finally met your eyes. Something crossed his face. “Besides, I don’t want to be your friend.”
“Oh,” you said. The anxiety tucked away in your chest blossomed, and your heart began to race. This was a mistake, then. At least you could leave and pretend it never happened. Why then, were you so frozen solid to the spot in front of his door? Why couldn’t you just turn and walk away? Why could you feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the heat of his palms on your arms? Why couldn’t you look away?
“You’re afraid to admit it, but I’m not,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, gentle tone once more. The one you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. The one that floated through your dreams like a melody. “I like you.”
Your lips parted. He leaned forward to look at you on eye level, studying you. He didn’t touch you, just let his eyes bore into yours. It was far too intimate than your racing heart could take.
“You think I’m all bad,” he said. “I’m not. Let me take you out sometime. I’ll prove it to you.” The corners of his lips turned up in a small smile. Hopeful.
It was your own self-hatred, your own uncertainty, your own self-consciousness, your own fear, that made you say what you did. “I can’t,” you said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. And that’s what broke you. Not the rejection, but the acceptance. The way his smile turned firm as he stood straight up and stepped away from you, moving to close the door just as you turned to flee.
Several days passed, but even the passage of time didn’t make you feel any better.
“It’s good,” Jihyo said. “I don’t trust him.”
“Yeah,” Wooyoung echoed. “Me either.”
It wasn’t the first time you’d had this conversation, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, either, given how much you’d been thinking about it. About him. Even your thoughts felt selfish. Because you could have him, if you really wanted to. If you really wanted to have him, you could walk over to his apartment and tell him that.
But something held you back.
The fear, mostly.
The thought that you would just end up like all the other girls he’d engaged in one-night stands with. You weren’t exactly a one-night stand kind of girl. Or, at least, you weren’t certain that was what you wanted from Yunho. You didn’t know what you wanted. Maybe that was the scariest part.
“You didn’t see the look on his face,” you said, sinking deeper and deeper into the couch.
It was Wooyoung who eventually said. “If you like him, I guess I don’t really see what the problem is.”
“The problem is he has a different girl over every night,” Jihyo commented.
“Not every night. Besides, he hasn’t in a while,” you said, which earned you a look from Jihyo. “What? The walls are thin. I can hear everything.”
“Maybe he’s a changed man,” Wooyoung commented.
“Doubt it,” Jihyo said.
You could only shrug. “I don’t know. I hardly know him, anyway.” You let out a long, deep breath. “I’ll get over it eventually. So will he. I’m sure it’ll be fine in a few weeks. Maybe we’ll even laugh about it.”
Hours later, when Jihyo and Wooyoung finally left your apartment—you stood at the door, waiting for them to get on the elevator. An old habit. Like making sure they got home safe. The elevator doors opened, and Yunho stepped out. You only saw him at first.
Then, you saw her. The girl hanging off his arm. Laughing. Smiling.
Jihyo shot you a look, but you shook your head. It was fine. You didn’t need them coming to your rescue over a man you’d rejected. They got into the elevator and disappeared. You tried to close your door fast, but Yunho spotted you first. You just barely caught him raising a few fingers in a wave, a smile on his lips, before the hastily shut door separated you both.
Something bloomed in your chest, hot and angry. You’d seen him with other women before. Countless times, in fact. You’d heard them through your walls, escorted them out afterward. And you’d never been angry at anything other than the inconvenience.
But now the anger flushed your system of coherent thoughts. The tips of your ears turned red as you rested your forehead against the closed door. This wasn’t anger. As much as you wanted to believe it, manifest it into being so—it was so much worse.
Jealousy.
It made your skin crawl, the realization. You were jealous. And the worst part was that you had no right to be. He had offered you the same thing he gave all those girls, and you’d turned him down. So why now, did you have your head resting on the door and your eyes squeezed tight? Maybe it wasn’t just jealousy, but anger too.
Anger at your own poor decision-making skills. Anger at Yunho for—what exactly? Moving on? You were the one who’d been adamant that there was absolutely nothing between you. He’d shot his shot and failed. Had you expected him to retire from the little game he played every weekend?
You tried to remind yourself what would have happened if you’d gone out with him. That he wasn’t relationship material. That he didn’t want you like you wanted him.
Fuck. You wanted him.
You wanted him, and it made you feel like an idiot.
Is that how everyone who ended up in his bed felt? Confused and annoyed, angry with his charming personality and his ability to sweep pretty much anyone off their feet without really even trying?
And when had this happened, anyway? He’d moved in a few months ago. You’d been tolerating his presence since—and then things just, well, shifted.
It didn’t even matter if you ended up as just another one-night stand—you wanted to be in his bed, underneath him, no matter what the outcome was. It was that thought that pulled you away from the door and sent you into the bedroom, diving under the covers and attempting to think about anything other than what was possibly going on in the next room over.
Damn his stupid motorcycle and the way his shirt, damp with rain and sweat, had stuck to his skin. Damn his stupid, charming smile that shifted between snarky and kind. Damn his everything, every detail that made you look twice, that had you second-guessing every moment, every interaction.
It was even worse, knowing that he wanted you, too. Knowing that he wanted you, and that you could have just had him, if you weren’t such an idiot.
And so you oscillated back and forth like that for a while—between being annoyed at yourself for rejecting him and at him for being so charming and so untrustworthy at the same time.
It went on like that for some time before you eventually fell asleep to thoughts of walking down the hall and throwing the door open, to grabbing him and kissing him—before your mind eventually decided being awake no longer served you.
Unfortunately, when morning came, it wasn’t with a new, refreshed mind.
Instead, more thoughts swarmed, and before you could stop and think about what you were doing, you were standing in the hallway outside Yunho’s apartment in your pajamas.
It wasn’t until you raised your hand to knock that you realized exactly where you were.
Yunho must have sensed it. The door swung open, and there he was, standing there with that somewhat charming, somewhat obnoxious smile on his face, looking at you like this—whatever you were doing—was, in fact, completely normal behavior.
He looked just out of bed, messy hair and plaid pajama pants. A white shirt that clung to him and a loose robe overtop. One hand held a mug of coffee, and he leaned against the door frame in such a casual manner as you glanced him over, trying to figure out some excuse for why you’d shown up at his door.
“Good morning,” he said. There was a coldness to his voice. Something absent from his tone that you didn’t want to linger on. Like he was distancing himself from you.
Words failed you.
“I—” you started. You took a step forward, nearly into his body. He didn’t yield against you, instead holding firm in the door frame. You tried to look over his shoulder to see if the girl was still present. Did he not want your help escorting her out?
The smile that fell on his lips was slow, and you watched him figure you out in record time.
“Looking for someone?” he asked, that cold tone growing warmer, charm seeping back into his words, that familiar enjoyment. A cat playing with a mouse.
You took a step back. “No.”
“Seems like you are.”
“I’m not,” you said, but you weren’t able to keep the defensive note from your voice. It was so painstakingly clear to both of you why you were there and what you were looking for. It became a game, then, of who would concede the space first. Who would give up. You could easily admit your lie, but there was no pride in that. And Yunho, well, he could just as easily call you out on it, but that didn’t seem like the path he wanted to take, either.
Instead, it turned into a standoff of words loaded into guns and backs turned. Paces counted before firing. Eye contact, before your gaze dropped to his lips, and the slow smile crawling across turned into a smirk of victory undeserved.
“I just thought you might want my help,” you said, cocking your head back and crossing your arms. A feeble attempt to gain some ground.
“I don’t,” he said. Sharp. You hated that the simple words cut, even though you would have claimed to hate said help only a week prior.
“You don’t,” you repeated.
Your cursed brain. He’d found someone else. Someone else to break the streak of one-night stand girls. He’d found someone else, and it was too late, and you’d ruined everything out of pure indecisiveness and misguided advice.
Maybe he wasn’t even such a bad guy.
Maybe your vision had been clouded by jealousy from the very beginning.
Yunho stepped away from the door, walking deeper into the apartment. You hesitated. He brought down another mug and filled it, pushing it in your direction and eying you to take it.
“You know,” he said. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
Your brows drew together as you watched him, sipping his coffee and looking over the cup at you, still standing in the hallway.
“I’m not—” you started, but he just laughed. “I’m really not.”
“Then why are you here?” he asked, the genuine nature of his voice catching you off guard. “You already rejected me, remember?”
Your feet carried you into his apartment. You closed the door behind you.
“I remember,” you said. You stopped across from him and reached over to pick up the mug of coffee, the kitchen island separating you. You looked over your shoulder, eyes wandering toward the open door of his bedroom.
“You’re funny,” he said.
“What?” you asked, eyes snapping back to him.
“There’s no one here,” Yunho said. He set his coffee mug down on the counter and walked closer to you. “And whatever you’re trying to do—you’re not very good at it.”
He reached up and took the coffee mug out of your hands, placing it on the counter next to his.
“There’s no one here,” you said, repeating his words back to him for the second time. It was easier than finding new ones to say.
He rolled his eyes, but the annoyance didn’t reach his lips. No, those still held that same pleased smile, like he knew something you didn’t.
Yunho reached out, closing the distance between you, to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. He looked down at you with a gaze you couldn’t place. Something between admiration and lust. His fingers trailed down your jaw and hooked under your chin.
His touch froze you. You could only blink and watch, your gaze darting between his mouth and his eyes.
“Are you jealous?” he asked, holding your chin and looking at you carefully.
“I don’t know,” you said, because that was the truth. All the thoughts in your mind were jumbled, and nothing made sense when it came to him.
He raised one brow, skeptical. “Did you need to borrow something?” he asked. “Or yell at me because the TV was too loud?”
“No,” you said.
“Then why did you come over?” he asked. He led you toward the answer, walked you there while holding your chin and making sure you kept your eyes trained on his. His voice was gentle, but stern—and you knew he wouldn’t relent until you gave him the truth.
You sighed, and this small act of giving up only made the corners of his lips turn up. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” you said. His lips parted in shock. Because he’d been expecting an admission regarding your jealousy, not the way that he raced through your mind all night. But you kept going, anyway. “And I didn’t mean to come over, I mean—I guess I did. But I left my apartment, and then here I was—and I wasn’t even going to knock, but you opened the door, and then all I could think about was whether or not you had a girl over.”
His hand slipped from your chin to lay flat against the side of your head, his palm on your cheek and his fingers dipping into your hair.
Your heart raced faster as his eyes dropped to your lips, and your first kiss played on a loop over and over again until you were stepping closer to him, lifting a hand to touch the one on your cheek.
He inched closer too, until your bodies were almost touching.
Yunho’s eyes met yours, then flicked downward. Up and back. Your eyes followed the same pattern, and you moved closer, closer, a centimeter at a time, until his lips were on yours again and everything agonizingly slow kicked into full speed.
His other hand came up to cup your other cheek as he kissed you slowly. It wasn’t the abrupt, intense heat of the kiss you shared in the elevator, but a soft, molten kiss that sent your nerves firing.
When he pulled away, it was only a half an inch, barely enough to keep you from recapturing his lips and stopping whatever sentence whirred to life behind hazy eyes. “That’s what I wanted our first kiss to be like,” he said.
“I liked our first kiss,” you said, without really thinking.
He dropped his forehead against yours. “Me too.”
“I liked the second too.” But you didn’t let yourself reach out again, not with the last thought that nagged at the back of your mind. “What about the girl—your date last night?”
“She didn’t stay long. I couldn’t stop thinking about my neighbor.” He put a half-step’s worth of space between you.
“How annoying,” you said, laughing under your breath.
“Yeah, she really is,” he teased. “Kinda hot, though.”
“Kinda?” you asked, raising a brow at him.
“Okay, insanely,” Yunho said, crossing his arms over his chest. “So hot she’s driven me mad since the day I moved in. Is that what you want to hear?”
You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips. “Yes.”
“Now will you let me take you out?” he asked.
You hadn’t thought about what would happen after you stormed over to his apartment without invitation, nor what would happen after his lips were on yours. You thought he would try something more, but he kept his distance—asked about dates instead.
“You look shocked,” he said.
“I’m not,” you said, and he chuckled under his breath. Apparently, you were easier to read than you thought, or maybe he was just good at knowing what you were thinking. Somehow, that wasn’t as annoying as it used to be.
“Not jealous, not shocked…” he trailed off. “Not very good at lying, either.”
“I just didn’t think dating was really your thing,” you said.
He placed a hand to his heart in mock hurt. “You wound me,” he said. “I’m a romantic at heart, you’ll see.”
“Oh, will I?” you asked, “From what I’ve heard, it doesn’t sound like romance.” You tilted your head to the side, looking up at him, watching for the reaction.
His brows lifted a hair. “You’ve been listening.”
“The walls are thin, Yunho.”
“And that’s why you’re jealous?” he asked, reaching out to poke your cheek. “Because of what you’ve been hearing?”
“No,” you stammered, a crinkle developing between your brows in irritation.
“I can’t figure you out,” he said. “You think I’m this big player, right? But you’re also up at night with your ear to the wall trying to listen in so—I think you might be the real freak, here.”
You slapped his arm playfully. “I am not.”
“We’ll see,” he said, continuing before you could get a word in, “Let me take you out tonight.”
“I’m working,” you said.
“Tomorrow night.”
You pretended to ponder the availability of your schedule. Since your minor situationship with Hongjoong fizzled out, you hadn’t had plans with anyone but Jihyo and Wooyoung. And they wouldn’t mind a night off from having to listen to your problems. Maybe you’d get an earful from Jihyo about how you were choosing to spend the night, instead, but Wooyoung would come around.
“Tomorrow night,” you confirmed.
It was strange how quickly everything turned over in your mind. Maybe you were naive, but one kiss and you’d started to see him differently. That voice that nagged in the back of your mind, reminding you that maybe he was like this with all the girls he brought back, had disappeared completely. Instead, you found ways to justify it all. There was nothing wrong with sleeping around, anyway.
You’d had more active times in your life, too. And no one had judged you for that, well, experimentation.
He watched the cogs turn behind your eyes. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Just trying to figure you out, is all.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, rethinking whatever it was he wanted to say. It seemed like you were both playing the same game—trying to understand the other without giving too much away, without making a big deal out of something that hadn’t gone anywhere, yet.
“So,” you said. A blanket of silence suddenly fell between you, the awkward air of the kiss settling on your shoulders, and the future plans made.
“So,” Yunho said, much cooler, calmer, than you had. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Definitely.”
You took a step back, but he reached out to grab your hand before you could get too far. He held it, not too tight, but not exactly with a gentle grasp, either. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “Really.”
Heat rose to your cheeks.
“Yeah,” you said. “Me too,” before disappearing from his apartment. By the time you were back home, your palms were sweating.
Was this a horrible idea? And if it was, why did you want it so badly?
The next 36 hours went by at an unimaginably slow pace. In that time, you managed to spend a good several more hours overthinking, at least thirty minutes on the phone with Jihyo, convincing her that this was, maybe, a good idea, actually, and the rest of the time panicking about your ability to make decisions regarding your love life.
“It doesn’t have to be anything,” Jihyo said at the end of the call, after retiring her role as devil’s advocate. “It was just a kiss, right? And it’s just a date.”
“Maybe I want it to be something,” you said. “That’s what scares me. What if he doesn’t?”
You could hear her shrug over the line. “Guess you’ll have to ask him.”
Wooyoung chimed in from over Jihyo’s shoulder. “Besides, what’s the worst thing that can happen, anyway? You find out if the sex is good, and then he stops showing up at your apartment without permission?”
You pinched your nose between your thumb and forefinger. “Neither of you are helpful,” you said.
Hours after the call, however, you couldn’t help but admit that Wooyoung’s words were true. This was a sexual attraction. Yunho was sexy. He had a confusing charm to him that you never understood, and a contagious smile. He was goofy, good at video games, and fun to bicker with—but you didn’t really know him, did you?
So you decided that’s what the date would be for.
You’d get to know him. Decide exactly what you wanted. And if that was just sex, well. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, right? Maybe fucking him would get him out of your head, too. Though, you had a feeling that probably wouldn’t be the case.
By the time eight o’clock rolled around, you were standing in your bedroom, looking in the floor-length mirror, still attempting to determine exactly which outfit was right for the date.
You’d never been this nervous for a date before.
It was just a date. Yunho was just a man.
The knock at the door, however, sent your heart into your stomach—so maybe you were just lying to yourself. Either way, it wasn’t working.
You smoothed your hands down the front of your shirt, over the sides of your skirt. Was there time to change? He was on the other side of the door, and still, you didn’t feel exactly right. Almost like you were wearing a costume, something to impress him, but not something that was really you.
The nerves were getting to you, and all you had to do was just open the door.
Open the door, and he would be there, staring back at you. You knew exactly what he would look like, too. Leather jacket, permanent smirk curling up the corners of his lips, knowing brown eyes scanning you. It was a comfort, almost, this knowing.
But still, you were frozen.
Like opening the door was some kind of test of your own nature. He was the same, steady. Predictable. But you? Was he on the other side of the door, telling himself the same thing, that you were there—familiar?
What if he didn’t like this version of you? The one who had spent hours trying to figure out how to look just right, for him. The one wearing a skirt, the one who was excited about the date, who had gotten her hopes up.
What if he had only ever liked you because you didn’t like him?
You rubbed your temples, trying to quiet the ever-existing anxiety that stirred behind your eyes, a reminder that this was something you fucking cared about, which only made the whole thing worse. You cared, which meant you could screw it up. You could screw it up, and it would hurt.
“You gonna open the door?” Yunho asked from the hall. He had this weird ability to read your mind, to sense when you were nearby. Like he knew some part of you that even you couldn’t see.
You opened the door halfway through an eye roll.
And there he was.
He looked nothing like you’d imagined in your head. His leather jacket was missing, replaced by a black suit jacket with a white button-up underneath, a skinny black tie cut down the middle. Though you could barely see his torso behind the bouquet of flowers he held in one arm.
Yunho’s eyes stayed glued to yours. They didn’t wander, as yours did. But that slow smile did crawl across his lips as you took him in, this different version of him.
“Are those for me?” you asked, looking at the arrangement of tulips and baby’s breath.
He took a step closer to you, dropping his free hand around your shoulders to place a kiss atop your head, into your hair. It was immediately overwhelming, being in his presence again, especially after so many hours of trying to pretend that he had no effect on you.
Well, there that effect was. The way your heart immediately beat faster, your nervous system racing into high alert, goosebumps rising on your forearms. You would think that something was truly wrong, the way your body reacted. Like this was something to run away from. But coupled with the feeling of ignition—the warmth of him being close started a fire somewhere deep within you—there was no chance you would run away.
“Do you have a vase I can put these in?” he said, answering your arguably dumb question as he took a step away from you.
You moved out of the way, letting him step into your apartment. A place familiar to him. Some place he’d basically broken into over and over again. He moved through it like it belonged to him, walking into the kitchen to grab a vase from under the sink. He filled it with water and placed the bouquet inside, leaving it on the counter.
“You seem nervous,” he commented as he trimmed away the plastic wrapping with a pair of scissors he’d also known the location of.
Your arms were crossed over your chest, not in disappointment or contempt, but because you had to hold onto something to steady yourself. Your fingers dug into your biceps only slightly, but he must have caught that, too.
Or maybe he was just so used to the inner workings of your mind, your body, that he could sense these differences too.
You had no idea he paid so much attention.
“I’m not,” you said. But even a stranger would have known you were lying.
He peeled away the rest of the crinkling plastic and put it in the trash, snipping the rubber band on the bouquet and letting the flowers fall outward.
“They’re pretty,” you said, as if that could distract from your nerves and his commentary on them. “Thank you.”
You kept your distance from him, standing just outside the kitchen while he worked. But once finished, he strode toward you again. He stopped just short, not opting to reach for you, just looking.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “You sure you’re okay?”
You cleared your throat as you nodded. “Mhm.”
He could only chuckle under his breath. You were standing so straight, holding yourself so tightly. He did reach out, then, peeling one of your hands away from your arm to hold it. He laced his fingers between yours.
Yunho’s hands were large and warm, and they didn’t serve to ground you any.
Oh god. What was happening to you?
You tried to remind yourself of everything you’d said earlier. This was just a date. Yunho was just a man. A really, really fucking hot man. And a man who drove you absolutely insane. A man who knew how to kiss.
“You ready to go?” he asked, eyes flicked downward, watching your joined hands. He couldnt’t believe it either—was just better at keeping his cool—that this was actually happening. That you’d agreed to it.
“Yes,” you said, and the pair of you walked out of your apartment together. He made eyes at you in the elevator.
Were you both thinking about the same thing? The upward quirk of his smile was enough to make you think yes.
“You are nervous,” Yunho commented as the doors to the lobby slid open.
“Shut up,” you said. “I’m not.”
He held his free hand up in defense. “Not a very nice way to talk to your date.”
You shot a glare in his direction, but it wasn’t very threatening when paired with the smile gracing your lips.
He squeezed your hand. “Why?”
“Why, what?” you asked.
“Why are you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous,” you said again, but this time the pointed look was from him. And frankly, it was deserved. “Shut up,” you said again, as the two of you stepped outside. “I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.”
“I’m a little nervous,” he said.
He kept your hand in his as you walked. He didn’t tell you where you were going, and you didn’t ask.
“What?” you asked. “The Jeong Yunho, nervous? Haven’t you done this like a million times?”
“Yeah, but never with you,” he said, which only made heat rise to your cheeks.
You were still not used to this version of Yunho. The charming one. The complement to the snarky asshole who’s been appearing in your apartment for the past several months.
“Where are you taking me, anyway?” you asked, diverting the conversation from compliments that made your skin turn pink.
“We’re almost there,” he said.
There were so many other questions flying through your head, but it was so much harder to form words around him, now. It was easier before, when all those words were full of frustration and anger, when you were making fun of him or reacting to his torment. When he was being kind to you, it only left you speechless and on uneven footing.
Thankfully, he was right. In only a few minutes of walking, you arrived at a small Italian bistro. A place you’d seen a hundred times on walks home from work, but never stopped into. It wasn’t exactly a bartender’s salary kind of place, unless you wanted to blow an entire month’s food budget on delicious gnocchi. Which, honestly, you’d thought about plenty of times before.
Booths lined the walls with tables in the center, spread out and quiet, each with its own warm candlelight in the middle, its own dangling chandelier in the center. The tables were preset with wine glasses and cutlery.
He gave his name at the host stand, and the two of you followed her to a table. Yunho’s hand settled on your lower back as you walked.
Only the thin layer of your shirt stopped the electricity from knocking you out, dulling it to a mild spark instead. You slid into a booth opposite him.
The host rattled off some wine specials.
“Whatever you suggest,” Yunho said, smiling warmly at the woman.
She disappeared momentarily, then returned with a bottle of red wine with a name you didn’t know how to pronounce. She filled up your glasses, then left the bottle behind.
“So,” Yunho said, picking up his glass to look at you over it. “I should have said this already, but you look really nice tonight.”
“Don’t,” you said, a knee-jerk reaction to his complimenting. “I mean—”
“You know this is a date, right?” he teased. “You agreed to go on a date with me.”
You laughed under your breath, covering your mouth with your hand. “Sorry,” you said, trying not to laugh. “Still trying to get used to you being like this.”
“Like what?” he asked, one brow raised.
“Oh, come on. You know like what,” you fired back. You lifted your glass of wine too and took a small sip. It was delicious. Deep and dry.
He set his wine glass down and leaned slightly forward with both elbows on the table, trying to get closer to you. He tilted his head to the side, watching you curiously. “I don’t,” he said.
“All charming and nice,” you said.
“I think I’ve always been charming and nice,” Yunho said.
You shake your head, taking another sip of your wine to hide the fact that the smile won’t fade from your lips—that being around him made you smile, now. “That’s not true, and you know it, Yunho.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Please,” you said. “You can’t pretend that for the last several months you haven’t been trying to get on my last nerve.”
He pursed his lips like he was really, actually taking the time to think about it. “Maybe I just like getting you all hot and bothered,” he said, finally.
“Wasn’t hot,” you said. “Just bothered.”
“And now?” Yunho asked, leaning even further over the table, as if making direct eye contact would allow him to glean every secret you ever had.
“Still just bothered, I think,” you teased, lifting your glass to your lips.
Yunho leaned back in his seat, picking up his own glass and smiling smugly to himself. “I do like a challenge.”
When the waitress came over to ask about starting courses, you were still looking at one another, like you were both trying to place exactly what was going on, exactly what all of it meant. Yunho looked at you like he was trying to read your mind, trying to figure out what you thought about him, and you looked at him like you were trying to piece together a complex puzzle, trying to figure out what he wanted from you.
It was Yunho who broke eye contact first, who glanced over at the waitress, who ordered a few starters for the table.
When she walked away, you were still looking at him, watching. Studying, almost. Like you could glean something in the way he talked to others, in whether he chose bruschetta or burrata.
“So,” he said, lowering his empty glass back to the table.
“So,” you mirrored.
It occurred to you then that you knew almost nothing about him, aside from the fact that he liked video games and coffee. Aside from what his mouth felt like against yours.
You engaged in tense, short, small talk for a little while, until the food came out. How work had been for you, what he’d been up to with his time. Trying to get to know each other even a little bit more. It all came back to pointed glances and tension—both of you guarded against something. Not each other, really, but refusing to let the other in.
Yunho didn’t give much away about himself, only continued asking about you. And you could only tease him in response. Keeping him at a distance by pushing back, instead.
As the wine levels lowered, so did your defenses.
“Is this how it usually goes for you?” you asked, finishing off your second glass of wine while you waited for his answer. He didn’t speak immediately, so you clarified. “Like, on all your dates, is this usually how things go?”
“I don’t know where you got this idea that I go on tons of dates,” he said.
It only served to stun you. Because—where else would you have gotten that information, aside from the obvious? By living next door. By kicking out said dates the next morning.
“I mean—” you started.
“Your impression of me,” he said. “It’s wrong. You think I’m this ladies man, right?” He laughed like he couldn’t even say the words with a straight face. “I’m really not.”
“Oh, please,” you said, because you knew that to be false. You’d met the women. Spoken with them.
He chuckled under his breath. “Just because they were at my house didn’t mean I went out on dates with them. You know that, right? That you don’t have to go on a date with someone to get into bed with them?” He raised a brow in such a suggestive way that you choked on your saliva.
“I know that,” you said. Even though it didn’t really occur to you that he wasn’t actually dating anyone.
“This is the first date I’ve been on in over a year,” he said, offering up something about himself completely unprompted. “So I don’t know how it’s going, really. My date seems a little tense. A little nervous, even though she doesn’t want to admit it.”
“You haven’t been on a date in over a year?” you asked, lingering on the details. “But you’re so—” you started, then realized you had no idea how to finish the sentence. What? Active?
“Let’s just get this conversation over with,” Yunho said, a bit of tension appearing in the crease between his brows. He didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to draw attention to it. But you were so obviously curious, and it was so easy to do anything when it was what you wanted.
“No,” you said, holding a hand up. “It’s okay, really. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “It makes sense why you did. The women I’ve been with, they knew what I was looking for. I didn’t trick them or make them think I was looking for a relationship when I wasn’t. We met at bars or clubs or on dating apps. I didn’t date any of them.”
“Okay,” you said.
“So, I guess I’m kind of rusty,” he said. “When it comes to stuff like this.”
You laughed. “You’re not rusty at all,” you said. “You’re charming. You’ve always been charming.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Like, annoyingly so.”
He looked down at the table, but not before you caught the slight blush appearing on his cheeks. Had you actually made Yunho blush?
“I think that makes you the experienced dater in the situation, then,” Yunho said.
This, too, made you laugh. Because if there was anything you didn’t have experience with, it was dating. All of your dates had ended—with a fizzle and certainly without a bang. Your track record over the past year or two was mostly boring. Boring men who didn’t make you laugh. Boring men who you couldn’t bicker playfully with. Men who wanted more from you than you had to give. Or not enough.
“I don’t know about that,” you said. Then, “Maybe we’re both losers.”
A bright smile crossed his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”
The rest of the dinner went by without as much tension. You learned a few little bits of information about one another. Where he grew up. What you studied in school. What your favorite drink to make at work was.
“Do you like it?” he asked, refilling your wine when a new bottle appeared at the table seemingly out of nowhere. “Your job?”
You shrugged. “Most of the time, yes.” You took a small sip. “I like the people. The regulars are mostly cool. And I get this glimpse into people’s lives that I don’t think I could get anywhere else. I only get to see what they want to show me. What they tell me about their day, or whatever baggage they bring to the counter. I like that.”
“Is what they say about bartenders really true?” he asked. “Do people tell you their life stories, their secrets?”
“Sometimes,” you said. “Depends on the person, and how many drinks they’ve had. Most people keep to themselves, but I have a few regulars who like to talk.”
“You’re kind of fascinating, you know that?” he asked.
“What?” you said, exhaling a short laugh.
“When I moved in down the hall, you were headed out somewhere with Wooyoung and Jihyo—”
You interrupted him. “No, that’s okay, you don’t have to—”
“Why?” he asked. “I like this story.”
You put your hands over your face like you could hide from it, from your own actions several months ago.
“You walked right over to me and introduced yourself. I thought that was pretty cool.”
Really? Because you had recounted that interaction several times in the hours afterward, convinced that you had made a complete ass out of yourself, convinced that you were the lamest person in the entire world.
“Do you remember what you said to me?” he asked.
“No,” you said. Even though you obviously did. Even though you knew exactly the words you’d said.
Yunho smiled. “That I could come over any time if I needed something. That you were excited to have a cool, new neighbor.”
You hid your face behind your hands again. “God, that’s so lame.”
“I thought it was cute.”
“You did not,” you said.
He took a sip of his wine, eyes not leaving yours as he did. Heat rose to your cheeks, and you were certain that this embarrassment was going to kill you.
“And then you came over whenever you wanted for the rest of forever,” you said. “Just to bother me.”
He laughed again. “I came over because I thought you were cute.”
“I thought you were just trying to get away from the girls in your apartment.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Because they weren’t you.”
You rolled your eyes at him because it was such a line. So something he would say to get what he wanted, to make a girl blush, or make them want him. It was probably something he said to those girls in the bar, to get them to come home with him. Not that he probably had to say much of anything at all. His appearance could do most of the talking.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” he said. “I’m being honest here.”
“You are not,” you said.
His eyebrows raised at your blatant dismissal. “Just because you don’t want to believe me doesn’t make it untrue.”
“Yunho, be serious.”
“I am being serious,” he said. “None of those girls meant anything to me. They knew it. I knew it.”
“How charming,” you said.
“Are you going to keep judging me for this, or can we move on?” he asked, straight-faced, just as blatant as your words. It must have been the alcohol, making you both so free to talk about what you were really thinking.
“I’m not judging you for sleeping around. I don’t care about your sex life, Yunho. I really don’t,” you said. “You just can’t expect me to believe that you were thinking about me the whole time. I mean, we didn’t even know each other.”
“I know you wake up at ten on weekdays and eleven on weekends. I know you record more reality TV than any sane person probably should. I know that you like coffee and you hate tea. I know you make a really good old-fashioned. I know you like people. I know you’re kind, but you don’t take people’s shit.”
It was all true.
“And I know I think about you when you aren’t around. I know that I’m not good enough for you even on my best days.”
“That’s not true,” you said. “You’re good.”
“Is that why you rejected me?” he asked.
“No,” you said. “I rejected you because I wanted more than I thought you wanted to give me.”
Something lit up behind his eyes when he smiled.
The rest of the date went on without incident. You returned to small talk. To easier conversation. To more teasing and taunting.
When you finally left, both wine drunk and happy, it was with intertwined hands.
“So nice of you to walk me home,” you joked.
“Well, I am quite the gentleman,” Yunho said.
You laughed under your breath.
“Your place or mine?” you asked as you stepped into the lobby and pressed the button to call the elevator down.
He looked shocked by this. Like he hadn’t been thinking about it all night, what taking you back to his place would be like. Okay, so maybe he had, but that didn’t mean he was going to act on those feelings. No, he wanted to do this right.
He didn’t respond fast enough, and it felt like a rejection.
You played it off. “I just want to make you a drink, Yunho. Don’t be weird,” you said. Even though that wasn’t exactly what you meant. Maybe it meant what he thought it meant. That you were looking for more.
“Your place, then,” he said, trying to keep the smile off his lips with little success.
The elevator doors slipped open, and you both stepped inside.
That same tension returned again. The we-kissed-here tension.
You were both looking at each other. Wine drunk and smiling. You used your intertwined hands to pull him toward you. He took one confident stride closer. When the doors slid open at your floor, his hands were reaching up to touch your arms, that same darkened look in his eyes. The part of his lips, the way his eyes roamed your face, up and down, unable to stop in any one location. He wanted to kiss you.
But he remained that step away, instead letting his knuckles glide along your skin.
You reached out for him, like that first night. Your hands found his lapels as the elevator doors slid closed. You didn’t tug him closer, but just held them.
He leaned down slowly, eyes shifting between your lips and your mouth. Your lips parted, too, and he captured them like it was an invitation.
Kissing him felt just as insane every single time you’d done it. There was the urgency and the fear of the first night, the pretending. And days ago, there had only been tenderness in his investigation. This kiss fell somewhere in the middle.
You could taste the wine on his lips as they moved slowly against yours. He tried to savor every bit of you. But as soon as it was really getting started, he was pulling away, cutting it off.
Then, his hand intertwined with yours again. He hit a button to make the elevator doors open again, and he led you down the hall, toward your place.
You wanted to reach for him again, wanted to drag him down for another kiss. But his expression looked like steel. He didn’t look at you, but instead forward at the door while you dug around for your keys. Even when you tried to steal a glance, he didn’t meet it.
But he let you lead him into your apartment, and once you were inside, he removed his jacket, placing it on the back of one of your chairs. You went to the kitchen, and he followed you, wrapping his arms low around your waist so he could rest his chin on your shoulder.
It was so domestic that it made your teeth hurt like you were sucking on a sweet candy.
“What do you like to drink?” you asked. “Do you actually like an old-fashioned, or were you just trying to piss me off?”
He chuckled in your ear, low and melodic, his breath curling against the shell of your ear. “I like them.”
“But are they your favorite?” you asked.
“I don’t know if I have a favorite,” he said.
“Everyone has a favorite,” you said.
“What’s yours?” he asked. “That’s what I want.”
You weren’t going to be able to make anyone anything if he kept holding onto you like that, kept whispering in your ear.
“I like, um,” you started. “Mai tais. Rum-based drinks in general.”
“Rum sounds good,” he said.
You took a step forward, and his arms fell away from you. You collected a few things from the counter, moving them over to the place next to the sink. Yunho stayed close, watching you work as you sliced and juiced a lime. He watched as you filled a shaker with ice and added the ingredients. He watched you shake it, then strain the contents over ice in a lowball glass. He watched as you carefully placed a few cherries atop the drink next to a lime wheel.
“Wait,” you said. “Finishing touch.” You dug around in a drawer and found a tiny umbrella, which you dropped into the drink for him, before picking it up and handing it to him.
He took a tentative sip, then smiled. “Damn, that’s good.”
“Kind of my specialty,” you said, already starting the process over for yours.
Eventually, the two of you migrated to the couch. You took a seat on the ground, your back to the legs of the couch, your drink on the table adjacent to you. Yunho sat behind you, on the couch itself.
You already had a controller in your hands, and it didn’t take long before Yunho wandered to the other side of the room to pick up another one.
While you scrolled through your available games, he said, “Trying to figure out which game you want to lose at?”
You shook your head, not looking back at him. “Cocky,” you commented. “I think you’ll find I’m better than you think.”
“I play on your account,” he said, which really meant I’ve seen your statistics.
“Okay, so I’m bad at the games you like to play,” you said.
He slipped onto the ground next to you.
“I was thinking something collaborative.”
You pulled up Overcooked and watched as he rolled his sleeves up.
“It’s that serious?” you asked, teasingly.
He laughed. “It’s incredibly serious.”
You both finished your drinks and played into the middle of the night, yelling at each other about vegetables and recipes.
It was nearly three in the morning when your eyes started to get heavy, when your head started to hurt, the hangover starting. You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting your eyes fall closed. Neither of you moved for a long time. At some point, his hand came up to stroke long lines into your hair. And when you did, finally, fall asleep like that, he scooped you up and carried you to bed.
He peeled back the covers and deposited you there, pulling them back up around your body afterward. He pressed a kiss into your hair and disappeared.
When you woke up the next morning, it was to an empty apartment. When you wandered into the living room, there were no empty mai tai glasses to be found, no dishes from your late-night cocktail crafting. Everything was clean and put away.
You had no choice but to call Jihyo.
When she answered, it was not with a hello but with the immediate, important questions. “Oh my god, how was it?”
You kicked your feet up on the coffee table, leaned back with arms crossed over your chest, thinking.
“You’re up later than usual—does that mean it went really well?” Jihyo asked.
What was this feeling developing in the center of your chest? It couldn’t possibly be disappointment, right? There was nothing wrong with the date. He’d been a perfect gentleman. He’d paid for the meal, walked you home, let you yell at him into the wee hours of the night. He’d even tucked you in and washed your dishes.
But he’d hardly kissed you.
“It was… good,” you said.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It wasn’t bad,” you said hastily. “It was really good. It just—I just, I guess I can’t even tell if he really even likes me or not.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
You shrugged, even though Jihyo couldn’t see it. “We kissed again, but that was it—and he didn’t even seem like, eager to continue.”
“That’s… weird,” was Jihyo’s analysis of the evening. You filled her in on the rest of the fine details. The restaurant, the banter, the moments of tension. “Maybe he’s just being careful?” she suggested. “Like he doesn’t want you to think he just wants you for one thing.”
“Yeah,” you said. “Maybe.”
Jihyo laughed. “So what you’re saying is that it was a really good date, but you’re annoyed he didn’t put out?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” you said.
“Kind of sounds like what you’re saying.”
“I’m hanging up now,” you said.
And you did.
It wasn’t long before you heard from Yunho again. Before another date was scheduled. Before you were calling Jihyo afterward again to recount the same news. The lack of news. And then it happened again. You were beginning to think the worst, that he didn’t want you. When he pulled away from another kiss on the night of your fourth date, two weeks into whatever it was the two of you were doing together, you threw your hands out in exasperation.
“Is there something wrong with me?” you asked.
He folded his arms over his chest. “Hm?” he asked. Then, what you said must have registered with him. “What do you mean?” He might have teased you if you hadn’t sounded so serious.
You chewed on your bottom lip for a long time, trying to work up the nerve to say the words you really wanted to say.
“I mean,” you started, but the words died on your tongue.
He had to know.
There was no way he didn’t.
He lifted his hand to your face, curled two fingers under your chin, and lifted, making you hold his gaze. His eyes were sharp, brown, drowning in blown-out pupils.
“Do you even still like me?” you asked, getting the words out. They weren’t exactly the right words, but the right words made your stomach turn. Even these ones made your heart beat faster, made your fingers twitch. Because it felt so stupid to be asking. Obviously, he liked you.
And he laughed.
Because, of course, he laughed.
It was a stupid fucking question.
“Of course, I like you,” he said, still holding your chin, still looking at you. Something knowing crossed his features, then, and you wished he would just confirm your worries without you having to actually speak them aloud.
“Then why don’t you want me?” you asked, voice small and timid.
His hand moved to the side of your face, his fingers dipping into your hair, holding you. “You think that I don’t want you?” he asked.
“I mean, it’s the only reasonable explanation,” you stammered, heat rushing to your cheeks.
“It’s not reasonable,” Yunho said.
Then, he dropped his hand from your face, slipping his palm into yours instead. He tugged you toward his door, away from your apartment—where he was previously dropping you off for the evening. You don’t even remember what his excuse had been. Something about having to work in the morning.
You let him lead you down the hall, toward his apartment. You would have followed him anywhere. He didn’t speak, just walked with you trailing behind. The short distance felt so much longer when you had to cross it without knowing what was on his mind.
As soon as you were inside, the door closed behind you, and he had you pressed against it, the cold metal interior, the doorknob just to the side of your hip. He didn’t kiss you. Just held you caged between his arms, elbows next to your shoulder, forearms resting against the door next to your head.
You cleared your throat. Breathing felt like an impossibility, like all of the air had been sucked fully and totally out of the room, with his face so close to yours, his eyes studying every movement you made.
“What were you saying?” you asked, voice just above a whisper. “About it being unreasonable?”
He ran the tip of his tongue along the inside of his cheek, and it was so much hotter than it had any reason to be.
How high did he keep the heat in his apartment? Why did it feel like you were absolutely drenched in sweat? Your hands were clammy, your fingers tense at your side. You didn’t touch him, even though you wanted to. You weren’t afraid of being rejected. You knew that wasn’t what this was, exactly. But you were too curious to move.
Curious about what he would do—what he wanted.
Yunho shifted his weight, pressing against the door with one arm, in order to lean slightly back, to run the pads of his pointer and middle finger along your jawline. Your eyes stayed locked on his, watching him as he followed the movement of his hand. They flicked back to you, dark and deep. He cleared his throat, parted his soft, almost heart-shaped lips, to speak.
“I was trying,” he started, voice still gravely despite his attempt at clearing it. “To be a gentleman.”
Your lips formed into an oh, and you swallowed thick, trying to gather the confidence to say the next thing. To make the words known. “You don’t have to be.”
His fingers stilled on your jaw, and his dark brown eyes—overflowing with want—caught yours. You tried to keep your gaze neutral, but you could tell by the way he was looking at you that it wasn’t a success.
One corner of his lips quirked up first, just before the smirk drew across his face. Brows slightly raised, eyes inquisitive.
He was still so close to you, leaning in just an inch away from your lips. You could have closed the distance if you wanted to, but there was something appealing about this game the two of you had started playing the moment the door to his apartment closed. Like it was something tangible between the two of you that could be grabbed at any moment, but you both tiptoed around it, careful and curious.
Yunho’s hand fell to your neck, his knuckles dragged downward, skittering over your pulse and making your heart beat faster.
“So jumpy,” he said. “How long have you been thinking about this?” he asked. “About saying something?”
Your lips parted, but the confidence in your brain didn’t meet the confidence of the real-life situation, couldn’t face the way he was looking at you. Words died on your tongue, and he looked at you like he could see the entire process. Your struggling only made his smirk more proud.
“Really interesting,” he said, voice still low and gravely, but soft—too. A tool he used for inspection. “I was trying to be a gentleman for you, and you were thinking about—what?” he asked.
Your breath caught in your throat as he lowered his lips to the edge of your ear. You tried to collect your thoughts, tried to figure out how to navigate this new situation. This was the Yunho you were more familiar with. The one who poked and prodded at you. Who teased you in the living room, who was downright difficult.
It was the gentlemanly version of him that you’d been unfamiliar with, that you didn’t know quite how to handle.
“Oh, now she’s quiet,” he commented. “You had so much to say not even five minutes ago.”
“Five minutes ago, you didn’t have me pressed up against a wall,” you said, trying to steady your voice into something that sounded any semblance of calm, even if you didn’t feel it.
He slipped his hand into your hair at the base of your neck. “How long have you been thinking about it?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, tilting your head up as you ran your tongue over your lower lip.
Yunho laughed dryly under his breath. “Is that right?”
“That’s right,” you repeated.
“I was going to be so nice to you, baby,” Yunho whispered, breath curling against your ear. “Was going to treat you so good, too. Now, I’m not sure you deserve it.”
Your mouth fell open.
“What?” he asked, pulling back to look at you, to read the shock running its way across your face. “You want to play pretend now—pretend you haven’t been thinking about it, pretend you didn’t just ask. I can play, too.”
“I just—” you start. “You weren’t—”
“What wasn’t I doing?” he asked, one brow quirked upward. He wanted actual, tangible answers.
The way he spoke made everything in your brain stop working. All the lights turned off, and it was just fizzling, crackling energy left behind. Nothing that converted the thoughts into words. You were left just staring at him, mouth opening for a moment before your lips pressed together again.
Yunho was patient. He didn’t speak. Just kept his hand laced through your hair, kept that same look leveled on you. It didn’t help, but it certainly didn’t hurt, either.
“Let’s recap,” he said after a moment. “You asked me why I don’t want you. Which, I’m not sure where you got that idea, but that’s not important. And I asked you how long you’ve been thinking about this. And what was it that you said?” he asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A small smile crept across your lips in delight at the way he spoke, the way his words got faster the more irritated he got with trying to figure you out. It was nice to be the one to get under his skin for once.
He shook his head in disbelief, but you could see the hint of a smile on his lips, too. He was enjoying this just as much as you were, this back and forth.
“I don’t,” you said, a proud smile on your lips now. “Know what you’re talking about.”
He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh.
“You know if you keep playing innocent, you’re not going to get what you want. What we both know you want,” he said.
You pressed your lips into a pout. He couldn’t resist. He removed his hand from your hair and touched the center of your lower lip with the pad of his thumb, dragging gently downward. “You don’t have to pout,” he said. “Just tell me how long you’ve been thinking about it—and don’t lie.”
Speaking didn’t appeal to you. Instead, you parted your lips around his thumb and leaned just slightly forward so the pad landed flat atop your tongue.
He did it again, ran the tip of his tongue along the inside of his cheek in an attempt to mask his frustration. He hummed, a disapproving sound laced with something else. Like he enjoyed it, but didn’t want to indulge.
“That’s not going to work on me, beautiful,” he said, pulling his thumb slowly out of your mouth. He dropped his hand to the space right below your neck, holding it ever-so-gently. He leaned in slowly, so his lips were only a fraction from yours.
Your body reacted before you could stop it, leaning slightly forward to try to capture his lips. He pulled back, holding you firm against the door with one hand. “Ah, ah,” he said.
“You don’t want to kiss me, Yunho?” you asked, pouting. “I mean, I kind of got that impression on our dates, but I thought maybe I was wrong.”
He ran his tongue over his gums, just under his lower lip, and you could tell you were driving him insane, too.
But you kept going. “If you don’t really want me, I could just go home,” you said.
“Never said that,” he said. He took one of your hands, hanging useless at your side, and placed it atop the taut material and the hard length underneath it, lowering his lips to your ear again to whisper, “I want you, but not before you tell me what I want to hear.”
He didn’t hold your hand to him, but yours lingered, regardless. You moved your palm against him, and he worked hard to keep his expression neutral, to not break immediately underneath your touch. After a few moments, he pulled your hand away, holding it tight in his.
“Come on, baby,” he said. “How long?” The tip of his nose ran along the shell of your ear, and you shuddered under the sensation. Goosebumps rose on your forearms, and the heat of the apartment had only increased. “How long were you thinking about this while I was focused on treating you right, being a gentleman?”
He kissed the hinge of your jaw. “I just want to know how long it took,” he said, pressing another kiss lower, along your jawline. “Was it the first date?” he asked. “Or the second?” Another kiss, this time at the top of your neck. You angled your head away from him, giving him better access. He didn’t comment, but you could feel the pride tug at the corner of his lips. “You must have been really frustrated to ask.” He dragged his teeth downward, then bit gently. “Were you frustrated?”
All the bravado disappeared, and you were left, mouth open, victim to his ministrations, trying to figure out exactly how you could argue against this idea that you had been thinking about him like this nonstop for the past two weeks.
You could no longer find a good reason to continue frustrating him.
“The night you drove me home,” you said, your voice just above a whisper, like it was embarrassing to admit. His smile grew against your skin in an instant.
“Mmm,” he hummed against your skin. “The kiss in the elevator really did it for you?”
“No,” you said, like it was an instinct to shut him down.
He only chuckled into the crook of your neck.
“Is this what I have to look forward to?” he asked. “You being a brat?”
“No,” you said, cocky smile across your face.
“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he said, exasperation seeping into his words, seconds before his lips were on yours. You were all talk. The moment his lips touched yours, you came alive against him. It was a taste of what you wanted, and you immediately didn’t want it to end. You pushed away from the door, letting your arms fall over his shoulders as you pressed your body into his. His hands fell to your waist, then slid around to your back, holding you against him.
Yeah, sure. Maybe you were impatient. Maybe you’d been thinking about this for weeks. Maybe you didn’t want him to know just how much you’d been thinking about it, how much your body absolutely craved his. But when your hands dropped to the buttons of his shirt, he didn’t complain. He didn’t make you stop to recite the answers to any questions.
He just smiled against your lips, proud, like he’d won something.
Your fingers grazed his bare skin as you worked further down. He deepened the kiss, angling forward as he tilted your head back, slipping his tongue between your lips. Yunho’s fingers dug into the cloth covering your hips, and your fingers stalled on his shirt. You reached for his skin instead, wanting to touch anything you could. You put one hand flat on his chest, but he was quick to loop a hand around your wrist and pull it away.
“Hey,” you mumbled into his lips.
He gave no response, only laced his fingers through the hand he’d stolen and pinned it back against the door as he continued to kiss you, running his tongue along yours.
“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he said, breaking apart from your mouth, breaths ragged, forehead touching yours. “At anytime,” he said.
You nodded, but remained silent. Hoping for the continuation of whatever he was doing, his lips on your again, his hands exploring your body. Any of it. You didn’t care. You’d take what he was willing to give. You might even say thank you.
He kissed you again, dragging your lower lip into his mouth as his fingers inched toward the hem of your shirt. One hand snuck underneath it. His knuckles grazed your bare stomach, and you jumped. He smiled into the kiss, and you rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it.
“You sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked, muttering the words against you between kisses. “I’m barely touching you.”
“I’m fine,” you hissed. His lips found the column of your neck again, however, and you began to question the declaration.
He chuckled again, letting the sound reverberate through you as his fingers climbed further up your abdomen.
Your head lolled backward, resting against the door behind you, the rest of your body arched forward into him.
“You give up on the shirt?” he asked, eyes glancing between the two of you, to the few buttons holding his shirt together.
“No,” you said.
His hand still held one of yours pinned to the door. You reached between your bodies with your free one and worked on the button. It kept slipping free from your fingers at the same time as your soft moans. He bit your pulse point, sucking your skin into his mouth gently at first and then harder. Your lids fluttered closed, and the fabric fell out of your hand again.
“Come on,” he said.
His other hand slipped under your bra, cupping your breast. You almost had the last button done when his thumb ran over your nipple. “Yunho,” you hissed in annoyance.
“Want me to stop?” he asked, lifting his lips from your neck just enough to catch your gaze, his thumb still moving back and forth across your nipple inconsistently, making it impossible to get used to.
“It would be easier,” you said. “If I could use my other hand.”
“Huh,” he said. “That’s too bad.” Then, he dropped his lips to your neck again, kissing lower, grazing them along the length of your collarbone.
You finally did get the last button, then used your one free hand to attempt to push the fabric back off his shoulders. You tugged against his hand, trying to free yourself from the grip. He held firm, didn’t even so much as budge. But he felt your attempt, and that had him grinning.
“Need help?” he asked.
“Nope,” you said. You had most of his chest revealed, and that was good enough for you. You reached out for it, running just the tips of your fingers down the center. He didn’t stop you this time, letting you explore him.
He released your hand then, only for his own benefit, to grab the hem of your shirt with both hands and lift it up and over your head.
You stood apart for a second, looking at one another. His eyes fell to your chest, your cleavage. His tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip. You were too busy getting the rest of his shirt off to notice the way he looked at you.
The break only lasted a moment, but it might as well have been an eternity of not touching one another. Of studying what was before you and wanting it. You both seized forward at the same time, your lips colliding as hands roamed over bodies. Yours found his shoulders, slid down his arms over his biceps, then back up. His went to your waist, around to your back. One fiddled with the strap of your bra before unhooking it in a swift motion.
He didn’t break the kiss, just took a half-step back as he pulled the straps off your shoulders and down. Once your bra was on the floor in the growing pile of clothes next to you, he pulled away again to look at you. His lips were on your skin again in no time, working downward as his hand moved upward. He rolled one nipple between thumb and forefinger as he kissed a circle around the other.
Your body tensed under his ministrations, and you were certain this man was going to be the absolute death of you with his knowing looks and his slow touches. Heat started in your stomach and dripped dangerously low at every caress. But you tried to keep your cool, tried to handle it. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being putty in his hands.
Yunho hummed a sound of happiness as he sucked, flicking your nipple with his tongue. Your hands threaded into his hair.
His hands fell to your pants, unbuttoning the top button. “Take these off,” he said, and you finished the job, stepping out of them as he kissed back upward, taking his time. His fingers teased at the waistband of your underwear.
You sucked in a breath, hot and sharp between your teeth. The door pressed cold lines into your back, and Yunho’s fingertips continued to flutter atop the band, teasing. The heat of the moment and the cold of the metal did not grant you equilibrium but only contributed to the building feeling of overstimulation that you know he would absolutely revel in if he could read your mind.
Maybe he could read your mind, because he smirked against your skin for at least the tenth time in so many minutes, and you were starting to think he knew every nasty thought you’d ever had.
It was a stalemate, because you knew that he wanted you restless. He wanted you begging. But you didn’t want to voice another word, another request, didn’t want to do what he told you to do. Unfortunately, you also really wanted him to slip his fingers lower.
He watched you, too, like he knew you were making this calculation.
He placed his hand across your stomach as he leaned forward to whisper in your ear. “Just say it,” he whispered. “I know you want to.”
He lifted your chin with his fingers as he pulled back, meeting your eyes. His eyes were dark and heavy, full of clear desire. The word no died on your tongue.
But neither did he wait for you to ask. He held your eye contact as he moved his hand between your thighs, humming as he ran the pads of his fingers along your clothed slit. “Nice and wet for me, hm?”
He pushed your underwear to the side, dragged his middle finger through your folds, and then slipped it inside of you to the knuckle.
“See, I can be nice,” he said.
You choked on a gasp and tried to let your head fall back against the door, but he held your chin firm, keeping his eyes on you. He moved his finger slowly as you adjusted. His eyes traced your expression, the subtle part of your lips, the way your eyes rolled slightly backward. And you studied his, too. The hooded gaze as he watched you, the way his smirk got cockier every time you reacted to the movement.
There was no escaping his careful eye. He caught every soundless gasp, every subtle movement.
He liked you like this, falling apart and trying to keep yourself together at the same time. Not wanting to give in to him, but wanting everything he had to give. He liked teasing it out of you, that desire.
Your lids fluttered closed as he stroked just the right spot, curling his finger to meet it.
“Eyes open,” he said. His voice was firm, but not sharp. Commanding in a gentle kind of way.
It didn’t make you want to listen.
“Or what?” you challenged, eyes still closed.
“Or I’ll stop,” he said. And he did.
Your eyes flew open, and he couldn’t help the breathy laugh that fell off his lips.
“You’re trying so hard, baby, but your body keeps giving you away,” Yunho said, a hair away from your lips, before he kissed you.
He slipped another finger inside of you at the same time, and your body arched forward, your hands reaching for something to hold onto and finding his shoulders with ease. You groaned into his mouth, both at the feeling and his words.
“God,” you moaned, breaking away from his lips to catch your breath. He didn’t go far, instead dropping his lips to your neck, biting and sucking at your skin until you felt like you were melting. You rolled your hips against his hand, wanting more, and he gave it without a word. His thumb ran over your clit, sending a shudder through your body. “Yunho, oh my god,” you muttered, hands digging into his shoulders.
It was all too much. His teeth on your neck, his fingers moving fast inside you, curling, and his thumb running circles over your clit at a pace that made everything ache.
“That feel good, baby?” he asked, voice gravely, breath hot on your neck.
He didn’t slow his pace, so you could barely voice the words you wanted to say. All that came out was a breathy, “Don’t stop.”
And he was smirking again, running his tongue over your pulse before whispering, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Your hips kept rolling into his fingers, but he managed to keep the dizzing pressure on your clit as you squirmed. He took a step into you, pressing you up against the door again. One of his legs snuck between yours, and he used his upper thigh to hold you in place.
He had you on the edge, about to teeter over, every muscle in your body so tense you were almost shaking.
Then, he did exactly what he said he wouldn’t. He stopped. He dragged his fingers out of you slow, removed his thumb from your clit, and met your eyes. He struggled to keep your gaze, his eyes falling to your heaving chest as you tried to catch your breath.
You groaned and tried to let your head fall back against the door, but he caught it, holding you forward by the neck.
“Aw, you don’t like being teased, baby?” he asked, looking down his nose at you.
You whimpered, moving your hips against his thigh in search of something. He only pinned you harder, keeping you from moving at all.
He lifted his hand, slick with you, and tapped your lower lip. “Open,” he said.
Your lips fell open, and he placed both of his fingers on the flat of your tongue. You closed your lips around them. He pressed down on your tongue, and you licked from the base of his finger to the tip without breaking the very direct eye contact he made with you.
“Look at that,” he said. “You can follow directions.”
You rolled your eyes and bit down gently on his fingers. He hooked his fingertips just behind your teeth and pulled you forward.
“Mm,” he hummed. “I think I like you like this—unable to talk back.”
You ran your tongue over his fingers again, tried to move your hips again, chasing anything that would give you any kind of satisfaction now that fire danced over every inch of your skin, where he touched you and where he didn’t.
He pulled his fingers from your mouth slowly as you licked them clean. He replaced his fingers with his tongue, lips crashing into yours—hungrier than before. The entire length of his body pressed up against you, anchoring you in place. You could hardly move between him and the wall, except to reach for him, to grip his arms tight in a grounding kind of way.
He took a step away from you, dragging his lips from yours like it was the hardest decision he’d ever made. Then, he was grabbing your hand, pulling you deeper into his apartment, past the kitchen, through the living room, toward his bedroom.
You’d been here before, seen these places before. You’d stalked through his apartment, looking for your fake boyfriend in order to drive off the women he’d slept with, you’d sat on his couch post-date, talking into the late hours of the night.
The place seemed different now. His bedroom a completely new world. You’d only seen it in the aftermath, or with another woman sprawled out across it, waiting for his return. It was pristine now, the bed made with crisp sheets and a comfortable atop it. Pillows stacked in front of the headboard.
He guided you toward the edge of the bed, and you sat while he towered over you, hands lowering to his belt. You watched with rapt attention, tongue running between your lips. He undid his belt buckle, then the top button of his pants. He worked slowly—slower because he could tell you were watching, waiting.
Yunho let his pants fall to his ankles. He stepped out of them, and your hands shot out, touching his abdomen but trailing downward for more. You were so interested, so needy. You’d never wanted anyone as much as you wanted him, right then.
He slipped his hands over yours, and you rolled your eyes before he could open his mouth.
“Ask for it,” he said, looking down at you. That same smirk playing on his lips. You should have known that being with him would be like this, with all the teasing he did outside the bedroom. All the playful glances he always shot in your direction, all the comments he made. It just never occurred to you that he would be so, well, annoying.
Why was it so hot, then? If you were so annoyed, why did his words always make that same heat pool between your legs, always make you want him even more? And why did it drive you absolutely insane anytime he asked you anything?
You pressed your lips into a tight line, determined to be stubborn about this.
“You don’t have to touch me,” he said. “But if you want to—I’m going to need to hear you ask.”
He held your hands tight in his to prevent them from going anywhere.
“You’re—”
“What, baby?” he asked, still looking down at you, not touching you anywhere other than your hands. He cocked his head to the side. “What am I?”
“Bossy,” you said. “And kind of a pain in the ass.”
He laughed, a full, deep one that shook his chest. “You want me to stop?” he asked, lifting one hand to tilt your chin upward. “I could be nice to you, instead. Really nice.”
You hesitated.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said.
“Shut up,” you said, pushing against his abdomen with your intertwined hands. You grumbled under your breath. You batted your eyelashes at him. “I’d really like to touch you, Yunho. Could I, please?”
He smirked. “Now, I don’t think you really mean that.”
“Oh, should I get on my knees?” you said, that same expression on your face—fluttering eyelashes, like you’d do anything he wanted if he really wanted it.
“Only if you want to, beautiful,” he said. He freed your other hand, too.
You hooked your fingers into the band of his boxers and pulled them down, tongue flicking out to wet your lips as you slid off the edge of the bed and onto your knees in front of him. He watched, silently, one hand coming up to gather your hair away from your face.
One of your hands lifted to wrap around him. He was big, you had to admit. And you couldn’t keep the look off your face. Like you were drunk on want. Like he was all you could possibly think about.
You leaned forward, flattened your tongue against the underside of the tip, eyes flicking up to meet his as you did, watching for a reaction. He didn’t hold back as you did, but let you watch as his lips parted. His hand tightened in your hair, and you gasped as you took him into your mouth—shallow at first, as you got used to the size.
Slowly, you took him deeper.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re so good.”
He rolled his hips once, slow, as he held the back of your head.
“That okay?” he asked, his voice dropping to one much more gentle than how he’d been speaking to you.
You nodded as best you could with your mouth wrapped around his cock.
Another slow roll of his hips, and he was reaching your throat. You dropped your hands from him and looked up. You stopped moving, letting him take control instead. He held the back of your head firm and rolled his hips again and again, a little harder each time.
Each time he hit the back of your throat, your eyes stung. His grip in your hair tightened, and you moaned around him, which only made him thrust into your mouth faster—harder.
Tears stung in the corners of your eyes, but neither of you stopped.
“God,” Yunho hissed again, hips bucking, snapping forward into you one more time before he pulled out fast.
“Get up,” he said, and you stood—no attitude needed.
He wiped the tears from under your eyes, the drool from your mouth, then spun you around and pressed you down, into the mattress. He reached into the drawer next to his bed, ripped open a condom with his teeth, and rolled it on, keeping one hand on your lower back.
He guided the tip of his cock to your entrance and dragged it through your folds. “Still so wet, and I wasn’t even touching you,” he said.
You couldn’t get a single word out. Your face was buried in the bedspread. He pushed just the tip inside of you, and every muscle in your legs went taut, seizing up.
“Relax, baby,” Yunho said, moving forward another inch, reveling in the stretch, the feeling of tightness as you clamped down hard around him. Your hands were already balled into the fabric next to you, your teeth already biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep from whimpering. You pushed back against him, trying to get more.
His hands came up to hold your hips, preventing you from moving. He slid forward another inch, slowly, enough to make you ache.
“Please,” you begged, needing all of him way faster than he was willing to give it.
You could practically hear the smirk appear behind you as he rolled his hips forward into you, filling you up.
A jagged gasp escaped your lips. You could feel him pulsing inside of you, twitching, betraying his resolve. But he didn’t move. He kept one hand on your hip, then ran the other down your spine, making you shiver.
“Yunho,” you whimpered.
“Something you want, hm?” he asked, voice low and dark, like he was holding back from what he wanted, too, just to break you down even further.
You gritted your teeth. “Yes,” you said, forcing the word out.
He traced lazy circles on your back. “Tell me.”
“Yunho,” you moaned again, trying to move your hips against them again.
He stilled them once more. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?” you teased—only punishing yourself.
He shifted only slightly, enough to remind you what you wanted. He grabbed your shoulder, pulled you back against him, pushing his cock even deeper into you, making you gasp into the blankets. “Tell me what you want from me.”
“God, Yunho,” you muttered, thighs starting to shake. “I want you,” you said. “I don’t know—I want you, I just want you.”
He laughed dryly under his breath and rewarded you with a slow roll of his hips. “Not specific enough,” he said.
You groaned again, exasperated and desperate.
“I don’t—” you started, another slow, agonizing thrust. “I don’t—”
“You know,” he said. “You just don’t want to say it.”
He pulled out of you slow, then snapped his hips forward, taking you to new levels of desperation.
“You’re—” you stumbled over your words. “You’re being so mean.”
He stilled again, giving you time to process, to think. He massaged circles into your hip with his palm. “Yeah?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said, through gritted teeth. He started slow again, and you couldn’t help the whimpers that fell off your lips immediately, giving you away. “I want you so bad, please. Yunho, please,” you begged.
He didn’t move.
“What do you want me to say?” you hissed, irritated. “That I want you to fuck me until I see stars?”
His fingers dug into your hip, and you knew you’d hit the mark.
“Look at you, so good with your words,” he commented.
His hips snapped forward again, deeper this time, faster. He established a rhythm. “Fuck—” you started, only to be interrupted by your own gasps. “You.”
He slammed into you until you were stuttering, barely even able to say his name or mutter any other profanities. Your thighs were still shaking, legs tense and tight, especially as you arched into him, standing on your toes to lift your ass even higher. He put his hands on your shoulders, holding you in place before him, not letting you shift forward with every thrust—instead taking all of him with each deep stroke.
It didn’t take long for you to start crumbling against him. He’d had you on the line for a long time, and your body could hardly take it anymore. Your thighs clenched, walls slamming down around him.
“You wanna come, baby?” he asked, voice soft and deep, just above a whisper. You could hear the desire dripping from it, and it only made it more difficult to hold back.
You nodded, whimpering as he kept up the pace, holding you and slamming forward again and again. He reached forward and grabbed your hair at the root, pulling you back. Your fingers tightened in the bedspread as the orgasm crashed into you, over you, through you, and you pressed yourself back against him as hard as you could, taking everything he could give as everything tightened so hard it was nearly unbearable.
“That’s it, baby,” he coaxed as you came undone, falling limp beneath him. His pace slowed into long, languid strokes before he pulled out.
With his hands on your hips, he turned you over, and you let him. Your face was flushed, your chest hot and red, your lips swollen from earlier kisses, and your hair a mess from his hands.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he said.
You let out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to his cock, still hard. You must have read his mind, because as he crawled onto the bed toward you, you moved away, sliding up so you could rest your head atop the pillows.
Your knees were folded up, thighs pressed together.
He slipped a hand on the inside of your knee and pushed them open so he could crawl between, moving up your body. Your hands went to his shoulders immediately, looking for something to grab before he touched you anywhere.
Yunho pressed a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, the side of your nose.
“Can you take more, baby?” he asked.
You nodded, lip between your teeth.
“God, you’re fucking perfect, you know that?” he asked.
You shook your head, and he laughed, dropping his lips to yours in a slow, tender kiss, such a stark difference from the previous few and their feverish nature.
He slipped a hand between your bodies, slipping a finger inside of you quickly, in and then out, before lining himself up with your entrance again. You sucked in a breath before he even moved. In one fluid motion, he sheathed himself fully inside of you. You shared the same gasp, mangled between kisses.
Everything felt immediately intense. Each stroke lighting a new fire. He seemed intent on wrecking you completely, because his fingers moved quickly to find your clit. He put pressure on it with two fingers, letting the movement of his thrusts provide the friction.
He sat up and pulled your hips down on him as he slid into you over and over again.
“Yunho, oh my god,” you said through heavy breaths, the combination of sensations making you dizzy, making it difficult to keep your eyes open.
Your sounds only encouraged him further, and soon his own grunts joined with your moans. He rubbed your clit with his thumb, not stopping to give you a second to calm down, only taking the sensation higher and higher. You squirmed, trying to get away from him, trying to stop the overstimulation, the feeling of everything being encompassed in wet, hot fire, but he didn’t let you move an inch.
You threw your head back against the pillow in defeat, letting your hips roll against his. He lifted one of your legs, leaning it against his shoulder as he fucked deeper and deeper into you. You had to close your eyes—and he didn’t stop you, didn’t demand your attention, just kept touching and thrusting, and holding you until it was all too much.
“I can’t—” you started, hips stuttering as your core tightened impossibly, strangling him inside of you. He groaned as you came, and you felt him twitch inside of you at the same time as he fucked you through your second orgasm of the night, until you were lying nearly boneless beneath him. And then he was still, too, collapsing on top of you, gathering you into his arms.
You breathed heavily together for some time. Yunho pressed soft kisses to whatever skin he could reach and smoothed your hair away from your face.
It was a long time—intertwined just like that—before he got out of bed to clean up. As soon as he returned, it was to gather you into his arms all over again, to hold you flush against his skin, to kiss your lips soft and slow.
“That was—” you started, even though there were no words in the known world to finish the sentence properly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Really was.”
You nestled your face deeper into his neck, and he held you even tighter, like he was worried you were going to go somewhere.
When he spoke again, it was quiet, just above a whisper. “I really like you, you know.”
You peeled away from him enough to catch his eyes. There was a bit of worry in them. Your hand shot out to touch his cheek.
“I really like you, too,” you said.
He cleared his throat. “Haven’t really—you know, dated anyone,” he said. “In a while.”
The words hung between you for some time.
“I want to, though. I mean, I want to keep dating you,” he said.
You laughed under your breath. He was cute when he was flustered. “Good,” you said, touching the tip of his nose with yours before pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I want that, too.”
“Sex was that good, huh?” he teased, and you pushed his shoulder. “Kidding.”
“It was good, though,” you said, pointedly. “But that’s not the only reason. A silver lining, definitely.”
You tucked your head back into the crook of his neck and fell asleep with his arms wrapped around you, thinking this is a good thing, and wondering how you were ever anything other than completely enamored by him.
The styling room was quiet, save for the soft hum of equipment and rustle of fabric as you made the final adjustments to Yeosang’s hair. He sat still beneath your touch, head tilted slightly while you tousled the last wave into place. “All done,” you said, stepping back to inspect your work. His platinum blonde strands glinted under the lights, artfully messy, a little sharp around the edges, just like the moodboard had asked for.
Yeosang glanced in the mirror and nodded. “You’re dangerous with your hands.” You arched a brow, fighting a smile. “Tell that to your roots next month.” He snorted and slid off the chair with his usual quiet grace, stretching his arms before heading toward wardrobe. As he passed by the doorway, you caught movement in your peripheral.
Yunho.
Fresh from makeup, already in partial wardrobe, his vest wasn’t buttoned yet, sheer sleeves loose around his forearms. He filled the doorway with quiet confidence, black hair falling into his eyes. “You ready?” he asked casually, stepping in. You nodded once, but your fingers tightened slightly around your comb as he approached. His presence always filled a room. But today… today he looked carved from something darker, something deliberate.
He sank into the chair Yeosang had just vacated, resting his arms on the armrests, legs spread just a little too wide and you swallowed. From the counter, you grabbed the concept sheet, needing a second to compose yourself. You’d already glanced at it this morning, but now, with Yunho sitting there, watching you through the mirror, you studied it again. The reference photo showed him with his hair pulled back into a half ponytail, loose strands around the face, sharp angles softened at the jaw. You hesitated. Because Yunho had never worn his hair like that before.
Even the few times he’d grown it out, he always left it down, pushed back with a beanie or styled away from his face with texture and volume. Never pulled up. Never tamed. “You good?” he asked, tilting his head. His voice was calm, but you didn’t miss the curiosity flickering behind it. You lowered the sheet slowly. “You’ve never worn your hair up before.” Yunho shrugged, the movement lazy. “First time for everything.”
You turned away so he wouldn’t see your expression. Something about that answer, about the way he said it, like it meant something more, made the heat bloom low in your stomach. You cleared your throat. “Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with.” You stepped behind him, fingers brushing the nape of his neck as you began combing through his thick, dark hair. He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned back into the touch just a little and you pretended not to notice. But god… this was going to be a problem.
Your fingers moved with practiced ease, separating strands, smoothing them down, combing through from root to tip. Yunho’s hair was soft, mainly because you being a hair stylist and his girlfriend, you made sure to keep it healthy, it was silkier now that it had grown out past his ears, thick and slightly wavy in the back. You ran the brush down again, slower this time, focused.
And then he moaned. A quiet, low sound from deep in his chest, not dramatic or playful, but real. Felt. “I love when you play with my hair,” he said, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. His eyes stayed half lidded in the mirror, jaw slack, neck tilted ever so slightly like he was offering himself up and your grip on the brush faltered. “Shut up,” you hissed, instantly flustered. “We’re at work.”
He grinned, the kind of grin that said he wasn’t sorry at all. “Didn’t say anything inappropriate.”
“You moaned.”
“Did I?” he said innocently. “Pretty sure that was just a sigh of appreciation.”
You smacked his shoulder with the back of the brush, and he laughed, warm and unbothered, but he didn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. You fought the urge to roll your eyes and instead leaned closer, reaching forward to gently section off the top half of his hair. The tips of your fingers grazed his scalp again, and you could feel it, the way he shivered, barely perceptible but very much there. “You keep reacting like that, and I’m gonna clip your hair up with a binder clip and call it a day,” you muttered.
“You know that would still turn me on, right?”
“Yunho.”
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “But if you keep touching me like this…”
Your fingers paused just behind his ear.
“I’m gonna start thinking we’re not working.”
You inhaled sharply through your nose. You were dangerously close to threading your fingers into his hair instead of the tie you’d just picked up. But you couldn’t let him win. Not here. Not yet. You ignored every word he said after that, at least on the outside. Inside? You were a wreck.
The texture of his hair, the way it slipped between your fingers like ink, the low heat rolling off his skin, it all worked against your professional resolve. But you kept going, sectioning the top half carefully, gathering it like muscle memory, like it wasn’t driving you insane to feel him melting under your hands as he stayed still, unnervingly so, just watching you through the mirror.
When you finally tied it off, a few stray strands framed his face exactly like the reference photo, except better. Way better. His cheekbones looked sharper, his lips more plush, and his eyes… God, his eyes looked lethal now, framed by that loose dark curtain. Your hands dropped to your sides before you could do something you’d regret in public. That’s when the door swung open.
“Next victim,” Wooyoung announced, striding in like he owned the place. “What’s up, hot people?”
You stepped back automatically as Yunho slowly stood from the chair, rolling his neck once. The way his hair moved, soft and heavy in the back, controlled on top, made your stomach flip and he caught the look in your eye before you could hide it. And he grinned. Full blown, smug, knowing grin. “Thanks, baby,” he said, sauntering past you like nothing had happened. “That felt amazing.”
You knew he wasn’t just talking about the styling as Wooyoung flopped into the chair Yunho had just left, completely unaware of the storm he was walking into. “Think you can make me look that good, too?”
You cleared your throat. “I can try.” But you weren’t looking at Wooyoung. You were still watching Yunho, and he was still watching you over his shoulder, that damn grin playing on his lips as he walked backward out of the room.
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The main set was dimly lit, warm with moody tones and artificial smoke curling through the air. You stood with the rest of the styling staff behind the monitors, clipboard in hand, headset looped lazily around your neck as the photographer called out directions. The boys were cycling through individual shots, Yeosang already done, Wooyoung next, San prowling the edge of the backdrop waiting for his turn. And then there was Yunho.
Center of the frame. Looking like temptation in high definition. His vest was now buttoned up tight, hugging every inch of that maddening torso, the sheer sleeves catching just enough light to make you clench the clipboard tighter. But it was the hair. The fucking hair. Pulled back, slightly tousled, ends curling softly behind his ears, that elegant half ponytail making his entire jawline look criminal.
He wasn’t even doing much, just tilting his head, staring down the lens like he was trying to melt it. But your eyes were glued to him. You’d never seen him look like that. Calm. Controlled. Hot as sin. And he knew. You could feel it every time his gaze flicked slightly off camera. Like he was looking for you.
You shifted your weight, arms crossed tightly now, forcing yourself to glance at your clipboard. It didn’t help.
“You good?”
You froze at Mingi’s voice, way too close. You turned your head to find your boyfriend’s best friend standing just to your left, hands in his pockets, a curious smirk tugging at his mouth. Before you could respond, Jongho’s voice came from your other side. “You’ve been staring for, like, five full minutes.”
“I have not,” you snapped a little too quickly.
They both blinked at you and Mingi leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You gonna survive or should we get you a cold drink?”
“Or a dark room?” Jongho added helpfully.
You opened your mouth to tell them both to shut up and that’s when Yunho shifted his stance in front of the camera, slowly lifting his hand to run it through the loose strands that framed his cheek. His fingers brushed right over the tie you’d fastened, tugging it just enough to make a few locks fall back over his face. It was so deliberate. And you knew exactly who he was doing it for. You made a strangled noise in your throat.
Mingi snorted. “That’s a yes.”
Jongho chuckled, nudging you with his elbow. “Better go fix his hair, noona. Looks like he messed it up just for you.”
“Pause for a second!” The photographer’s voice cut through the bass heavy music playing over the speakers, calling for a quick break to adjust lighting. Yunho stepped off the mark, taking a few long strides toward the edge of the set.
You were already moving. Clipboard forgotten, headset discarded somewhere near Jongho’s smug little smile, you crossed the floor with practiced ease, head high, face calm, totally unbothered. Except, of course, for the fact that Yunho had just intentionally ruined the half ponytail you had styled, and now everyone was expecting you to fix it.
He was waiting. Arms relaxed at his sides, smugness radiating off him like steam from a hot sidewalk. His eyes met yours and held, a glint of amusement, no, satisfaction, blooming behind his dark gaze as you stopped in front of him, ignoring the way your pulse skipped when he tilted his chin slightly, giving you full access to the mess he made. Of course he did.
“You pulled pieces loose,” you muttered under your breath.
“I did,” he said, voice low. “Terrible of me.”
You stepped in close, brushing your fingers through the front sections that had fallen out of place. He smelled like clean skin and faint cologne, bergamot and warmth. His hair was soft, still holding its shape where you’d styled it, except for the few strands he’d deliberately tugged loose like some kind of tease.
Your hands worked quickly, re tightening the band at the crown. But your breath caught when he leaned in just enough for his voice to ghost across your ear. “I missed your hands.” Your fingers stuttered. Then you yanked the tie just a bit tighter and he flinched. “Oops,” you said flatly, stepping back.
Yunho smirked, adjusting his vest like he didn’t just flirt with you while a dozen people watched. “You wound me.”
“Not yet,” you whispered, low enough for only him to hear and his eyes darkened. Just slightly. Just enough.
“Back to position, Yunho!”
He turned slowly, gaze dragging over you before he walked back to the center of the set, ponytail perfect once again, jawline sharp, and the ghost of a smirk still curving his lips.
You exhaled slowly as Mingi, off to the side, gave you a thumbs up and wiggled his brows. You were so screwed.
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The shoot wrapped with applause and scattered laughter, the energy still humming even as the team began to disperse. Monitors shut off, lights dimmed, props moved to the side. Staff collected clipboards and cables, stylists gathered their kits, and the boys started peeling out of concept clothes like they couldn’t wait to breathe again.
You lingered near the edge of the room, watching it all wind down, waiting to leave with Yunho. Wooyoung had already flung himself onto the nearest couch, shirt halfway pulled over his head, whining about being tired. San was laughing at him. Yeosang was still taking mirror selfies in full wardrobe. And Yunho had already changed. Gone was the sheer vest and tailored trousers, replaced now by his usual comfort fit, black oversized hoodie, sage green cargo pants.
But what made your chest tighten was that he’d left his hair up. The ponytail was still in place, slightly messier now, a few strands curling loose behind his ears, but still, it was up. Like he liked it. Like he didn’t want to take it out. And it looked obscenely good with that hoodie. He was sitting on one of the stools by the mirror, bent over slightly as he laced up his sneakers, sleeves pushed to his elbows. You tried not to stare. You really, really did. But there was something about the contrast, the softness of the tied up hair, the street style slouch of his clothes, the strength in how he moved that made heat bloom low and slow again in your stomach.
Yunho glanced up mid lace, catching you from across the room. And he smiled. Not the teasing smirk from before. Something quieter. Warmer. But still dangerous. He patted the empty space next to him on the bench. Didn’t say a word. Just the pat. Like an invitation. No…. like a challenge.
You took a small step forward, just one, already feeling the buzz under your skin like a lit fuse. And that’s when San’s voice cut through the air like a damn whistle. “Hey,” he called, swinging his duffel bag over one shoulder as he approached, all warm smiles and post shoot glow. “You two wanna grab food with us?”
You blinked. “Us?”
“Me, Mingi, and Jongho,” San nodded. “We’re gonna hit that Korean BBQ spot near the studio. The one Mingi always says has the life changing pork belly.’”
From the corner, Mingi threw up a fist and hollered, “Because it does!” Jongho just rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath about needing real sustenance as you turned slightly to glance at Yunho, who was now sitting upright, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes on you like he hadn’t even heard San. But the little tilt of his head and lift of his brow said it all, up to you, baby.
Your stomach did a little somersault as San looked between the two of you, then squinted. “Unless…” His voice lowered just slightly, amused. “You’ve got other plans?”
“No,” you said too quickly, straightening your shoulders. “No plans.” Yunho’s smirk returned, barely. He looked like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as you added, “I could eat.”
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The BBQ place was buzzing, the familiar clatter of metal chopsticks, sizzling meat on grills, and background music just loud enough to compete with San and Mingi arguing over the best dipping sauce.
You sat squished between Yunho and the wall, close enough that your thigh brushed his every time either of you moved. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he hadn’t stopped leaning just slightly toward you the whole time, arm draped casually over the back of the bench, fingertips ghosting your shoulder every so often like he forgot they were there. He didn’t forget. You were pretty sure he was doing it just to see how long you’d last before combusting.
Jongho was flipping the meat like a pro, San was already halfway through the side dishes, and Mingi was leaning back in his chair, eyeing the empty drink menu like it had personally wronged him. “This is a crime,” Mingi announced. “We have grilled pork, rice, good company, and no soju?”
“We just sat down,” Jongho deadpanned.
Mingi scoffed, waving his hand. “I’ll order it. We need a bottle or three. Especially with them here.”
San snorted as you raised an eyebrow, amused. “Them?”
Mingi just grinned. “You’ll see.”
You rolled your eyes and slid out of the booth. “I’m going to the restroom. Try not to set anything on fire.” Yunho let his hand trail along your back as you passed, barely brushing your waist. You didn’t react. But he saw the way your breath hitched.
The second you disappeared around the corner, Mingi turned, eyes locked on Yunho like a heat seeking missile. “Well, well,” he said, dragging out the words. “You know she’s gonna pull your hair out by the time she’s done with you tonight.”
Yunho didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just lifted a slice of pork belly with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. Then he smirked. “I hope so.”
San groaned. “Jesus Christ.”
Jongho shook his head, flipping another slice. “Can we not talk about hyung getting manhandled while we’re eating?”
Mingi laughed, raising his hand for the server. “I’m just saying, she’s been giving him that look all day. You saw it, right?”
San leaned back with a shit eating grin. “She looked like she wanted to mount him mid photoshoot.”
“Yeah,” Mingi nodded. “And he looked like he wouldn’t stop her.”
“Still wouldn’t,” Yunho said, completely unbothered and the other three groaned in unison. “God, it’s like watching a porno in slow motion,” Jongho muttered just as your footsteps sounded as you returned. The table went suspiciously quiet, all four guys suddenly very focused on grilling, pouring drinks, and not saying a damn thing.
You paused, eyes narrowing. “What’d I miss?”
Mingi handed you a shot glass without looking up. “Nothing. Drink.”
Yunho reached under the table and squeezed your thigh once. Just enough to make your eyes widen. Just enough to make you wonder what the hell he and his ponytail had planned for later.
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Dinner had stretched into that sweet, blurry haze where the food was mostly gone, the laughter was too loud, and everything tasted like salt and soju. Half a dozen empty bottles littered the table, side dishes were a mess. You were flushed, comfortably buzzed, your legs pressed to Yunho’s under the table, the two of you talking low between bites, laughter curling around every soft brush of his fingers against your thigh. But San had pulled you into a back and forth drinking game halfway through dinner and now you were laughing harder, cheek warm against Yunho’s shoulder while you teased Jongho for being the only one still sober enough to read the bill.
“Okay,” Mingi grinned, holding the next bottle high. “One more round!”
“God,” Jongho groaned, “You’ve said that four rounds ago.”
“Shut up and accept your fate.” Mingi filled every shot glass with wild bartender flair, sliding one each toward San, Jongho, Yunho, and then to you. But before Yunho could reach for his glass, your hand shot out and snatched it instead. All four of them paused as you turned, shot glass in hand, and looked right at Yunho. Then, without a word, you reached up and fisted the tie of his ponytail.
His breath caught. So did everyone else’s as you tugged, firm but not cruel, tilting his head back just enough to expose the sharp line of his throat, jaw flexing as he looked at you, pupils dark and blown despite the ambient lighting. “Open,” you said softly.
His lips parted instantly and you poured the shot into his mouth slow, watching the way his throat worked to swallow it down, his lashes fluttering just slightly as the liquor burned it’s way past his tongue. Then you let go and Yunho exhaled like he’d just been kissed.
You didn’t say a word, just turned back to your food like nothing had happened as the table erupted.
“WHAT THE FUCK!”
“Noona!!”
“Oh my God! I think I just got pregnant.”
Jongho buried his face in his hands. “I want to leave.”
Mingi was howling. San looked half deranged, half proud. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
You just smirked and sipped your own shot as Yunho leaned in close, voice a whisper of gravel and desire against your ear. “That was not smart.” You turned your head slightly, your smile lazy. “Who said I was trying to be?”
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Yunho and Yeosang’s apartment was warm, low lit, and smelled faintly like sandalwood and laundry detergent, clean, lived in, and just the right amount of chaos. The front door clicked shut behind the two of you, the night air replaced by the familiar comfort of home as you both kicked off your shoes.
“Hey,” Yeosang called from the couch without looking away from the TV. He was half buried under a throw blanket, eyes glued to the screen. Next to him, Wooyoung was curled sideways in a hoodie two sizes too big, elbow deep in a bag of chips. “You’re late. That pork belly better have been worth it.”
“Ask Mingi,” Yunho muttered as you slipped past the couch with a quiet smile and headed straight for the open kitchen and pulled open the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, twisting off the cap as the laughter from the TV show carried faintly through the space.
You leaned against the counter, sipping slowly. And that’s when you saw him. Across the kitchen, standing in front of the hallway mirror, Yunho was adjusting his ponytail. His hoodie was loose, sleeves bunched around his forearms, but it didn’t hide the way his shoulder blades shifted under the fabric, or how his back curved slightly forward as he undid the tie.
Your eyes dragged over every movement as he finger combed his hair back again, the dark strands catching light, falling heavy and soft between his fingers. He tugged it higher this time, a little tighter. The kind of hold that said, don’t even try to pull it out unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences.
His jaw flexed as he twisted the band into place. You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just watched him. Because something about him, barefoot in his apartment, in baggy cargo pants and a hoodie, his hair tied up with your hands still technically the last ones to touch it, made your stomach flip.
He looked up and caught your reflection in the mirror. And you saw it happen. That flicker in his gaze. That change in air pressure. He turned slowly to face you, leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, head tilted. “Thirsty?” he asked, nodding toward the bottle in your hand.
You didn’t answer him. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t say a damn thing. You just capped the water bottle, set it quietly on the counter… and walked. Straight past the living room, past the hallway mirror, past Yunho, your shoulder brushing his chest as you passed him. No eye contact. No pause.
You didn’t need to look back. Because you felt him follow. His footsteps were silent, but the weight of his presence behind you was impossible to ignore. Heavy. Focused. Dangerous in the way that made your breath catch halfway down the hallway.
You reached his bedroom door and opened it slowly, slipping inside without hesitation. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his bedside lamp. Warm toned, cluttered in a comfortable way, a jacket tossed over the back of his gaming chair, ipad on the nightstand, phone charger trailing off the bed. The scent of him lingered thick in the air, clean skin, cedar, a hint of something spicy from his shampoo.
You stepped to the center of the room and waited as behind you, the door clicked shut. Yunho stood just inside the threshold, hoodie slightly wrinkled, his hands loose at his sides, chest rising slow but deep. The hair tie had loosened a little in the walk down the hall, a few strands falling back into his face again.
He crossed the room in just a few slow steps, gaze fixed on you like he was already imagining a dozen ways the next hour might play out. His hands found your waist first, warm, steady, fingers pressing just enough to remind you how big they were. He pulled you flush against him, his voice low and amused right at your ear. “So,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth brushing your skin, “you gonna admit how much you love the ponytail now… or after I make you scream?”
You exhaled sharply, not from surprise, but because he was already kissing you, deep and slow, his mouth lazy but deliberate, like he had all night to ruin you and no intention of rushing a single second. He kissed like he knew you, every breath, every beat, every bite that made your knees buckle just a little. Because he did. And he used it.
Each kiss backed you up one step… then another… then another, until the backs of your legs hit the edge of the bed and he smiled against your mouth like he’d just won something. That was his first mistake. You grabbed the front of his hoodie in one hand. And his ponytail in the other. Yunho froze when you fisted it tight and pulled, just enough to tilt his chin up, mouth parting slightly as his breath caught. He didn’t expect that.
“You talk a lot of shit,” you said softly, voice threading with heat as you tugged him down to sit on the bed. He went willingly, eyes wide, lips still parted as you straddled his thighs with a slow roll of your hips, fingers still gripping the ponytail like a leash. “Funny how you think you’re gonna be in charge tonight.”
His breath stuttered. And that’s when it hit him. He wasn’t. Not even close. Yunho didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe as you rolled your hips once against his lap and slowly leaned back just enough to slide your hands under the hem of your top.
His eyes followed every motion, lazy, hungry, dark with anticipation as you pulled your shirt up over your head, exposing skin inch by inch. You dropped it beside the bed without breaking eye contact, relishing the way his jaw tightened the moment your bra came into view.
You weren’t in a rush. You knew what you were doing. He’d spent the whole day teasing you, back at the studio, at the restaurant, with his smug little glances and that damn ponytail you styled yourself. Now? You were going to enjoy watching every single ounce of power drain from him as you peeled yourself open like a gift with his name on the tag.
Your hands moved down, undoing the button of your jeans next. Yunho’s hands twitched at his sides like he was fighting every instinct to grab you. “Don’t move,” you said quietly and his breath caught as you stood slowly, pushing your jeans down your legs with deliberate care, knowing full well his gaze was locked on every curve, every shift of your hips as you stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
You stood there in nothing but your bra and underwear, blue and black mismatched, head tilted slightly, arms relaxed at your sides. He looked ruined already. But you weren’t done. Not even close. You crossed back to him, slow and confident, straddling his lap again, the heat between your bodies undeniable as your mouth brushed his ear, breath hot and teasing. “Strip.”
His hands moved instantly. Because of course they did. Because unho wasn’t in charge tonight. You were. His hands came up immediately, he obeyed, just like you told him to. But not without a little flair. First, he reached behind him and tugged the hoodie off in one clean motion, the hem brushing over your thighs as it came free. He tossed it to the floor without breaking eye contact, his jaw set, chest rising a little faster now beneath his thin white tee.
But instead of rushing like he should have… he slowed down. One hand dipped beneath the hem of his shirt and paused, fingertips brushing his own skin, his abs tightening just enough to make you feel it under your thighs. His other hand gripped your hip like a warning, like a test, like, come on, baby, push me.
You tilted your head, one brow raised. “Are you stalling?”
“Maybe,” he murmured, thumb brushing your skin. “It’s more fun when you’re watching.”
You narrowed your eyes. Then leaned forward just enough to tug his ponytail again, sharper this time, not enough to hurt but enough to make him exhale hard through his nose, his hands freezing like you’d shut off the power in his body. “I said strip,” you whispered, your voice silk wrapped steel.
Yunho sucked in a breath and yanked the shirt over his head this time, fast, like he finally understood the stakes. You sat back and let your eyes drag over him, shoulders broad, muscles taut, stomach flexing under your gaze. You could feel the heat rolling off of him now, barely contained beneath his skin, like he was straining to keep himself still for you.
Then he reached for his his pants. And this time? He slowed down on purpose. Smirking. Dragging it out. Pushing your buttons the same way you’d pushed his. Like a challenge. Like a threat. Like a promise. Your fingers curled into his thighs.
“Careful,” you said, voice low.
“Or what?”
You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. “I’ll make you beg before I even touch you.”
Yunho’s breath hitched as he moved you off him so he could kick his pants and underwear off. And for the first time tonight, he didn’t have a comeback as stood fully naked now. And he was gorgeous.
Flushed skin. Thighs tense. Chest rising in shallow breaths. That cocky smirk he wore so well? Barely hanging on now, threatening to break under the weight of whatever the hell you were about to do to him. He was already wrecked. And he knew it.
You let your fingers drag slowly up his bare chest, nails teasing his skin. He shivered, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach, touch, grab, do something. But he didn’t. Not without permission. “Now…” you whispered, standing up, reaching on your tippy toes so your mouth could brush the shell of his ear, “go get your favorite toy.”
Yunho tensed and you felt it. That flicker of hesitation. The way his breath stilled for a fraction of a second before he exhaled and carefully looked at you. He didn’t ask what you meant. He knew. You saw the flush creep higher up his neck, spreading to his ears. Saw the way his jaw flexed, his body practically vibrating with restraint as he nodded once.
And you didn’t miss the way his dick twitched as he turned toward the closet. He was trying not to look too eager. But you saw right through it. The closet door creaked open as he reached up to the top shelf, behind a stack of folded hoodies, and there it was. A black box. Sleek. Discreet. You’d only seen it a couple times before, during nights when the lines had blurred enough for him to let you in a little deeper, let you see the part of him he kept tucked between dominance and desire.
The part that liked you in control.
He brought it over to the bed, wordless, offering it to you like something sacred. You took it slowly. Opened it carefully. Nestled inside was the harness. The strap on he’d picked with you in mind, size, color, shape, weight. Everything. Yours for the nights he gave himself over to you completely. Like tonight.
You looked up at him, now standing at the edge of the bed, chest bare, dick heavy between his thighs, hair still tied up but starting to come loose around his temples as you took your time pulling the harness out of the box, laying it across the bed with quiet, deliberate grace. The leather was warm from storage, flexible but firm, the familiar weight settling into your palms like muscle memory.
Yunho stood in front of you, bare, still flushed from the inside out. His chest rose with every breath, his eyes dark and heavy lidded as he watched you step into the harness, pulling it up over your hips with a slow, practiced roll. “You remember how this works,” you said softly, fingers working the straps into place. He nodded. Then, without being told, he dropped to one knee.
Yunho’s large hands moved with care, adjusting the side straps with quiet reverence, tightening, pulling, making sure the harness hugged your hips just right. His fingers brushed your thighs as he double checked the buckles, knuckles grazing the soft skin just above your panties. The way he looked up at you from his knees? Obscene.
You hooked your thumb under his chin and tilted his head back. “Good boy.” A breath escaped him like it’d been knocked right out of his lungs. You let him stand then, let him climb onto the bed first, slow, crawling on elbows and knees, the muscles in his back flexing with every shift forward, his skin practically glowing in the soft lamplight.
He arched a little, already in position, already waiting. Obedient. Eager. Yours. You reached for the drawer in the nightstand, fingers finding the bottle of lube without even looking. You popped the cap and drizzled it generously over the strap, then more in your hand, warming it as you watched him exhale into the mattress. “You still want this?” you asked, voice lower now, serious, because even in the filth, this part mattered most.
Yunho turned his head slightly, lips parted, cheeks flushed. “Yes,” he rasped. “Please.” Your smile was slow, dangerous. “Good.” You straddled behind him, lube slick in your hand, heat rolling off both your bodies as you reached down and finally touched him, one hand steady on his hip, the other gliding the lubed up strap through your fingers once more before pressing it gently between his cheeks.
Yunho inhaled, deep and shaky as you leaned forward, your chest brushing his back, lips ghosting his spine as you whispered, “Relax for me.” He nodded, head low between his arms, fingers twisting in the sheets as you started slow. One hand spread him open just enough, the other guiding the strap’s tip to his entrance. You pressed in carefully, not even breaching him yet, just enough for him to feel it. Just enough for him to know what was coming.
He sucked in a breath.
Then you pulled back.
Waited a beat.
And did it again, press, withdraw, tease.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned, hips twitching. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Mhm,” you murmured, pressing in just a little further this time, making him stretch around the tip before easing back out again. “I like watching you fall apart.”
Yunho whimpered into the mattress, whimpered, and it made your own body clench with heat. So you did it again. And again. And this time, you pushed in just deep enough to have his breath stutter and his fists ball into the sheets.
“Shit,” he choked. “You’re such a….”
You rolled your hips forward, shallow, controlled and he cut off with a hiss as you smiled, gripping his hips tighter. “Something you wanna say?”
Yunho turned his face toward the pillow, growling under his breath. Then, louder, sharper, “Just fuck me already.”
You stilled and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” he growled again, louder this time, practically shaking with need. “Fuck…. please. Just fuck me.”
You let out a soft hum, shifting forward, your grip tightening on his waist. “Since you asked so nicely.” And then you pushed in deep. And Yunho moaned like he’d been waiting his whole damn life for it as you gripped his hips, steady and sure, as you slowly pushed forward more, inch by inch, watching the way Yunho’s back arched, muscles tightening, breath catching.
The stretch was deep, deliberate. And you didn’t rush it. You took your time filling him, giving him every inch, letting the harness settle flush against you as you bottomed out and he gasped. Fingers twisted in the sheets, forehead pressed to the mattress as he tried to breathe through it, through the fullness, the heat, the slow burn of being completely taken.
You stayed still, your hands sliding over the curve of his hips, soothing. One of them dragged up his spine, the other smoothing down to the dip of his lower back as you leaned over him, chest against his back. “You good?” He nodded, tight, shaky.
“Say it,” you whispered.
“I’m good,” he rasped. “So good.”
You kissed his back, soft and slow. “That’s my boy.”
And then you started to move. Gently. Just a slow pull back, a shallow thrust forward, measured, smooth, the kind of rhythm that let him feel it. Every inch. Every motion. You watched the muscles in his back ripple, the way his arms shook slightly from how hard he was gripping the blankets.
He moaned low, raw and guttural. “F…. Fuck…”
You smiled, hips rolling forward again, deeper this time. “I want you to feel all of it,” you murmured, voice dark against his skin. “No rushing. Not tonight.” He moaned again, desperate, helpless as you rocked into him again, dragging it out, building that pressure just right.
And Yunho was already trembling. Already ruined, and you’d barely even started. Your thrusts stayed steady for a moment longer, hips rolling deep and slow, just enough to keep him on the edge, trembling, mouth spilling breathy curses into the sheets.
But then you felt it. The shift. His body opening up, fully adjusted, muscles relaxing beneath your touch. His thighs spread wider, back arching just enough that you could feel how ready he was. You tightened your grip on his hips and snapped your hips forward, just once, firmer, and Yunho moaned, loud, raw, and absolutely wrecked.
“Arch back,” you breathed, voice sharp with command. “Now.” He obeyed instantly, shifting his weight onto his palms, back curving into a perfect arch that made you groan under your breath. “Good boy,” you said, and that praise hit him like a damn drug, his head dropping slightly, hair falling loose around his face as he whimpered.
And that’s when you grabbed it. His ponytail. Your fist wrapped tight around the base, yanking just enough to pull his head back and own every inch of him and Yunho choked on a moan. “Oh my… fuck!” You smirked. “You’re so easy to ruin like this.” Then you started to move. Harder. Deeper.
Each thrust slapped against him with purpose, your grip on his ponytail keeping him right where you wanted him, head tilted back, mouth parted, completely under you. He was panting now, loud, his thighs shaking, hands gripping the sheets like his life depended on it. “Look at you,” you murmured between thrusts, voice syrup slick and cruelly sweet. “All that cocky energy gone the second I fuck you right.”
He groaned, shameless, head tilting further back into your grip as you pulled his ponytail tighter and he whined. “Please…”
“For what?” you taunted, hips snapping faster now, driving into him harder, rougher, making the bed creak beneath the rhythm. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”
“Y… Yeah…. fuck, yes!” His knuckles were white, whole body trembling now. And still, you didn’t let up. Not when he sounded that pretty. Not when he looked that good. Not until you had him gasping and moaning your name like it was the only thing he remembered how to say.
Your hips slammed into him now, rhythm unforgiving, the slick sound of skin and dildo echoing through the bedroom loud and obscene. The bed creaked beneath you, headboard rattling slightly against the wall, but you didn’t slow down. Not when Yunho was begging for it with every ragged breath. He was a mess beneath you, his body rocking forward with every deep thrust, arms barely holding him up, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. You still had his ponytail wrapped tight in your fist, using it to keep his head tilted back, mouth open, his moans getting louder with every stroke.
And then he cried out. Loud. Too loud. His voice broke around your name, spilling into the room like a warning shot, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt, that anyone still in the apartment just heard Yunho moan like he was being fucked into the afterlife.
The image of Yeosang and Wooyoung out there, wide eyed and traumatized over their bowls of popcorn?
Delicious.
But not as delicious as the way Yunho came. Because it hit him hard. You felt it in the way his whole body locked up, how he whimpered your name one more time, desperate, broken, and then shuddered, coming untouched beneath you. His arms gave out, chest collapsing into the mattress as he trembled through it, cum dripping onto the sheets below.
You didn’t stop. Not right away. You rode him through every twitch, every gasp, your grip in his hair softening only once his body began to relax, tension leaking from his limbs like he’d just been exorcised. And maybe he had been.
You slowed, pulling out carefully and Yunho collapsed completely, face buried in the pillows, panting like he’d run a damn marathon. He looked ruined. And perfect. You reached down, gently unfastening the harness, sliding it off your hips piece by piece with the same calm authority you’d carried all night. The strap hit the floor with a soft thud, and you let your fingers trail across his spine once before sitting back on your heels, reaching for the edge of the bed.
But you didn’t even get the chance to move. Because in a flash, he grabbed you. Your yelp caught in your throat as Yunho’s hands locked around your waist, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing. The air left your lungs as your spine hit the mattress, and suddenly, he was above you, towering, eyes dark, hair half falling out of its ponytail, sweat slicked and completely feral.
The tables had turned.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he rasped, voice still rough from moaning your name. His hands slid up your sides with purpose, not slowing as they reached the clasp of your bra. You opened your mouth to say something, maybe to tease, maybe to push him again, but your breath hitched instead when his fingers made quick work of the clasp, dragging the straps down your arms before tossing the bra somewhere behind him.
“You think I was gonna let you finish with me and walk away?” he murmured, mouth already lowering to your chest. “Not a chance, baby.” Your eyes fluttered shut as his tongue dragged across one nipple, then the other, slow and possessive. Then he was moving again. Gripping your hips. Dragging you down the bed like he owned you.
“Yunho…”
You barely got the name out before your panties were halfway down your thighs, ripped off so fast you gasped. You barely had time to breathe, let alone process the shift, before his head dipped between your legs and his mouth was on you. No warning. No hesitation. Just pure, greedy need.
You cried out, back arching, hand flying to his hair, gripping what was left of the messy ponytail he hadn’t bothered to fix. He groaned at the pressure, tongue sliding through your folds with a hunger that was dangerous. “You’re so wet for me,” he muttered against you, voice all gravel and heat. “I didn’t even have to touch you yet.”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Because Yunho had taken back control. His tongue worked like he knew your body better than you did, slow licks, teasing flicks over your clit, then deep, firm pressure that made your thighs clamp around his head on instinct.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t fucking let up. If anything, he groaned into you, loved how tight your grip got in his hair, how your hips arched up to chase his mouth, how close you were already. “That’s it,” he murmured, dragging his tongue up your slit before sucking your clit into his mouth again. “You gonna come for me, baby? After all that talk?”
You whimpered, hands fisting the sheets now, one leg hooked over his shoulder as your whole body trembled. Every nerve ending was strung tight, on the edge, about to snap. And Yunho knew it. You felt it, that moment, that rush, your body about to tip over the edge….
And then he stopped.
You gasped, eyes flying open as the sudden loss of contact sent a pulse of frustration right through your core. “Yunho….” you started, voice high, broken. But he was already moving. Crawling up your body like a fucking storm, flushed and glistening, lips wet from you, hair wild, eyes locked on yours with heat so sharp it nearly split you open.
You didn’t even have time to ask why, because you felt it. His dick, hard again, pressed against your thigh as he settled between your legs. “You were gonna come?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, bracing himself on his forearms as his mouth hovered over yours.
You nodded, breathless, thighs still shaking and he smirked, dark. “Not yet.” Then he kissed you, filthy and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue while his dick slid along your folds, hot and heavy, teasing you all over again.
You didn’t even have a second to recover from the intensity of his mouth before Yunho was grabbing you again, hands strong and steady, that dominant energy flooding back in like a tidal wave. “Up,” he ordered, voice rough and low. Before you could question him, he was already pulling you upright, manhandling you into his lap like he owned you, because, right now, he did. His back was pressed to the headboard, legs spread wide, and you landed right where he wanted you, knees on either side of his hips.
You barely had time to brace yourself. Because one hand gripped your waist, and the other wrapped around the base of his dick, hard again, thick and glistening from the way he’d been grinding against the bed while he wrecked you with his mouth. He lined himself up. And you sank down. All the way. Both of you moaned, loud and helpless, your hands flying to his hair, fisting the loosened ponytail, dragging his head back slightly as your hips met his and the stretch sent shockwaves through your body.
Yunho swore under his breath, his fingers digging into your thighs like he needed something to anchor himself. “You feel…” he started, but didn’t finish, just groaned, letting his forehead fall against your collarbone. “Fuck.” You rolled your hips once, slow, and he choked on a sound, trying to hold back.
You pulled his hair again, forcing his eyes up to yours. “Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t hold anything back.” He moved. Fast. One hand locked around your waist, the other fisted in your hair as he shifted his hips and slammed up into you. You screamed. Your nails clawed at his shoulders, your breath catching violently in your throat as he pounded up into you again and again, no teasing now, no control games, just raw, relentless need. Each thrust knocked the breath from your lungs, your body rocked forward by the sheer force of it.
“Yunho!” you sobbed, voice high, strangled.
“That’s it,” he growled, mouth at your neck, breath hot and ragged, pounding up into you so hard the headboard slammed once, then again. “Say my name. Let them fucking hear it.”
You couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. His dick hit dead on with every snap of his hips, slamming right into your g spot like he’d mapped it himself. You were shaking, thighs locking around his waist, your back arching as you tried, failed, to ride it out.
Your hands gripped the loose mess of that ponytail, pulling as you cried out again, louder this time. “Yunho…. fuck, I’m…” You shattered. The orgasm tore through you like fire, your entire body convulsing as you squirted around him, soaking both of you, your scream ripped from your throat with such force it echoed in the damn room.
“Oh fuck,” Yunho growled, eyes wide as your body clenched around him, liquid heat dripping down his thighs. “God, baby, look at you…”
But he didn’t stop. He didn’t slow. You couldn’t even speak, your body was writhing, twitching, completely overwhelmed as he kept fucking up into you, watching your soaked, wrecked expression with pride written all over his face. “You’re not done,” he breathed against your lips. “Not even close.”
You were still pulsing around him, body trembling from that first explosive release, when Yunho wrapped his arms around you and moved. You gasped as he lifted you effortlessly, flipping you onto your back and laying you out beneath him. The sheets were damp, your body soaked with sweat and slick, and Yunho looked like something straight out of a fever dream, his chest flushed, lips parted, hair a complete mess now, the ponytail barely hanging on, strands falling wild across his face.
He knelt between your legs, still inside you, and you could see the twitch of restraint in every muscle as he gripped your waist. And slammed into you again. There was no rhythm now, just need. His hands dug into your sides, holding you in place as he fucked you with ruthless precision, dragging desperate, high pitched sounds from your throat every time he bottomed out and hit that same devastating spot.
The bed was a mess.
You were a mess.
Yunho looked like a man possessed, eyes locked on your face as you fell apart all over again.
“Baby,” you gasped, tears stinging your lashes, voice wrecked, barely audible. “Please…”
He grunted, teeth clenched. “Please what, baby?”
You couldn’t speak. Your mouth moved, but nothing came out except a broken moan as he leaned over you, hips still slamming into yours, and growled right into your ear, “You want me to feel you up, baby? Is that it?”
You could only nod, desperate, choking on your own pleasure, fingers clawing at his arms as your body started to seize beneath him again. And then it hit. Hard. Your second orgasm crashed into you like a wave, violent and blinding, your entire body arching off the bed as you cried out his name, thighs shaking uncontrollably, eyes rolling back.
Yunho’s grip on your waist tightened. One, two, three more thrusts…. And then he was gone too. His hips slammed forward one last time, buried deep, and he groaned, loud and guttural, as he spilled inside you, thick and hot and so much you felt it flood through you instantly.
His body dropped forward, forehead pressed to your shoulder, both of you panting, shaking, soaked in sweat and everything else. The room was silent except for the sound of your heavy breathing and the faint creak of the bed still rocking from the aftermath.
You didn’t say anything.
You couldn’t.
Neither could he.
Because Yunho had never come that hard in his life.
You were both completely, utterly wrecked.
Exactly as you wanted.
Exactly as you both deserved.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The mirrored walls of the ATEEZ practice room were already fogging with heat and effort. Music thumped from the speaker in the corner, San and Mingi mid warmup while Jongho leaned against the wall, stretching.
The clock on the wall read 11:08. The others still weren’t there yet.
“Late again,” Mingi muttered, pausing mid stretch. “What’s new.”
Just then, the door opened. Yunho shuffled in first, hoodie halfway over his head, backpack slung lazily on one shoulder like he hadn’t fully woken up. Yeosang followed, looking suspiciously smug for a man who’d barely said a word. Wooyoung came in last, in borrowed sweats, sipping iced coffee and radiating the kind of chaotic exhaustion you only got from hearing your friends go feral in the next room.
Yunho kicked off his shoes with a grunt and peeled his hoodie off revealing the crime scene that was his hair. Tied up the night before. Wild and knotted now. Strands sticking out in every direction. Half his ponytail had somehow exploded, the other half barely holding on for dear life.
Mingi froze. And then burst out laughing. “Oh my god.” He pointed at Yunho, mouth open. “You look like you got hit by a car.”
“Shut up,” Yunho grumbled, raking a hand through the chaos like it’d help. It didn’t.
Jongho squinted. “You okay, hyung? You’re walking a little… weird.”
“He screamed her name,” Wooyoung added helpfully. “Loud. At least twice.”
Yeosang chimed in, sipping his own coffee without flinching. “Three times. I counted.”
Mingi was practically on the floor now. “You screamed? Jeong Yunho? Screamed? I gotta call Seonghwa.”
“No one’s calling Seonghwa,” Yunho muttered, tugging his hood back up, already regretting being born and flipped them all off.
Yeosang sipped his drink.
Wooyoung and San grinned.
And Mingi? Mingi looked at Yunho’s ruined hair, and smirked like the little shit he was. “She really broke you, huh?”
Yunho didn’t answer. But the crooked smile that twitched at the corner of his mouth said enough.
