I'm a love lover

*ﾟ¡𝐒α𝐍ɴ𝐈e! ╬⊰⊹ฺ 𝐌ʸ 𝐋ᵒᵛᵉ ๑♡ ꒱

[stxrrywoo]

CHERRY POP ── j.wy

synopsis ; it was almost time for you to graduate college, but your one wish? not graduate as a virgin. so who do you ask to help you with this task? your best friend whom you've had a crush on for years of course. however, wooyoung is more than willing to aid you in your request.

pairing(s) ; bsf!wooyoung x f!reader

☆ ── wc. ; 4.8k ☆ ── genre ; smut, some fluff, angst if you squint, experienced!wooyoung x virgin!reader, bsf to lovers ☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, kissing, first time sex, unprotected sex (pull out method is used), fingering, teasing, clit play, petnames (babydoll, baby, sweet/pretty girl, sweetheart, babygirl...), biting/marking, dom!wooyoung x sub!reader, crying, impications that woo was a playboy, a bit of manhandling, praising, use of the color system, wooyo tries so hard to be soft for reader :(, a tiny bit of edging, impications of multiple rounds, a teany bit of choking, feelings get spilled in the midst of everything, lmk if I missed anything!!

⏤͟͟͞͞ JOIN THE TAGLIST ── MASTERLIST NAVI ── MAIN NAVI

“Will you take my virginity?”

It was that question that had rendered your normally chatty best friend speechless. Wooyoung was mid-bite of his ice cream when those words left your lips. His eyes, which were once on his phone, scrolling through his feed, were now staring at you.

“I’m sorry?” He asked, eyebrows scrunched together, not completely sure he had even heard you correctly.

You quickly bit your tongue, slouching back down into your seat as you realized what you had just asked. Wooyoung’s gaze burned into you, a mixture of question and something else—something hungrier—pooling in his dark orbs. Chewing on your bottom lip, you mulled over your words, trying to find a way to ask once more.

“It’s just…” You trailed on, words catching in your throat as you met his eyes. His ice cream and phone were long forgotten as he stared at you. The burn of his gaze left you squirming in your seat, hands gripping the sides of your chair. “We’re gonna be graduating soon, and—”

“And you don’t wanna graduate as a virgin?” His words caused you to flinch; he knew what you meant. He always knew what you meant, clearly and plainly, like the back of his hand. He chuckled, the sound causing your heart to race as he stood from his seat slowly. “Why not just find someone on Tinder?”

“Because—” You choked on your words, face growing extremely warm as you watched him slowly walk around the dining table. “I don’t want my first time to be with some rando.”

“Don’t you have other guy friends? Why not ask them?” He questioned you further, his fingers tracing the edge of the table as he neared you, eyes trained on you with a gaze you could only describe as lust.

Swallowing thickly, you tilted your head as he stood before you, “I trust you, and you know…” Your words trailed off once more as you became embarrassed by what you were going to say.

“What, because I’m experienced?” He teased, turning your chair until you were facing him, hands on the armrests, trapping you. You looked up at him with wide eyes, heart hammering under your ribs, and lips pulled between your teeth. “You’re not using me for that, are you y/n?” His voice held a small whine to it underneath the teasing tone, and you shook your head.

“N-No. You don’t have to, just forget it.” Your words came out rushed as you started to push him back to stand and hopefully escape to your room to get away from the embarrassment you felt. However, Wooyoung’s hand found your shoulder, pushing right back down into your chair.

“Nah uh, you don’t get to run away after asking that.” His eyes locked onto you, and you felt small under his intense gaze, your heart threatening to jump out of your throat as he got closer. “If we do this, you need to know that I’m not exactly gentle.”

Heat bloomed in your core at the thought of him being rough with you despite it being your first time. Your pupils dilated as you looked at him. You knew that he wasn’t soft in bed from all of the stories that he’s told you.

When he didn’t get a response from you, he reached forward, grabbing your chin between his thumb and forefinger, jerking your head to look up at him. His lips ghosted over yours, causing your eyes to flutter, a shiver racing through your body at the feeling of his warm breath fanning your face.

“Do you understand?” He asked, his voice stern, making your body shudder, but you looked at him through your lashes, nodding your head. “Use your words, doll.”

“Yes, I understand. Please, Wooyoung.” You pleaded with him as your body grew more needy, and you could feel yourself dripping in your panties.

Then his lips were on yours with a bruising force, stealing all of the air from your lungs. Your hands gripped the lapels of his jacket while his were on the back of your neck, holding you in place as he deepened the kiss.

Wooyoung groaned against your lips at the taste of your cherry lip gloss, a taste he’s always wanted to try since the first time he met you. He wanted—needed—to taste more, his desire already starting to cloud his mind, the more sounds that you let leave your lips. He pressed his tongue against your lips, demanding entrance, but you didn’t let him, which only annoyed him.

A gasp fell from your lips when he moved his hand from the back of your neck to the front, encasing your soft flesh in his hold. He took that chance to slip his tongue into your warm cavern, exploring every inch. A whine fell from your tongue when he pulled back, biting down on your bottom lip before releasing it.

His eyes were dark as he looked at you, a gaze that you’ve never seen on his face when he looked at you. Your heart hammered in your chest the longer he just stared, but then he moved. It happened way too quickly for your mind to register. He threw you over his shoulder, his hand firmly gripping the back of your thighs while he walked down the hall.

“W-Wooyoung!” You gasped out, planting your hands on the small of his back to push yourself up. He didn’t say a word, but the way his grip tightened told you that you weren’t gonna be going anywhere until he let go.

Making it to your bedroom, he threw you down onto your mattress with a small huff, his body slotted right over yours. His hands grabbed your wrist, pinning them down right next to your head as he started down at you, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips.

“Here’s the deal, babydoll,” He started, lips ghosting over your jaw before trailing to your ear, “when I ask you to give me a color; red for stop, yellow for slow down, and green for go. Got it?”

Your eyebrows scrunched together, confused, and as if he could sense it, he pulled away to look down at you once more.

“Even if I can be rough, I don’t want to actually hurt you.” He breathed out, pressing a gentle kiss against your lips, causing your body to melt right into the mattress. When he pulled away, you tried to chase after him, not getting enough of his plush lips against yours. “Okay?”

You started to nod, but he fixed you with a sharp gaze, “y-yes.”

“Good girl.” He cooed, and a whine fell from your lips, your walls contracting around nothing, and he noticed. A borderline sinister smirk spread on his lips, “someone’s got a praise kink.” He teased, releasing your wrists to grab the hem of your t-shirt. “Do as you're told, and I’ll praise you till your heart's content.”

You bit your lips as your face flushed red, embarrassment eating at the edges of your stomach. However, Wooyoung didn’t let you dwell on it too long before his hands were pulling you up, stripping you of your shirt.

His fingers then found the latch of your bra, but stopped short to look at you, “color?”

You looked at him with scrunched eyebrows, the need in your gut growing rapidly the longer he waited. Your lips parted, getting ready to ask him what he meant, but he leaned down, nipping at your jaw, causing you to gasp softly.

“What color?” He repeated himself, an edge to his tone that left you shivering in his hold.

Then it dawned on you what he meant, the color system he had told you just moments earlier. Your fingers reached out, grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, and tugged it. “Green.”

“Good girl.” He breathed out, unlatching your bra, allowing your breasts to fall free. You felt small under his intense gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and you started to move your arms to cover yourself, but Wooyoung was quick to grab your wrists, "nuh uh, baby, don't hide yourself from me."

"W-Woo—" You breathed out as he tugged you closer to him, his face falling to the crook of your neck. Your breath hitched as you felt his lips against your skin, warm breath rising goosebumps.

He places soft kisses along the expanse of your shoulder, before they quickly turn wet and hot as he gets to your neck. Soft whimpers fall from your lips at the new sensation, your heart thumping against your ribs. Your hands find the hem of his shirt, an inaudible whisper escaping your parted lips.

"You gotta speak up, sweet girl." His lips trailed up to your ear, pressing a searing kiss to your jaw, and you let out a sigh, eyes fluttering.

"Off, please." You murmured, tugging on the hem of his shirt once more, and Wooyoung chuckled.

"Go ahead, babydoll, strip me." He teased, causing your face to heat up even more, your cheeks to turn a deeper shade of red, and tears to build along your waterline. He leaned back, giving you the room to shove his jacket off his shoulders, and he helped pull his arms out before tossing it to the side. Your bottom lip then caught in between your teeth as you reached for the hem of his shirt with shaky hands.

You held your breath as you pulled his shirt up and over his head, tossing the fabric off to the side. Then your eyes were shifted down to his chest, eyes trailing down his toned torso. Your fingers smoothed down his chest, fingers lingering on his tattoo, ghosting over it.

"Like what you see?" Wooyoung teased, leaning down to catch your eyes, and you glanced up at him, pupils blown out. A smirk tugged on the corner of his lips at the need that swam in your hooded eyes. Seeing you like this was something that he dreamed of, but you had always been his cute, innocent best friend.

Leaning more into him, you brought your hands up to his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. "Woo, I need you, please."

The pleading tone you had made the blonde smirk, eyes darkening, and he pressed a soft kiss on your lips. When he pulled away, he watched in amusement as you chased after him, and then he pressed against you again. This kiss was needier—hungrier—than before, as he was claiming you as his and his alone.

You gasped as his ring-clad hands groped your breast, kneading the soft fat. His lips trailed from your lips down your jaw before finding purchase on your throat, sucking and nipping marks into your skin. The pleasure that coursed through your veins was something that you had never felt before, even when you were trying to get yourself off behind closed doors. It was making your brain fuzz over, fingers digging into his bicep.

"You sound so pretty, babydoll. I can't believe I waited this long," He spoke against your skin, and you whined in response, your mind not fully comprehending his words.

"W-Woo…" You sighed, head falling back as his fingers tweaked your nipples. You had always thought about how his plush lips would feel against your skin, but this was far better than you imagined.

Wooyoung then pulled away from your neck, his fingers releasing your breasts, causing you to whine, and his lips twitched in amusement. You watched him trail his finger down your stomach to the waistband of your jeans, pressing down on the button.

"Color?" He asked, lips brushing over the shell of your ear, and you let out a shaky breath, frustration bubbling in your gut.

"Green, Woo, please." You pleaded, even more tears involuntarily filling your eyes, some falling from the corner of your eyes.

He couldn't help the swell in his chest, his cock straining against his jeans at the sight of your trembling bottom lip. Quickly, he unbuttoned your jeans and pulled them down your legs, tossing them aside. Wooyoung couldn't help but just admire your almost nude body, and of course, you just picked today of all days to wear white underwear. The fabric was almost transparent as your slick soaked it, sticking to your folds.

"You're soaked, babygirl. Have you been thinking about this all day?" Wooyoung teased, his hand smoothing up your leg, gripping your thigh when you tried to close them. A whine bubbled in your throat as his eyes stayed glued to your weeping cunt. He wrapped his fingers around the waistband, and you thought he was going to pull them down, but instead, he pulled up, the fabric pressing against your aching clit.

"Wooyoung." You whined, hand reaching down to grab his wrist, the sensation of your slick soaking through even more made you feel embarrassed.

"Don't be so embarrassed, pretty girl, it's adorable." He cooed, moving his other hand to press against your clothed clit. A choked moan slipped past your lips, grip tightening on his wrist, and Wooyoung watched you with a keen eye, studying your reactions.

His pace was slow as he circled your clit with his thumb, watching as your jaw went slack. A series of whines and pleas fell from your lips as he slowly brought your body close to your high. He pulled your underwear further up, watching as your body jerked and a small cry tore through your lips.

"Wooy— nngghhh!" You choked out his name, eyes rolling back as the coil in the pit of your stomach.

"Feels good, doesn't it, sweetheart?" He asked, leaning over your body to press a kiss to your jaw. You mewled, teary eyes gazing up at him, and you nodded.

"'S good, more… please." You hiccuped, hand wrapping around his neck as you leaned up to kiss him.

"Such a greedy girl aren't you?" Wooyoung chuckled, moving his fingers from your clothed core, and you bit back a whine as he pressed a kiss on your cheek. "Gimme a color, baby."

"G-Green." You whispered against his lips, and his fingers slipped around the waistband of your underwear. He pulled them down your legs as he pulled you into another sloppy kiss, a mess of saliva and teeth. Your breath hitched, hips jerking when he split your folds, pressing down on your twitching clit.

"So, wet babydoll, is this all for me?" He asked, a smirk pulling on his lips as he looked down at you, and you nodded, breathing out sharply.

"J-Just you Woo." You told him, fingers tightening around his neck as your jaw fell slack.

Pride swelled in the blonde male's chest as those words spilled from your lips, his pearly white teeth peeking out from behind his lips. He continued to toy with your clit until you were withering beneath him, then he slipped a finger into your tight walls. Your moans bounced off the walls, nails digging into his skin, threatening to break the skin.

Wooyoung spends his time working you open on his fingers, gradually adding another when he feels you loosen around his finger. He soaked in all of your moans as you clung to him, your high creeping up on you quickly. His lips trailed over every inch of skin he could reach, fingers working you open.

"W-Wooyoung." Your back arched against his chest, his fingers brushing over your sweet spot, and colors danced across your vision. Your jaw fell slack, fingers tightening around his skin, and he chuckled, an almost sinister smirk spreading on his lips.

"Found it." He continued to abuse your sweet spot, his free hand moving down to grab your hip and hold you in place as you started to squirm. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, your eyes rolling back, and the coil in the pit of your stomach tightening.

"I'm close, Woo— nghhh! Baby, please." You cried out, back arching, and Wooyoung growled against your throat at the petname that fell from your lips. He kissed up to your ear, his warm breath fanning your sweaty skin, causing goosebumps to rise.

"Say that again." He demanded, nipping at your earlobe, and you whined before pressing a kiss to his jaw that you could reach.

"B-Baby, please. I wanna cum so bad." You told him, and he let out a throaty groan, causing you to clench around his fingers. Your mind starts to go numb as pleasure flows through your veins, your high right on the tip of your tongue.

Then he pulled his fingers out of your pussy, his lips ghosting your jaw as he pulled away, and you let out a pathetic whine.

"Woo, why?" You nearly cried as your high ebbed away, tears dripping from your lashes, and Wooyoung chuckled softly. He leaned forward, kissing away your tears before bringing you into another searing kiss.

"I need to feel you cum on my cock, pretty girl," He cooed, kissing you again, and you cupped his face, thumb brushing over the skin underneath his eye. He had you so drowned in the taste of his lips against yours that you hadn't even realized he undid his jeans and shoved them down along with his boxers until his cock sprang free.

He tried to pull away from you, but you grabbed his neck, pulling him back to your lips, causing him to groan. He grabbed your wrist gently, pulling your hand away and kissing your palm. The gleam in his eyes made you weak in the knees. It was something that you've never seen in his eyes before, a warmth that you were sure would encase you. Something was so domestic about it, but you didn't want to think too much of it, because you knew that this would only be a one-time thing, and he'd go back to being your overly enthusiastic best friend who had zero filter about his sex life.

Noticing the change in your demeanor, even if it were the slightest, he noticed—he always noticed. He fixed you with a serious look, not moving in the slightest.

"What's wrong? We can stop if it's too much." He stated, his eyes studying every single feature on your face. You quickly shook your head, cupping your face, but tears started to involuntarily fall from your eyes as you finally came to terms with your feelings for your best friend.

"N-No, I want this, I do." You hiccuped, trying to wipe your face free of tears, but it was futile because they were just replaced by more. Frustration started to bubble up in your chest, but Wooyoung grabbed your wrist, pulling your attention back to him.

"Then tell me what's wrong, babygirl." He asked, his soft voice making you feel even more emotional, and your words caught in your throat, suddenly feeling stupid, but he caught it, "It's okay."

"It's just… I know this is only a one-time thing, but I wish it wasn't." You told him, your voice wavering as you tried to keep from crying again, your face flushing in embarrassment. "It's stupid, forget it." You turned your head, ears burning.

"Hey," He called out, grabbing your chin gently to force your eyes back on him, and he leaned down until his nose bumped against yours, "I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I love you, baby, so much." He whispered, your eyes fluttering as his warm breath fanned your face.

Your eyes widened at his words, trembling lips parting in surprise as you searched his eyes for any hint of faking it. But you knew him for years, and there was nothing but truth in his features, eyes full of determination, and that same warmth as before. Overcome by emotions, you pulled him back down, sealing your lips over his in a sweet kiss as soft sobs racked your lungs.

"Shh, baby, I've got you, I promise." Wooyoung cooed against your lips and pressed a soft kiss on the corner of your lips. "I need you to give me a color, sweetheart."

Inhaling deeply, you gazed up at him, your want only growing tenfold at his previous statement, "Green, Woo. I need you so bad, please."

As the plea left your lips, Wooyoung's signature smirk tugged on his lips, and he leaned back to shrug all the way out of his jeans and underwear. He then grabbed them, grabbing his wallet out of the pocket, but his jaw clenched as he realized he never put another condom back in it. A quiet curse fell from his lips because he knew you wouldn't have any, but when you grabbed his arm, his attention turned towards you.

"I-It's fine, I'm on the pill." You told him, and Wooyoung had to bite back a groan, tossing his wallet to the side on your mattress before grabbing the back of your neck, pulling you into a bruising kiss, swallowing your cute little sounds.

"You really were planning this, weren't you?" He hummed, pulling away to take in your doe eyes, his other hand snaking down to your hip, "Such a naughty girl, aren't you?"

You bit back a whine at his words, but then his lips were on yours again, pushing you back to lie flat on the mattress. His body slotted over yours, and his hands smoothed down your sides and pulled your legs apart.

Grabbing himself at the base, he split your fold with his tip, dragging it across your drenched cunt. Your body jolted when he bumped against your clit, a soft gasp falling from your lips, only to be swallowed by his. Then he lined himself up with your entrance, but stopped, pulling away from your lips.

"Take a deep breath, baby, and tell him if it's too much." He told you, eyes glued to your face as you looked up at him, the sight picture-perfect, a sight he wanted seared in his brain. Your arms wrapped around his neck, kissing his jaw.

"I will, I promise. So please just fuck me, Wooyoung, please." You told him, and you felt his jaw clench beneath your lips, his eyes darkening as you pulled back and looked at him. His grip on your hip tightened as his eyes shifted from your lips back to your eyes.

"Ya know, you make it so hard to go easy on you, sweetheart." He pushed out through gritted teeth, his restraint holding on by a thread, but he wasn't going to let it break. Not this time at least. "Do you know how much I just wanna fuck you into this mattress?"

A shiver ran down your spine, your walls throbbing at the thought of him ruining you, your first time. However, before you could get the words out, Wooyoung chuckled softly, pressing his forehead against yours.

"I can't this time, babydoll, I don't want to hurt you. But next time…?" He trailed on, kissing the tip of your nose, "There's no promises." Then he leaned up, his grip on your hip tightening to keep you from squirming, "Now, take a deep breath,"

You followed his instructions, inhaling deeply before blowing it out slowly, but it caught in your throat when he started to push into you. The stretch was like nothing you've ever felt before, a mixture of pain and pleasure clouded your mind. Your breath was caught in your throat, unable to push it out or inhale. Noticing Wooyoung leaned down, cupping the back of your head and forcing your eyes on him.

"Breathe, pretty girl." He instructed, his movements stopping until you started breathing again. Once he made sure that you were good, he started to push into you again, his jaw clenching at how tightly you were squeezing him.

"W-Wooyo…" You moaned, head tilting back as he continued to stretch you open, the pain slowly fading, only to be replaced by pleasure. Your nails dug into his shoulders, and breathless moans fell from your lips.

"Just a little bit more." Wooyoung groaned, burying his cock to the hilt in your tight walls. A shaky sigh fell from his lips as the feeling of you being wrapped around him. Looking down at you, he felt like he'd bust right then and there at the sight before him.

Your face and chest were flushed a bright shade of red. His bites and marks littered your neck and chest. The thin sheen of sweat on your skin made you look as if you were glowing under the soft sunlight streaming in from the window. Then his eyes drifted down to where his cock was buried in your pussy. It was something he had always dreamed of, but seeing it was a hundred times better than those dreams.

"Green." Your shaky voice broke his train of thought, and he looked up at you with a raised eyebrow, "green. Move baby, please, move." You whined, trying to roll your hips, but his grip was too strong, keeping you in place.

"Fuck, okay." He groaned, biting his tongue as he pulled out before pushing back in slowly. That movement alone was enough to send sparks of euphoria shooting throughout your body, jaw falling slack with moans.

His pace started out slow, testing the waters, and he fought demons to not just plow into your tight cunt. However, you wanted—needed more.

"Nghh, faster Woo." You whined, arms reaching out for him, and he complied, leaning down until his face was a hair away from yours.

"Is this not enough for my needy baby?" He teased, and you shook your head, another moan falling from your lips when he brushed over your sweet spot in this position. Biting back a groan, he let his face fall to your neck, "Good because it's not enough for me either."

Then his pace picked up drastically, his hips snapping into you with enough force to move your body further up the bed. Broken and incoherent moans fell from your lips, and stars danced across your vision. Your nails dug into the skin of his neck, sure to leave marks.

It wasn't long before that same knot in your tummy came barreling back, pulling tight. Wooyoung peppered your skin in kisses and small bites before he leaned over you again. His hooded eyes met yours, and you bit your bottom lip.

"You feel so fucking good, baby," He growled, eyes fluttering as you tightened around him, and he knew that he wasn't going to last very long at this rate. However, he sure as hell wasn't going to cum until he felt you come undone around him.

"Woo— fuck! Baby, I'm so close, please." You cried out, clinging to him as your high crept up your spine, threatening to wash over you at any moment.

"Then cum, sweetheart, make a mess on my cock," He murmured, lips coming down to meet yours in a messy, spit-filled kiss, and that was your tipping point.

You came with nearly a scream of his name, back arching against his chest, and mouth falling open as Wooyoung swallowed all your sounds. He continued to fuck you through his high, a high-pitched whine pulling from his throat when you squeezed around him like a vice, nearly pushing him over the edge.

"Fuck, cumming." He groaned, pulling out of your tight heat, jerking himself as he painted your stomach with his cum, and you watched him. Seeing him like this, with blonde hair sticking to his forehead from sweat. Chocolate eyes focused on nothing but you. His jaw clenched tightly as he continued to shoot ropes of hot cum on your body. It was a sight you wanted to memorize.

Tightening your arms around him, you pulled him down for another kiss. His lips all but melded with yours, his hands squeezing your hips, soothing the sore muscles. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

"Thank you, baby," He breathed out, pressing another light kiss on your lips, and you just stared up at him in adoration. You moved one hand to cup his face, and he nuzzled into your palm, eyes still focused on yours, "let's get you cleaned up, and we can take a nap, yeah?"

"That sounds amazing," You whispered, a soft smile tugging on your lips, and he brought a hand up to your cheek, wiping a few stray tears away. "I love you too, Woo, so so much."

As soon as those words left your lips, he was kissing you again, taking the air from your lungs, but you wouldn't have it any other way. This definitely wasn't how you thought this would go, but you wouldn't have it any other way, and the two of you took a shower. Wooyoung, of course, couldn't keep his hands to himself, and you got to experience shower sex before you both made it back to your bed, falling into a deep slumber in each other's arms.

© 𝐬𝐭𝐱𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

[silenttrxxs]

header made by me ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ warnings - major character death mention. psychological confusion, blood mentioned... once the first time you saw San, he was dying. not in front of your eyes. not here in the reality you found yourself living. no in your dreams. the moment you laid down and closed your eyes to rid yourself of the torment from your day you found yourself living through what one could only describe as personal hell. you didn't even know this man, you felt oddly familiar with him though, knowing the outcome of this dream that looped its way through your neurons it still left you with a a feeling that until you had found him. you would never rid yourself of this constant unsettling feeling. which brings you here, laying in your bed, eyes wide and scanning the patterns that adorned your ceiling, recounting the background, the outlines of the figures that seemed be following San throughout the dream, trying hard to figure out this puzzle that had you awaking in a cold sweat and shaking in fear every single morning.

You remembered, the way that reality had shifted in this one, the buildings burning around you, the flames spreading but you felt no heat, the flames bursting around you and the figure in front of you so familiar, but the visibility being blurred by the wisps of ash flying around you both. Blinking back your vision you gasp0ed as you saw him. San. There was no way that he could be surviving this. Not a single human could be standing in these flames without reacting even a little. The flames even licking your skin and bringing tears to your eyes. You stood there unable to move, every nerve in your body screaming for you move to do something but each time you tried your body was forced right back to the same position. You looked at him, his movements calculated, each step making your heart pound louder in your ears. His face now becoming clearer as he stood in front of you, hands lifting to rest on your shoulders and lips moving before he spoke, you should have been scared, no terrified actually but you wasn't. Even looking at him, blood covering his shirt, the charred hems and scars covering his skin. You should have been able to run. But you couldn't you listened as he scanned your face. Like he knew you, like he had been waiting. "Found you" he whispered. Those words awakening something so deep inside you it made you jolt in your sleep. Your body reacting in a way that it never had before. You gasped as the dream begun crashing around you both, his words echoing as he caught your wrist helping you escape from the rubble that threatened to crush you. "Listen carefully, if you see the real me~" he said his voice cracking with urgency. "Run from me" These words now echoing within you as you laid calculating what this meant, the dream now melting into reality. You sat up, grabbing your notebook and jotting down key factors, shoving it into your bag and grabbing your clothes and continuing your usual morning routine, up, dressed and out to the coffee shop that was down your street. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ more to come...

[silenttrxxs]

run from me continued…

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“Welcome back.” the words didn’t echo, they hit direct, almost like a sucker punch to your gut. They way they settled into your pores, to the very atoms firing in your brain, easy, gentle... maybe too gentle.

Your fingers rested against his-cold, unmoving-and for a second… it felt right. Not safe, hell the fear coursing throug hyou was enoug hto have anyone on their knees sobbing. This was a eeire feeling, familiar. Almost complete.

Like closing a door you hadn’t realised was open. And that was what made it wrong. Your breath caught, tears pricking your eyes but blinking them back ad you looked. You felt it, felt the fire within flickering inside you, something echoing throug hthe deplths of your soul, something quiet, stubborn and most importantly Yours. This feeling spreading throug hyou caused the other part of you to resist, it wasnt settling, you looked trying to focus on your surroundings. Something flickered, small but still very much there.

Behind you. A sound, not loud, not dramatic, just there - “…don’t.” San said not panicked, not sharp just soft, almost fractured, and beyond all measures, Real.

Your chest tightened instantly, the ache pulling inside you, the world didnt move but your certainly felt the shift. It wasnt around you, it was coursing through you.

The other San’s fingers twitched slightly against yours, like he felt it too. “…you’re hesitating again,” he murmured. But there was something different now.

Not control. Not certainty. Something thinner. Cracking.

Your throat tightened. “I don’t think…” you whispered, your voice unsteady, “this is ending.”

Silence.

For the first time- The other San didn’t immediately respond, eyes locked too your hands, flickering up to your face. A glimmer of hesitation, nervousness... something different, his own soul twisiting inside him, the lack of control and certanty causing him to feel uneasy, but he blinked this back, he couldnt allow this to be seen.

And behind you- San took a step forward.

Slow. Careful, almost hesitant, watching for the chaos, the uproar of the world around you.

“You feel that, don’t you?” he said quietly. Not to him. To you.

Your fingers trembled slightly against the cold ones in front of you. “…yeah.” The word came out small, almost timid. but laced with sheer honesty.

San exhaled- like he’d been holding that breath for far too long. “Then listen to it.” The other San’s gaze sharpened, eyes locked onto san, almost glaring, trying to push his faux intimidation through the waves of his control snapping.

“Careful,” he said softly. “That’s exactly how it resets.”

But his voice- It wasn’t as steady anymore.

And you noticed.

You defiantly noticed.

Your fingers pulled back slightly, Not fully, Just enough.

Enough to create space. And the second you did-

The world flickered.

Not violently. Not painfully. No chaos, no big movie style twist where the world is burning around you, the buildings collapsing no. none of that just almost like a glitch loosing its grip.

San saw it too. You felt it in the way he stilled, his eyes looking between you both.

“…that’s it,” he said, quieter now. “You’re not supposed to choose.” Your heart stuttered, throat tightening as if he had just walked into your brain and ripped the words right from your throat. “What?”

The other San’s expression darkened slightly, anger seeping through a little, but the control of the situation needed to be handled he could not allow either of you to notice a single thing off.

But San didn’t take his eyes off you. “That’s the trap,” he continued. “Every time-it forces you into a choice. Me or him.” He said certain of his thoery, you stood there, slightly baffled as if he was pulling out the google document you was typing inside your head.

Your breath hitched. “And every time I pick—” you started.

“It loops,” he finished.

A pause.

Then softer- “…because it’s built on that moment.” he finished, certain. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The café flickered again- A flash of you standing here, repeating over and over, always doing the same thing, always reaching and always choosing.

Your stomach twisted. The reality of this confirming the exact theory. “So what—” you swallowed, grounding yourself, forcing your thoughts to steady. “What if I don’t?”

Silence, everything slightly stilling, both sans focused solely on you.

The other San went completely still, His eyes flickered- something like a realization hitting at the same time as it hit you.

“…then it doesn’t complete,” he said, plainly.. a tiny hint of question laced through the words.

Your pulse started to race- but not from fear. From clarity, the realization and confirmation tying the loose ends up.

The other San stepped forward slightly, faster this time. “That’s not how this works.” But there it was again- That crack. That slight desperation laced in his words, in everything.

“You have to choose,” he continued, voice tightening. “That’s the point.” he said. “No,” you said, certain.

And this time- Your voice didn’t shake.

San’s gaze snapped to you, “You said it yourself,” you continued, taking a small step back- away from both of them now. “Every time I choose—it resets.” the words hitting them both differently.

The humming shifted.

Uneven. Unstable.

Like a rhythm losing time, a tempo that shifted off beat just by one beat. “So I don’t choose either of you.” The words hung there.

Heavy. Wrong. Powerful.

San’s breath caught- Not hurt. Not rejection. Understanding.

The other San’s expression finally broke. “No,” he said, sharper now. “That’s not-” The world flickered harder this time. His form stuttered.

Just for a second.

San moved then-quick, but not aggressive- stepping to your side instead of in front of you. Not shielding. Standing with you. Together.

“You’re not losing me,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t a plea. It was a promise.

Your fingers found his- warm this time. Real. And you held on, your thumb brushing softly over his without really realising.

Not choosing. Not letting go. Just- holding.

The other San’s voice cut through, distorted now. “You think that changes anything? You think you can just stand there and—” “Yes,” you said, interuppting him.

And the second the word left your mouth- The humming broke. Not stopped. Shattered.

The café around you jerked violently- people freezing mid-motion, voices cutting out like someone had ripped the sound from the world.

The other San flickered-

Once. Twice. His outline tearing at the edges.

“You don’t exist without the choice,” San said, his voice steady now. Certain.

“And we’re not giving you one.” you said.

Your grip tightened in his. The other San looked at you- really looked this time. Not confident. Not knowing. Searching. “…you’ll lose him anyway,” he said, quieter now. Not a threat. A warning.

Your chest tightened- but you didn’t look away. “Maybe,” you said softly. " but not like this.” you continued.

Silence. A long one. And then- For the first time- He didn’t smile. Didn’t step forward. Didn’t try to pull you.

He just… Flickered.

“…this isn’t over,” he said, voice thinning, unraveling at the edges.

And then- He was gone. Not vanished. Not dramatic.

Just— Gone.

It was almost like he’d never quite been there at all. The pressure in the air lifted instantly. The glass settled. The café snapped back into place-Sound rushing in all at once. Too loud. Too fast. Too real. Your knees nearly gave out, the relaity of what just happened causing you to crumble a little, but san was already there, hands steady on your arms, warm, grounding. and Real.

“Hey—hey, I’ve got you,” he murmured. Your breath shook as you looked at him- really looked at him, eyes locked to his searching, you released a breath you didnt realise you was holding when you noticed not a single flicker of red, just his deep brown orbs looking back at you, searching your face, making sure you was okay.

“…we broke it,” you whispered. San hesitated. Just for a second. Then, softer- “…we disrupted it.” Your stomach dropped slightly. “Meaning?” His thumb brushed lightly over your wrist, grounding again. “It’ll try again,” he said. “Maybe not the same way. Maybe not soon.” A pause. His gaze softened. “But next time…”

His fingers tightened gently around yours. “…we’ll be ready.” Your chest eased- just a little.

Not safe. Not completely. But not alone either. And somehow- That was enough.

For now.

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[unsvripted]

Desperate for you — 최산

San is exhausted from a long rehearsal and trying to sleep, but you his wife is restless and "worked up," rolling around the bed because your hrny.

includes : fem!reader x San!choi , idol, married couple, unprotected sex, fluff, smut, handjob, rubbing, desperate!fem . MDNI! .

listen to my playlist

The room was bathed in shadows, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamps filtering through the curtains. Beside you, your husband, San, was already drifting off. He was bone-tired, his muscles aching from a grueling rehearsal with his bandmates. Even in his half-asleep state, he looked peaceful, his breathing deep and steady.

You, however, were wide awake.

No matter how you positioned yourself, comfort felt miles away. You tossed to the left, then flipped to the right, the sheets rustling loudly in the quiet room. You adjusted your pillow, then rolled over again, your mind racing even though your body should have been exhausted.

The constant shifting didn't go unnoticed.

Even through the fog of his fatigue, San felt the mattress dip and sway. He let out a low, sleepy groan, his eyes fluttering open just a crack. He reached out blindly through the dark, his large, warm hand landing on your hip to still your movement.

"Love..." he mumbled, his voice thick and gravelly from sleep. "Why are you still moving? Can't sleep?"

He pulled you back toward him, his chest pressing against your back as he draped a heavy arm over your waist, trying to anchor you down.

"Love... don’t touch me like that. I can’t help myself," you gasped, your voice a frantic whisper in the dark. You quickly reached down and swiped his hand away from your hip, your heart racing. "Keep your hands to yourself for a second!"

San froze, his mind foggy with sleep but suddenly alert enough to feel the shift in the air. He propped himself up on one elbow, his dark hair messy from the pillow, looking at you with a mix of confusion and mild hurt.

"What?" he questioned, his voice low and raspy. "I was just trying to get you to settle down. You’re rolling around like you're trying to escape the bed."

He blinked, trying to see your face in the shadows. He knew your moods better than anyone, and the way you had just jumped at his touch wasn't because you were angry—it was because you were restless in a completely different way.

"Is it me?" he asked, a small, sleepy smirk beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth as he realized why you were so worked up. "Am I making it hard for you to sleep, or is it just the way I’m touching you?"

He didn't pull back. Instead, he leaned closer, his warmth radiating off him, making your skin tingle even more.

"I’m horny, okay?" you blurted out, the frustration finally bubbling over. You let out a long, heavy sigh and looked him in the eye. "I’m feeling worked up, and every time you touch me, it just makes me want more. So just... don’t."

San stared at you for a beat, his sleepy brain trying to process your sudden confession. He was clearly exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes proof of how hard he’d been working at rehearsal. He looked like he could pass out at any second, but your words had sparked a new kind of awareness in him.

You bit your lip, looking at the silhouette of his body under the covers. Despite knowing how tired he was, you couldn't help yourself.

"Can I touch it?" you asked bluntly.

The silence in the room was deafening for a moment. San let out a low, tired chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest. He didn't move away. Instead, he rolled onto his back, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face as he looked up at the ceiling.

"You're going to be the death of me, love," he groaned, though he didn't sound like he was complaining. He grabbed your hand and slowly guided it under the waistband of his sweatpants. "If you're that desperate, I guess I'm not as tired as I thought."

You shifted your weight, sitting up beside him in the darkened room. Your eyes stayed locked on his face as your hand finally reached down, closing around him. Even though he had been half-asleep moments ago, he was already reacting to you. He was soft but substantial in your grip, a familiar weight you had traced many times before.

You began to stroke him slowly, your palm sliding over the warmth of his skin. The rhythmic friction started to change him almost instantly. San let out a long, shaky exhale, his head sinking deeper into the pillow as his eyes fluttered shut.

"Ah, love..." he whispered, his voice sounding even more strained and gravelly than before.

He didn't move to stop you. Instead, his legs fell open slightly, giving you better access as you picked up the pace. You watched the way his jaw tightened with every upward stroke, his exhaustion seemingly forgotten as the pleasure began to take over. Even in his tired state, his body was answering you, growing firmer and more insistent against your hand.

"You really aren't going to let me sleep, are you?" he murmured, though he was already beginning to tilt his hips up into your touch, seeking more of the friction you were providing.

The air in the bedroom felt heavy and charged, the only sound the soft rustle of the sheets and San’s hitching breath. You kept your eyes locked on his as your hand continued its steady, firm rhythm, feeling him grow harder and more insistent with every stroke.

With your other hand, you reached down, sliding your fingers under the waistband of your pajamas. The fabric fell away easily as you found the damp silk of your underwear. You gasped softly when you touched yourself; you were already slick and aching for him.

You began to rub your clit, your fingers moving in a fast, circular motion that matched the pace of your other hand on him. The dual sensation was overwhelming. You were watching him come alive under your touch while you drove yourself closer to the edge.

San’s eyes snapped open, his gaze dark and heavy as he watched you pleasure yourself while taking care of him. The sight of your flushed face and the way you were grinding your hips slightly was clearly more than enough to break through his exhaustion.

"You're so bad for me," he groaned, his hand coming up to grip your wrist, not to stop you, but to guide your rhythm. "I was supposed to be asleep twenty minutes ago, and now look at what you're doing to us."

He shifted, his hips arching off the mattress as he sought more friction, his breath hitching as he realized just how ready you were.

"Love, just stay... I know you're tired," you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached a peak.

Despite your words, San wasn’t about to let you finish alone. He watched you for another second, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you rubbing yourself while your other hand worked him into a frenzy.

"I'm never too tired for this," he rasped.

His exhaustion seemed to vanish, replaced by a surge of protective, hungry energy. He reached out, his large, warm hand covering yours where you were rubbing against your underwear. He gently nudged your fingers aside, replacing them with his own. His touch was firmer, more experienced, and he knew exactly how to find the rhythm that made your breath catch in your throat.

"San..." you gasped, your head falling back as he took over.

"Shh, just feel it," he murmured, his thumb circling your clit with a precision that made your hips buck involuntarily.

With his other hand, he reached up and gripped the back of your neck, pulling your face down to his so he could kiss you deeply. The kiss tasted like desperation and late-night heat. While his tongue tangled with yours, his hand down below didn't stop, his fingers slicking with your wetness as he drove you faster and faster toward the edge.

He wasn't just helping you; he was claiming you, making sure that when you finally shattered, it was his name you were sobbing into the quiet of the room.

The atmosphere in the room was stiflingly hot, the air thick with the scent of your shared arousal. You were so close, the tension coiling in your gut like a spring about to snap.

"San... mmm... love," you whimpered, your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to ground yourself. "I think I can't hold back anymore... San!"

Driven by a sudden surge of desperation, you quickened the pace of your hand on him. The slick, wet sounds of your movements filled the quiet room, echoing against the walls and making your heart hammer against your ribs. Every stroke was firm and purposeful, matched by the relentless, expert pressure of his fingers against your center.

You couldn't hold the moans back anymore. They spilled out of you, raw and honest, as you arched your back.

"Fuck, I want to be fucked right now... ah, San!"

At your words, the last of San’s exhaustion evaporated. The primal need in your voice hit him like a physical blow. He didn't say a word; instead, he gripped your waist with both hands and flipped you over in one fluid, powerful motion.

The mattress groaned under the sudden shift in weight as he pinned you down, his heavy body hovering over yours. His eyes were dark, blown wide with a hunger that made your breath catch. He moved your pajama bottoms completely out of the way, his knee nudging your legs apart to make space for himself.

"You've been asking for this all night," he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous growl against your ear. "If I start, I’m not stopping until we’re both exhausted for real."

He didn't wait for an answer. He guided himself to your entrance and pushed inside in one deep, slow thrust that filled you completely. You let out a shattered cry, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back as he finally gave you exactly what you were begging for.

The room was filled with the rhythmic sound of your bodies colliding and the desperate, shaky gasps of your breath. San was moving with a raw, primal energy now, his exhaustion completely replaced by the need to satisfy you.

"San... ah, yeah! Fuck, yes! More, more... I want that inside, yes!" you cried out, your head tossing back against the pillows. Your eyes locked onto his, and you saw the sheer intensity in his gaze, a mix of deep love and a dark, hungry possessiveness.

You gripped his muscular back, your nails digging into his skin as he drove into you with powerful, deep thrusts. The friction was perfect, hitting every sensitive spot you had been teasing all night.

"Yes, love, keep going! I'm not going to get tired of you... please, more!"

San let out a low, guttural growl, his sweat dripping onto your skin as he picked up the pace even more. "You asked for this," he rasped, his voice vibrating against your collarbone as he leaned down to bite gently at your neck. "I'll give you every bit of it."

He shifted his angle, lifting your legs higher to go even deeper. Every thrust made you cry out his name, your voice cracking with the intensity of the pleasure. You felt the orgasm building like a tidal wave, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him.

"San, I'-I'm close! Please, don't stop!"

"I've got you, love," he groaned, his own breath coming in ragged bursts. "Come for me. Give me everything."

With a final, desperate surge of movement, he buried himself deep one last time just as you shattered. A loud, broken moan escaped your lips as the waves of release crashed through you, and a moment later, San followed, his body tensing as he found his own release, filling you with his warmth while he collapsed against your chest.

The heavy silence of the room returned, broken only by the sound of your synchronized, ragged breathing. The air was still warm and thick around you both as the adrenaline slowly began to fade, replaced by a deep, bone-deep relaxation.

You reached up, your fingers trembling slightly as you brushed the damp hair away from San's forehead. He was heavy against you, his head tucked into the crook of your neck, his heart still drumming a steady rhythm against your chest.

"I love you, love," you whispered, your voice soft and airy as you finally caught your breath. "I’m sorry for being so desperate... I just really needed that. Thank you. You're the best, always."

San let out a long, contented sigh, his body going limp as he fully relaxed into your embrace. He shifted just enough to press a lingering, warm kiss to your shoulder, his lips moving against your skin in a tired smile.

"Don't ever apologize for wanting me," he murmured, his voice so low and gravelly it was almost a purr. "Tired or not, I’ll always have enough left for you. But now..."

He pulled the duvet up over both of your tangled bodies, tucking it securely around your shoulders to trap the heat. He moved his arm to pull you closer, hooking his leg over yours to anchor you against him.

"Now, you have to stay still," he teased, his eyes already closing as sleep finally claimed him for real. "No more rolling over."

You smiled against the top of his head, finally feeling the heaviness of sleep pulling at your own eyelids. You closed your eyes, drifting off in the quiet safety of his arms.

[binniebb]

fireworks ⟢ choi san

── .✦ 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.”

Your head snaps up. “San!”

“What?” he asks, hands up, dimples showing. “You look good. Gym fashion matters.”

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.

“Mine,” he whispers.

Outside, the final few fireworks pop and fizz.

BINNIEBB 2026 ™ PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK ♡

[minkieater]

WIFEY .✦ - jwy݁

.✦ 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.”

masterlist 🍒

[mingi-buffering-24-7]

Crossing the City for You - [yunho x reader]

He wanted you before. Thought it was just sex. Now he knows you were everything. And he’s not leaving until you let him stay again.

based on [this] request

Pairing: Yunho x fem!Reader Tropes: Strangers to Friends to FWB to Lovers. (wow) Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Brief Smut, Angst, Emotional Drama Warnings: sexual content, consensual sex, friends-with-benefits / casual sexual dynamics, dominance & submission, sexual teasing / frustration, sexual tension and craving, jealousy, regret, guilt, emotional vulnerability, emotional manipulation, power dynamics, fear of loss / abandonment, anxiety, frustration, anger, emotional introspection, explicit language, sexual language, sexual objectification, relational stress, absence, longing, yearning, heartache, loneliness,  embarrassment, humiliation, tension-filled conversations, alcohol Word Count: 10k

masterlist

The bar is loud in a way that feels deserved. Long table. Shared plates passed hand to hand. Too many voices layered on top of each other. Coats slung over chairs like no one plans on leaving early.

Jihye drags you through the door by the wrist.

“You need to leave your house before you turn into furniture,” she says, already laughing, already halfway gone.

You roll your eyes but let her pull you anyway.

You don’t know anyone. Not really.

Jihye’s friends. Their partners. Friends-of-friends. A whole ecosystem already in motion. You step into it like a guest star with no script.

So you stay close to her at first. Shoulder to shoulder. Listening more than talking. Laughing quietly, hand rising to your mouth without thinking, like you’re checking yourself.

That’s when he appears.

No introduction. No announcement. He’s just there, sliding into the empty space beside you like it’s been waiting.

He notices things. You can feel it.

The way you anchor yourself to your friend at first. The way you watch the room before you speak. The way your laugh comes out soft at first, like you’re testing the water, then fuller when something actually gets you.

He doesn’t try to take up space. He doesn’t push conversation. Just offers small comments. Observations. Questions that don’t demand anything back.

It’s easy to answer him.

Easier than it should be.

He stays near you most of the night without meaning to. You stay aware of him without understanding why.

At some point, his chair shifts closer. Not touching. Just close enough that when he leans in to hear you over the noise, you catch the clean, faint scent of his shampoo.

It makes you pause. Just a flicker. Not attraction. Not nerves exactly. Just the sensation of being seen.

But it doesn’t turn sharp. It doesn’t turn heavy.

Because he’s gentle. Because none of this feels like it’s going anywhere it shouldn’t.

You talk at the edge of the noise. Quiet commentary. Shared humor that doesn’t need to be loud to land. You point things out to each other, details other people miss. It feels less like meeting someone new and more like finding someone who’s been speaking your language all along.

You clock his softness immediately. He clocks your attentiveness just as fast.

You don’t name it. You don’t even think to. There’s nothing to rush toward.

Something just settles between you. Quiet. Solid. Alive. After that night, everything it’s easy. Almost suspiciously so.

You don’t call it friendship yet, but it behaves like one.

Group hangouts blur together. Late dinners. Street food eaten standing up at midnight. Loud rooms. Too much alcohol. Too many conversations crossing over each other.

Always people. Always public.

And still, somehow, you and Yunho keep finding each other. You make space for him without thinking. Shift your chair. Move your bag. He angles his body toward yours even when the room is full, even when there’s no reason to.

There’s no flirting. No charged moments anyone could point at. Just comfort that deepens.

You’re a little touchy, but only because he makes you laugh. Not on purpose. He just does. The kind of laugh that punches out of you, ugly and full and unguarded. He looks proud every time it happens, like he’s accomplished something sacred.

You start doing things for him before he asks. Handing him water when he’s too deep into a story. Checking in with a look when he goes quiet. He doesn’t explain much yet, but somehow you still understand when something’s off.

You text at strange hours.

About the show you’re both watching. About the restaurant he tried and already knows you’d like. About nothing that couldn’t wait, except it didn’t want to.

At group hangouts, you catch yourself waiting for him to arrive. Not consciously. Just that the night doesn’t fully start until he does.

At the end of nights, you walk side by side. Close. Not touching. Conversations tapering into silence that doesn’t feel unfinished.

You laugh at something someone else says and instinctively look for him. He’s already looking at you.

Later, you bend forward laughing at the table, hand landing on his thigh for balance.

You don’t apologize. He doesn’t move.

It isn’t romance. It isn’t tension. It’s trust. It’s relief.

The hangouts keep happening.

Same faces. Same volume. Same rhythm of plates passed down tables that are always too small. Laughter layered over laughter. Elbows brushing. Knees knocking. A familiar chaos that feels lived in.

Until one night, it starts thinning.

People peel off in pairs and trios. Jackets claimed. Phones out. Someone hugs you with the soft finality of an ending night. The room exhales.

And suddenly, the idea of leaving alone lands wrong.

Not fear. You’re not afraid. It’s resistance. A quiet, stubborn no in your chest.

You don’t think it through. You just reach out and catch Yunho’s sleeve. Fingers curl into the fabric. Light. Intentional.

“Don’t let me go home alone,” you say, like it’s a joke. Like it’s nothing.

He doesn’t pause.

“Okay,” he says, already moving, already grabbing his coat.

The taxi smells like night air and clean laundry and something rancid you can’t name. The city blurs past in streaks of light. Your knees brush once. Then again. No one shifts away.

His hand finds your thigh.

Not searching. Not squeezing. Just there, like gravity.

Your breathing changes before you notice it has. The space between you tightens, thin and electric, but neither of you touches it with words. Talking would make it fragile.

You stop at a convenience store because neither of you is ready for the night to end yet. Cheap food. Sweet treats. Fluorescent lights flattening the world into something simple. You laugh too easily. He bumps your shoulder with his. It’s casual. Normal. Another night.

At your apartment, the lights are low. Shoes kicked off wherever they land. Food spread across the couch like an afterthought.

You sit too close. Knees touching. Shoulders brushing. Neither of you comments on it.

It feels domestic in a way that sneaks up on you. Not intimate. Just unguarded. Like this could be a habit if you let it.

You eat side by side, trading bites, talking about nothing that matters. Yunho says something dry, offhand. You laugh harder than it deserves. Head tipping back. Eyes closing for a second.

When you open them, he’s already looking at you.

Not intense. Not soft. Just focused.

Something shifts. No announcement. No spark. Just a quiet alignment, like two things clicking into place.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He kisses you.

Sudden. Clean. No warning at all.

His mouth is warm and sure and there, stealing the air from your lungs before your brain catches up. 

You don’t know if it’s the alcohol. Or the closeness. Or the fact that you haven’t been touched in too long. Or that he’s right here and you’re tired of being careful.

You don’t stop it. You don’t analyze it. You let it happen.

For half a second, your body stills. Not from doubt. From surprise. From the sharp awareness that this could be nothing, and you want it anyway.

He pulls back just as fast.

“I—sorry,” he starts, already flushing, already stepping away. “I shouldn’t have—”

You don’t let him finish.

You grab his shirt and kiss him again. Harder. No hesitation this time. No questions asked.

No confession. No romance. Just two people in the same space, tipsy, lonely, bored enough to let whatever this is happen.

You straddle his lap, knees braced on either side of his thighs. He exhales ragged into your mouth, hands gripping your hips, sliding lower, pressing you closer, claiming.

Your fingers dig into his hair, nails scratching. He pants, moans, low and feral. You gasp against him, letting your body go, letting yourself want him like this.

He groans deep in his throat, hands sliding up your back, pulling you flush against him.

He lifts you without breaking the kiss, your feet barely touching the floor as he carries you down the hall. Every touch, every brush of skin, every press of his body against yours is magnified, electric, impossible to ignore.

The door slams. He pins you against it. Teeth graze your jaw. Tongue slides over yours. His hands roam over your thighs, hips, back, moving as if memorizing every curve, every shiver, every gasp.

You grind into him, desperate. He growls, low and wet, sliding his hands under your legs, rocking you into him. You moan, breathless, nails dragging down his back, hips meeting his every move.

He shifts you to the bed, upright, lips never leaving yours. Every touch, every press of his palm sets your nerves on fire. Your body writhes, presses, claws, wants more.

Bodies collide, grind, clutch, hungry, feral. Moans and gasps fill the room, raw and messy, every touch devouring, igniting.

He pauses, forehead to yours, panting, pupils blown, chest heaving. You don’t stop. You want more. He wants more.

Then he snaps back. Hard. Immediate. Reckless. You move like you’ve been starving, skin on fire, mouths and hands claiming.

Tonight isn’t slow. It isn’t careful. But it’s only the start.

Soft light leaks through the curtains like it’s being careful not to wake you.

The room smells like skin and sleep and sex. The sheets are twisted around your legs. Your body heavy in that boneless, floating way that only happens after a wild night.

You wake first.

Yunho is behind you, arm draped over your waist, weight solid and unthinking. His face is tucked into your back, breath slow, mouth warm against your shoulder blade. Asleep. Unaware. Completely relaxed in a way you’ve never seen him before.

There’s a moment. The kind your brain tries to label. The kind that usually comes with panic, or regret, or the frantic inventory of clothes on the floor.

None of that shows up.

Instead, there’s this quiet click inside your chest. Like something settling into place.

It was sudden. You know that. You barely know each other like this. You crossed a line without discussion, without rules, without promises.

And still. It fits.

His arm tightens slightly, reflexive, pulling you closer like his body knows before his mind does. Your back presses into his body. Your breath syncs with his without effort.

You don’t move. But your body remembers.

His hands, warm and big, sliding over your back, forcing your spine to arch just right, pressing you into every curve.

The way his mouth trailed over your back, teeth grazing, tongue running slow and rough, biting into the skin of your shoulder.

The memory of his length buried perfectly inside you, filling you exactly where it needed to. 

How he’d groan low and rough, hand gripping your waist, sliding down your thighs, keeping you in place, keeping you his. 

You shiver, remembering his long fingers slipping inside your hair as he pushed harder, as he whispered your name, as he claimed you over and over. 

Remembering the burn of his bite as he came, spilling over your lower back, leaving hot streaks and marks only you would know. 

Goosebumps rise across your arms. Heat pools low at the memories, wet and needy again just for him.

At some point he stirs.

Not fully awake. Just enough to nuzzle closer, nose brushing your neck, a quiet hum vibrating against your skin. Possessive without meaning to be. Familiar without earning it yet.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

There’s no talk of what this means. No morning-after jokes. No scrambling for distance.

Just two bodies staying where they landed, and the unspoken understanding that whatever you did last night, neither of you is taking it back.

After that, it slips into place too smoothly to question.

You don’t label it. You don’t negotiate feelings or expectations. You just open a door and keep walking through it.

At first, it’s simple.

You text him late. He comes over. You don’t pretend it’s anything else.

You don’t stay the night. Neither does he.

He shows up when you ask, like this is a favor he’s happy to perform. You let him in already half undressed, already tired, already wanting to forget whatever version of the day you’re shedding at the door.

It’s efficient. Clean. Good.

He pays attention to your body in a way that feels practiced, not sentimental. Like he’s solving something, not attaching to it. You like that. You like not being looked at as fragile.

You can have a terrible day. A fight with your family. A small humiliation that sticks under your skin. You can be worn thin and irritable and quiet.

Yunho doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t pry.

He gives you a few hours where your head goes quiet.

Then, when it’s over, he presses a quick kiss to your cheek, gathers his clothes from the floor, and leaves sometime around three in the morning.

No sleepovers. No breakfast. No lingering.

It’s cold in the way routines are cold. Comfortable. Dependable. Almost boring.

You tell yourself that’s the appeal, and for a while, it stays that way.

Until it doesn’t.

It starts with him staying because it’s late. Because it’s raining. Because the last train is gone and neither of you feels like pretending that matters.

You wake up with his arm around you and don’t move it away.

Showers stop being something you do separately. 

They start innocent, water running over skin, hands adjusting shampoo or lathering soap.

But his hands don’t stay still for long.

They settle on your hips, warm and sure, pressing you against him. His lips find your neck, teeth grazing lightly, making you shiver and squirm, trying to rinse yourself but failing completely.

Before you know it, you’re pressed against the shower wall, his body flush against yours, hips moving, mouth hot and demanding. 

The water streams over both of you, but neither of you notices. You barely manage to remind yourself to rinse again afterward.

It’s like he starts remembering you.

Not big things. Small ones. The kind you don’t notice until they’re there. He brings you water without asking. Knows when to slow down, when to push, when to just keep you close while you come back to yourself.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That he’s just attentive. That this is what good sex looks like.

But then you start seeing each other outside of bedrooms.

Quick dinners that turn into hours. Late nights that don’t end when the drinks do. Sometimes you skip group hangouts entirely and don’t explain why. Music low. Windows open. Your leg thrown over him without thinking.

Sometimes you still show up with everyone else. You sit beside him like always. You laugh. You act normal.

You don’t hide. But you don’t explain either.

There’s an ease to it that makes people stop asking questions.

The sex deepens without losing its edge. 

Still wild. Still dirty in a way that makes your skin tingle. But threaded through with something quieter. The way he touches you like he’s learning you all over again every time. The way he steadies you because he knows exactly how you unravel.

Foreheads pressed together. Breaths shared. His voice low in your ear, grounding, almost caring.

Aftercare becomes a language of its own.

Cold water pressed into your hands. Soft laughter in the dark. Fingers brushing your hair back from your face. 

You start staying the night more often than not. You fall asleep with your face pressed into his neck, like his scent has become something your body looks for.

Leaving gets harder. You linger. You move slower. You invent reasons to stay another ten minutes.

Yunho is confident, but never careless. Dominant without cruelty. He makes you feel wanted without making you feel owned.

You enjoy it. You don’t overthink it.

At first.

You tell yourself this is just sex. Just timing. Just two adults meeting each other where they are.

And for a while, that feels true.

But you realize one night, halfway home from his place, that you haven’t slept with anyone else. Not because you agreed not to. Not because you promised anything. Just because the idea doesn’t appeal to you.

Why would it, when Yunho is there whenever you need him?

You don’t panic about it. You file it under convenience. Familiarity. Habit. 

But then you catch yourself waiting for his texts.

Checking your phone when there’s no reason to. Feeling something sharp twist in your chest when he takes longer than usual to answer, then swallowing it down immediately.

Jealousy doesn’t belong in the story you’ve told yourself.

So you don’t let it stay.

You still act the same.

You still joke. Still tease him. Still pull him close like nothing’s changed, still let your body speak the language you agreed on.

You still fuck him like this is just what you do.

You still show up to group hangouts and laugh and play your part perfectly.

But something in you has shifted.

Your energy softens without your permission. You hold his gaze longer. Touch him more when you don’t need to. Your hands linger at his neck, his wrist, memorizing him.

You don’t rush away afterward anymore. You stay. Let him pull you in. Let your breathing match his. Let the quiet stretch.

You wake up more often pressed into his chest than not.

Yunho notices. He always does.

One night, when the room is dark and calm and his chin is resting lightly against your head, he asks,

“You okay?”

It’s gentle. Careful. Almost afraid of the answer.

You respond too fast.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

He hums, unconvinced, but lets it go.

You lie awake long after he falls asleep, staring at the wall, heart pounding like it’s trying to warn you.

Because you’re not fine.

You’re splitting yourself in two every time you leave him. 

One part of you stays behind, curled in his sheets, breathing him in. The other walks away pretending this doesn’t hurt.

You’re training your body to recognize him as home while pretending your heart doesn’t know it yet.

And one night, watching him sleep, you understand with sudden, terrifying clarity:

If you don’t say something soon, you’re going to lose yourself.

So you memorize everything instead.

The weight of his arm. The sound of his breathing. The way his thumb twitches in sleep like he’s still holding on. 

Just in case anything goes wrong.

It’s one of those nights.

The kind that feels uncontained. Like everything is louder, hotter, closer. Yunho’s apartment smells like sweat and skin and the faint citrus of soap. Music long forgotten. Windows cracked open to the city breathing in.

The sex is messy. Unfiltered. Hungry, like you’re both trying to say something without language.

He’s everywhere. Hands firm, sure. Mouth warm, relentless. 

You ride him, hips snapping hard, letting all your frustration spill out. Each move drags out a groan from him. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t even try.

For the first time in forever, he lets you take control.

He knows you needed this, knows you needed him when you called mid-rage, teeth clenched, after your coworker screwed up and your boss tore into you. 

He knows you too well now. Knows how to pull you apart and put you back together with the same patience. Knows how to keep you right on the edge, murmuring your name like it’s grounding him too.

After, you’re tangled together. Skin still hot. Your body thrown over his, his palm resting absentmindedly at your hip like it belongs there.

Your heart won’t slow down.

This feels like the moment. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s honest. Because you can’t keep carrying this alone.

You stare at the wall for a second, then turn your head toward him. You don’t rush it. You don’t dramatize it. You don’t want to scare him off.

“So,” you say lightly, almost smiling. Too casually for how tight your chest feels. “Just so we’re on the same page.”

Yunho hums, distracted, thumb absentminded where your hip meets the mattress. Comfortable. Easy. Like this conversation is already solved.

“I haven’t slept with anyone else,” you start. Soft. Neutral.

He doesn’t react right away, just nods, like you’ve told him what you had for lunch.

You swallow.

“Not since you.”

That makes his hand still.

You take a breath before you lose your nerve. Your hands feel useless, so you press them against yourself. You’re suddenly very aware of your body. Of how exposed you are. Of how you chose to say this.

“I really like you,” you say. No jokes. No cushion. “And I think I want more than… whatever this is.”

Silence.

Not the heavy kind. The empty kind. The kind that doesn’t rush to meet you halfway.

Yunho exhales slowly. Runs a hand through his hair. His body stays close, but something in him shuts a door.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

When he does, his expression is gentle. Careful. Already apologetic.

“I really like what we have,” he says. The words are calm. Practiced. Like he’s been here before. “I just don’t want to mess it up.”

You nod automatically, like your body is trying to keep up appearances.

“I’m not really looking for anything more serious right now,” he adds. “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

He keeps talking.

About timing. About how easy this is. About how good it feels when things don’t have expectations attached. About how this doesn’t have to be complicated unless you make it that way.

You stop listening for meaning.

All you hear is no.

Heat floods your face. Sudden. Nauseating. You feel stupid. Too earnest. Like you misread a room you’ve been standing in for months.

You sit up abruptly.

The sheet slides down your body, and the movement feels obscene now. Wrong. You scramble to pull it back up, arms crossing over your chest, clumsy and embarrassed.

God. You were naked when you said it.

You were naked when you offered him your heart.

Your throat tightens.

“Okay,” you say quickly. Too quickly. Like you’re reassuring him.

You reach for your clothes.

Yunho frowns, sitting up too, confusion flashing across his face.

“Wait,” he says. “Hey—no, I didn’t mean—”

You stand, grabbing your underwear from the floor, turning your back to him as you put them on with shaking hands.

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

“We should stop whatever this is.”

The air shifts.

“What?” He straightens. “Why would we—no, why?”

His words come faster now, tripping over each other.

“We don’t have to stop. We can still see each other. This doesn’t have to change. I just think what we have is good, you know?”

That’s the moment it really breaks you.

Not when he said no.

When he offered you less.

You let out a short, breathless laugh. It surprises even you. Sharp. Ugly. It cracks right through the room.

You pull your shirt over your head, quickly and almost panicking.

“No,” you say, still smiling a little, like the laugh left a bruise. “I don’t want to keep sleeping with someone who’s already decided I’m optional.”

He goes quiet.

“I won’t be convenient,” you add. Softer now. Final.

You finish dressing. Jeans. Shoes. Your movements feel mechanical, like you’re watching yourself from somewhere far away.

You grab your coat.

“Please,” he says, planning to reach for you, but his voice breaks just enough to hurt. “Don’t go like this.”

You pause with your hand on the door.

You don’t turn around.

“I meant what I said,” you tell him. “I really liked you.”

Then you leave, closing the door loudly behind you.

Yunho stays where he is. Naked. Sheets twisted in his fists. Hair a mess. Heart racing, body still buzzing with something that has nowhere to go now.

The high crashes hard.

The apartment feels suddenly too big. Too quiet.

He stares at the door long after you’re gone, confused, breathless, empty.

He doesn’t understand what he just lost. Not yet.

So he does what he always does when something hurts but doesn’t have a name. He organizes it.

He tells himself it makes sense. People stop sleeping together all the time. This wasn’t a relationship. There were no rules to break, no promises to mourn. Just timing. Just sex. Just convenience.

He showers. He washes your scent off his hands like it’s a routine he’s finished with. He changes the sheets. Not dramatically. Just because they’re dirty.

He goes to bed alone and tells himself it’s temporary. That bodies adjust. That habits fade. That this is nothing he hasn’t survived before.

In the days that follow, Yunho keeps functioning. That’s the word he uses in his head. Functioning.

He shows up. He laughs on cue. He answers messages with the same timing as always, the same punctuation, the same neutral warmth. You become something he keeps sealed. A closed folder. A finished file. A choice already made.

He tells himself he misses you the way you miss a shortcut you stopped taking. Mildly. Absentmindedly. Like something convenient that no longer exists.

He even texts you once.

Nothing loaded. Nothing risky. A stupid meme he would’ve sent without thinking before. No subtext. No weight.

You don’t answer.

The second day, he tries again. An inside joke, softened, stripped clean of intimacy. Something that could belong to any friend.

Still nothing.

On the third day, your reply comes.

Short. Polite. Late. A smiley face that doesn’t actually mean anything.

That’s when it lands.

The quiet understanding that whatever existed between you doesn’t downgrade into friendship. It doesn’t revert. It doesn’t survive the change intact.

This isn’t going to be the same.

He tells himself that’s fine. People unlearn closeness all the time.

What he misses first is you as a presence. As someone who knew things about him without asking. You learned each other sideways. Through pauses, habits, half-moments that were never labeled important but stayed anyway.

That kind of knowing doesn’t dissolve cleanly.

At the first group hangout, something feels wrong before he can name it.

You’re there. Laughing. Engaged. Sitting across the table instead of beside him. You greet him easily, like nothing ever lodged itself between your ribs and stayed there.

You don’t touch him.

Not when you laugh too hard and lean forward. Not when you reach past him for a drink. Not when someone says something that would’ve earned him a look before. Your hands stay to yourself.

The inside jokes die quietly. No confrontation. No tension. Just no one reaching for them anymore.

You talk like adults who know how to behave. Friendly. Considerate. Practiced.

It’s unbearable in its restraint.

He notices the absence in his body before it ever reaches his heart.

His thigh stays untouched. His arm stays empty when you get tipsy. You don’t lean into him like gravity is optional anymore.

You don’t look for him when you laugh.

You don’t text him when something reminds you of him. You don’t send songs. You don’t ask if he ate.

It isn’t anger. That would be easier.

It’s distance.

And his body doesn’t know what to do with it.

He reaches for you without thinking sometimes. A hand lifting, stopping midair. Muscles remembering something his mind insists wasn’t that serious.

At night, his apartment feels wrong.

The bed is too wide. The sheets stay cold. There’s a clean, undeniable space beside him now. And his body keeps turning toward it anyway.

He tells himself he misses the sex.

That lie lasts exactly three nights.

Because what he actually aches for isn’t release. It’s memory. Your weight tucked into his side. The way you softened after. The way your breathing evened out against his chest. The sigh you made when he pulled you closer, like you’d been waiting for it.

His body knows before he does.

Then one night, the group gathers again. Same bar. Same noise. Same long table.

Something is wrong the moment Yunho sits down.

He scans the room without meaning to.

You’re not there.

“Uh… do you know if she’s coming?” he asks, voice lowered, like the question itself might expose him.

“She should be here soon,” Jihye says. Then, curious. “Why?”

“Nothing,” he answers too quickly, and hates that his pulse refuses to settle.

When the door opens, he looks up without thinking.

And there you are.

Smiling. Relaxed. Different.

And not alone.

The guy beside you is tall, easy in his skin. His arm rests around your shoulders like it belongs there, like it found its place quickly and never questioned it. You lean into him without hesitation.

Yunho freezes.

Something sharp twists low in his chest, sudden and disorienting. Jealousy hits like vertigo, the ground dropping out from under him.

His first instinct is denial.

He studies the guy the way he studies problems. Searches for flaws. For reasons this shouldn’t work.

There aren’t many.

He listens when you talk. Laughs at the right moments. Touches you like it’s allowed. Like it’s expected.

The worst part is how easy it looks.

You look good with him.

Yunho stays quiet, fingers clenched around his glass, watching something he never let himself want take shape right in front of him. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t react. Barely breathes.

And that’s when it finally clicks.

Not when he lost your bed.

When he lost your attention.

When he lost the way you used to turn toward him without thinking, like he was your default setting. Like he was where you landed when you didn’t have to choose.

He didn’t just lose your body.

He lost your heart. Your laugh. Your softness. The way you chose him without strategy, without fear, without holding something back.

And now he has to sit across the table and watch someone else receive it.

Not steal it. Not borrow it.

Receive it.

Later, he tells himself he’s just curious.

He opens your socials without thinking, thumb hovering where it doesn’t belong. He doesn’t like anything. Doesn’t comment. Doesn’t insert himself back into your life. He just watches, pretending that’s cleaner.

You’ve changed what you post.

Not dramatically. Just enough to hurt.

The little things you used to send only him are gone. Song screenshots. Blurry streetlights. Half-eaten meals with no caption because the commentary was meant for him.

Now it’s faces. Moments. Other people.

He notices the absence like a bruise he keeps pressing, checking if it still hurts.

It does. Every time.

You laugh in a video someone tags you in. Head thrown back, unguarded, bright. He hasn’t heard that laugh aimed at him in months. Not since before the door closed. Not since you stopped choosing him without thinking.

He watches it once.

Then again.

Hates himself for both.

At the next group hangout, he knows before he sees it.

You’re there, sitting on the new guy’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your hand rests on his thigh, fingers absentminded, intimate and natural. His arm is snug around your waist, thumb tracing slow circles like he has nowhere else to be.

Like he’s proud to be there.

Yunho’s breath stutters.

The room keeps moving, laughter rising and falling, glasses clinking, but something inside him stalls completely. He can’t look away. Can’t look anywhere else.

That used to be him.

Not the lap. The ease.

The way you settled into someone without checking if it was allowed. The way your body trusted without negotiation.

He looks down at his drink because suddenly he feels exposed, like everyone can see the thought ripping through him.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t get to be angry.

He doesn’t get to flinch when someone else touches you. Doesn’t get to look wounded when you’re adored openly, held without hesitation by another man.

He rejected you.

He handed you away.

So he sits there in silence, watching someone else do everything he was too afraid to claim, knowing he forfeited the right to say anything about it to anyone.

That night, he goes home alone.

The apartment greets him with silence. No extra shoes by the door. No laugh from the couch. No weight in his bed forcing him to the edge.

He sits on the mattress and opens your text thread before he remembers he shouldn’t.

Your name is still there. The last message still his. Something stupid. Something unfinished.

He doesn’t type.

He just stares, struck by the terrifying thought that this might be it. That this might be all he ever gets to keep.

Then he opens the playlist.

The one you made together that night waiting for takeout, sprawled on the floor, arguing over song choices like it mattered. You’d leaned against his leg, humming along, completely at home.

The first track starts.

And suddenly, you’re everywhere.

The way you used to fall asleep against him, warm and trusting. The way your fingers curled into his shirt in your sleep like a reflex. The sigh you made when he pulled you closer, like you’d been waiting for it.

He presses his palms into his eyes, breath shaking.

He’s scared now.

Not of commitment. Not of wanting too much.

He’s scared he lost you forever because he mistook safety for distance and caution for control.

For the first time, Yunho knows with brutal clarity:

He doesn’t just want you back.

He needs you.

And he has no idea how to earn you again. But he’s going to try.

He starts small.

A message he types and deletes. A reply in the group chat aimed too precisely to be accidental. Standing a little too close, then catching himself, stepping back like he’s memorized the distance now.

He tells himself patience is respect. That restraint counts for something.

Then one night, while everyone’s arguing over shots and laughing too loud, he catches you alone by the bar.

The space is narrow. No audience. No buffer.

“Hey,” he says, softer than he planned.

You turn.

Polite. Neutral. Guard already in place.

“Hi.”

The pause stretches. It’s unbearable. He hates how careful you look now, like you’re bracing for impact from someone who already proved he can’t be trusted with momentum.

“I was wondering if we could talk,” he says. “Just for a minute.”

You don’t scoff. You don’t roll your eyes.

“I’m with someone now,” you say calmly.

Not sharp. Not defensive.

Just factual.

The words hit anyway. Clean. Direct. No room to negotiate around them.

“I know,” he says too fast. “I’m not trying to— I just thought maybe I could explain.”

You shake your head, barely.

“You don’t need to.”

Something in his chest splinters.

“I was wrong,” he says. Quiet. Stripped. “I didn’t handle things right. I didn’t see what I had until—”

“You saw it,” you interrupt gently. “You just didn’t choose it.”

The distinction lands heavier than anger ever could.

He swallows. Tries again, voice cracking despite his effort to keep it steady.

“I was scared. I thought if I let it become real, I’d ruin it. I didn’t want to lose you.”

You look at him then. Really look.

“You already had me once.”

That’s the moment that ruins him.

Because you’re not accusing. You’re explaining. Drawing a line with care, not cruelty.

You don’t punish him. You don’t raise your voice. You don’t ask for apologies you already know won’t change anything.

You protect yourself.

“I’m not doing this,” you add softly. “Please don’t make me.”

Something ugly flashes across his face. Not anger. Panic, turning desperate.

“So what?” he says, too fast. “You just… went with the easy option?” he asks. Too fast. Too raw. “Someone new. Someone who’d give you the attention you need?”

The words hit the air and rot instantly.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says right away, voice dropping. “I’m sorry. That was— that was cruel. I shouldn’t have said that.”

You don’t snap. You don’t defend yourself. You just look at him, steady and tired. Almost disappointed.

“It wasn’t easy,” you say. “I just stopped hoping for you.”

That lands harder than a fight would’ve.

He swallows, nods once like he’s absorbing a blow.

Weeks later, he tries again.

Cornered courage. Hands shoved into his pockets like he’s afraid of what they’ll reach for if left loose.

“I miss you,” he says. No polish. No strategy. Just truth bleeding out.

You exhale slowly, like you’ve had this conversation in your head already.

“Please don’t,” you say. “I’m asking you to stop.”

“I can’t just forget you,” he says, quiet but urgent. “You mattered. You still do.”

“I know,” you reply. “But that doesn’t mean you get access to me anymore.”

That’s when he finally breaks.

“I need you,” he admits, barely above a whisper. Not a confession. Not a plea dressed up as romance. Just need, raw and humiliating.

You close your eyes for half a second.

Then you open them.

“I need you to let me go.”

You turn to go. As you pass him, he whispers it without thinking, without control.

“I can’t.”

You hear it, but choose not to answer.

And that’s the moment Yunho understands.

This isn’t about timing. Or fear. Or missed chances he can argue his way back into.

This is consequences.

And he learns the slow, brutal lesson of it.

That wanting forgiveness doesn’t entitle him to it. That regret doesn’t reverse time. That loving you now doesn’t erase that he couldn’t choose you then.

So he adapts. He files you away into the part of himself he doesn’t touch unless he has to.

Turns longing into routine. Turns regret into background noise.

Weeks pass. Then months.

Your absence stops feeling sharp and starts feeling structural, like a missing wall he’s learned to walk around. He tells himself this is what moving on looks like. Not relief. Just endurance.

Then, one night, the world reaches back in and says your name.

They’re at Mingi’s apartment, sprawled across couches and floor cushions, controllers warm in their hands. It’s late. Too late. The kind of hour where the lights are low, the game volume is too loud, and no one’s pretending they’re not tired anymore.

Someone’s lost for the third time in a row. Wooyoung complains. Mingi throws popcorn at him. San’s scrolling on his phone, only half paying attention.

He mentions it like it’s nothing.

“By the way,” San says, eyes still on the screen, “did you guys hear she and that guy broke up?”

Yunho freezes.

Controller still in his hands. Thumbs hovering. Chest jolting once, hard, like it’s checking whether it’s allowed to react.

“What?” Seonghwa asks from the armchair. “Seriously? They were basically perfect.”

“Right?” Wooyoung adds. “Good job, good guy, attentive. Honestly kind of weird she dumped him. They looked solid.”

Weird.

The game resumes. Someone yells. Someone dies. The room keeps moving.

Yunho doesn’t.

All he hears is your name. And then the absence of someone else beside it.

He should feel bad. That’s the correct response. Someone ended a relationship. Someone got hurt.

He doesn’t.

What he feels is air. Sudden and dizzying. Like a window opening in a room he didn’t know had been suffocating him.

Hope sparks before he can stop it. Warm. Reckless. Immediate.

He drops his gaze to the controller because he doesn’t trust his face. His mouth still twitches anyway. The smallest smile. The first one in weeks that doesn’t feel rehearsed.

You’re single.

His chest warms immediately, that familiar, dangerous heat flaring back to life like it never left. Like it’s been waiting.

He doesn’t wonder why you ended it. Doesn’t think about timing or decency or what it says about him that this feels like good news.

He just knows one thing, with absolute clarity.

This is his moment.

All the restraint he’s been forcing on himself loosens at once. The quiet suffering. The careful distance. The pretending that patience was the same thing as acceptance.

Gone.

He doesn’t care that he already failed once. Doesn’t care that he doesn’t deserve another chance. Doesn’t care that this could implode spectacularly.

You’re free again.

And this time, he’s not going to hover. Not going to hesitate. Not going to confuse fear with respect.

He’s going to gain you back.

The game ends. Someone groans. Someone reaches for a drink.

Yunho sets the controller down.

“Already?” Mingi asks, blinking at him from the floor. “It’s not even—”

“I gotta go,” Yunho says, already standing.

“Now?” Wooyoung frowns. “It’s like—”

“Yeah. Now.”

He grabs his jacket from the rack, movements rushed, barely controlled. His heart is beating too fast. His hands feel light, they’re trembling slightly.

“Everything okay?” San asks, finally looking up.

Yunho doesn’t answer. He’s already halfway to the door.

“I’ll text,” he throws over his shoulder.

“Yunho, wait, what—”

The door slams shut behind him.

Cold air hits his face. He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

He flags down a taxi with a raised hand that’s shaking just a little too much now.

“Address?” the driver asks.

He blurts yours without hesitation. Like his brain’s been rehearsing it.

The door closes. The car pulls away.

And suddenly he’s bouncing his leg like a man possessed, knee knocking against the seat, fingers pressed to his lips. Every red light is personal. He leans forward, watching the city, willing it to move faster.

He knows the neighborhood before the driver says a word. That bakery. The flickering streetlight. The chipped paint near your door.

“Here,” he says, already reaching for his wallet. “You can stop here.”

He’s out before the car stops completely.

The walk to your door feels longer than the entire drive. His heart is loud now. His thoughts trip over each other.

What if you don’t open? What if you tell him to leave? What if he ruins this too?

He stops in front of your door. Raises his hand. Pauses. Then knocks.

You open it after a moment. You’re not surprised. Of course you’re not. You clock him instantly, the rushed breathing, the way he’s standing like he might bolt.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “I just… I heard.”

You don’t invite him in. You lean against the doorframe instead, arms crossing loosely. Calm. Collected. That look you’ve perfected. The one that says you’re in control.

“I figured,” you say. “You don’t usually show up like this unless you want something.”

There it is. Precise. A warning.

He swallows.

“I wanted to check on you,” he says. “As a friend.”

You lift an eyebrow.

“Do you really want to start with a lie?”

He winces.

“…No.”

Silence stretches between you. It’s unbearable.

You sigh, looking past him for a second, then back again.

“I’m fine,” you say. “If that’s what you came to ask.”

“That’s not,” he blurts, then stops himself. Recalibrates. Tries again. “I mean, it is. But also—it’s not the reason I’m here.”

You don’t prompt him.

“I didn’t plan this,” he says, voice a little too fast. “I mean, I planned to come, but I didn’t script anything. The second I heard, my head just… shut down.”

You cross your arms, defensive but still listening. Against your better judgment.

“I told myself I’d respect what you asked for,” he continues. “And I did. I stayed away. But I need you to listen to me.”

“You don’t get to show up now just because I’m single again,” you say. Firm. Protective. “I won’t be the girl you realize you want only after someone else had me.”

“I know,” he says immediately. “And if that’s all this was, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Then what is it?” you ask.

He hesitates. His hands flex at his sides, restless. Nervous in a way you’ve never seen him before.

“This… this is me admitting I didn’t understand what I had until it was gone,” he says. “And instead of facing it, I ran.”

He meets your eyes fully now.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds quickly. “I’m not asking for a reset. I just needed you to know that not choosing you back was the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“You hurt me,” you say quietly.

“I know,” he says. “And I don’t get to undo that. All I can do is show you I understand it now.”

A beat.

“If you tell me to leave, I will,” he continues. “If you tell me it’s too late, I’ll respect that. I just couldn’t live with not being honest anymore.”

Your defenses crack, slow and unwilling.

“You are late,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says. No argument. No excuse. “But I’m here on purpose this time.”

You close your eyes. Breathe. When you open them, he’s still there. Still waiting.

“…Come in,” you say.

His breath leaves him in a rush, relief sharp enough to make him dizzy.

He steps inside like he’s been allowed into something sacred. Careful. Measured. As if one wrong move could get him sent back out.

Your place smells like you. Familiar in a way that hits him low and unfair. You’re already walking toward the kitchen, unhurried, dressed in soft lounge clothes that shouldn’t be distracting but somehow are. Soft fabric. Bare arms. Effortless.

You’ve always been devastating without trying.

Yunho stays rooted in the middle of the living room, hands flexing like they don’t know what to do without you telling them.

You don’t ask what he wants to drink.

You never did.

You pour automatically. Ice clinks against glass, sharp in the quiet. You’re not rushing him. You’re letting the silence work. Letting him feel it.

He fills it anyway.

“I miss your body,” he says. Plain. Unarmored. “And I hate how honest that is.”

Your brow lifts, amused. Curious. Dangerous.

You hand him the glass without looking at him. Your fingers don’t brush his.

“Oh?” you murmur. “That’s what you crossed the city to confess?”

He shakes his head immediately. Too fast. 

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” A breath leaves him, rough. He drags a hand through his hair. “I miss the way you moved like you knew exactly what you were doing to me. Like you weren’t performing, you were just present. With me.”

You lean back against the counter, finally facing him. Calm. Unreadable. Waiting.

“I miss how you never held back with me,” he says. “How you trusted me with the parts of you that weren’t polite. The sounds. The way you’d pull me closer when it got overwhelming instead of pushing me away.”

He takes a step forward without thinking. Stops himself like it burns.

“And I know I could sleep with anyone,” he continues, voice lowering. “I did. It was fine.” A bitter huff. “But it was empty. Because it wasn’t you.”

That’s where his voice slips. Just enough to hear it.

“It wasn’t just sex,” he says. “It was you paying attention to me. Seeing me. Touch was the only way I knew how to say how much I admired you. It felt… bigger than words.”

“You didn’t choose me when it mattered,” you say. Soft. Steady. Unarguable.

He flinches anyway.

“I know,” he says. Not rushed this time. “And I didn’t realize what that choice actually was when I made it.”

Your jaw tightens.

“I didn’t feel nothing,” he admits. “That’s the worst part. I felt calm. With you. Safe. Like I didn’t have to perform or impress or be anything other than myself.”

He shakes his head, frustrated with himself.

“And I mistook that for it not being serious.”

Your eyes flicker.

“I told myself that if it didn’t feel chaotic, it couldn’t be love. That if it didn’t scare me every second, then it was just comfort. Just sex. Just timing.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh.

“I didn’t understand that peace doesn’t mean absence. It means trust.”

Your chest tightens despite yourself.

“I didn’t wake up one day jealous,” he continues. I woke up and everything was… off. Nothing made sense without you there.”

You glance at him sharply.

“I noticed because I missed you,” he says. “As a person. As my person. In my day. In my space. In the way I think.”

His voice drops. He steps closer, not touching, careful like you might spook.

“And then I realized… I hadn’t lost sex. I’d lost access. To you.”

Silence presses in again.

You exhale slowly.

You take a sip of your drink, buying yourself time.

“So,” you say. “What is this. An apology tour?”

He shakes his head.

“No. It’s a request. A slow one.” He swallows. “I want the chance to earn my way back into your life. And if that takes watching you look at me like this for a while, I’ll take it.”

You set your glass down slowly. 

You step closer. Slow enough to make it intentional.

He keeps his eyes on the floor, like if he looks at you, he’ll lose the nerve he barely has.

“You left me naked and humiliated,” you say evenly. “You don’t get to rush anything.”

“I know,” he says. No hesitation. “I won’t.”

A beat.

“I learned something about you,” he adds, softer. “You don’t fold when someone pushes. You fold when you feel safe.”

His eyes flick up, searching for damage.

“I’m not touching you tonight unless you tell me to,” he says. “I’m not pushing. I’m not asking for shortcuts. I’ll stand right here and tell you the truth until you’re bored of hearing it, if that’s what it takes.”

You study him. The restraint. The way he’s clearly aching and still choosing to stay still.

You already know what you want.

You just need to know if he’s strong enough to wait for it. You just want to see how far he’s willing to go for it.

“…Keep talking,” you say.

And Yunho does.

Because for the first time, he understands that wanting you isn’t the risk.

Losing you was.

Yunho clears his throat, like he’s stepping into a wave he knows will knock him under.

“You ruined casual for me,” he says quietly. “And I didn’t understand that until you were gone.”

“Yunho,” you say softly.

“I need you,” he continues. No flourish. No charm. “I need you to choose me again.”

You hum softly, circling him now. Letting him feel you without touching.

“I fucked up,” he continues. “I was an idiot, and I let that cost me you. I won’t do that again. I swear I won’t.”

“Yunho,” you repeat, trying to catch his attention.

He finally lifts his gaze.

You’re close now. Close enough to steal his breath without touching him.

You reach past him, take the untouched glass from his hand, set it on the island behind you. Your fingers linger on the counter. Not on him.

That’s when it hits him.

His breath stutters.

“I didn’t mean to sound desperate,” he murmurs.

You smile. Slow. Satisfied.

“I know,” you say. “You just are.”

Something in him breaks open at that. His lips part like he might actually sink to his knees from the permission alone.

And then, finally, you let your fingers brush his wrist. Barely there. A promise, not a reward.

Your hand finds his forearm. So light he almost laughs, breathless, convinced for half a second that it’s memory, not reality.

Then you move. Slow. Intentional. Up his side. Along his arm.

Yunho swallows hard.

Your fingers slide higher, grazing his bicep, your touch feather-soft, cruel in its patience.

You say nothing.

That makes him nervous.

“I miss you,” he says again, more desperately now. “I ache for you. I wake up reaching for you. I fall asleep hearing your voice in my head. I keep replaying that night, what you said to me—”

Your hand squeezes his shoulder. Firm. Anchoring.

He exhales, shaking.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Tell me you still meant it.”

Your hand keeps climbing until your palm cups his jaw.

He goes utterly still.

Your thumb brushes his lower lip. Slow. Thoughtful. Claiming. His silence is immediate, absolute.

Now it’s your turn.

“I tried to forget you,” you say quietly. “God knows I tried.”

Your thumb traces his lip again, almost absent.

“When you said no to me… it felt like something split open,” you continue. “Like I’d made myself small enough to fit into your hands, and you still let me fall.”

His eyes shine. He doesn’t interrupt. He wouldn’t dare.

“So I did the easy thing,” you admit. “I dated someone who was there. Someone handsome. Someone safe. Someone who wanted me without hesitation.”

A soft, bitter smile curves your mouth.

“They say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone,” You shake your head. “It’s a lie.”

Your grip tightens slightly at his jaw.

“All it did was make it clearer,” you whisper. “That it was always you. That it never stopped being you.”

His hands twitch at his sides, restrained by sheer will.

“I felt selfish,” you say. “For trying to cover a wound you left with someone else. For pretending you were replaceable.”

You lean in until he can feel your breath.

“You weren’t,” you finish. “Because no one ever touched me the way you did. No one ever saw me the way you did.”

The silence is dense. Charged.

Your thumb stills on his lip.

“And now,” you say softly, dangerously, “you’re here. Begging.”

His voice breaks when he answers.

“Because I love you,” Yunho says. No fear left. No hedging. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you, if you let me.”

You lift your other hand.

Now you’re holding his face with both palms, thumbs warm against his skin. He looks wrecked. Wide-eyed. Bare. Like he’s bracing for either salvation or another fall.

Your eyes soften. Pityful. Hungry.

You rise onto your toes and press a kiss to his mouth.

Light. Teasing. Testing.

It barely lasts a second.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t chase it. Doesn’t take more than you give. He just breathes in sharply, like he’s afraid to shatter the moment by wanting too loudly, too soon.

You pull back enough to see his expression.

And you laugh.

Just a little. Soft. Fond. Amused by how undone he looks.

Then you kiss him again.

This time there’s no hesitation.

His restraint collapses instantly. His arms come around you, firm and sure, pulling you into his chest like he’s afraid you might disappear if there’s even an inch of space left between you.

The kiss turns messy. Uncareful. Hungry in a way that has nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with relief.

It tastes different.

You both feel it.

There’s no desperation in it now. No proving. No bargaining. Just recognition. Like something has finally slotted back into place.

He tightens his hold when you shift, one hand cradling the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair to keep you close. The other settles around your waist, grounding and claiming you, pulling you until your body fits against his, remembering instinctively how to do this.

He doesn’t want to break the kiss.

Not now. Not after finally getting you back.

So he keeps kissing you, slower now, deeper, like he’s trying to remember the exact shape of your mouth after all this time. No rush. No hunger sharp enough to hurt. Just warmth and familiarity settling back into place.

Then, right when you think he’s about to escalate things, he breaks the kiss.

Not abruptly. Reluctantly. Forehead resting against yours, breath still uneven.

“W-wait…” he murmurs, voice low, rough. 

His words stumble over themselves, shivering out of his mouth like his body doesn’t want to obey his brain. 

“I… I just—” He swallows, hitches a breath. His fingers twitch, then still. His chest rises and falls too fast.

You hum in question, hands still holding his face. Your warmth, your presence, slows him down. 

He swallows, eyes flicking down and then back up to yours, suddenly uncertain in a way that’s almost endearing, and he tries again, clearer now.

“Would it be okay if…” He hesitates, lips parting, then blurts it out before he can overthink it. “If we just— if you’d let me stay? Tonight. Just sleep. With you.”

You blink.

He rushes to clarify, hands loosening on you like he’s afraid he’s already crossed a line. 

“I don’t mean— I just— I really miss falling asleep next to you. I miss waking up and knowing you’re there.” His voice dips, softer. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

There it is.

The raw honesty. The almost-embarrassment. The way he looks at you like he’s bracing for rejection but hoping so hard it borders on painful.

You can’t help it.

You laugh.

Not mocking. Not cruel. Just a quiet, affectionate sound that makes his shoulders sag with relief even before you answer.

“You look like you’re about to ask me to adopt you,” you tease gently.

His lips twitch, sheepish. “I’d be a very good emotional support boyfriend.”

That does it.

You slip your hand into his, fingers lacing together like they never forgot how. “Come on,” you say, tugging him lightly. “You can stay.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months.

You lead him down the hall, hand in hand, and he follows without question. 

Your bedroom feels different with him in it. Warmer. Fuller. Like it’s been waiting.

Before he gets in bed, he pauses by your dresser. A small, almost proud smile tugs at his lips as he pulls out the clothes he once left here months ago.

You never threw them away.

He slips into them quietly, the familiar softness of the fabric hugging him. Something about it feels like reclaiming a piece of himself, like stepping back into a place he’d never meant to leave.

You crawl into bed first. He joins you carefully, like he’s been granted access to something precious.

The moment you settle, he moves closer, tentative at first, then more certain when you don’t pull away.

He settles nearly on top of you, chest against yours, head resting against your heart. 

His arm wraps around your waist, molding to you as if he’s always known exactly how you fit together. Like muscle memory.

His weight is grounding, a quiet claim, and you can feel the steady beat of his pulse through his temple against your chest.

His face tucks into the curve of your neck with a quiet sigh, nose brushing your skin.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs. “I almost forgot how warm you are.”

Your fingers find his hair automatically, combing through it slowly. He melts at the touch, a soft sound leaving him before he can stop it.

“I missed this,” he whispers. “I missed you like this. God, I felt so empty without you here.”

You feel his lips press gentle kisses to your collarbone. One. Then another. Nothing demanding. Just affection spilling over.

“I kept reaching for you in my sleep,” he admits, voice muffled against your skin. “Waking up and realizing you weren’t there was the worst part of my day. Every day.”

You tilt your head slightly, giving him more room, letting him nuzzle closer.

“You forgave me,” he says quietly, almost like he’s still surprised by it. “I don’t know how, but… thank you.”

You smile to yourself, thumb tracing lazy circles near his temple. “How could I not?” you murmur. “You’re looking at me like I hung the moon.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes soft, open, unguarded.

“That’s because you did,” he says simply. “And I’m not letting myself forget it again.”

Your chest tightens in the best way.

You tug him closer, burying your face into his hair now. “Get some sleep,” you tell him softly. “You’re safe.”

He relaxes instantly at that. Fully. Arm tightening around you, grounding, protective. The steady press of his chest against yours makes your own heartbeat slow.

“I’m so glad you’re mine again,” he murmurs, already half-asleep. “I promise I won’t take this for granted.”

His breathing evens out soon after, warm and steady against your neck.

You stay awake a little longer, fingers still in his hair, smiling as he presses one last sleepy kiss to your skin.

When you think he’s finally asleep, your lips brush over his temple. “I love you,” you murmur, just enough for him to hear.

A soft sigh, a subtle shiver, and then his lips press to your neck, feather-light but unmistakable. You can feel the curve of a smile against your skin. 

“I love you more,” he whispers, voice low, intimate, almost vibrating through you.

You smile against him, kissing the top of his head gently, closing your eyes at last. 

Your body relaxes fully underneath him, into the weight and warmth and presence you’ve missed so desperately. 

Finally, after everything, you let yourself just be.

Held, safe, and utterly his again.

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[n01likeu]

Shattered. — CSN

MINOR DO NOT INTERACT. Pairing: idolbf!Choi San x gf!Reader Word count: 2.3k Genre: Smut, Overstimulation, Office/Idol AU, Praise/Degradation. Content and Warnings: This scenario explores a sudden, intense shift from San’s composed public persona to a raw, possessive state triggered by a “thirst trap” photo sent during work hours. The narrative features Overstimulation leading to a “feral” loss of control, Rough Handling (pinning wrists, forceful hip-gripping), and territorial Marking (hickeys/bruising). Key elements include Manual Stimulation, Praise Kink (Princess, Good girl) that devolves into Gravelly Commands, and an uncoordinated, high-intensity encounter driven by a “starving” need for proximity. It explores themes of Edge Play and Dominant/Submissive Dynamics, where San’s professional decorum is completely dismantled by his obsession with the reader, resulting in a primal, “dirty-talking” release followed by heavy, clingy Aftercare. A/N: I don’t know what I’m doing.

The photo you sent was simple: two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up, and reading glasses perched on the bridge of your nose. The caption read, “Hey, baby. I’ll be leaving at 10. I just need to download a file, and I’m clocking this shit out.”

It was just an update for your busy boyfriend, yet the message sat on “Delivered” for ten minutes without a peep. You shrugged it off, assuming San was caught up in a shoot. However, the moment you stepped into the lobby, you spotted a familiar black sedan idling at the curb.

San stepped out, the door shutting with a heavy thud behind him. He didn’t wait for you to approach; he marched straight toward you, his expression unreadable.

“Hi baby—”

“Get in the car.”

“What—?”

He didn’t explain. He simply pressed a finger to his lips, shushing you with a gaze that burned hotter than usual. His hand was firm but gentle on the small of your back as he guided you into the passenger seat, leaving you drowning in confusion.

The silence in the car was thick, charged with an energy you couldn’t quite pin down until the front door of your apartment clicked shut. Suddenly, you were pressed hard against the wood. San’s mouth found yours in a hungry, desperate kiss that tasted like pent-up frustration. His hands didn't waste time, traveling from your thighs up to the curve of your hips, pulling you flush against him.

“San, what are you do—” you managed to muffle against his lips.

“I missed you,” he growled, the words vibrating against your skin.

The prominent ache against his slacks told you exactly what that photo had done to him. His lips migrated to your jaw, then your neck, trailing down to your collarbone and shoulder. He was marking his territory, leaving a map of red and purple bruises in his wake. Before you could catch your breath, he hiked your skirt up, his fingers finding their way home as he whispered into your ear.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, doll. No idea.”

Your brain was a fog of sensation, your body reacting to his touch before you could even process his words.

“I just can’t stop myself from touching you,” he groaned, his forehead resting against yours for a fleeting second. “You looked so fucking hot in that photo—ugh, fuck. This won’t do. Not here.”

He scooped you up, carrying you to the bedroom with a focused intensity. He set you down on the edge of the bed, but instead of joining you, he dropped to his knees. His eyes, dark and searching, looked up at you—a silent, final ask for permission. You threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer in silent consent. San didn’t need a second invitation. He focused on you with a primal hunger, as if he were trying to make up for every second he’d spent staring at that photo behind a camera lens.

“So good for me. So good,” he muttered against you, his voice thick with praise as he watched the way you came apart for him. “Just like that, Princess. Behaving so well for me.”

Things shifted from intense to primal the second San saw the way your head tossed back against the headboard. The “composed idol” persona he wore for the cameras didn’t just crack; it disappeared into thin air.

His composure was the first thing to go. As your breathing hitched and your fingers tightened in his hair, San’s movements lost their calculated rhythm. He wasn’t just “behaving” anymore—he was starving. The praise—the “Princess” and the “Good girl”—died out, replaced by a low, guttural sound in his throat that was more growl than word. He stopped being gentle. His hands, previously careful, now gripped your hips with enough force to leave shadow-bruises, anchoring you to the edge of the bed as if he was afraid you’d float away before he was finished with you.

“San—” You gasped, your voice breaking.

“Don’t,” he choked out, his voice wrecked. He looked up at you, and for a split second, you didn’t recognize him. His pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the iris, and his face was flushed with a desperate, frantic heat. “Don’t say a word. If you make that sound again, I’m going to lose it.”

But you did. You couldn’t help it. And that was the final thread.

He surged up from his knees, the bed groaning under his weight as he crowded over you. He didn’t wait to undress fully; he just needed to be near you, to erase the distance the office and the photo had created. He pinned your wrists beside your head, his chest heaving against yours.

“That photo,” he hissed against your lips, his teeth grazing your lower lip. “I was in the middle of a meeting. I had to sit there for twenty minutes, staring at those undone buttons, thinking about how I was going to tear that shirt off you the second I got you alone.”

He shifted, his weight pressing you deep into the mattress, his movements jagged and impatient. The “messy” sweetness from before was gone, replaced by a raw, rhythmic urgency. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he kissed it out of you, swallowing your moans as if he could pull the very soul out of your body.

“You’re mine,” he muttered, his voice a dark, jagged command against your ear. “Say it. Tell me who you belong to when you send those photos.”

He wasn’t asking anymore. He was taking. And as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, you realized the San who had picked you up at the lobby was long gone. This was something else—something wilder.

The air in the room was thick, smelling of expensive cologne and the salt of skin. San was hovering over you, his weight a heavy, welcome anchor that pinned you into the mattress. He wasn’t moving to pull away; instead, he buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, his breath hitching in ragged, uneven bursts.

He was trembling—a fine, rhythmic shutter through his arms that told you exactly how much effort it took for him to keep from crushing you.

“San?” You whispered, your voice sounding small and wrecked in the quiet of the room.

He didn’t look up. He just tightened his grip on your wrists, his knuckles white where he held them pinned above your head.

“Don’t,” he groaned, the sound vibrating against your collarbone. “If you move right now, I’m going to start all over again. And I don’t think you can handle what I’d do to you if I let go completely.”

He finally lifted his head, and the sight was enough to make your heart skip. His hair was a chaotic mess, damp with sweat, and his lips were swollen from how hard he’d been kissing you. But it was his eyes—dark, glazed, and almost feral—that showed he was still hovering on that edge.

“You did this on purpose,” he accused, though there was no real anger in it, only a desperate sort of hunger. “You knew I was stuck in that chair. You knew I couldn’t leave.”

“I just wanted to say hi,” you teased breathlessly, though your own body was still humming from the intensity of him.

San let out a dark, dry laugh that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his gaze dropping to your mouth.

“Wanted to say hi, you say? My baby sent an invitation. I can’t resist. You sent a photo of yourself looking like that while I was surrounded by staff and cameras. I had to sit there and pretend my blood wasn’t boiling while everyone talked about schedules.”

He released one of your wrists, his hand traveling down to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging roughly over your lower lip.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a gravelly register. “Tell me you knew. Tell me you wanted me to drive like a maniac just to get to you.”

He didn’t wait for the answer. He already saw it in the way your eyes fluttered shut. He leaned in, biting softly at the sensitive skin just below your ear, making you gasp.

“Next time,” he whispered, his teeth grazing your skin, “if you send a photo like that... Don’t expect me to wait for the elevator. I’ll take you right there in the lobby. Do you understand me?”

He pulled back just enough to see your reaction, a smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth—the familiar, confident San returning, but with a new, dangerous edge that hadn’t been there before the photo. The air in the room was so thick it felt like you could bruise it. San’s smirk didn’t last long; it was swallowed by the sheer, magnetic pull of being this close to you. He didn’t settle. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight, and you felt the undeniable, heavy friction of him through his clothes, reminding you that he was nowhere near finished.

“You’re too quiet, Princess,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your jaw down to your throat, not squeezing, just claiming. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

You didn’t answer with words. You arched your back, your body seeking the heat of his, and the friction was the final snap. San let out a broken, frustrated sound—half-groan, half-growl—and finally gave up on the slow burn. He moved with a frantic, messy urgency, stripping his clothes off with trembling hands, his eyes never leaving yours. He looked like a man possessed. When he finally pushed your legs back, pinning your knees toward your chest, the view he had of you made his breath hitch.

“F-fuck,” he stuttered, the idol’s perfect composure completely evaporated. “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else. You know that, right?”

When he finally entered you, it wasn’t a smooth, practiced motion. It was deep, blunt, and desperate. San gasped, his head falling forward into the crook of your neck as he tried to find his rhythm. Every thrust was heavy, driven by the hours of frustration he'd spent staring at that photo on his phone.

He wasn’t just “touching” you anymore; he was trying to merge with you.

“Look at me,” he choked out, his voice a wrecked mess. “I want to see your eyes when I…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t. He was losing his grip on everything—his pace, his breathing, and his control. He began to move faster, his skin slick against yours, the sound of the headboard rhythmic and loud against the wall. He was overstimulated, driven mad by the scent of your perfume and the way you were calling his name like it was a prayer.

“I can’t—I’m not going to last,” he confessed, a rare moment of raw vulnerability. He buried his face in your hair, his movements becoming jagged and primal. “You’re so tight... so perfect... I’m losing it, doll. I’m losing it.”

He hit his limit with a sharp, guttural cry, his entire body locking up as he collapsed against you. He was heavy, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs, his breath coming in hot, wet gusts against your skin. For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioner and the steady, fading thud of two hearts trying to find a shared rhythm again.

Finally, San shifted, but only to pull you closer, tucking your head under his chin. He was still trembling slightly, the adrenaline leaving his system in slow waves. He pressed a lingering, soft kiss to the top of your head—a complete 180 from the man who had pushed you against the door.

“That photo,” he murmured, his voice finally returning to its deep, silky tone. “Delete it.”

You pulled back, confused. “What? Why?”

He looked down at you, his eyes soft but possessive. “Because if I see it again tonight, I’ll kill us both trying to go for round three. And I actually want to be able to walk to the kitchen for water.”

The fire had finally simmered down into a warm, heavy glow. San was sprawled over you, his limbs tangled with yours like he was afraid you’d evaporate if he let go. The frantic energy of the lobby and the hallway felt like a lifetime ago, replaced by the quiet hum of the apartment and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. You shifted slightly, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with your thumb. He looked so peaceful now—nothing like the man who had practically growled at you in the elevator.

“San?” You whispered, a playful tug at the corner of your mouth.

“Mmm?” He hummed, his eyes squeezed shut as he nuzzled deeper into the crook of your neck.

“Did you really ditch your meeting and come straight to my building?”

The question made him stiffen for a split second before he let out a long, dramatic groan. He rolled onto his back, dragging a pillow over his face to hide his flushed cheeks.

“Ugh, yes,” he whined, his voice muffled by the fabric. “Hongjoong is going to kill me, by the way. I think I have about fifty missed calls. My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing in my pocket the whole time... though I was a bit distracted.”

You laughed, the sound light and airy in the dim room. “You’re in so much trouble.”

San peeked out from under the pillow, his dark eyes landing on yours with a look that was equal parts exhausted and completely unrepentant. He reached out, pulling you back into his chest until you were tucked firmly under his arm.

“Worth it,” he muttered, his voice dropping into that low, silky register that always made your toes curl. “He can lecture me tomorrow. Right now, I’m exactly where I need to be.”

He pressed a final, lingering kiss to your forehead, his grip tightening just a fraction. Within minutes, his breathing evened out into the deep, heavy rhythm of sleep, leaving you smiling in the dark—and wondering exactly how much “explaining” he was going to have to do at practice the next morning.

Do not copy, repost, redistribute, sell, or use my content without explicit written permission. © 2025 @n01likeu. All Rights Reserved.

[belongjoong]

HIDDEN PLEASURES --౨ৎ-- OT8 ATEEZ

「summary」 : a set of drabbles displaying each ateez member's biggest kink

「word count」 : 2.8k total (300-450 words per member)

「warnings」 : smut, established relationship, kissing, unprotected sex, clit stimulation, multiple orgasms, oral (m and f), fingering, titty sucking, body worship(?), car sex, manhandling, face fucking, spanking, pet names including : baby, pretty girl, doll, darling, slut, whore, good girl, love, babygirl. (each member has a clear warning at the beginning of their section, i just don't wanna ruin the surprise :P)

「author's note」 : happy valentines day guys! i have been working on this for a while so I hope you like it<3 feedback is appreciated! cover by @kisssan :P

hongjoong - overstimulation

he LOVES overstimulation, but more specifically, he loves overstimulating you. hearing you plead with him, telling him it’s too much, only makes him want to go further. and when you finally break, he turns into the biggest sweetheart.

you are lying down on your back as your boyfriend fucks into your cunt relentlessly. his thumb massages over your clit in circles, making you whine his name. this is your 4th? 5th? 6th? orgasm, you can’t even remember at this point. the only thing you could think about is your body convulsing in pleasure underneath his touch.

your legs shake as they are wrapped around his waist, allowing him deeper access. “fuck, baby, your pussy feels so good,” he groans, speeding up both the pace of his hips and his thumb. broken gasps escape your throat, accentuating your fucked-out expression. you don’t know how much longer you can keep up.

“c’mon baby, you can give me another one,” he pushes while purposely grinding deeper. “cum on my cock, pretty girl.”

he would stop at nothing if it meant forcing an orgasm out of you. and when you finally felt another crashing over, all you could do was cry out in pleasure, digging your nails into his wrists in the process. “fuuuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper, tightening your grip on him.

he spills inside of you while leaning closer to kiss you and muffle your loud noises. his forehead rests against yours and he leaves another kiss on your lips. his thrusts fade slowly into a stop. the mix of your release and his cum made an exaggerated sound as he pulls all the way out of you.

“i don’t know how much more i can take,” you explain with a shaky voice, still coming down from your high.

“i know, doll. i know,” he fakely empathized, as he began to line himself up at your entrance again.

seonghwa - hair pulling

whether you are sucking his dick or he’s giving you back shots, he always finds a way to pull your hair. he also enjoys when you grip his hair during missionary or when he is eating you out. someone’s hair has to be tugged on at all times.

his head is nestled between your thighs, his tongue working its way across your clit with unbelievable precision. his arms are wrapped around each of your legs as they rest on his shoulders to keep you from squirming.

his nose brushes across your bud deliciously each time he drags his tongue up from your entrance. his black strands of hair are trapped in sections between your fingertips, gripping tighter with each movement.

“h-hwa, i’m close,” you whine out, mindlessly gripping his hair harder. he hums in satisfaction as his nails start to dig crescent shapes into your thighs.

he looks up at you with his boba eyes and a pussy drunk type look on his face. “you taste so good baby, hold on just a little longer,” he dives back into your heat.

your head lolls back as you try to hold in your orgasm for as long as possible. but the way his tongue worked your clit, and his fingers brushed your spongy spot with each thrust only pushed you closer to the edge. it was becoming harder and harder to stay still, to the point where he had to hold you in your place.

the way you gripped his hair made the tent in his boxers grow larger and tighter. it turns him on so much. “there you go. cum on my tongue, darling,” he begged while making eye contact with your worn out expression.

not even a second later, the feeling takes over. the twitching legs, the unsteady breathing, everything. and seonghwa was there to work you through it. “ahh, fuckkkk,” you cry out in pleasure, as he gets ready to unzip his pants.

yunho - size kink

it’s mainly the power dynamics that he likes. he finds pleasure in the fact that he could easily over power you at any time, and how small you are compared to him. seeing the bulge of his large dick in your belly is also a plus :3

the way his hand holds your hips, his fingers spanning over their entirety, send a shock up your spine. he squeezes gently, and you arch into the touch, heart beat quickening.

he shifts, lifting you effortlessly onto his lap like you weigh nothing. "i love how you fit right here," he says, hands roaming up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. he cups them, palms engulfing the soft mounds. and you gasp at the pressure, nipples hardening under the thin fabric of your top.

he rocks his hips up, and you feel the hard length of his cock pressing against your core through his jeans. it's thick, making you clench in anticipation. you grind down tentatively, savoring the stretch even clothed, but he stills you with a firm grip on your ass. "not yet," he breathes, fingers digging in just enough to bruise.

his shirt hits the floor first, revealing the expanse of his chest, muscles rippling as you shimmy out of your pants. naked now, you straddle him again, his cock standing rigid between you - long and girthy, the head already leaking pre-cum. yunho guides your hand to it, wrapping your smaller fingers around the base. you can barely close them, stroking slowly as he watches, mesmerized.

“i don’t think it will fit, yunho.”

“don’t worry, baby,” he assures you, leaving a kiss on your temple “i’ll make it fit.” he lifts you higher, positioning you above him. the tip nudges your entrance, slick with your arousal, and he lowers you inch by inch. your pussy stretches around him, walls fluttering at the fullness, the burn of accommodation making you moan. yunho's hands steady your hips, controlling the pace, letting you feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.

"that's it," he encourages, voice strained.

yeosang - choking / breath play

he always finds his hands wrapped around your throat when he is inside you. or (per your request) he would hold you in a headlock while he fucks you in doggy, so you could feel his huge bicep while you struggle to breathe.

you can feel his muscular chest underneath your fingertips as his fingers trace the curve of your neck. yeosang pulls you close, his body pressing against yours.

sloppy wet kisses are exchanged between you before he pushes your back onto the couch. his hands roam your body, palms rough against your skin, cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples until they’re hard. you arch into him, breath hitching, but he takes his time. mouth following his fingers - sucking one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing lightly.

when he finally settles between your legs, his cock hard and throbbing against your thigh, he pauses. his eyes lock on yours. “you ready?” he whispers, and you nod, spreading wider. he pushes in slowly, your pussy stretching around his thickness. the fullness makes you gasp, walls clenching as he bottoms out, filling you completely.

his hand creeps up your abdomen, then between your breasts, trailing up to your throat. fingers wrap around it gently at first, thumb pressing into the hollow of your neck. he starts to thrust deep, measured strokes that grind against your inner walls, building friction without haste. the pressure on your throat increases with each push, restricting your air just enough to make your head swim. you feel every vein of his cock dragging inside you, as his grip tightens.

“fuck, you take me so well,” he groans, hips rolling lazily. your hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in as oxygen becomes a tease - shallow breaths that heighten every sensation. stars flicker at the edges of your vision, your pussy fluttering around him.

he shifts then, pulling out with a wet sound. “turn over,” he commands softly. on your hands and knees, ass up, he enters you again from behind, slower this time, savoring the angle. one arm snakes around your neck, locking you in a headlock. his massive bicep bulges against your cheek as he squeezes. you struggle for breath, the muscle flexing with each thrust, cutting off air in pulses that match his rhythm.

he fucks you steadily, cock plunging deep, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. the headlock tightens, your face pressed into the corded strength of his arm, inhaling his scent mixed with sweat. pressure builds low in your belly, coiling tighter with every restricted gasp. he releases just enough to let you whimper, then squeezes again, driving you higher.

san - praise kink

he will make sure you know how sexy you are, how good you feel, and kiss every inch of your body just to prove it. every other word that slips from his mouth is a praise. and don’t get me started on when you praise him, because it awakens a different kind of animal.

"you're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs, his voice low and husky, lips brushing your earlobe before trailing down to your neck. he kisses the sensitive spot just below your jaw, sucking gently until you gasp. his mouth moves lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste you. you arch slightly, feeling the heat building between your thighs as his hands slide up your sides.

he takes his time, worshipping every inch of you. he kisses the swell of your breast, then captures your nipple between his lips, sucking slow and deep while his hand kneads the other. "god, these tits. they're so perfect."

when he reaches your thighs, he spreads them gently, kissing the inner skin, inching closer to your pussy but teasing. "you're dripping for me already." his tongue finally laps at your folds, slow strokes that have you moaning, but he pulls back to kiss your knees, your calves, even your ankles, ensuring no part is forgotten.

"ohmygod, your tongue feels so good, sannie," you whisper, threading fingers through his hair.

he growls low in his throat, the praise sending electricity through his body. in a blur, he pins your wrists above your head, his hard cock pressing against your entrance. "say it again," he demands, voice rough, before thrusting in deep, filling your pussy with one powerful stroke. he fucks you harder now, hips snapping quickly. "fuck, you feel like heaven around my cock. so tight," he leans down to kiss you "so perfect."

the pace builds sensually, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss as he drives deeper, your bodies slick with a thin layer of sweat. every thrust proves his devotion and awakens something inside you both.

mingi - dry humping / frottage

mingi likes the little things in life, and when you are in a situation where you can’t just fuck, dry humping will have to do. but don’t let this sound like it is the second best option, because the passion he puts into it will make you think otherwise.

he reclines his seat just enough to pull you over the gearshift to settle in his lap, your sundress riding up your thighs. the confined space makes everything feel more intimate. the way his palms slide under the hem, gripping your bare skin as you straddle him. his cock hardens instantly against your panties, thick and obvious through his sweatpants, and you shift, pressing down to feel the full weight of it against your clothed folds. mingi exhales sharply, eyes half-lidded as he guides your hips in a slow roll, building the friction.

“love how you feel like this,” he breathes, nuzzling your jaw, his lips leaving a trail of kisses. you rock forward, the ridge of his erection dragging over your clit with each pass, sending jolts of heat straight to your core. no rushing, no stripping away barriers - he savors the barrier itself, the tease of cotton and fleece amplifying every movement. his fingers knead your ass, urging you deeper and faster, while his other hand slips into your neckline, pinching your nipple until you gasp.

the windows begin to fog up around you. mingi's thrusts meet yours from below, his length pulsing as your arousal soaks through, marking the fabric. he watches you, adoring the hue of pink on your cheeks, the way your breasts bounce with the rhythm. “you're everything,” he murmurs, voice strained, and when the pressure coils tight, you shatter against him, clenching onto nothing. waves of bliss rip through without him inside. he groans, hips bucking as he cums, hot spurts trapped and soaking his pants, his arms wrapping you tight.

you have both made a mess of yourselves without even taking your clothes off.

wooyoung - brat / brat tamer dynamics

you live to be a brat, and wooyoung only falls into your trap every.single.time. it is starting to feel like he likes the game just as much as you do. he loves putting you in your place, maybe even slapping here and there, all while whispering degrading things in your ear.

tonight you tease him at the party - brushing your ass against his crotch while dancing with his friends, whispering how you'd rather grind on someone else. he stays cool, but you feel him twitch through his jeans, betraying him.

back at the apartment, the door barely clicks shut before he pins you against the wall, his hand fisting your hair. "think you're clever, huh?" he growls, breath hot on your neck. you smirk, arching into him, but he slaps your cheek lightly, sharp enough to sting, making your pussy clench. “get on your knees.”

you drop defiantly, but your mouth waters as you unzip him, his thick cock springing free.

he grabs your jaw, forcing you to look up. “open wide, slut. before i make you.” you part your lips, tongue flicking out to lick the tip, savoring his groan. but he doesn't let you take control. he thrusts deep into your throat, fucking your mouth with rough snaps of his hips. “that's it, choke on it like the desperate whore you are.” tears prick your eyes, but heat pools between your thighs.

he pulls out suddenly, hauling you up and bending you over the couch. your skirt hikes up, and his palm cracks against your ass - once, twice, the slaps echoing as your skin blooms red.

“count them,” he demands, fingers dipping into your wetness.

“one... fuck, two...” you gasp, pushing back, but he spanks harder, whispering, “pathetic. can't even behave without begging for more.” he yanks your panties aside, rubbing his shaft along your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

"please, woo," you whimper, breaking first. he chuckles darkly, slamming deeper. his thrusts are punishing, hips slapping your sore ass, one hand around your throat.

“being a good girl now? taking it like you deserve?” he breathes in your ear, giving you goosebumps. he kisses the marks he left, murmuring, “my perfect little troublemaker.”

jongho - edging

sex with jongho is no quick interaction. it could last an hour, maybe multiple hours. your orgasm is so so close, then he rips it away from you like taking candy away from a child. but once he finally lets you have it, it becomes more earth-shattering each time.

your head spins in a haze of heat as jongho has you pinned down. there’s no frantic rutting here - he is a master of torment, dragging out the fuck for hours, his muscles flexing under your desperate grip.

you've lost track of time. it's been at least two hours of this slow grind, his hips circling to rub every ridge against your sensitive walls, building that fire in your belly until it's roaring.

you arch up, breath ragged, begging with your eyes as the climax hovers just out of reach. “jongho, fuck, let me-“ but he senses it, that telltale flutter of your pussy squeezing him tight, and he freezes, buried to the hilt, his thumb pressing your clit without mercy…then nothing.

he pulls back, leaving you empty and throbbing, a cruel grin splitting his face. “patience, love,” he rasps, before slamming home again, restarting the climb.

his hands bruise your hips, yanking you onto his shaft in deep, measured strokes that smack wetly against your skin.

hours bleed into a fever dream and finally, his pace shifts into feral pounding into your g-spot. “now,” he commands, and you shatter. hours of your built up orgasm ripping through like a storm, pussy gushing around his pistoning cock, waves crashing endlessly.

“yesss, let it all out, babygirl.”

but he doesn’t stop, forcing you to chase your second high immediately after. and then another. and another.

taglist (open) : @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @kisssan @way2jellyous @civeua @stxrrywoo @strhwa @s0ul1nyah

[yunistxr]

── GENTLE HANDS, STEADY BLADES.ㅤ ㅤY. JEONG

synopsis : a figure skater meets a gentle dentist after a toothache, and their soft, supportive love grows alongside her skating career. With his constant encouragement, she wins Olympic gold, and then he proposes on the ice, proving he’s been her greatest victory all along.

• pairing : dentist! yunho x figure skater! reader

𓈒𓍼𓏸 wc : 7.4k

𓈒𓍼𓏸 genre : fluff, romance, slice of life, light erotica (just a little)

𓈒𓍼𓏸 warnings : MINORS DNI 16+

♡ author's note : hey babies ! so i wrote this inspired by yunho's first dream and my first dream, and honestly, this trope has a unique dynamic that you may love ! hope u enjoy lovies and pls lmk if it's good ! <3

☆ masterlist

You first met Yunho because of a toothache.

Which, in your opinion, was one of the most unfair meet-cutes ever.

Not in a café. Not at a rink. Not in a bookstore. No. A dental clinic.

Your day off was supposed to be sacred.

No training. No drills. No coach yelling “again.” No early alarms. Just sleep, coffee, and maybe stretching if guilt won.

Instead, you woke up with a dull throb in your jaw.

You ignored it.

Figure skaters ignored pain like it was part of the job description.

By noon, it pulsed.

By two, it stabbed.

By four, you were clutching your cheek and googling emergency dentist near me like your life depended on it.

That’s how you ended up standing in front of a clean glass building with soft pastel signage and a neat little logo shaped like a smiling tooth.

You groaned.

“Of course it’s cute,” you muttered. “My suffering must be aesthetic.”

Inside, the clinic smelled faintly of mint and citrus. Calm instrumental music played, the kind that felt like it was trying to convince your body you weren’t about to be stabbed with tiny metal tools.

The receptionist smiled. “Appointment?”

You pressed your cheek. “Pain. Sudden. Urgent. I will cry if not helped.”

She nodded sympathetically. “We can fit you in. Please sit.”

You sat.

You regretted everything.

You hated dentists.

You hated the sound of drills. The sterile lighting. The way you couldn’t talk while someone examined your mouth like you were a science project.

A door opened.

“Next patient?”

The voice was warm.

Low.

Gentle.

You looked up.

And forgot about your tooth.

He was tall.

Not just tall—tall tall. The kind of tall that made doorframes look slightly concerned. Soft brown hair framed his forehead, and his eyes—

You blinked.

Kind.

That was the word.

Kind eyes.

He smiled politely. “You must be our emergency patient?”

You stared.

He tilted his head slightly, amused but patient.

You snapped back to reality. “Yes. That’s me. Emergency disaster.”

“I’m Yunho,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”

Oh.

Oh no.

He had the voice of someone who read bedtime stories to children and made them believe monsters didn’t exist.

You followed him into the treatment room in a daze.

You sat in the chair.

He adjusted the light.

“You said it started today?”

You nodded.

“Sharp pain or dull ache?”

“Both,” you mumbled. “It upgraded.”

He chuckled softly.

Why was that comforting.

“Open for me?”

You opened your mouth.

Dignity left the chat.

He leaned closer, gloved fingers gentle as he tilted your chin. His touch was careful, almost apologetic, like he didn’t want to inconvenience you by examining your own teeth.

Professional, you reminded yourself. He’s professional. Stop noticing things.

His brows furrowed slightly as he checked.

“Hm.”

You froze.

Was that a bad hm.

“That’s a worried hm,” you tried to say, which came out as “Tha ah wah-ee hm.”

He laughed quietly. “Not worried. Thinking.”

He leaned back. “Looks like a small cavity that finally decided to protest. We can fix it today.”

Relief flooded you.

“No root canal?”

“No root canal.”

You nearly cried from joy.

While preparing tools, he asked casually, “So what do you do?”

You swallowed. “I’m a figure skater.”

He paused mid-motion.

Turned.

Eyes bright.

“Really?”

You nodded cautiously.

“That’s amazing.”

Not fake-polite amazing.

Real amazing.

You felt heat creep into your cheeks. “It’s… just a job.”

“It’s not just anything,” he said gently. “That takes discipline. Balance. Years of training.”

You stared.

Most people either said Wow you must be flexible or Do you know how to do backflips?

No one ever said discipline.

“…Yeah,” you said quietly. “It does.”

He smiled softly, like he understood something about you that most people missed.

“Alright,” he said, adjusting his mask. “I’ll numb the area first.”

You stiffened.

He noticed immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”

You hesitated. “…I don’t like needles.”

His eyes softened.

“I’ll be quick,” he promised. “And I’ll tell you before I do anything. Nothing sudden. Okay?”

You nodded.

He raised the syringe slowly so you could see it. “This is the anesthetic. Small pinch. That’s all.”

You gripped the armrests.

He waited.

Actually waited.

Not rushing.

Not dismissing.

Just… there.

“You ready?” he asked.

“…Okay.”

Gentle fingers rested against your cheek, steadying you.

“Little pinch.”

It stung.

You flinched—

—and then his thumb lightly tapped your wrist.

Distraction.

Comfort.

Grounding.

It was over in seconds.

“…That wasn’t bad,” you admitted.

He grinned behind his mask. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

The procedure was quick.

You expected tension, pain, panic.

Instead—

You felt calm.

Because every movement he made was deliberate. Every tool introduction came with a soft explanation. Every adjustment came with “You okay?”

At one point he paused.

“You’re doing great,” he said.

Your heart did something embarrassing.

Why did praise from a dentist feel like winning a championship medal.

When he finished, he leaned back. “All done.”

You blinked.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That was…” you searched for the word. “…pleasant.”

He laughed. “I’ll put that on our reviews.”

You sat up slowly, still numb.

He removed his gloves.

“You should avoid chewing on that side for a few hours,” he said. “And no cold drinks until sensation returns.”

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

The air shifted.

You didn’t know why your chest felt tight.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you—not as a patient, not as a stranger, but as someone interesting. Someone worth paying attention to.

“So,” he said lightly, “when’s your next competition?”

You blinked. “Next month.”

“I hope you win.”

It was simple.

Sincere.

No teasing. No exaggeration. Just belief.

Your throat felt weirdly tight. “…Thanks.”

You told yourself you didn’t go back because of him.

You told yourself it was responsible dental care.

Routine checkups.

Preventative maintenance.

Totally normal.

Totally professional.

Totally not because your dentist had the warmest smile you’d ever seen.

But somehow—

Your appointments kept landing on his shift.

Coincidence.

Sure.

Every time you walked in, his face lit up slightly.

“Hey, skater.”

Every time, your heart betrayed you.

Three months after your first visit, you were practicing a program when your coach clapped.

“Break.”

You glided to the barrier, breath visible in the cold air.

That’s when you saw him.

Standing near the entrance.

Tall.

Scarf around his neck.

Looking wildly out of place in a skating rink.

You blinked.

“…Yunho?”

He waved awkwardly. “Hi.”

Your brain malfunctioned.

“You… you’re here.”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you here?”

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “You said your practice was today. I was curious.”

Your coach smirked from behind you.

You ignored her.

“You came… to watch me?”

He nodded.

Heat spread across your face that had nothing to do with exercise.

You stepped back onto the ice.

Your heartbeat felt different now.

Not nerves.

Not pressure.

Something lighter.

You skated.

Spun.

Jumped.

And every time you passed the boards, you saw him watching—eyes wide, completely captivated, like you were performing in an arena instead of an empty practice rink.

When you finished, you glided back, breathing hard.

“Well?” you asked.

He looked like he’d just witnessed magic.

“That,” he said softly, “was incredible.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

After practice, you sat across from him in a small café.

He stirred his drink. “I didn’t realize how intense skating is.”

You laughed. “People think it’s just sparkles and music.”

“You make it look easy.”

“It’s not.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why it’s impressive.”

You studied him.

“You really pay attention, don’t you?”

He tilted his head. “To things that matter? Yeah.”

Your chest fluttered.

It happened quietly.

Naturally.

Like it had always been heading there.

You were walking outside the café, evening air cool against your skin.

“I’m glad my tooth hurt that day,” you said suddenly.

He blinked. “Most patients don’t say that.”

You laughed softly. “If it didn’t… I wouldn’t have met you.”

He stopped walking.

Looked at you.

Really looked.

“…I was hoping you’d say something like that.”

Your breath caught.

“I wanted an excuse to see you outside the clinic,” he admitted. “But I didn’t want to cross a line.”

“You didn’t,” you said gently.

Silence.

Soft.

Warm.

Then—

“Can I take you out sometime?” he asked.

Your answer came instantly.

“Yes.”

Dating Yunho was like living inside a soft song.

He remembered things.

Your competition dates. Your favorite tea. Which ankle got sore first during winter training.

He showed up with snacks after practice.

He learned skating terminology just to understand your stories.

And when you got nervous before competitions, he held your hands and said—

“You’ve already won, you know.”

“How?”

“You love what you do. That’s the rarest victory.”

The night before your biggest event of the season, you sat beside him on a quiet bench outside the arena.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

He squeezed your fingers. “Of what?”

“Messing up. Falling. Disappointing people.”

He turned toward you.

“You could fall ten times,” he said softly, “and I’d still think you were amazing.”

Your eyes stung.

“You’re biased.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I’m your biggest fan.”

You didn’t win first.

You placed second.

But when you stepped off the ice, breathless and shaking, he was there with a small bouquet of white flowers.

“You were beautiful,” he said.

Not your skating was.

You were.

And somehow that meant more than any medal.

Months later, you lay on his couch, head resting on his shoulder as a movie played you weren’t watching.

His fingers traced lazy circles on your wrist.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Mm?”

“Your checkup is next week.”

You laughed. “You’re dating me. Isn’t that cheating?”

“Nope,” he said. “It’s dedication to oral health.”

You snorted. “Romantic.”

“I can be more romantic,” he said.

“Oh?”

He tilted your chin gently.

Smiled.

“You still have the nicest smile I’ve ever seen.”

Your heart melted.

If someone had told you that the love of your life would be a dentist—

You would have laughed.

But love didn’t arrive dramatically.

It didn’t crash in like a storm.

It came quietly.

With gentle hands.

Kind eyes.

Soft reassurances.

And a voice that always said—

“You’re doing great.”

And somehow, with him beside you—

You always believed it.

You didn’t expect the call to come on a Tuesday.

Tuesdays were boring. Tuesdays were conditioning drills and protein bars and your coach yelling about posture.

Tuesdays were not supposed to change your life.

Your phone buzzed during your water break.

Unknown number.

You almost ignored it.

Almost.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“This is the national federation.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your coach froze mid-lecture across the rink.

You swallowed. “Yes?”

“We’re calling to inform you that you’ve officially qualified for the 2026 Winter Olympics.”

Silence.

Not dramatic silence.

Not cinematic silence.

Real silence — the kind where your brain shuts off because reality suddenly becomes too big to process.

“…I what?”

“You qualified.”

Your knees went weak.

Your coach was already running toward you.

“You qualified,” the voice repeated gently. “Congratulations.”

Your lips trembled.

“…Thank you.”

You hung up.

Stared at your phone.

Your coach grabbed your shoulders. “Well??”

You whispered, “I made it.”

She screamed.

You burst into tears.

Your hands shook as you dialed him.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, skater.”

Your voice broke. “Yunho.”

He sat up instantly. “What happened? Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

“I—”

You couldn’t say it.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because you couldn’t breathe.

“I qualified,” you whispered.

Silence.

“…For what?” he asked softly, like he already knew but didn’t want to assume.

“The Olympics.”

Another silence.

Then—

“You qualified,” he repeated.

Not loud.

Not shocked.

Just… full.

Proud.

You heard him exhale slowly.

“I knew it.”

Your chest tightened. “You did not.”

“I did,” he said. “I told you before, remember?”

You remembered.

You’ve already won.

Your eyes filled again.

“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly. “So proud.”

You cried harder.

That night he showed up at your apartment with takeout, flowers, and a cake that said:

GO GOLD OR GO HOME

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped it.

“That’s aggressive,” you said.

“I panicked at the bakery,” he admitted. “There were too many options.”

You set the cake down. “You could’ve gotten something classy.”

“I did,” he said, pointing at himself.

You snorted.

He pulled you into a hug before you could reply.

And that was when it hit you.

Not the Olympics.

Not the pressure.

Not the expectations.

Just—

Him.

His arms around you.

His steady heartbeat against your cheek.

“I’m really going,” you whispered.

He nodded against your hair. “Yeah. You are.”

Olympic preparation was different.

Harder. Longer. Sharper.

Everything mattered now.

Your jump height. Your spin speed. Your landing edges. Your breathing. Your stamina. Your sleep.

Your stress.

Especially your stress.

Which is why Yunho became your unofficial emotional support human.

He brought meals when you forgot to eat.

He taped your ankles when they ached.

He sat quietly during late-night stretch sessions, reading while you worked.

Sometimes you’d glance up mid-stretch and find him already looking at you.

Softly.

Fondly.

Like you were something precious.

“What?” you’d ask.

“Nothing,” he’d say.

But his smile always answered.

Every athlete has one.

The day nothing works.

You fell three times.

Missed two combinations.

Under-rotated a jump you’d landed perfectly for months.

Your coach called break.

You skated off, chest tight, throat burning.

You didn’t cry at the rink.

You never cried at the rink.

But the second you got outside—

The tears came.

You didn’t even realize you’d called him until he answered.

“Hey love—”

“I’m bad,” you choked.

Pause.

Then calm.

Gentle.

“No, you’re not.”

“I couldn’t land anything today.”

“That happens.”

“I’m going to embarrass everyone.”

“You won’t.”

Your voice cracked. “You didn’t see me.”

“I don’t need to.”

Silence.

Then softly—

“I’ve seen you enough to know one bad day doesn’t define you.”

Your breathing slowed.

He continued, voice warm as sunlight:

“You’re allowed to struggle. Champions struggle. That’s how they become champions.”

You wiped your eyes.

“…Can you come over?”

“I’m already grabbing my keys.”

He didn’t ask you to talk when he arrived.

He didn’t ask what went wrong.

He didn’t analyze.

He just sat beside you on the couch and opened his arms.

You went into them immediately.

No hesitation.

No pride.

Just need.

He held you quietly, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

“You’re safe,” he murmured.

And somehow—

You believed him more than you believed your own doubts.

The airport was loud.

Too loud.

Too bright.

Too everything.

Athletes milled around with luggage and gear bags and headphones and game faces.

You stood beside him near security.

Your fingers were laced together tightly.

“You’ll text me when you land?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And after practice?”

“Yes.”

“And after meals?”

You laughed softly. “Okay, mom.”

He smiled sheepishly. “I just want to know you’re okay.”

Your expression softened.

“I will be.”

He hesitated.

Then leaned down and pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“I wish I could be there.”

“You will be,” you said. “Just… not physically.”

He nodded.

Then quietly—

“Bring me back a gold medal, okay?”

You grinned. “Bossy.”

“Motivational,” he corrected.

It felt unreal.

Flags everywhere.

Languages everywhere.

Energy everywhere.

You should’ve felt intimidated.

Instead—

You felt focused.

Because every time nerves tried to creep in, you remembered Yunho’s voice.

You’re doing great.

Your room was dim.

Your skates rested beside your bed like loyal companions.

Your phone buzzed.

Yunho.

You answered instantly. “Hi.”

“How’s my Olympian?”

“Nervous.”

“Good.”

You blinked. “Good?”

“Nerves mean you care.”

You smiled faintly. “You always know what to say.”

“I practice speeches in the mirror,” he said seriously.

You giggled.

Silence settled.

Comfortable.

Warm.

“Y/N?” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

“No matter what happens tomorrow… I’m proud of you.”

Your throat tightened.

“…Thank you.”

“And,” he added, “I’ll be watching live. So don’t fall.”

You gasped. “YUNHO.”

He laughed.

Your tension melted.

The arena lights were blinding.

The crowd was thunder.

Your name echoed.

You stepped onto the ice.

Cold air kissed your skin.

Blades touched the surface.

And suddenly—

Everything went quiet.

Not literally.

Just inside you.

Because you heard it.

That voice.

Warm. Steady. Certain.

You’re doing great.

Music began. You moved. One step. One glide. One jump. Landed. Spin. Transition. Combination. Landed. Applause swelled.

You didn’t think. Didn’t doubt. Didn’t hesitate.

You just skated. Flew. Lived. Felt. Every hour of training. Every fall. Every bruise. Every early morning. Every whispered encouragement. Every soft “I believe in you.”

It all carried you.

Final pose.

Music ended.

Silence—

Then the arena exploded.

Scoreboards were cruel.

You sat in the kiss-and-cry area gripping your coach’s hand.

Breathing shallow.

Screen flashed.

Numbers appeared.

You blinked.

Your coach screamed.

You stared.

1

First.

First place.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t process.

“…I won?” you whispered.

Your coach was crying. “YOU WON.”

You covered your mouth.

The world blurred.

Back home, Yunho was standing in front of his TV.

Still.

Silent.

Eyes shining.

When your score appeared—

He laughed.

Not loudly.

Not wildly.

Just softly.

Proudly.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered.

The medal was heavier than you expected.

It rested against your chest, cool metal warming against your skin.

Cameras flashed.

Crowds cheered.

Anthem played.

But all you could think was—

I want to show him.

You didn’t even take off your skates before calling.

He answered instantly.

“Hi, champion.”

You burst into tears.

“I did it.”

“I know.”

“I did it, Yunho.”

“I know.”

You laughed through tears. “You sound calmer than me!”

“I’m trying not to scream and scare my neighbors.”

You sniffled. “You watched?”

“Every second.”

Silence.

Then softly—

“You were breathtaking.”

Your heart fluttered.

“…Come see me when I get back?”

He smiled through the phone. “Try and stop me.”

When you landed, the terminal was crowded.

Fans. Media. Officials.

You barely saw any of them.

Because you saw him.

Standing behind the barrier.

Tall.

Bright-eyed.

Holding a sign that read:

WORLD’S BEST SKATER (AND MY FAVORITE PERSON)

You laughed.

Ran to him.

He caught you easily, lifting you slightly off the ground.

“You did it,” he murmured into your hair.

“You believed I would.”

“Of course I did.”

You pulled back and placed the medal around his neck.

“For you.”

His eyes widened. “Y/N—”

“You’re part of this,” you said softly. “Every step.”

He swallowed.

Then gently took it off and put it back on you.

“No,” he said. “It belongs here.”

His fingers brushed your collarbone as he adjusted it.

“And I belong right beside you.”

That night you lay beside him, medal resting on the bedside table.

Your fingers traced his hand lazily.

“Yunho?”

“Mm?”

“If my tooth never hurt that day…”

He smiled sleepily. “Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t have met you.”

He squeezed your hand.

“Then I guess,” he murmured, “that cavity was fate.”

You laughed softly.

And as sleep pulled you under, his thumb brushed gentle circles against your skin—

Just like it always had.

Steady.

Warm.

Certain.

Just like him.

You noticed it three weeks after the Olympics.

Yunho was acting strange.

Not bad strange.

Not distant strange.

Just… secretly glowing strange.

He smiled at his phone more.

Whispered with your coach once.

Closed tabs when you walked past.

At first you thought nothing of it.

Then he started asking questions.

Weirdly specific questions.

“What kind of rings do skaters prefer?”

“Does hand size change after training?”

“Do you like silver or gold more?”

You narrowed your eyes.

“…Why.”

He blinked innocently. “Just curious.”

Suspicious.

Very suspicious.

He told you to dress warm.

That was the only instruction.

“No training clothes,” he added. “Something pretty.”

You stared. “I always look pretty.”

He smiled. “True. But today I want breathtaking.”

Your stomach fluttered.

When you arrived—

Your breath stopped.

The rink was empty.

Lights dimmed.

Soft golden lamps lined the boards.

Fairy lights twinkled along the railing like fallen stars.

In the center of the ice—

One single spotlight.

You turned slowly.

“…Yunho.”

He stood behind you, hands tucked nervously into his coat pockets.

“I rented it,” he admitted.

Your chest tightened. “Why?”

He stepped closer.

Because he was tall, when he looked at you, his gaze always dipped slightly, soft and fond like sunlight filtering through leaves.

“Because,” he said gently, “this is where you shine the most.”

Your throat burned.

He held out your skates.

“You didn’t think I’d make you dress up just to stand still, did you?”

You laughed softly through the emotion rising in your chest.

You changed.

Stepped onto the ice.

Glided.

It felt different today.

Not like training.

Not like competition.

Like floating.

Music began playing softly through the speakers — your Olympic program song.

You looked at him.

He nodded once.

You skated.

Slow. Graceful. Effortless.

No jumps. No pressure. Just movement.

Just feeling.

Just you.

When you finished, you turned toward him—

—and found him already stepping onto the ice.

Carefully.

Cautiously.

Holding something behind his back.

Your heart stuttered.

“Yunho…”

He stopped in front of you.

Close enough that you could see the tiny crease that appeared beside his eye when he was nervous.

“I practiced walking on ice for two weeks,” he confessed. “For this exact moment.”

Your lips parted.

He took a breath.

Then—

He knelt.

Your hands flew to your mouth.

He revealed the small velvet box.

Opened it.

Inside rested a delicate ring that caught the light like a captured star.

His voice was soft.

Steady.

But trembling at the edges.

“I’ve watched you fall,” he said quietly.

“I’ve watched you get back up.”

“I’ve watched you doubt yourself… and prove yourself wrong every time.”

Your vision blurred.

“I’ve watched you become the strongest person I know.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“And somewhere along the way… you became my home.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

“I don’t just want to watch you shine,” he whispered.

“I want to stand beside you for every performance life gives us.”

His thumb brushed your hand gently.

“Will you marry me?”

The world went silent.

Not rink silent.

Not night silent.

Heart silent.

“Yes,” you breathed.

His shoulders dropped in relief, a laugh escaping him as he slid the ring onto your finger.

It fit perfectly.

Of course it did.

He knew you.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he stood and wiped your cheek with his thumb.

“You’re crying,” he murmured.

“You proposed on ice,” you sniffled. “What did you expect?”

He smiled.

Then you grabbed his coat and pulled him down into a kiss.

Soft.

Warm.

Certain.

His hands settled instinctively at your waist, grounding you, holding you like you were something precious he never wanted to drop.

When you pulled back, your foreheads rested together.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Good.”

The apartment was quiet.

Snow tapped gently against the windows.

You sat on the couch facing him, still staring at your ring like it might vanish if you blinked.

“I can’t believe you planned all that,” you murmured.

He shrugged shyly. “I wanted it to be perfect.”

“It was,” you said. “You’re perfect.”

He laughed softly. “I’m really not.”

“You are to me.”

Something shifted in his expression.

Warmer.

Deeper.

The kind of look that always made your stomach flutter.

He reached out slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve wanted to kiss you all day.”

Your breath caught. “Then why didn’t you?”

“I wanted to wait until you were mine forever.”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I was already yours.”

His eyes darkened slightly — not intense, not overwhelming.

Just full.

Full of affection.

Full of love.

Full of you.

His fingers slid gently along your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

This kiss was different.

Slower.

Softer.

Lingering.

His lips moved against yours like he was savoring the moment rather than rushing it. One hand cradled your cheek while the other rested at your waist, thumb brushing slow circles through the fabric of your sweater.

You melted into him.

The world outside faded.

All you could feel was warmth.

His warmth.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, holding him closer.

He pulled back just enough to murmur—

“You okay?”

You nodded softly.

Always checking.

Always gentle.

“Yunho,” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

His smile was quiet.

Certain.

“I love you too.”

He kissed you again — softer this time, like sealing a promise rather than starting a fire.

And somehow that made your heart race even more.

Later, you lay curled against his chest, his arm wrapped around you protectively.

Your ring glinted faintly in the lamplight.

His fingers traced lazy patterns along your arm.

Comforting.

Steady.

Safe.

“You know,” you murmured sleepily, “all this happened because of a cavity.”

He chuckled quietly. “Best dental diagnosis of my career.”

You smiled against his shoulder.

Outside, snow kept falling.

Inside, his heartbeat thumped slow and sure beneath your ear.

And you realized—

Gold medals were nice.

Olympics were dreams.

But this?

This quiet moment, wrapped in his arms, wearing his promise on your finger—

This was your greatest win.

by kiera. ☆ © 2026 by yunistxr | all rights reserved.

[stxrrywoo]

thinking about seonghwa with a dacryphilia kink

the bedroom was filled with the lewd sound of wet skin slapping as seonghwa pistons his hips into yours, pushing you over the nth time that night. his lips curled into a sinister smile as more tears poured down your flushed cheeks, cries of his name spilling past your swollen lips. the tears that decorated your face were like the greatest work of art the man has ever seen.

"look at you, darling," seonghwa cooed, fingers tightening on the back of your knees, pretty much folding your body in half, "always such a crybaby over my cock,"

"h-hwa," you cried out, hands flying to his wrists to try and anchor yourself, but it was pointless when the head of his cock not only brushed over your sweet spot but also pressed against your cervix. the pleasure brought stars to your vision, breathless moans falling from your lips.

"so pretty." seonghwa smirked when your eyes all but rolled back, your walls clenching around his aching cock. the sensation pulled a sharp groan from his lips, fingers tightening around your skin, sure to leave bruises the next morning, not that either of you could care at the given moment.

"fuck! 'm cumming!" you nearly screamed when seonghwa let one of your legs hang over his shoulder before moving his now free hand to your swollen clit, circling it with a precision that had you squirting all over his cock and sheets.

"fuckkkk." seonghwa groaned at the sight, hips still slamming into yours, prolonging your orgasm and pulling as much of your sweet release out of you as he could. he didn't move his hand from your sopping cunt until your whole body was shaking uncontrollably, sobs echoing in his ears.

"p-please… too much," you whined, hands pushing at his lower torso, but seonghwa just chuckled, knocking your hands out of the way and bullying his cock into your fluttering walls.

"no, it's not." seonghwa shook his head with a faux pout, causing you to whimper, head lolling back as your brain completely fuzzed over, tears flowing like waterfalls. a sight the dark-haired male wanted to imprint in his brain for the years to come.

"my pretty little crybaby, always crying on my cock." seonghwa mocked you, his tone sickeningly sweet, and your body shook in his hold, head shaking furiously, only to spray your tears across his satin sheets. he leaned down, folding your body even more and pulling another pathetic squeak from your parted lips. his tongue jutted out, lapping at your tear-stained cheeks, humming at the salty taste.

"just as sweet as the rest of you," seonghwa murmurs against your skin, hips still ramming into yours, "let's see if I can get you sobbing again." he nodded his head, jaw clenched tightly, and cock twitching in your velvet walls at the thought of you fully crying on his cock.

and just like that, seonghwa gained a new mission, fucking you until you were nothing but a sobbing mess underneath him.

© 𝐬𝐭𝐱𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

[cremesoule]

ꔛ A Sweet Treat ! ꔛ

Now playing ᥫ᭡ : “Love Songs” - Clairo

Synopsis ꨄ : San notices how hard you’ve been working lately and wants to give you a reward for it !

Warnings ！: smut, fluff, oral (f!recieving), praise, petnames (angel, baby, good girl, etc.) , service top!San (woofwoof), misuse of icing, unprotected sex (wrap it up 🙂‍↔️), fingering

You come home from your office job with a heavy sigh and a weight on your shoulders. Luckily, you have a cute apartment and an even cuter boyfriend to fall back on. “Baby! How was work?” San hums as he captures you into a bear hug, his scent of fresh linen and cake enough to lull you to sleep. You take a deep breath into his chest before pulling away to look at him. “It was exhausting..” you sigh before cracking a smile in reply to his pout. “My poor angel..” San coos, pulling you back closer to pepper you with kisses. You giggle at the sensation of his soft lips caressing your skin.

Eventually, San pulls himself away from you to let you wash up while he prepared dinner. After a nice, warm shower you slip into comfortable pajamas before heading back out into the living room to be greeted with the comforting smell of all your favorite foods. You slowly approach San, wrapping your arms around his waist as he continued to stir the pot on the stove. “Is all this for me?” You giggle before pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear. San smiles, his muscles relaxing along with yours, “I noticed how stressed you’ve been lately so I decided to treat you.”

You both then fill your stomachs with delicious homemade food as you rant to San about your day at work and he intently listens (with rather hilarious comments). The table grows comfortably silent as the feeling of rejuvenation seeps into you. San begins cleaning up the table when he notices your sleepy expression. “Don’t fall asleep yet, angel. I still have one more treat.” He chuckles, a hint of mischief in his tone.

Before sleep could fully consume you, you catch San from the corner of your eye bringing out a box from the fridge. You manage to prop yourself up in your chair, staring curiously at the cream colored cake box with a white ribbon wrapped around it. San gently opens the box to reveal a strawberry white chocolate cake. Soft fluffy layers of yellow cake with white chocolate cream and fresh red strawberries.

“Oh!” You perk up in surprise. “Isn’t this that really expensive cake you love?” You ask him with wide eyes. San meets your gaze with a soft one and chuckles. “Mhm, I really wanted to go all out for you, princess.” He replies before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And maybe I also wanted an excuse to buy this.” He whispers against your skin, making you giggle from both the revelation and the feeling of his breath against you.

You both enjoy a slice of the rich and delicious cake, reveling in its flavor and softness. You can’t help but smile as you think of everything your boyfriend has done to make you feel better from all the stress from work. You approach San and suddenly take a seat in his lap. San’s hands instinctively find their place on your hips. “M’so happy, Sannie.” You hum as you wipe away a spot of cream on his cheek with your thumb. “Feel so much better ‘cause of you~” You begin to pepper his face with kisses.

“Anything for my angel.” He replies, his tone more sultry as he captures you into a kiss. You two softly begin to make out. As the need for each other began to grow stronger, you pressed deeper into him. San’s hands begin to wander about your body, going up your sides with one squeezing your breasts. You moan into the kiss before pulling away, giving yourself and San a moment you catch your breaths. “N-Need you right now..” You pant, your hips unconsciously beginning to grind against him.

Something in San snaps from this, making him immediately lift you up from his lap and setting you on the table. He crashes his lips onto yours as you begin to make out again, this time with more haste. San’s hands now have more urgency as they tug onto your shorts. You let out a chuckled moan before lifting your hips to allow him to slip off your shorts. San pulls away, dipping his hand between your legs and groaning. “Fuck baby, have you been this wet f’me the entire time?” He muses, his flushed face and hazy eyes making him look insatiable.

You moan as you feel San’s thick digits slip past your panties and into your heat. Your hand flies up to grip his shoulder as you throw your head back. “Ngh~ F-Fuck!” San smirks at your reaction, slightly curling his fingers at just the right angle to pull out more sounds from you. “Yeah? Does that feel good, baby?”He teases, his fingers freezing when you take your eyes off of his. San keeps his deep and slow pace going till he feels you clench around him. He then quickly pulls his fingers out, dragging a whine out from you along with them.

“W-Why’d you stop..?” You pout, your mind still scrambled from being so close to orgasm. San’s heart flutters at your dazed out expression, fueling his urge to tease you even more. “This won’t do, baby. Need you cumming on something better.” He hints before lowering down on his knees, getting directly in front of your cunt. He hooks his left hand onto the waist band of your panties, looking up at you to observe for any discomfort. You look down at him, his puppy eyes hard to refuse. You nod as a signal of permission to strip off the flimsy garment.

As San peels off the now soaked cloth, he can’t help but groan as he’s met with the sight of your drooling cunt. “Fuck..” He mutters, unable to restrain himself any longer. San immediately licks a fat stripe up your cunt, his warm tongue making you moan in relief. San doesn’t waste time in eating you out, his licks becoming sloppier as he made out with your clit.

San then gets a devilish idea. He forces to pull himself away from your cunt, a soft “pop!” sound coming from it. He wipes your slick away from his chin. Youlook down at him confused, wondering why he had to pull away yet again when you were oh so close to that sweet release. Your eyes then go from hazy to wide when you watch him dip his fingers into the icing of the cake. San smirks maliciously as he looked up at you. “It’ll feel a bit weird, baby. But don’t worry, I’ll make you feel so good~” He coos mockingly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.

You wince as the sensation of cold icing being smeared all over your slit. It was strange, yet so incredibly good. You feel yourself growing wetter at the scandalous predicament you’ve found yourself in. Meanwhile, San feels his sanity slip as he coated your cunt with the white chocolate icing. If heaven was a place on earth, it was right between your legs for him and this only made it even better.

Once he felt satisfied with the amount of icing, he instantly went in, lapping up every bit of icing. You knew how good San was with his tongue, but you didn’t think it could get any better?! The cold icing along with his warm tongue on your hole stimulated you in the best way possible. You start to feel dizzy, gripping at San’s hair to ground yourself. “G-Gonna cum..” you manage to stutter out.

San moans into your cunt in reply, beginning to pick up the pace with his tongue as his hands kept your legs spread wide. “C’mon princess, let go f’me.” He coaxes in a low tone. You try your best to keep your eyes on his as you feel your orgasm approaching, the knot in your stomach tightening. As you feel it about to release your whole body shudders before you see white. “Ngh~! Fuck!” You scream in pleasure.

San moans with you, lapping up every last bit of your essence while savoring its taste. Once he’s cleaned you up, he pulls away and wipes yourself from his chin. “Did so good for me, angel..” he coos as he planted a kiss to your temple. San takes a moment to admire your blissed out expression before growing aroused once more. “It’s only right for me to reward you.”

Your head blanks out, but when you manage to snap back to reality again you find yourself in you and San’s shared bedroom. You’re comfortably propped up against soft pillows with San between your legs. He’s completely bare now and visible right in front of you. You take a moment to ogle at his body. His large muscular, yet soft build making you want to bite into his biceps.

San notices the way your eyes bulge out of your head at the sight of him and can’t help but blush. “You liking the view, baby?” He teased. Your dry throat gulps nervously when your gaze starts traveling lower, down to San’s length. It was thick and long, his pink tip already drooling. You’ve seen him like this before, but you can’t help but get nervous every time.

San’s cock begins to prod at your entrance and you’re already gripping on the sheets for support. “M’gonna make you feel so good, angel~ You ready?” He asks, tilting your chin so that you’re looking right at him. His gaze lustful but also gentle, reminding you that you have the option to stop whenever. But you don’t wanna stop, you wanna have him inside. You nod intently in reply but San doesn’t move. “Need to hear you say it, sweetheart.” He chided. “Yes Sannie, m’ready.” You confirm.

San grins and kisses you deeply before pushing into you. You moan into the kiss as you feel your body stretching around San’s cock, hitting just where you needed him to. He starts slow and gentle, making sure you feel every inch going in and out of you. And as he speeds up, he begins to whisper sweet nothings into your ear and pepper your neck with kisses and hickeys.

“That’s it angel, take it like a good girl~” He moans, his movements growing sloppier. You wrap your legs around his waist and dig your nails into his back. San groans in pleasure at the feeling of your nails scratching his skin, motivating him to pick up the pace. “You gonna cum for me again, princess?” You manage to nod dumbly, drool beginning to spill from the corner of your mouth.

Your moans grow louder as you feel a knot tightening in you once again, and you assume that San feels it too as he whines pathetically. “F-Fuck~! That’s it, baby..cum on my cock like a good girl..~” He pants, his voice starting to break into whimpers. You both release at the same time, with San pushing his hips deep into you, filling you up with his seed.

You both ride out your orgasm before San slowly pulls out of you, a spew of you and his cum leaking out of you. You whimper at the sudden feeling of emptiness. The room is filled with the scent of sex and the sound of you and San’s pants. San then gets up and disappears into your shared bathroom for a moment before returning with a wet cloth.

He gently wipes you down, humming sweet praises to you as he did. “You were so good for me, angel.” He whispers gently, his touches as light as a feather as if you were made of glass. “I love you, Sannie.” You manage to mewl out. “I love you too, angel.” San smiles, kissing the top of your head before you begin to feel the long awaited lull of sleep consume you.

~fin~

@ cremesoule ; do not steal my work !! 2.19.26

[maho6any]

rock the boat

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.

is that not what friends are for?

[jisungonmyballs]

SPANKING AS A PUNISHMENT WITH DOM!HONGJOONG

warnings?: spanking, impact play, humiliation, punishment? but I think thats about it. no actual sex or anything.

gn reader, no use of pronouns or mentions of gendered anatomy

word count: no idea tbh

first smuttyish fic so pls be kind! hope you like 🙏🫶

Hongjoong is very much the 'fuck around and find out' type of dominant if ykwim. when he tells you to do something, he means now. not in five minutes or after you finish whatever you're doing. he means now.

when you're supposed to be working on college classes, but instead, he finds you in bed, doomscrolling. your laptop was opened, the screen long timed-out. you hadn't meant to get distracted, let alone for this long, but tik tok had its ways of grabbing you and refusing to let you go.

he stands in the bedroom doorway for a few short moments, not even giving you the time to register his presence, before he's striding over. he slips the phone out of your hand, gentle, but firm. he still says nothing as he quickly gathers you into his lap, ass up.

"I told you to be good while I was gone," he mutters, already slipping down the waistband of your pajama shorts, and then underwear, "to stay focused and on task,"

he pulls them down enough to rest on the back of your thighs, but high enough to be humiliating, to make you feel small, like a disobedient child.

he lands a couple open-handed blows to your soft bottom, barely flinching at your whimpers. when you squirm, he lifts a leg over both of yours, effectively trapping you in his grasp.

his hand doesn't stop until your bottom is red and throbbing with his handprint. even a bit of your thighs were blotchy, a testament to his through punishment.

[strhwa]

thinking about... dilf!hongjoong

dilf!hongjoong, who met you by accident, with him bumping into you on his way to the studio. his americano spilled all over your blouse, his mouth going 100 miles an hour spitting out apologies. in a normal situation, you would have probably yelled at the guy for not watching where he’s going, but when you looked up at him, the words on the tip of your tongue were gone.

the man in front of you was gorgeous, veiny arms, glasses on the bridge of his nose and an outfit fitting so well it was probably made for him. but the biggest thing you noticed? he had to be at least a decade older than you. little did you know, he had the same sort of thoughts in his head. you looked like an angel, hair perfectly styled and makeup on point. your outfit was too, before he made a fool of himself and spilled the coffee all over you.

dilf!hongjoong, who invites you to come up to his studio to get clean up and borrow a shirt of his; he can’t let you walk around the city like that. when you’re all clean and changed he makes some polite small talk, asking about your work and plans for the day. you’re almost out the door when he calls out after you, asking for your number to take you out to dinner so he can apologise properly.

and apologise properly he does, taking you to an upscale restaurant and letting you order whatever your heart desires. he even brings a bouquet of fresh cut flowers and a gift card for the clothing store your coffee-stained blouse was from (yes, he checked the tag when you left it at the studio. sue him). the chemistry between you is undeniable, barely any pauses or awkward silences, it’s like you’ve known each other for years.

dilf!hongjoong, who after taking you out a few more times, finally asks you to be his girlfriend. he knows some people might feel odd about the age gap, but he’s sure he’s never had a connection this strong with someone before. and when you say yes? he’s the happiest guy in the world.

although, your dynamic does change a bit after you become official. hongjoong has always been incredibly attentive to your needs, and now it seems that has increased tenfold. he does it out of love, and when he does it for long enough, you start looking at him like your anchor, the one thing that can truly keep you grounded and safe.

that’s how you’ve ended up in the current situation. your day was horrible-your boss giving you extra work for no reason, the clasp on your favourite necklace breaking and harin from the marketing department stealing your lunch from the fridge. you just wanted to clear your head, forget about everything that went wrong and be at peace for a second.

and now you’re in the elevator going up to you boyfriend’s studio, ready to bolt down the hallway to him the moment the elevator doors open. your foot is impatiently tapping against the metal floor, timing seeming to slow down just so the universe can spite you. when you finally get to the door you don’t even bother knocking, barging straight in. he gives you a surprised look, but as soon as he notices your dishevelled look, he knows better than to scold you.

you’re lucky he was going through a creative block, it gave him (almost) all the time in the world to comfort you. he moves to the minifridge tucked under his desk, grabbing the bottle of whiskey he had stashed for trying times and pouring himself a shot or two. with the glass in hand, he sits down on the black leather couch, legs spread wide, beckoning you to come closer.

you settle your head in his lap, one of your hands moving to firmly hold onto his thigh, the other covering your face. his free hand comes to move said hand away, wiping away your tears with the ring-clad fingers before opening his mouth for the first time since you came.

“what’s the matter my sweet girl? what happened to you today?” his words only make you nuzzle closer to him, your nose sharply inhaling the scent of the leather, his laundry detergent and something so him. words starter tumbling from your mouth, telling him all the details of your absolutely horrible day, how you wish you could just sleep for a week straight and completely hide from the world.

when you’re done with your story he’s finished the glass of whiskey, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “i’m so sorry baby, your day has been so horrible and i couldn’t be there with you. but you know how much i love you, right? it hurts me to see you in pain, how about we make it all better…”, he says, moving to give soft pecks to your tear stained cheeks. and when his lips press to yours you know it’s gonna be okay, because your joongie always makes it better.

⤷ masterlist

taglist (open): @atetheluck @nyxaluna @hyunesdoll @ch3rry15pin @luvmunchies @lovelyun @kisssan @spiderfae03 @bruisesandsatin @livonianmaia @belongjoong @way2jellyous

© STRHWA; DO NOT TRANSLATE, EDIT OR REPOST MY WORK!

[kisssan]

pairing﹢jung wooyoung x fem!reader x ateez genre﹢smut. uni!au, free use, overstimulation, degradation, possessive + obsessive tendencies, praising, usage of pet names (baby, angel, princess, pretty, good girl), biting and marking, public/semi-public places, threesomes (woosan/woosang/???), unprotected sex, a lot of creampie and aftercare. throat fucking + being tied up (hongjoong), cunnilingus + mirror sex (seonghwa), oral fixation + choking (yunho), cunnilingus + vanilla (yeosang), shower + soft/rough sex (san), cockwarming + blowjob (mingi), rough sex + aftercare (jongho). breeding + degradation/praising + talking about pregnancy + blowjob (wooyoung). synopsis﹢the cheerleader they all pass around, and the girl who somehow ends up cooling down certain players. the pirates are the stars of the team, who use you after practice, after games, in the locker room, everywhere when nobody’s looking… seven days a week, where every man makes his own fantasy come true. word count﹢11,5k

you always knew WOOYOUNG was trouble. someone you could easily walk away from, until every step felt like it dragged you closer, like gravity had a new definition just for him. campus knew it too, by the way everybody whispered about a certain cheerleader who walked a little straighter when he passed by, whose cheeks flushed faster than a freshly picked strawberry whenever he looked at her.

it started in the most mundane of ways, because that cheerleader was you. pom-poms clutched tight, the roar of the stadium filling your ears, and he jogged by after warm-ups, sweat clinging to his shirt, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes scanning the field, and somehow, he found you. maybe it was the way you moved, or the adorable way you laughed with your team, or maybe he just decided, without asking, that you belonged to him.

he didn’t corner you that first time. all he did was throw you a glance, his signature charming smile while tilting his head, and your heart betrayed you. he was asking a stupid question about drills, and suddenly, your hands were shaking, your lips barely catching his words. your mind screamed, don’t you dare fall for him, but your body had other ideas.

from there, it became almost ritualistic. subtle touches that lingered too long, casual brushes that left goosebumps on your skin. everyone saw how he took an interest in you, yes, but they didn’t know a thing: this was a game played in hardcore mode, which meant he takes his sweet time preparing for the good stuff. he was possessive, demanding, but never cruel, just persistent and testing the lines you hadn’t realised existed. you became his, not by force, but by consent of your own rational mind that tried to protest and protect you. don’t give in, you told yourself, but you always like to play with fire.

wooyoung was careful at first, a dream boyfriend. guiding your hands, tilting your head to peck your cheeks or lips that tasted like cherry, planning dates and spoiling you rotten. the way he looked at you from the locker room as you and the other girls walked by, or how he nudged you onto his lap during practice breaks, giving you his jersey so you could proudly show off that you are taken and off-limits. however, careful turned to teasing, teasing to demanding, and soon enough, you weren’t just his girlfriend — you became his pretty doll. something beautiful, delicate, to be shown, used, and adored.

evenings with him were cinematic, like you were living in a drama, because something like this couldn’t happen just like that. he would corner you in empty classrooms or on dimly lit hallway, whispering the things he would do to you because you kept wearing that short skirt all day, ass bouncing with your every movement and… keep wearing crop tops like that, you will see how he will top you instead. when he pressed you against a wall, hand on your hip, as he whispered in your ear.

“you walked across campus like that,” your boyfriend was pissed to say at least, eyes dragging over you, “with every guy staring right at you… and you didn’t even look back at me once.”

you open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a soft click of his tongue.

“no,” he says, the grip he had on your hip tightening and that made your stomach twist, “don’t even try to explain, angel. you knew what you were doing.”

shaky and nervous breath leaves past your lips because his touch isn’t where you expect it: he never gives what you think you want first.

“look at you,” your fingers clutch his shirt, pulling him closer without meaning to, as he laughs under his breath, leaning in until your forehead pressed against his shoulder. “walking around in that tiny top, that little skirt…”

his voice drops, almost mocking you, when his knuckles skim your thigh, “you keep wearing that uniform like this, and see if i don’t end up pinning you to the nearest surface next time. classroom, hallway, locker room… i don’t care.”

“woo…” your breath catches, a desperate sound you can’t swallow down, and he chuckles at your every reaction. his hand finally slips beneath the hem of your skirt and the safety shorts that kept nothing safe from him, or the hungry stares of every boy in the whole damn university. fingertips trace slow patterns against your clit, pressing and playing with your bud, opening you wide enough to make you moan, but do nothing about to soothe your throbbing cunt that aches for his touch.

“yeah, baby. say my name like that...” he smiles against your skin, licking your neck while kissing and biting it, “you want more?” he asks, voice so sweet and cruel, when he pushes one finger inside that gets you all worked up, and gosh you are so wet it just makes it easier for him.

despite him being rough and edging you to the max by suddenly pulling his finger out of your cunt and kissing your cheeks, leaving you all flushed and confused, there were tender moments. he checks your shoulder after rough dance moves after your practice, makes sure you are eating by preparing you homemade food, reminds you to drink water, tells you to rest, even as he whispers, you are mine.

the contrast made you so dizzy and confused, because the boy who could destroy you in a few seconds also made sure you were okay, and that was part of the thrill. the guilt and pleasure blended into one, a cocktail you couldn’t resist sipping, again and again. for some reason, being with wooyoung felt like heaven and hell at once.

and hell being when the closest of his friends, the ones that he trusted with his heart and calls his brothers, were allowed to play too. it felt like betrayal, like you were selling both your body and soul to someone else. sometimes they were gentle, sometimes rough, but when their touches were sanctioned, when wooyoung watched, sometimes joining in, the guilt morphed into something addictive. the excitement of being played with, looked at, used, made you want even more.

you were fully present and knew what you were doing, but the pleasure you received from each of the eight men was your little guilty secret. everyone knew you were wooyoung’s girl, only for you to become a cute little plaything, pretty and desperate for the next day, because the lines between ownership and affection blurred.

because he brags about having the prettiest and most adorable girl, and the team teases him about it. besides he still hands you out to them each day… because he loves watching you run back to him after every man ruins you in their own way.

the cheerleader they all pass around, and the girl who somehow ends up cooling down certain players. the pirates are the stars of the team, who use you after practice, after games, in the locker room, on the field when nobody’s looking… seven days a week, where every man makes his own fantasy come true. as for your boyfriend, he gets you whenever he wants — between days, before matches, after matches, whenever he snaps his fingers, they all know to be patient and wait.

soon it became a routine after the first two weeks of getting to know each player more intensely, and wooyoung even made a whole schedule. the calendar in his phone is marked with the names of those who will have you on that specific day. 

HONGJOONG AS THE NO MORE MR. NICE GUY

as the team captain, he gets to try out first, more so, when monday comes, he sets the pace for the rest of the week. initially was against the idea or even joining in general, because why would he sleep with his teammate’s girlfriend even if it was voluntary?

hongjoong had nothing against you of course. in his eyes, you were so innocent and sweet, but you turned out to be totally the opposite. he understands why wooyoung liked you; nevertheless, why he immediately took the chance to be with you. you are a good girl, obedient and good-natured, but unlike you, your boyfriend is not.

that's why he was setting an example to be careful through you. let's not mention when wooyoung was more or less to blame for one of their losses, not that he wanted it, he was just not in shape... he could have been if he hadn't skipped practice to be with you and do whatever, or smelling a little bit of weed after hanging out with yeonjun and soobin from the basketball team.

and believe him, he doesn't want to hurt you, but he has to. the captain doesn’t fuck you when he calls you into the empty room: he ruins you with control by tying your wrists behind your back, sits you on your knees between his legs, and makes you earn even a lick of his cock.

locking the door, even putting do not disturb sign, because everyone knows not to interrupt him when he thinks of tactics or formations for the next game. with you still kneeling in front of him, he watches old game tapes, using your throat as stress relief. hooking his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

“you listen well, don’t you?” you nod slowly, his thumb brushes your lower lip to make you relax to a certain amount. “use your words, angel.”

“yes… captain.”

he fucks your face nice and slowly, hand in your hair to monitor your movements, murmuring, “knows not to use teeth, hmm…good girl.” so good that he cums in your mouth, making you swallow it all. until the salty tears mix with the taste of his cum, and you smile through your teeth, all dirty until it drips from your chin onto your crop top, on the ground. aren’t you the prettiest dirty little secret the team could keep?

sometimes calls you over with two fingers. you are waiting for him to finish whatever he’s doing before he decides what he wants with you. he could take you in the back of his car. he’s thought about it, you’ve thought about it but he wasn’t in the mood for that. so he takes you to his apartment, with you dry-humping him on the couch while he fingers you slowly,  his silver rings stay on as the cold metal against your warm skin sends little shivers through you.

“wooyoung’s been slacking lately, hasn’t he?” he watches your face carefully when he says it. rubbing yourself on his legs, face shying away from his. he likes hearing your voice when you defend your boyfriend, seeing the conflict flicker behind your eyes. “think you could tell him to do better?”

he doesn’t let you cum until he decides you’ve earned it. every desperate roll of your hips is noted, and he teases you more. his rings graze your most sensitive spots as he toys with your clit, the sensation almost too much for you to handle.

grinding against him while his hands roam, guiding you until you’re shaking uncontrollably. your moans are soft, needy, and he encourages them just enough to push you closer to the edge, then pulls back, making you whimper and drool in frustration.

whispers filthy little reminders in your ear, “keep your boyfriend in check. tell him to stop slacking… you know it’s your job, and mine too.”

your hips jerk against his leg, begging silently as he denies your release again and again, each denial making you cry louder to the judgment served to you, and not to the one who deserves it.

he presses his face into your neck, low grunts vibrating against your skin, marking you in his own way. when he finally lets you cum, it’s all-consuming, leaving you trembling in his lap, eyes rolling, and he watches every second, satisfied with the control he has over you with just his words.

and when you leave his place, you always look composed, but your head is spinning, and wooyoung can tell immediately that hongjoong got under your skin again.

SEONGHWA KNOWS YOU INSIDE AND OUT

truly a gentleman. he takes care of you, never rushes you, or starts without easing you into it first. makes sure you’re relaxed, not carrying the weight of the week on your shoulders. also loves teasing and praising you with his words almost as much as he loves tasting you. every flick of his tongue, every wet slide in and out comes with a low murmur against your core.

tuesdays are his. he has a key to one of the quieter training rooms, always locks the door behind you. he stretches you out on the table, lifts your legs over his shoulders without warning, pushing your hips back toward him, still holding your pom-poms, as he eats you out like he’s slowly unwrapping his christmas gift: slow licks, tongue teasing, hands holding your thighs open. 

“princess, you’re so tight…,” he groans, licking and sucking. “you taste amazing… did you save all this for me?” he teases, opening you wider so you won’t squeeze him to death, not that he would mind.

nibbling at your inner thigh between laps of your cunt. seonghwa’s relentless with the words, praising every inch of your body, even the sounds you produce, such an angelic symphony to his ears. his ego is above the sky, knowing that he can make you feel more than good and more than special. he really can't describe how he's never tasted anything sweeter than you in his life; it's addicting.

“god, your pussy’s perfect… can’t believe this is all mine to play with.” he flirts, and it’s filthy, the way he grins while teasing you, making you melt under his gaze, making you feel like you are the only girl in the whole world, “you’re such a good girl, letting me do this.” 

every compliment makes your body shake more, dripping just from his mouth and words. grips your hips so hard you will see the handprints first thing when you look in a mirror.

“you like it when i talk to you like this, don’t you? pretty little thing loves to be praised, hm?” he teases, tongue pushing deeper, he mixes praise and filth perfectly, so you’re caught between feeling worshipped and utterly used, as the combination makes you desperate. trembling, gasping, and completely under his control.

by the time he lifts his head, cheeks wet, lips shiny with your slick, you’re shaking and he’s chuckling. extremely satisfied, because he knows exactly what he’s done to you, and he isn’t done yet. spreading you out further because, as a cheerleader, you are so flexible, it’s so much easier.

and then it happens. your walls clench, pussy gushes over his tongue, spurting uncontrollably as your back arches off the surface. the man groans, licking up every drop, chuckling against your skin: “fuck– you’re insane, look at you squirting for me…” he teases your clit with the tip of his tongue, circling and flicking as he finally lets you rest.

absolutely love to use the empty locker room, he sits you on the counter and kisses every bruise the others left, but he leaves you covered in love bites that would peek out from your uniform the next day. then he bends you over the sink and rails you in the mirror.

your body shakes, voice gone from screaming as he tightly holds your face with one hand, to make you look at the reflections and see how well you take him, and you know better than to disobey the sweet man who gives you everything you need. goes a little harder here, but he never loses control as he watches your face more than, memorising everything.

and he always knows when enough is enough.

the moment your strength begins to fade, he slows down, whispering soft praise meant only for you. once he pulls out and finishes on your ass, he cleans you gently with a towel, making sure you’re not that sticky before hitting the showers. afte that, he helps you sit up, puts your clothes on, then gives you water and something sweet from his backpack, pressing a few soft kisses to your skin while you recover.

the eldest takes a simple photo: his hand resting on your hip, sends it to your boyfriend. not bragging, but to remind him that even if all of them use you in their own ways, you deserve to be treated gently.

wooyoung pretends he doesn’t care about what his hyung implies, but the thought lingers in his mind after he locks his phone.

YUNHO IS THE MVP WHO MAKES YOU BEG

much like wooyoung, he is someone who teases and enjoys pulling reactions out of you until you are begging on your knees to get fucked, touched, kissed, anything. he believes nothing good should be handed over too easily. where’s the fun in that? you have to work a little, have patience, and earn it if you're obedient enough. you are a sweet little angel, the princess of dirty wishes and secrets, so beautiful, and at the same time so his... at least for the day.

and he wonders how he can be so damn possessive over someone he is not even dating, but is merely using for his own selfish desires?

wooyoung gets jealous on wednesdays because yunho knows exactly how far he can push your buttons. he’ll have you flustered, breathless, nearly in tears from frustration, and smile like he’s proud of it. you cry in your boyfriend’s arms about how much your body and mind couldn't take the tension, but at the same time, how much you enjoyed it.

and he is big in every single aspect — tall, long-limbed, hands that could crush yet hold you, and yes… the thing in between that barely fits in your hand. the mvp of the team doesn’t intend to break you until your makeup is smudged and your body gives out completely, but he does. he will bend you over his desk once he gets you to his dorm, fuck you until your back is about to break with your cheer skirt hitched up exposing the curve of your ass to the fullest.

“hush, doll… you don’t want other men knockin’ on my door, telling me to keep it down…” his long and slender fingers would be in your mouth, to keep your mouth busy, “yeah? you have such a pretty voice… i'm sorry i'll have to suppress it.”

your soft gagging only makes him twitch harder, watching your lips stretch around his fingers, wetting them with your saliva, eyes watering as he smirks down at you.

carries you to the bed without pulling out, well, he does have to pull out to change the position because now you are lying on your back, knees pressed tightly to your chest, watching you lose it on his cock while his hands hold your entire body in place. there’s something about your reactions, like he’s studying you the same way he studies opponents.

yunho fucks you while holding both your wrists in one hand, keeping you pinned and completely under his control. adores hearing your whimpers, your soft cries of his name as the length of him is perfectly filling you, creating a full bulge across your tummy that makes your toes curl.

“huh… you feel that, doll?” he murmurs, lips just brushing your ear. “so good… think anyone else could take you like this? think they’d even last a minute?”

“please… y-yunho, i can’t–” your voice trembling, one big hand slides down to your throat. he also loves to choke you, seeing your little breaths hitch, enough to make you gasp and beg.

“what was that? come on, doll, i can’t hear you,” he grins down at you, hips rocking imperceptibly at first, just to remind you how big and heavy he is. every time he moves, you receive a teasing squeeze on your neck. you try to speak, oxygen nearly stops because of the pressure, but it comes out as a strangled, high-pitched plea:

“yun… yunho… please, i– i’m gonna…” your words crumble, begging spilling out in the form of incoherent moans and shaky whimpers. pounding into you, each thrust makes every inch of him fill you, making you groan and gasp for air.

“fuck, princess, look at you… can’t even hold your voice. you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers, cock still hard and very much rearranging your guts, wishing he could take a picture right now and brag to no one but himself about having you like this.

he lets you whine and tremble, making you beg for him to stop until your voice gives out entirely, every moan stolen by his fingers in your mouth or throat. and then, when he finally cums inside you, he stays there, knowing he wrecked you so damn good that you can’t imagine anyone else even touching you for the rest of the week.

YEOSANG CAN BE ROUGH BUT CHOOSES NOT TO BE

he always sees you after you spent the previous day with either yunho, jongho, or san, who made your body sore and you walking funny, sometimes with marks showing under your clothes. it makes him worried every time seeing you like this, even if you hide behind a smile and reassure him it's okay, that you are already used to it.

so he nervously always knocks before entering the room you use on his day, which is thursday, but it really depends on what schedule they made for each week. always asks first, “are you comfortable?” or “do you want to rest instead?” wooyoung actually likes how respectful his best friend is, as he trusts him with you in a way he doesn’t trust the others.

the angel, as he really embodies that nickname, usually starts by carefully laying you down, massaging your thighs and hips while checking for soreness. he presses soft kisses along your stomach, whispering that you look so tired, but so beautiful. he’s quiet, but he’s expressive with his hands.

yeosang never goes rough with you, even though he absolutely could. you know he has strength under all that softness, but he refuses to use it on you. to him, you’re something that needs to be protected from everything he is capable of, and because of that, he is the one wooyoung never worry about.

he spreads your legs so slowly, like your thighs might bruise if he opens them too fast. his fingers are gentle on your skin, as his breath is warm on your inner thigh. then he goes down on you like he was born to do it. 

his mouth is the main event; he is so skilled with his tongue and so unbelievably patient. because when he eats you out, he does it until your legs go weak, you’re gripping the sheets, or when you’re softly moaning his name, and tears slip from your eyes. the boy always looks up at you between licks: checking if you’re okay, or if you want more. knows every sensitive spot, every way to make your legs squeeze him tighter and for your hands to tug at his hair if you’re overstimulated. three tugs mean he has to slow down immediately.

“shh… it’s alright, dove. just breathe for me, okay?” because gentleness and tenderness are what he thinks you deserve most.

if he fucks you, it’s vanilla-soft because again, he refuses to hurt you.

lining his flushed cock slowly to your folds, already wet from the way he used his mouth minutes prior, he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, while holding your hand the whole time. sweet angel, holy mother of christ, he is always asking if you are okay, or if you want him to stop or go slower. you want to cry because he is so adorable and good to you, and you always answer the same thing.

his thrusts are steady, never pressing too deep or too far, more so, never pushing you outside the zone of comfort his body offers you. love kissing your shoulder or cheek while doing it, because it makes you open your eyes and realize that you are in fact not dreaming about angels, since one is already with and in you.

and don’t let the gentleness fool you, because he always makes you cum at least twice, sometimes more, although he never pushes you to the edge of pain or exhaustion like the others. his goal is to have you relaxed and at peace, leaving his day smiling, not limping.

your boyfriend pretends to scoff at yeosang’s tender nature. “you treat her like she’s a porcelain doll.” but everyone knows wooyoung appreciates it, because after seonghwa, yeosang is the only one who prevents you from burning out, or being totally worn out and wrecked.

and said boyfriend secretly loves when you come back from a day with the angel because you are relaxed, smelling like coconut body wash, and, surprises surprise, you can walk properly for once. thursday’s the only day of the week when you actually get aftercare during the act, which means the others can keep going hard on their days.

SAN MASKS THE LOVE IN HIS EYES WITH LUST

he is respectful, the kind of man who opens doors, carries your bag, brings you banana milk or shares his sweet treats during practice breaks. but the second he has you alone, every trace of manners disappears as if he were never taught a single one.

when it’s his day, aka friday, usually it’s after practice or a brutal gym session. whenever he’s too in his head and needs a way out.

he doesn’t wait for permission. he hooks his fingers in your waistband, drags you into his lap or against the nearest wall, and kisses you with so much hunger and neediness that he tears your clothes without thinking, mouth hot on your throat, inhaling your scent, like he’s been starving. he stays buried in the crook of your neck until you’re trembling, thighs shaking, overstimulated from nothing but his hands and his breath.

loves the locker room showers. the steam, the echo, the way your moans bounce off the tiles like he’s listening to a melody created for only himself to hear and enjoy. he pins you there, water running over both of you, and devours you like it’s survival instinct: mouth on your neck, chest, hips, thighs, marking everywhere he can reach. when he fucks you in there, it’s loud and so filthy. he grunts, the sound of skin against skin sharp under the water, his hips slamming into you like he’s trying not to cum the second you take all of him.

“hold on for me,” he says, nudging against you. “i’m not gonna last if you make those sounds already.” but then you moan, and his hips snap forward, and you cry out as he growls into your shoulder, biting because he can’t help it.

“fuck– you’re loud today. are you doing this on purpose?” his tone is almost accusing, too breathless to be anything but honest. “driving me crazy, baby.”

his hand slides around your throat, lifting your chin just enough to make you focus on him.

“look at me,” he pants, voice deeper, “i said– look at me while i fuck you.”

he leaves the most hickeys, marking you where he knows wooyoung will see later. you never walk out of his day unmarked. and he loves it when you show up the next morning with them barely hidden, loves seeing his best friend stare at the ones on your collarbone. it’s why the san and wooyoung threesomes get violent: san gets louder, rougher, more possessive because he’s fighting himself and his best friend at the same time. your boyfriend is telling him he’s too slow, too gentle, and san fucking you harder out of spite.

his days are always the messiest because he uses you to empty his head. stress, rage, jealousy, confusion — all of it gets taken out on your body. 

most times, he has you from behind, gripping your hair, panting against your ear. he growls when you moan too loud, not because he wants you quiet, it makes him lose control. he finishes inside you and doesn’t stop, keeps fucking you through it, until you’re limp and boneless in his arms.

but he’s also the one who, on some days, becomes unbearably gentle. service top to his core, worshipping every inch of you when he’s scared you will break or disappear like a dream. he’s soft with his hands, slow with his mouth, careful with your body. he kisses you like he’s apologising for things he hasn’t even done yet.

“i’ve been thinking about you all damn day,” he kisses your neck, open-mouthed and desperate. “yeah princess, you miss me too? show me how much you missed me then.”

when he starts thinking about how much he wants you, how much he cares… that’s when he switches off. full dominant, he doesn’t let you rest because resting means thinking, and thinking means remembering how much he likes you, and how much he shouldn’t like you. he hates that wooyoung can see it in the way he touches you when the three of you are spending the night. so he fucks your hard instead, burying the feelings under multiple bruises and orgasms.

he needs you. he won’t say it to anyone or admit it to himself, but he needs you so bad it makes his heart ache for someone he can only touch but not have.

MINGI WHO WILL ACCIDENTALLY EDGE YOU

just like yunho, he is huge when it comes to everything: height, hands, build, dick size. alas he’s also clumsy in the way that makes you crazy, because he doesn’t mean to torture you... he’ll have you trembling, begging, nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body shaking because you’re so close, and then he pulls away shyly, like he just missed hitting the goalie during practice instead of destroying your soul.

his day is saturday, and everyone knows it; wooyoung never worries because mingi never tries to steal you or ask for extra time. he doesn’t want you as his, he just wants to fuck you, pamper you, and fuck you again. no competition for your boyfriend, but a danger to everyone else.

at his house, in his room he always pulls you into his lap, settles you over his cock, and makes you sit there while he opens his laptop for match analysis or whatever the coach dumped on him for the weekend. you’re cockwarming him while he watches someone doing a free kick, your pussy clenching every time he clicks or shifts. his thighs are huge, his build perfect, and when he laughs at someone’s mistake on the footage, his abs tighten, and so do you, which makes him chuckle even harder.

“doing so good f’me, baby… keep still.” however, he’s the one who moves with little thrusts, tiny rolls of his hips, just enough to make you squeeze him, and after thirty minutes when he gets bored, he snaps the laptop shut with one hand, bends you over his desk, and fucks you until the wood shakes under your palms.

speaking of fucking, mingi is so hyper after wins. all that energy, adrenaline, and all that strength nowhere to go except you. he finds you, grabs your hand, and with the brightest grin says, “sorry seonghwa-hyung, you can take her next saturday!” and drags you away before anyone can argue.

the team doesn’t mind. they switch days like trading cards, because when mingi needs you, he needs you.

takes you somewhere private: stairwell, empty classroom, storage room, literally anywhere. panting against your neck, squeezing your waist with big restless hands, too tired to be gentle but too sweet to be rough without warning. you don’t have to say anything, he knows when you’re close by the way your breath changes every second. so he makes you sit on his lap again. one hand slides between your thighs, slender fingers spreading you wider, thumbs pressing into soft flesh while he watches you try to breathe through the frustration he created.

he whispers filth into your ear like he’s narrating a bedtime story: how tight you are, how pretty you sound, how good you are for him. right when you’re about to cum, he pulls his hand away and holds your hips down so you can’t chase your own high.

“not yet, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your shoulder. “wanna hear you scream again.”

he loves making you cum from dirty talk alone. loves watching your face change, your lips part, your eyes get all watery while he whispers exactly how he wants to fuck you. and he whimpers, every damn time. mingi may be the big guy, but he’s also a loser who’s never had a girl like you before. your touch turns him into a trembling and whimpering mess.

when he finally fucks you, its lazy and slow, like he has hours to waste and wants to spend every one buried inside you. praises you nonstop, something from “good girl… fuck, so tight…” to “just a little more, baby, you got it…”

mingi knows he’s big and that you need time to adjust. he waits by holding your thighs open gently, rubbing your hips until your body relaxes enough to take him deeper. and when you finally sink all the way onto him, he looks up at you with the kind of awe that makes your stomach twist and pussy flutter like butterfly wings.

he also likes cumming on you. your ass, stomach, breasts, thighs — anywhere he can see it. when you kneel under his desk, taking him in your mouth, and let him use your throat… he holds your hair, mouth falling open, hips bucking because you’re sucking him like it’s the only job you have. when he spills in your mouth, and it drips down your chin, onto your tits, he moans. not a grunt, but a desperate, high-pitched whimper.

he’s such a pathetic loser about it that he sometimes cums in his pants before you even do anything intimate.

JONGHO JUST TELLS YOU WHAT TO DO, AND YOU DO IT

the youngest of them all, also physically the strongest, has the energy to fuck you for hours, slowly wearing you down until you can’t think or feel any muscle or nerve in your body.

he doesn’t ask or fool around like everyone with mindless teasing. just simply tells you with short commands that are already imprinted in your brain, such as: kneel, turn around, hold still. and you always listen, because there’s something in his voice that makes your whole body go warm and obedient before you can process what you were told, something like a muscle memory.

has insane stamina, the kind of endurance that makes you afraid and excited at the same time. he can fuck you soft or rough, slow or fast, and believe it that he already done it countless times. he's careful of course, observant; he could always be worse, not even giving you time to catch your breath. except maybe the fact that you're not his, and that doesn't allow his conscience and ego to do whatever he wants with you.

on a sunday, a place he usually uses is the physical therapy room, on the massage table, after games or practice when everyone is home, he stays just to do his recovering. you are sitting on the hard mattress, legs open for him and him between them, holding you by the hips, fucking you deep and steady. hitting the same spot each time until you’re trembling and moaning, gasping how you can’t take it anymore, showing him by digging your nails into his back until they leave marks.

“just little bit more, mm? you can handle it.” knows you are sensitive, but proceeds to keep going, cock pushing deeper as the wet and sloppy sounds echo in the empty room.

he’s the only one who never sends wooyoung a photo or update. your boyfriend appreciates that because he doesn’t want to see cum leaking out of you again. jongho is private about you, in the sense that he doesn't want to share what he does to you. you could tell the others if you want, but you don’t. he never asks you to stay quiet; you can be shared, that’s the agreement, but his moments with you aren’t for group discussion.

so your mouth stays shut, but you always tell your boyfriend everything.

another preferred location of his is the gym room he has in his own apartment. picking you up like you weigh nothing, one hand under your thigh, the other behind your back, body heat radiating off him after a workout. your back hits the wall, and he’s already inside you, fucking you while your feet don’t even touch the ground as they are wrapped around his waist.

each thrust drives a desperate sound out of you, your hands clinging to his shoulders because he’s too strong and too much. he always apologizes, “sorry… sorry, pretty, i’m being too rough–”

you always shake your head, squeezing his biceps to reassure him, “don’t stop… please, don’t stop.”

and he listens because jongho fucks in perfect control. the same angle and the same spot every damn time: he knows exactly where it is, and he hits it like he’s built for it. he's so thick, fitting in you completely, even though you're already so stretched from previous days and men. but he moves in such a way that it makes you roll your eyes and see stars.

makes you look at him when you are about to cum, thumb under your chin if he has to, lifting your face so your eyes stay on his. loves finishing inside you, burying himself as deep as possible so you feel full and warm and unable to move for a moment, thick waves of white between where your bodies connect, even some dropping to the floor that he has to clean after.

when he is done and sees you really can’t keep up anymore, it’s aftercare time, the sweetest of anyone. a warm bath with you resting against his toned chest, big hands rubbing your thighs, soft kisses on your shoulder, whispering, “pretty girl, you did so well for me…”

now ready to take a nap, your hair is dry, body wrapped in a hoodie that smells like him, food and water provided for energy, because when he’s rough, he makes sure to give you twice as much softness after.

THOSE SPECIAL DAYS AND THOSE WHO GET MORE . . .

threesomes exist, but only with two specific people. no other combinations are allowed on the field, as wooyoung refuses to share you beyond those.

WOOYOUNG and SAN are both competing for you, physically and vocally. it’s so primal and possessive, almost aggressive if you must explain it to them. making you cry in the prettiest way, you’re overstimulated, pushed to your limits, denied orgasms multiple times, and thrown into every position they can use you in. the two of them are trying to see for whom you will scream the loudest.

they even have matching tattoos, stupid little symbols of a friendship that most people wouldn't understand. they move as a unit and feel what the other wants — sharing almost everything, except san’s growing feelings for you.

san hides them under the same lust he shows you. in the roughness he uses, the pent-up suppressed stress that can only be burned off by lifting weights, or being buried so deep inside you that there’s barely any room for wooyoung to put his own dick.

and your boyfriend watches how his best friend fuck you like you're his to ruin. san has always been emotional; sometimes he covers it up well, sometimes not at all. there's nothing wrong with wanting something you can't have. being greedy and envious is what makes us human, because if you have sinned, that means you have lived without any fears, breaking the wall of rules and expectations someone just put there.

wooyoung is bratty and teasing, while san is feral and possessive. they trade control: one denies release while the other punishes, then swap. you’re used like a toy, and as mentioned, you are the beautiful doll everyone gets to play with. 

their voices, hands, and bodies commanding you as both men tease you relentlessly. when you beg to cum, they pull back, switch positions, and make you work for it. if you can even say their names, as you're already fucked dumb on their cocks, because look at you: drool dripping from your mouth, the way you're shaking all over but smiling at the same time... you probably won't be able to say much.

“baby…” your boyfriend would whisper in your ear, biting the shell of your ear, your neck, collarbone and shoulder. delicately taking your arms, sloppy kissing before biting the soft flesh, yearning a hiss and a scream from you, “i want you screaming for san too.”

another thing is that they talk to each other while using you, sometimes for the most random stuff, like for example that one time at practice when wooyoung couldn’t even score a goal, “and hongjoong decided to– oh fuck, she’s close… he decided to bench me and make me the ballboy instead,” thrust after thrust in your already abused pussy, sqeezing him so tight wanting to keep him close.

“talk to me about it. seonghwa made me practice dribbling with yunho and we know how competitive he is even during practice... god, does she always sound like this before she cums?” san was as rough as wooyoung. together they are biting, scratching, and marking, until you’re overstimulated, begging with your whimper for the sweet release. “don’t even think about cumming yet, princess… not until we say.”

usually san takes you from the back since one of the things he loves about you is your ass, and wooyoung takes the front because he can’t get enough of your desperate face, but they take turns because sharing is caring.

after repeated denial, they finally let you cum, hands and mouths everywhere, leaving you completely wrecked with them finishing deep inside you at the same time. you not only spill your juices on their cocks but on san’s clean bedsheets too, making such a mess. they can’t even be mad about it, because you did so well for them… maybe the real mvp is you and not yunho, with the way you take very hard opportunities with open mouth and legs, truly magnificent, the only girl in the world born for that role.

sometimes san comes over to wooyoung’s apartment, and your beloved boyfriend is sitting in his gaming chair, spinning lazily while watching something on his phone. his arms rest on the armrests with one hand propping up his chin, the other mindlessly scrolling… or occasionally recording. just a short clip, with the way san’s muscles flex and how your legs tremble as he eats you out. 

your legs are thrown over san’s shoulder as he sucks and pushes his tongue deeper, completely lost in you. like seonghwa and yeosang eating you out wasn’t already enough, because out of everyone, san is easily the most pussydrunk.

and when the sweet but strained little sounds start slipping out of you, wooyoung finally glances up from his phone. he notices the way your fingers clutch the sheets, knuckles whitening as your hips try to pull away but don’t quite manage it. you’re biting your lip too hard, the faint crease between your brows. san doesn’t notice a thing. he’s too far gone and obsessed with the taste of you, with the way your thighs squeeze around his head.

“sannie,” he says without raising his voice, “slow the fuck down. don’t you hear her?” but the man between your legs can barely hear his own thoughts, let alone anyone else’s voice. your head slowly turns toward wooyoung, eyes glossy as you blink rapidly, lips trembling with soft whines. and yeah, that might be his best friend, his soulmate (after you, of course)… but it still irritates him.

he stands up, the chair spins once behind him as he tosses his phone onto the seat. rolling up his sleeve as he walks over, gaze dropping to you first. his pretty girl is being devoured by another man who’s too lost in pleasure to notice the line between good and too much.

he knows you like it, as he also knows everyone loves to overstimulate you, and as any good boyfriend who actually wants you to feel good… his hand fists into san’s hair and yanks him back, his head is pulled away from you immediately, a frustrated sound leaving him, because his tongue literally seconds ago would have made you orgasm, but this time he was the one denied from that pleasure. 

his mouth hangs slightly open, face coated in your essence, gaze dragged away from your soaked pussy and up to wooyoung.

“how many times have i told you to be careful and listen to her?” his voice drops, a bit threatening, “you can feel when she’s too sensitive.” like sure, any of them could use you however they wanted. but with wooyoung right here, seeing and hearing everything, there’s no way he’s letting you get uncomfortable.

“don’t make me kick you out,” wooyoung continues, thumb pressing slightly harder into his scalp. “or keep you away from her for a week. watch your mouth, am i clear?”

san barely gets the chance to mumble a response before he’s shoved right back between your legs.

and just like that, wooyoung returns to his chair, picks up his phone, and doom-scrolls again… totally not already planning to cut san’s time with you next week.

WOOYOUNG and YEOSANG are a strange, yet perfectly balanced duo. one of them is always holding you so carefully that it almost makes you forget how much you missed spending the day with him… while the other only starts biting you when you’re not squirming or tossing like you’re caught in a nightmare, because that’s when he likes to mark you most.

they move slowly, keeping you comfortable while still using you exactly the way their hearts (and dicks) want. it’s tender enough to make your heart beat like crazy, tears threatening to spill because moments like this are rare — where you’re treated like a real princess… and not like the slut you technically are.

for the first time in days, you can actually hear your own thoughts: real words form in your head instead of the usual muffled ones.

you’re lying on yeosang’s bed, flat on your back, their hands wandering gently over your body, leaving soft touches on your stomach and the swell of your breasts beneath the oversized shirt. wooyoung’s lips press warm against your neck while yeosang’s ghost kisses along your shoulder. your fingers tangle into both of their hair, lightly massaging their scalps without even thinking about it. your body so loose and so at ease, you feel like you’re floating somewhere, like drifting in the ocean on a hot summer day.

“just relax…” your boyfriend whispers against skin already decorated with fading marks from earlier days. “i’ve got you, babe.” 

his best friend’s voice follows, so low and soothing. “you’ve been so good… just let us take care of you.”

the three of you have your eyes closed, because sometimes intimacy isn’t just about having sex. sometimes it’s being cuddled between them as they take turns to adore you, making you feel owned and safe all at once.

honestly, you have to give yeosang credit, since he is the only one who makes wooyoung loosen up like this instead of the usual teasing menace he turns into. it almost makes you forget how stupidly lovesick your boyfriend really is beneath all that campus reputation he tries so hard to maintain.

it makes you wish you could live this day on a loop.

there’s barely any roughness, they are entirely focused on your comfort and pleasure. their voices alone start to send you into a frenzy. even though wooyoung’s possessiveness slips amid whispers and light bites, while yeosang’s deep tone vibrates through you, keeping your mind from drifting too far.

at some point, your hands stop their mindless idling in their hair; you’re not even sure what did it. maybe the sensitivity or gentleness, or how they’re taking care of you, but tears start slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them. you are so overwhelmed, like a fallen angel quietly begging at heaven’s gates, knowing it might already be too late to be let back in.

“don’t cry now, angel,” yeosang notices first, as he kisses the tears from your cheeks before pressing a delicate kiss to your lips. “you deserve this.”

everything stays purely vanilla. they bring you apart slowly, mostly with their voices, with barely any touches, only wooyoung’s thumb to push your panties aside, brushing your clit in lazy circles, just to work you up. until you come once… maybe twice… soft and trembling between them.

and you’re left damp and a little messy, yeosang is the one who carefully guides you to the shower. he doesn’t have a bath, even if it would suit the mood better, but he still washes your hair for you, your body too. no wandering hands or naughty thoughts, he’s too tired for games tonight.

by the time you’re wrapped in a towel, wooyoung is already back in bed, clean sheets changed, sprawled out and waiting. he would’ve joined the shower, but he wanted everything nice and tidy, because being caring is part of his nature too.

when you finally crawl back under the covers with the same oversized shirt slipping down your thighs, someone’s clean boxers loose on your hips, they pull you between them without a word. spooned and kissed until your breathing evens out and sleep finally takes you.

YUNHO and MINGI are a pair that woyoung doesn’t know about, because the mvp is smart enough to outsmart the mastermind.

for your safety, and to keep control over everyone’s schedules, your boyfriend tracks the team’s location every single day. but what does yunho sometimes do when it’s his turn with you? absolutely nothing. you relax together, play games, cuddle, kiss… maybe make out a little, because he wants you rested and prepared for saturday when the two of you will visit mingi.

and how does that work when your locations are being tracked? quite simple, he uses two phones. his current one gets switched off, the location gone. the old one stays behind in the dorm, quietly broadcasting that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. studying for midterms, locked between four walls, fighting for that perfect grade — fake it till you make it.

“i make her moan louder,” mingi says, casually taking a slow sip of water while perched on the high barstool in his kitchen.

“in your dreams,” yunho shoots back, already halfway into the fridge looking for something to eat. “she whimpers my name.”

“she screams for me.”

“she begs for me.”

they’ve known each other since high school, yet they still bicker like teenagers who’ve never touched a woman in their lives. just another best friend duo in the group… the duo with the monstrous dick size and the most ridiculous size kinks known to mankind.

and while they argue over things that only matter to the male ego, you’re sprawled comfortably on your stomach in mingi’s room, scrolling through your phone. texting your friends that you can’t make it to tonight’s party, because you’re supposedly spending the weekend with your grandparents. they believe you, just like wooyoung believes he can keep tabs on everyone.

“then maybe we should make her say both… at the same time.”

“bet i’ll still make you cry mine first.”

mingi pushes up from his seat, already heading for the stairs. halfway up, he tilts his head, eyes flicking back for yunho to follow.

“only one way to find out, yeah?”

and that’s how it starts.

but beware, one man is emotionally invested, the other is selfishly enjoying himself. yunho is the one giving instructions, mingi is the one physically overwhelming without trying, and that makes you stuck between pressure and indulgence.

yunho tends to position you exactly how he wants, guiding your chin, your hips, your posture, as he is very controlled; every move and touch is intentional. mingi is more the grab-and-go type with lazy confidence, moving you because it feels good for him, not because he’s planning ten steps ahead.

mingi super chill but physically intense, murmuring soft praise while absolutely ruining your composure, and he’s easily distracted by how good you feel. big hands everywhere, slowly moving and leaving occasional whimpers despite being in the dominant position. he’s not trying to compete… which makes him accidentally win sometimes, and lowkey drives yunho insane.

that result of you being constantly manhandled by yunho and adjusted by mingi.

because they’re both the biggest on the team, you need a lot of time and preparation to adapt. they are very aware of how you react to the stretch and the pressure, as this is where yunho’s competitiveness spikes, especially if mingi is the one who makes you melt first. the taller keeps checking your face, needing proof he’s the one affecting you most.

mingi is here because: it feels good, you feel good, the situation is convenient for everyone.

toward the end, they stop being separate energies and start coordinating without discussing it, cocks moving in sync, in and out of your pussy or mouth until you are painted white inside and out.

“look at me, doll…” yunho is slightly breathless when worked up, seeing that tummy bludge again, and how your eyes are too busy focusing on taking mingi’s cock in your mouth, drool and cum mixing as no verbal confirmation could come out of you, just muffled moans and whines. “who’s got you shaking like this?”

“relax, baby… ” mingi chuckles when you get too needy or overstimulated. sometimes he can’t tell if you are in pain or enjoying it, but you deep throat him so good, you have a master's degree in taking him whole at this point. ”doing so well for me, hmm? ahh– yes, that’s it pretty,” he says while fisting your hair, controlling you because all you need to do is just keep that mouth wide open.

the size kink is impossible to ignore, due to you having the perfect height, your body is perfect, you are perfect.

not everyone can take two big cocks at the same time, but it gets to a point where the stretch starts to burn, where your breath stutters, and your hands clutch at yunho’s shoulders. then you’re begging for him, and the second his name slips out of your mouth first, he feels like he just won the world cup.

you only said his name because it feels like he’s going to split you open, like he might actually ruin you with how deep he keeps pushing, but yunho doesn’t care about the reason; he just hears you choosing him… you have no idea what that does to him.

after that, they don’t slow down. they fill you again and again until you’re completely stuffed, warmth spilling from between your thighs, from your lips when you can’t swallow fast enough. it’s messy and filthy, however, they aren’t careless with you.

they let you rest, give your shaking body time to come back to itself before even thinking about running you a bath. and strangely enough, yunho is the first to press a bottle of water to your lips, voice softer than anyone would expect as he makes sure you hydrate.

meanwhile, mingi just lounges beside you, big hand lazily rubbing your thighs, watching with quiet fascination as your pussy keeps leaking around nothing, still sensitive and fluttering from everything they put you through.

you can’t feel your body properly: not your mouth, or your limbs, not a single steady nerve in your system. you’re boneless, floating somewhere between overstimulated and completely gone, as you lie there, one thought keeps circling lazily through your fogged brain:

do you finally confess this little secret rendezvous to your boyfriend, or do you just keep coming back to let the big boys use you as a cumdump again? 

aftercare hours have you fast asleep in mingi’s bed, completely knocked out. your head rests on yunho’s chest, your body tucked into his side, soft and safe in his arms. one hand tucked behind his head, while the other plays with your hair. absent-minded strokes, and every so often his fingers pause, then resume their soothing rhythm.

across the room, mingi is at his desk, laptop open, mouse clicking steadily against the surface. he’s focused on whatever game the guys dragged him into, probably league again, as voices could be heard through his headset while he plays. then wooyoung asks a simple question, wondering if you are okay, is all.

“how’s she doing?”

mingi glances over his shoulder, eyes flicking to the bed. “she’s out cold. snuggled up like a baby bear in hibernation. it’s kinda adorable, actually.” as he very obviously does not mention the extra detail.

back on the bed, yunho’s hand never stops its slow path through your hair, but his eyes have gone distant. because now he’s thinking about you and wooyoung. thinking about what might’ve happened if he’d said something first, shooting his shot before anyone ever had the chance. you might’ve been his from the start… instead of someone else’s.

his thumb brushes gently along your hairline, careful not to wake you… yeah, a man can only dream.

WOOYOUNG THE DEVIL WITH ANGELIC HALO

having two sides inside him that are constantly battling against each other: an angel and a devil, as cliché as it may sound.

the devilish side is cocky and bratty, hands you off to his friends like it’s nothing, loves watching you squirm, and pushes you to your limits. the angelic side, he is impossibly attentive and protective, tuned into your body and mood, soft in ways no one else ever seen him. he can absolutely ruin you, and five minutes later be the one tucking you into his hoodie and pressing kisses into your hair.

there’s no other way to describe it — he is obsessed with you.

he hates wearing the same scent as everyone else when it comes to fragrance and cologne. even more, he hates when you come back smelling like yunho or jongho for example, or whenever you have been out with your girlfriends… so expect to be showered and gifted the same perfumes he uses; you are the only one allowed to do so.

pet names are something normal in every relationship. he can call you anything in the moment… but he always brings it back to my girl.

by the time you get to his place, the table’s already full with food, your favorite drink, even the snacks you once mentioned liking just once. he acts like he didn’t just spend the last hour cooking. you’re practically glowing as you eat, shoulders relaxed for once, happily munching away.

“you always spoil me,” you mumble around a bite, smiling up at him. “feels like i’m a princess.”

wooyoung snorts softly as he reaches over without hesitation, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth to wipe away a smear you missed. you are always a little messy when you eat, but he never seems to mind.

“yeah?” he hums, leaning back in his chair like it’s no big deal, even though his gaze never really leaves you. “that’s because my girl deserves the best.” and because the cafeteria food is awful, so when boyfriend duties call, he answers.

aside from seeing you full with carefully prepared meals in the kitchen, when it comes to the bedroom… let’s not mention the insane breeding kink this man has. he might seem like he doesn’t care, but once he’s in you, it’s not only violent, but savage. the fixation comes out strongest when he’s jealous or worked up, and just needs to see you completely full of him, to claim you and be a part of you, to be one whole. he wants to stay there forever, as it seems your pussy doesn’t want to let him go either.

“no one else is ever gonna fill you like this.” cock staying buried until you have milked him dry, hands tight on your hips to ground himself, visibly irritated when he has to pull away. “want you to walk around leaking of me. let everyone see who you belong to.”

it’s possession and obsession that mainly take over him, since he gets more focused and territorial over you.

other times, he calls you a dumb little doll, a cumdump, a brat who deserves to be put in her place, but he’ll also say you’re the best he’s ever had, his perfect angel to destroy. yes, he degrades a lot on top of that. but when he praises you, it’s scary-good. you can't blame him, he's just that way, more controlling and dominant, a sweet-talker even when he's rude.

“needy little thing, so good for me. you were made to take me, yeah?” and it’s you cockwarming him before he needs to go to practice, and before you start getting ready for the next man on the timetable. “nobody else gets this pathetic version of you…  still my good girl at the end of the day.”

he would kiss your neck, grazing his teeth over the skin and bite, watching you shiver and arch. since his special is mixing degradation with praise in the same breath.

everyone on campus knows that you are wooyoung’s girl, and thank god, they don’t know about the nasty stuff that’s happening behind the scenes.

you wear his hoodie to hide the numerous hickeys and bites left from every man. you stay close to him or any of the other players when you don’t feel comfortable around people, because before fuckboys they are your friends too. it's just all a perfect illusion, a lie that feeds on itself.

wooyoung knows when you’ve been pushed to your limits, even if you deny it. after intense day with san or other yunho, he sets a clear rule not only to his friends.

“she’s off this week, maybe for longer, i’ll take care of her.” what he meant to say was, find someone else to fuck.

even though you love being used by the team, he wants your body and mind fully recovered, or just wants you to himself, he will give them the chance to use you again someday.

teasing touches to remind you you’re his, but surprisingly without pushing you over the edge. again cooks food for you, does your assignments even if you two study completely different things, insisting you don’t lift a finger.

the other pirates respect the rule, don’t go against it or try to question it. they bring you snacks sometimes, or offer shoulder rubs after your dance practice, making playful comments like: “woo’s really spoiling you, huh?”

and you wonder why he is attentive and caring beneath the chaos he loves to cause?

because wooyoung knows your monthly cycle is near. you’re sensitive, more emotional, hormonal, and physically overwhelmed. during this time, he’s extra affectionate, more observant, quicker to pull you into his lap, way softer and clingier in private.

he always pays attention, that’s why during your ovulation day, knowing he could get you pregnant, but it’s too early for that, he uses condoms. very unfortunate, but he’s taking no risks. it’s just the start of your twenties; surely neither of you wants a baby to just pop up. the other times it’s raw, next question.

wet sounds of skin clapping echo through the room. he is rutting inside you, the plastic wrapped around his dick there for safety, he tells himself, but fucking dammit, the urge to breed you is getting out of hand, especially with how much your hormones spike during these specific hours.

“messy baby… can’t help it, huh?” you’re lying on your back with him hovering above you, your hands holding his, fingers laced together as he breathes you in. “such a greedy girl… but you look so pretty fucked dumb on your boyfriend’s cock, hm?”

“wooyo–” you moan as he hits that spot, hot tears spilling, your vision blurring because you want him so bad, closer than gravity allows. fuck, you love him so much.

“yeah, baby? you’re mine, remember that… it’s me who makes you feel like this. a cockdrunk slut who knows who makes her feel real good.”

his grip on your hands tightens, veins in his arms and neck standing out as his pace quickens. you’re close to orgasming, maybe squirting again, who knows, it’s a gamble, and he’s close too. god, how he’d love to see his cum dripping out of you… but then he thinks about you with not-so-happy tears, holding a pregnancy test.

so for now, he and the rubber are becoming very good friends.

wooyoung always has this look when you start getting desperate for him, so smug as if he still can’t believe you always crawl back to him. because you never get like this for anyone else. not for hongjoong on a monday afternoon, or for yunho after practice, as the whole world can touch you, but only he gets to keep you.

so when he pulls out, and for once he actually put towels beneath you because you’re making a mess again, he kisses you from your lips down to your neck, breasts, and stomach, until he’s right where you’re soaked and sensitive, licking everything up like a starved kitten. he can’t get enough of the taste of you… he’s just as pussydrunk as you are cockdrunk.

shit, the condom is heavy with his cum as he slips it off and tosses it somewhere on the floor. he wants so badly to be inside you, but maybe your mouth can do the job for now… so now you’re sucking his dick, licking him clean as he makes you swallow it, because it’ll be inside you at some point, just not from the right hole.

“fuckin’ making me wait until this day is over… how about we graduate already so i can get you pregnant,” he mutters, pushing your head down to take him deeper. “won’t gotta worry about birth control or plan b– f-fuck, baby, that’s it, you know how to suck a dick right.”

and when he comes into your mouth, he barely even has to work for it. he pulls out, breathing heavier than usual, like his body’s finally starting to feel it, how he is completely milked dry. you’ve been fucking for what…oh, all day, basically.

like a devoted future husband, he takes care of you all over again. once you’ve both finally calmed down, the first thing he does is wipe your tears away, kissing each cheek gently. 

“you did perfectly, princess. so perfect for me...” quietly reassuring you that you’re not any of the degrading things he said earlier, even if you know you are, you just want to be pampered right now. “c’mon, breathe with me… there you go, my good girl.”

so he pulls you into his arms first. his bedroom still smells like sex, eventually you’ll both hit the shower… just not now.

you’re curled into him, legs tangled with his, your cheek resting against his bicep since it’s your personal pillow. his fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your back while he stares up at the ceiling, not even realizing you’re starting to drift off.

“baby, let’s sho–” his lips brush your forehead as he murmurs into your hair, but you don’t answer, and … the softness that takes over his face, the love in his eyes with that helpless adoration, totally heartstruck and whipped. he presses another kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally a quick, gentle peck to your lips. “i love you so much.”

and he really loves you, and he doesn't just say those words that easily. it doesn't matter who you're with tomorrow, or in two days. you will always, absolutely always come running into his arms, wanting him and only him. because at the end of the day, the others get access to your body, but it's wooyoung who gets access to your heart.

a/n: any grammar mistakes or typos will probably be edited with time!

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[plaidjellyfish]

Rated R | (wooyoung smut)

pairing: Roommate!Wooyoung x Reader

summary: Movie night with your roommate takes an unexpected turn when Wooyoung accidentally chooses an R rated movie.

word count: 1.1k

warnings: unprotected sex, semi public sex

a/n: part 7 of the roommate series

Wooyoung always gets his way. He's the hottest guy on campus, of course he does. So when he demanded a movie night with you, you cleared your schedule.

You were timid, always busy with your work in the lab, or reading some kind of article. You looked cute and innocent to him, and as your roommate, Wooyoung wanted to spend some time with you. And after a lot of convincing, he finally was able to.

But this isn't what he had in mind.

The moans coming from the TV make you lose your train of thought. You play with your thumbs in your lap to distract yourself from the obscene acts playing out on the screen. Why did he choose this movie?

Meanwhile on the other end of the couch, Wooyoung grips the arm rest like his life depends on it. This was not the movie he picked. He must've gotten the title wrong, but it's too late. The movie started out normal enough, but that quickly changed when the male lead took off his pants. His bottom is completely bare on screen as he thrusts into the female lead on the mattress. He could turn it off, but he's too stubborn to admit he's wrong.

With the glow of the TV you can't see his flushed expression, or the way he bites his lips as the scene gets more intense. It wasn't the movie that stirred something in him, it was the fact he was watching something like this with you. It had him imagining doing those things to you and it was getting harder to hide how much the idea excited him. Wooyoung reaches over to grab the pillow you were hugging to hide his erection while his eyes were still glued to the TV, but misses and places his hand on your thigh instead.

Your eyes widen from the sudden contact, but you don't push him away. The two of you stare silently in each other's eyes as the sound of skin slapping and moaning from the TV continues. He swallows deeply as he looks at your adorable face, your chest rising and falling in anticipation of what he might do next. Wooyoung slowly closes the distance between the two of you, his gaze lowering to your lips, then to your chest. He notices how your nipples have hardened through your t-shirt and can't resist anymore.

"Do you want to try that? Or are you too shy?" He playfully teases, pointing at the TV. On the screen, the man continues thrusting while pinching the woman's chest so hard she cries. "I'm not shy. You really underestimate me." You say determined and he laughs. Instead of arguing more, you decide to show him and grab Wooyoung by the back of his hair, pulling him into a rough kiss. He groans in surprise, but quickly returns the kiss with just as much passion. His hands rest on your chest, his thumbs viciously rolling your hardened nubs.

You moan at the friction. "You're bolder than I thought, but can you handle this?" He challenges you, picking you up and carrying you back to your bedroom. He places you down in front of the large window and opens the curtains. "Take it all off. I want the neighborhood see my pretty doll and how good I take care of her." He says while taking a seat at your desk. "But Wooyoung someone could see." You protest. It was late, so that chances of that happening was low, but the idea of being caught had your head spinning anyway.

"Would that bother you? Because from here, it looks like you wouldn't mind being caught at all." He points at the way your thighs tightly press against each other. You whimper in response, taking in his shadowy form and the way he man spreads on your chair. Gathering all your courage, you peel your shirt off and toss it at him. Next, you discard your shorts and panties in one go. As you stand completely naked in the window Wooyoung admires the way you glow in the moonlight. While you're distracted looking for signs of anyone outside, Wooyoung strips and stands behind you, rubbing your heat with two fingers from behind.

The pressure he applies is soft and warm, heavily contrasting the thick hard feeling of his cock pressing into your ass. Your moans mix with Wooyoung's so loudly that you can't even hear the TV anymore. "Baby you're going to wake up the neighbors, is that what you want? To have them come out and see you coming apart on my fingers?" He asks casually as if pure sin wasn't spilling from his lips. You reflexively clench around his fingers tighter at the thought of being seen in this position.

"I had no idea you'd be into that, you're so cute I can't take it." He groans while turning you around to face him. He gives you open mouth kisses on your lips and neck while carefully pressing you up against the glass of the window. Lifting you up by the thighs, he wraps your legs around his waist, lining his tip up to your entrance. "If they want to come out and watch, we'll give them a show." You cry out as his thick cock stretches you out. "Baby not so tight, I won't last long if you keep that up." He presses his sweaty forehead against yours as he pants, giving you time to adjust to him.

Once you do, he plunges into you slow and deep. "W-Wooyoung..." You moan his name, unable to think of anything else. "Keep saying my name. Take it. My name, my cock, anything you want is yours." He thrusts faster into you, his brow furrowed, face flushed. "Tell everyone in the city who it is that's making you feel this way." His pacing becomes desperate, his name echoing off the walls from you in response. Soon after, you reach your peak, releasing all over his member. "I'm so close." Wooyoung growls, overwhelmed by the stimulation. It takes all the strength he has to pull out and settle himself between your thighs.

You watch in awe as he drags his slick cock in-between your thighs, coating them with his own release after a few thrusts. Afterwords, Wooyoung takes your hand and lays down with you on the carpet beside the window. "You're full of surprises. I'm very impressed." He says, pulling you into a hug. "And you have a unique taste in movies." You joke as he pulls you into another heated make out session on the floor, in the moonlight.