PAIRING: Minghao x f. reader
SUMMARY: As the second daughter to one of the most powerful businesses under the Choi Syndicate, you’ve always lived your life free of responsibility - until your sister dies and you become the heir. So when your family announces one of your new responsibilities as heir is an engagement to the son of a powerful shipping conglomerate, it comes should come as no shock. Minghao, however, is full of surprises, each one of them more deadly than the last.
WC: 33,779
AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Arranged Marriage
GENRE: Smut, Angst
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Graphic violence and assassination attempts, descriptions of blood and on screen murder (two with a knife, one with a garrote), mentions of off page deaths of a sibling and a parent (one via suicide), references to organized crime/syndicates with political marriages, power plays, and illegal activities, references to physical abuse from a family member but honestly very vague and ambiguous, hemes of grief, trauma, deception, and identity secrets, some power imbalances throughout, lots of showcasing of disparity of wealth throughout, some angst and a lot of lying, reader is kidnapped, explicit language, explicit sexual content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms/positions, uhhhhh I think that's it. It's a Syndicates fic y'all, as always read with caution. Smut is warned in-text when it starts and stops.
A/N: I have been working on this chapter since November 2025 and it is finally here. I'm going to apologize in advanced if the plot seems a bit twisty turny or if the motives are a bit weak - taking that long between the first 15k I wrote for this fic and the second 15k I wrote for this resulted in me writing a completely different story than what I started with. Also - reader was supposed to be a lot more mystical but it's just sort of vague in this. She is not literally magical in a fantasy sense, but rather the same way that there are mysteries of the universe and energies etc. i really hope this makes sense - thank you for being patient with me as I put this chapter out. I think I like this one... maybe. Also, we are introduced to three new characters who are relevant in the rest of the series - especially Kero :) This fic takes place during the events of Baby for your timeline purposes.
A/N 2: It is recommend you read the other works of the Syndicates collection before you read this fic - specifically Baby. You don't have to read the others to understand the fic as I try to sum up the world and plot well, but I'm not perfect so ready this totally separate of the other stories might not be as easy as I crack it up to be!
A/N 3: This is un-beta'd we die like men.
COLLECTION | ASK | NOW PLAYING: UNTIL DEATH | SYNDICATES WORLD GUIDE
THE EVENING OF YOUR SISTER'S DEATH, YOU HAD DRAWN THE WORLD, REVERSED FROM YOUR TAROT DECK. You remember staring at it, unsettled, tracing the details as if the lines themselves could tell you what was coming.
It was one of those rare, hand-crafted decks, a fragment of the old world, tangible and delicate. In a world with so little physical art and so little understanding of the universe, you'd cherished the deck, a small luxury in a world where most people wouldn't have understood.
You remember knowing the card was a warning. The only trouble was you didn't know what for. You left the card face up on the desk and blew out your candles, your mother's voice calling through the estate's intercom again, impatient and angry because you were late.
Again.
To her, being late was a condition, not a habit. To you on that rainy November evening, it had been a kind of salvation, though perhaps salvation wasn't the right word. You didn't believe in gods or higher beings, but you did believe in the strange, quiet ways of the universe.
Strange, like how lingering over a single tarot reading could keep you from stepping into the restaurant when the gas explosion tore through the back of the block - when your sister, waiting at your usual table, became the first member of your family to die.
Gone in a moment, the entire direction of your life rearranged.
The world, reversed.
-
The rain over the Upper District is thin and metallic. It sheets off the glass buildings in vertical lines, turning each tower into a waterfall of neon and water. You watch the rain from the back of the car, forehead pressed to the cold window. The city slides past, a smudge of light.
Nexus Capital rises ahead of you, a monolith of glass punch through the low cloud ceiling. You stare at the building that's a feat of architecture with a list of awards and features in architectural magazines. You don't understand why a banking building needs to be an architectural work of art.
You don't find it to be very artistic anyway. Nexus Capital is one hundred and twelve floors of smoked glass and carbon fiber, no logos and no name, but a solid black tower threaded with light that everyone knows when they see it glow against the horizon.
Most nights, it turns invisible, like a trick of the light. If it weren't for the purple LEDs pulsing through the building's framework now, lighting it up to make air travel safe, you wouldn't even see it, though you know exactly where to look.
The car turns into the private ramp beneath the plaza, the security gates opening slowly. The car pauses as the driver cracks the window to state your business and clearance information. You wait, staring dully out the window as the scanners read the car for weapons and trace the plates. When it clears, the driver pulls through, continuing down the spiraling ramp toward the sub-level reserved for people who don't use the public lobby.
People like you.
You step out into a cold, concrete garage. Security guards are waiting on either side of the elevator for you, their charcoal suites pristine. They nod politely as you approach, heels clicking. One presses his palm to the panel, the lift doors opening with a soft hiss.
Your ride is eighty-nine floors, no stops. You breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Four counts in, hold for four, exhale eight. Even numbers. Good numbers. Your pulse steadies.
The reflection in the glass wall of the elevator is jarring: black dress, black blazer, hair tamed, heels, minimal jewelry. The girl who used to sneak out of charity galas to stare up at the moon and fill jars of water to collect its energy is nowhere in sight.
A chime indicates your arrival and you stiffen. The lift opens directly into an executive corridor of basalt floors and recessed lightly. It smells faintly of cedar in the hall, no doubt pumped in by an unseen air filtration system, meant to give the offices an old, serious feel.
The eighty-ninth floor is nothing but meeting rooms and executive spaces. You walk along the network of empty rooms now, knowing the way by heart - you'd practiced the route a million times. Normally, even after hours, the meeting rooms would be full of people. This evening's meeting is high profile though, so the entire floor has been reserved and dismissed.
Double doors greet you as you turn a corner. A security guard is outside, tipping his head to greet you before opening the door to let you in. Inside is a massive board room full of people.
One entire wall is made up of glass, Hyperion glittering on the other side: neon arteries, ribbons of traffic, the distant strobe of a casino in the Pearl District. The table in the center of the room is a massive rectangle of smoked quartz, lit from beneath so it looks frozen.
You go straight to your side of the table where your father and board members sit. There's a single, high-back chair for you next to your father - it used to be your mother's, but after she'd killed herself a few months ago, she bequeathed the chair to you.
Her ghost clings to you every time you sit in the chair, a coolness sticking to your skin. You grit your teeth. This room needs sage and perhaps some selenite. It has neither, so you ignore the way a shiver slides up your spine, phantom fingers reminding you of the heaviness of her absence. Ghosts don't like to be ignored, but no one else in this room can feel the way spirit lingers, the way memories have a way of clinging to a place.
Today is not a day for fear and superstition. Today is the kind of day where you have to ignore all of your instincts in favor of being practical and analytical - the kind of girl your sister would have been, instead of you, the strange one who believed in the energies of the universe and its strange higher powers.
Lifting your eyes, you peer across the table as your father clears his throat to settle the room. Xu Minghao is seated directly across from you, the polished surface of the crystal table stretching like eons between you. He's narrower than the file photos, dressed in a suit so dark that it seems to eat the light around him. His hair is longer too, styled neatly around his ears to rest against his collar bones. It suits him, you think.
He's prettier than you realized, too. His face is exquisitely balanced between sharp and soft, his eyes fierce and burning as he stares at you, his mouth soft and supple. His equally sharp jawline is offset by a gentle nose, a blend of contrasts that make him breathtaking to look at.
And extremely intimidating.
"Shall we begin?" Your father asks. He's using his calm voice, the one he likes to use to show he isn't intimidated.
The Xu side inclines heads in near-perfect synchrony. Minghao's father, Xu Jian, sits at the center opposite your father, his hair dark and long like his son, threading with silver at the temples. Odd, you think. In a world where showing age is so rare, you find it fascinating that the Xu family's patriarch has deliberately decided to show his age. A powerplay, perhaps, that he does not fear how fast the world around him is moving, nor is he influenced by the trends of appearing young.
Xu Luli is the opposite. Minghao's mother is a radiance of youth, dressed in immaculate dove silk with a single jade pendant the size of a small egg pinned to her blazer. Her face has no obvious lines, full and flushed with color like she's still in her twenties. It's unsettling, and when your eyes flick to Minghao, you realize how much he looks like her with his full lips and sharp eyes. He's nearly her mirror, save for his eyes are dark and near-black where hers are uncanny stormy grey.
Across the table, Minghao sits perfectly upright, his hands folded loosely on the table. No rings, no watch, no jewelry at all. There's just a faint scare across the first knuckle of his right hand, pale against otherwise flawless skin.
Your father gestures to the lead counsel on your side to begin. She taps the table and a holo screen blooms above the quartz, rotating for all to see. It's a splitting of proposed assets, tallied net and financial worth, assets both tangible and liquid, and everything else about you both true and not splayed for everyone to see.
"Xu Worldwide Logistics currently moves forty-three percent of all container freight through Hyperion's docks in the Civ District," the lead counsel begins. "Post-marraige, joint control of the merged entity will be split sixty-forty in favor of Xu Worldwide Logistics, with veto rights retained by Nexus Capital."
Xu Jian smiles. "Forty-three percent is a conservative assessment of our business. Perhaps seventy-thirty would be more appropriate."
"Sixty-five," your father answers, smiling. "Thirty-five. That feels more appropriate. Our assumptions of your capital are conservative, as you say."
Jian bows his head and agrees.
You watch in silence as your assets are debated for you - assets you didn't have until a year ago, when your sister had been blown apart in a freak accident. Your hands sweat looking at the figures and numbers that shouldn't belong to you, the endless amount of credits, properties, offshore accounts and liquid assets you don't even understand.
Swallowing past a dry patch in your throat, you glance at Minghao. He doesn't look at the rotating holograms of your entire net worth reflected for a room full of suits - he looks directly at you. He's not staring, exactly, but you fight the urge to shiver anyway. His gaze is intense and cataloging, like he's reading every tiny expression on your face.
In fact, he probably is. Minghao's family isn't from Hyperion, but they've clawed their way to the top with the money and empire they've built in Hyperion, which means they know how to play the game. After all, if they didn't know how to play, they wouldn't be sitting at this table negotiating a political marriage to gain access to the one of the city's most powerful Syndicates.
"Along with the marriage comes guarantees," your father says, catching your attention. "Of additional security for shipments."
No one says Choi Syndicate. No one has to. This entire marriage is for the Choi Syndicate, who are seeking an advantage in the Yong Syndicate-owned shipping yards in the Civ District. While the Xu family has remained neutral thus far, the fact that you're all sitting in a room discussing your legal marriage to the heir of their business is an aggressive move for the Xu family.
"Additionally," your father adds, as though sensing the unsaid danger in the room, "Nexus Capital is partnered with Aegis Security Corp. They're a long-standing client of ours, and are happy to provide additional support, both personal and professional to the Xu family and clients."
You can't help the way you start to roll your eyes. Aegis Security Corporation is a legitimate business portfolio pledged to Nexus Capital, but that certainly isn't the security your father is promising. He's promising the Xu family Choi Syndicate protection, a silent acknowledgement that by being here in this room, they are agreeing to the risk of being targeted by other Syndicates but will be offered the protections of guns, money and blood that the Choi Syndicate can offer.
The smile the Xu patriarch gives assures you that he is right where he wants to be, though his son remains expressionless, eyes unreadable.
Minghao's mother leans forward, her jade pendant catching the light. "And the personal union? We understand the principal heirs will co-own the new holding company directly. We would like the details of residence, public representation, and succession details clarified."
This time, you do cringe. You can't help it. The word succession details crawls inside of your ribcage and threatens to start corroding. She means where will you live, who gets to be the press's shining star, and who inherits if someone dies inconveniently.
Or conveniently, depending on if you die and all your assets default to the man across the table. Which is a real threat that you've talked about with your father, knowing that he could be signing you over for someone to assassinate you and claim rights to all that you own. It is exactly why the proposal keeps the shipping assets in favor of the Xu family and the banking assets in favor of your family, a shared split but a majority of both residing with the original shareholder.
Your father looks to you to answer Minghao's mother. The message is clear: you’re the woman of the family. Speak to your counterpart.
"Residence will be the penthouse at the Observatory," you answer. "It's at the edge of the Upper District near the Estate District."
"The Observatory?"
"A starter home for us to settle. When we decide to have a family, there is a private residence left to me in the Estate District as dictated by my mother's will." She leans back, pleased. Your eyes drift to Minghao. "I assume Mr. Xu has no objection to living above the clouds to start."
"Height has never bothered me," he answers. His voice is soft, but the way he says it makes the hair on your arms raise. "It's a generous gift."
You learn forward, resting your forearms on the cold table top. The sleeves of your dress ride up just enough to show the faint bruise on your left wrist, fingermarks from last week when your father decided punctuality required emphasis. You adjust the sleeve, but when you look up, you see Minghao's eyes latched to the spot.
"Public representation," you continue quickly, trying to keep him engaged, "will be joint. Galas, council meetings, the usual. We smile, we shake hands, we let the photographers snap pictures. Public image is a joint effort and a joint success."
Both of his parents nod, pleased. Minghao is still staring at your covered wrist. "As far as succession, if one of us dies, the surviving spouse inherits full voting control of the merged entity for a minimum of five years. After that, it reverts to the strongest board proxy. Standard widow's clause."
"What is your security like?"
Minghao's question catches you offguard. You're unsure if he means the traditional security you use as the heir to one of the city's richest families, or the Choi Syndicate security you use to ward people away from you. You're sure he doesn't mean the spell jars hidden in the drawers of your room or the spell oils you tinker with.
"Standard," you offer. It seems like a safe answer.
"Standard." He frowns. "I find that the standard rarely does the job."
His father starts to speak, but Minghao lifts a finger, barely a centimeter. You watch in shock as it silences his father. It's so subtle you're unsure if anyone else notices it. Strange, for a son to dictate what a father does. You file that bit of information away for later.
"Do you have a recommendation, then?" You ask. "Feel free to propose something less standard."
His mouth twitches, a ghost of amusement. "Security protocols should be put in place. Travel routes, choices of driver, general schedules, should all have a shared veto. If one of us believes a risk is unacceptable, the other yields. No appeal."
Your father makes an angry sound. "You're asking for the right to countermand my daughter's security detail? That's entirely too controlling and rather convenient if you wanted her assets."
The accusation ruffles the feathers on the other side of the table, but Minghao remains nonplussed, eyes flicking to your father. His expression has barely shifted, but there's something subtle there, something sharp.
"I'm asking," he corrects, voice soft, "That neither of us dies stupidly because the other was too proud to listen. I find that joint decisions on matters of travel and security are often best, especially considering that this marriage will be highly publicized."
"Fine," you answer before your father can object. "Shard veto, with the amendment that our security teams are jointly chosen. You may not employ any member of security who has not been vetted and agreed upon by me personally."
Minghao inclines his head. "Agreed."
Above the table, a redline version of the agreement drafts as you trade amendments. Your eyes drop down to the scar on his knuckle again. It's thin and precise, the kind of mark left by a wire garotte or a very sharp knife. Not the sort of scar you get from yachting around the world like you've been told he does frequently.
Strange. In just a short manner of time, the list of strange things about Minghao grows longer. Something about him tugs at your tuition, a feeling of premonition you can't place.
When you look back up, Minghao is watching you. His mouth twitches and your skin burns like you've been caught. You try to work out the expression on his face, but as his mother brings up the section regarding children, it's like dunking your head into ice cold water.
"Two," she says smoothly, fixing you with a pointed stare. "Minimum. More is fine. Bloodline continuity is non-negotiable. Two is safe, should the other-"
She cuts herself off, face going white. No one speaks. Your father is stiff next to you - you don't even think he's even breathing. Luli looks like she doesn't know what to do, caught between needing to apologize and the terrible of making such a bad social faux pas.
It's a reminder that the Xu family isn't from here. Arkos isn't a city that far away, but it's foreign enough in social structure, political makeup and culture that you're reminded how hard the Xu family must have worked to adapt to Hyperion's complex pecking order and social norms, and Luli has just made a terrible mistake. Were she in a room of Hyperion socialites or Syndicate women, she'd probably never recover.
"Should the other die," you finish for her. "Yes, we're quite familiar with the concept. Two minimum makes sense. Do you have a preference on gender?"
The silence in the room is so complete you can hear the faint echo of the city outside. You wait, staring across the table, trying to do anything but think about how intimately familiar you are with parents needing an heir and a spare, especially in a city like Hyperion. Luli's lips part, then close, surprised at how quickly you've addressed her concern and moved on.
"So do you?" You ask again, eyes flicking between Minghao and his mother who glance at one another. "I'm only asking because some families still care about sons carrying the name. Saves awkward paperwork later."
"Gender is irrelevant," Minghao answers. "Healthy heirs are all that matters."
"Yes," his mother agrees. "Healthy. And timing?"
You lean back in a dead woman's chair. Not for the first time, you wonder if this is what your sister had to sit through. Though you were only a few years apart, your sister is alien to you. Unfamiliar. Did she have to sit through board rooms and negotiate terms and rights to her womb? She did have to pledge herself to a total stranger and promise to pop out heirs?"
Of course she did. You wonder if she was any good at it. You never asked her. You'd been too busy hiding away from your family in the gardens, watching butterflies land on the water lilies while the house keeper told you about craft and how certain herbs had metaphysical properties. You’d been fascinated by her and her practice, an ancient, earthy belief that most people thought was nonsense.
"Five years," you tell her. "Minimum. Our data shows that the city's current climate is not ideal for infants." You pause as the lead counsel shows the data in question. "After that, we can revisit timelines. Medical oversight may be split eighty-twenty, with my priorities and preferences emphasized."
"I would prefer-"
"Accepted," Minghao says softly, cutting off his mother. She leans back, pursing her lips. You don't know much about Xu Luli, but she looks like someone who would prefer far more control over the birth of her grandchildren. Minghao's eyes slide back to you. "A final item, if you will."
Your father gestures for him to continue. Minghao reaches inside of his pocket and produces a matte-black rectangle no larger than one of your tarot cards. There's no logo or text, so dark that it drinks the light in like his suit does. He sets it on the table and flicks it with a finger, sliding it across the table like oil slick.
You blink in surprise when you realize it's a comm device, thin enough to slice paper with the faintest holo-sheen on it. You've never seen its make before, and you look back up at him, questioning.
"A private channel," Minghao says, addressing you. "Encrypted. Off-grid. Not monitored by family, counsel, or security. For discussions that do not belong in the meeting minutes."
Next to you, your father's scoff is immediate and sharp. "She doesn't need-"
"Voluntary, of course," Minghao assures. "Either party may choose never to use it. It exists, though. Personal devices will be the main point of contact."
Xu Jian's smile is thin. "A gesture of good faith and a family tradition. The Xu family places emphasis on having direct contact with our partners in times of turmoil."
"And what turmoil do you predict to befall this city?"
Minghao's father spreads his hands. "The world is ever-changing. It is not a reactionary practice, but perhaps a proactive one."
Your father's fingers drum on the table. The rhythm is familiar - you've heard it in the back of cars, against the arm of the couch, on the top of a desk. It's the telltale sign of his increasing irritation, the need to do something with his fingers before he strikes.
After a long beat, your father nods. "Voluntary."
Minghao dips his head. "We have no other amendments."
The lead counsel taps the table. The contract above ripples, red lines bleeding into final black. A soft chime confirms transmission, and you look down to see the new draft appearing in the table's interface in front of you. Your name is already glowing in the signature line, waiting for your official sign off.
Swallowing hurts. Your throat is desert-dry as you pick up the stylus, hating the way it shakes in your hand. You grip it tighter, fighting off the tremor as you glance up instinctively.
Minghao is no longer watching you. His head is bowed, stylus moving in a single, fluid stroke that ends in a flourish. He sets the stylus down with deliberate care, aligning it parallel to the edge of the table before he looks up at you again, expectant.
You look down and sign, a nervous trickle of fear cutting through you. Once executed, the documents appear across the interface in rotation, allowing for the room to sign as witnesses. You keep your gaze fixed to the document rather than him, but you can feel the eight of his stare settle on you like a blade pressed to the hollow of your throat.
"Ajourned," your father says as soon as the final signature is to document.
Chairs roll back in a sudden rush of sound. Quiet chatter rises, the polite and rehearsed gratitude backtracking the soft shaking of hands. A side door you hadn't noticed opens and two white-gloved staff glide in with trays of chilled plum-infused water, coffee, and tiny plates of yuzu macarons dusted with gold leaf.
You cringe. The refreshments are small but you know they cost more per bite than most people in the Lower District make in a week, the display of wealth so suddenly unfamiliar to you that you feel your stomach flip.
People begin to mingle. Your father is already shaking Xu Jian's hand, voice pitched politely again. Luli is laughing at something one of the lead counsel members is saying bright and lilting.
You stand, knees shaking. The air feels a little too thick for you, your pulse a frantic bird trapped inside your ribcade. You don't bother excusing yourself verbally - no one in the room notices you. They never do. So no one stops you when you slip through the door into the corridor.
Outside the boardroom the air is cooler. You breathe in the cedar-scent, walking away from the room. Your heels are too loud and you soften your steps, making it feel like you're sneaking off. And you kind of are, honestly. You need a break, a breather from the formality and the cage of formality.
You find a smaller meeting room, windowless and lit only by a single strip of amber light along the ceiling. There's a narrow table with four chairs and nothing else. You lean back against the door for a moment, letting out the breath you'd been holding the entire meeting.
Reaching into the pocket of your blazer, you produce a silk-wrapped bundle. The cards are warm from your body heat, the silk falling away as you unwrap the tarot set. You walk toward the table, shuffling the cards. You feel your anxiety ease with the familiar weight of them in your hand, the soft schk as they shift in your fingers.
You don't even ask the deck a question. You just need the feel of them, need something familiar in this strange building with these strange people. The cards speak anyway, three cards slipping from the deck to clatter on the table, face-up.
The Tower, upright. The Moon, reversed. Death, upright.
It feels cold in the room. You stare at them, teeth working your bottom lip as you process, your eyes dragging over each guard. Lightning splitting stone. Lies and illusion dissolvering. And ending that's a beginning. It's the usual trio that's been haunting you since you drew the World, reversed a year ago.
You don't hear the door open as you look over them. It isn't until you see a shadow fall over them that you flinch, whirling around with your hand flying to your chest.
Minghao stands just inside the threshold, one hand still on the handle, the other loose at his side. He closes the door without a sound, tilting his head to peer around you at the table of cards. You step to block his line of sight, vision pounding.
"Oh, it's you-" You break off, unsure what to say. He probably has no concept of tarot cards anyway. "It's a… hobby of mine."
Minghao says nothing. He approaches with deliberate, lithe steps until he's standing next to you but with a respectable distance between you. You catch the faint scent of pine and cold air clinging to his jacket, refreshing.
"What do they mean?" He asks, voice soft. "When they fall like this? What do you see?"
"You know what they are?"
"I know it's strange that you have them. You don't strike me as a wicked woman." You frown at the term wicked woman. It's slang for the women who work backdoor craft and ritual practices - you're curious how someone of his status knows the word at all. He points to the cards on the table. "Tell me, please."
You step forward, fingers tightening around the deck. "The Tower means sudden change. The collapse of something that was supposed to be stable. Violence, sometimes."
"The Tower like the rulers of the Syndicates?"
"Yes."
He hums. "Keep going."
"The Moon reversed is lies coming undone. Secrets dragging into the light whether one wants them to or not."
"I see. And Death?"
"Death isn't always literal." You don't know why you feel the need to clarify, but you do. "It's transformation. The end of one thing so another can begin. You can fight it or you can walk through it, but you never stay the same."
Minghao is quiet for a long moment. The light bathes him half in shadow, half in light, like a dark angel. He's so beautiful it's hard to think straight for a moment, hard to realize this is the man you're going to marry.
"You're practiced at reading these, then?"
"Very. I trust very few things, but these have never lied to me."
"You're too honest," Minghao's gaze lingers on the Death card before he turns to leave, not sparing you a glance. "It will hurt you one day."
—
The night of your engagement part, the party planning committee led by Xu Luli outdoes itself. The Sky Venue at The Elysian is an architectural wonder - one hundred and thirty-three floors up, the entire top level has been gutted and rebuilt into a single floating garden suspended beneath a retractable dome of smart glass.
Tonight, the dome is open to the stars. The air is warm despite the cooling season, the climate controlled by tiny micro-drones flying around the open dome, naked to the eye. The air tastes faintly of night-blooming jasmine, and guests wander through the garden with glasses of champagne.
Waterfalls pour from above into man-made koi ponds, night lilies floating on the rippling surfaces. Servers in white silk glide past, careful to avoid the ponds as they serve golf leaf canapes and cocktails served in what you think might be diamonds. In the corner, a string quartet plays on a platform of transparent glass suspended thirty meters above the ground, music cascading down and over the crowd.
Spared no expense, someone mutters as you walk by. Of course you didn't. This is the night that your family alongside the Xu's are selling you to the city and showing off their wealth.
A statement night, really.
You stand near one of the koi pongs in a gown of liquid obsidian. There are thousands of microscopic diamonds hand-stitched into the dress, making it look like you bend the light the same way as your fiancée's suit. Your neckline plunges just enough to be daring, and the back is open to the base of your spine.
A single strand of black tourmaline beads is loped around your wrist. To anyone not paying attention, it looks like diamonds. To you, it's grounding, steadying you against the thousand eyes currently cataloguing you.
Minghao finds you before you find him. He appears at your left shoulder without a sound, a flute of champagne in his hand. You flinch when you see him - over the last two months, you've been entirely unable to adjust to the way he materializes out of thin air.
"You look like a dark priestess," he murmurs. "Very on-brand, wicked woman."
You turn to him, trying to control your pointed smile. "Call me that again and I'll make your mornings quite unpleasant. I will hide hex bags where you will never find them."
His mouth twitches. He doesn't look at you, his eyes scanning the crowd, sharp as ever. He hands you the glass and you take it, knowing better than to dismiss him in public.
"Threats already," he observes. "We're not even married yet."
"I'm not a wicked woman," you say. "It's rude to call me one. I'm a practitioner. Kind of. I wanted to be. I don't sell phony fixalls from behind a Rose Room in the Lower District."
"And what is it you practice?"
"None of your business."
He hums. "You smell of incense and herbs, wicked woman. It's nice."
"If you're trying to upset me-"
"I'm trying to distract you." He glances at you, dark eyes glittering. "You have an angry resting face. It makes people think you're unhappy to be here."
"I am unhappy."
He lets out a small sound. You realize it's amusement and you feel an odd twitch behind your ribs. "I told you already, you are too honest."
In the last two months since your engagement, your interactions with Minghao have been minimal. He is doggedly polite, formal, and stiff, saying all the right things and smiling at all the right times, but none of it is real. He's so practiced and rehearsed that at first, you thought it might be real. But the more you watch him, the more you realize that Minghao is the perfect imitator.
Except now. His poking and prodding seems in jest, though you know there's certainly something more to it, something important that you're missing. This light banter is new to you, and you dislike that he asks questions about your practice. The elite don't often take kindly to those who believe in powers beyond money and Syndicates, but Minghao seems more amused than disturbed.
You glance beyond Minghao, eyes settling on the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. You feel your mouth go dry at the sight of Choi Moojin. He stands a distance away with his wife, dressed in a bespoke midnight suit, the mountain emblem embroidered in a threat of silver at his cuff.
The Tower of the Syndicate is the single most powerful person in the room, if not the city. Though there are two other Syndicates in the city, the Choi Syndicate has been strong the last few years, gaining a slight power foothold both politically and economically.
Not territorially, though. Their loss of the Port of Hyperion being located in the Choi-dominated Warehouse District to the Yong family had been a blow, and was the entire reason that your wedding to Minghao was happening at all.
As long standing patrons dedicated to the Choi family, your union to Minghao guarantees better assurances for Choi-owned shipping freight and better sway and management with the shipping authority.
A smart match. A political one. All dictated because the Tower of the Choi Syndicate needed it. Strange, that your entire life has shifted at the command of a man you've never personally met because he needs something from you that he'll never pay you back for.
A little ways away from the Tower and his wife, their children argue. At least, that's what it looks like they're doing. Seungcheol leans against a pillar nearby, murmuring something to his sister, expression heated. She ignores him, staring out into the crowd as though she can't hear him at all.
The Choi heiress is the kind of beauty that commands the attention of the entire room, even now as her brother mutters urgently to her. Recently engaged herself, you're surprised you don't see her fiancée lurking about. You're sure that Kim Yijun was on the guest list. Instead, she ignores Seungcheol, a haunted look on her face, a beautiful dove with a broken wing. She'd looked like that the last time you'd seen her too, an empty shell of the girl you'd gone to etiquette school with.
"Strange," Minghao murmurs, drawing your attention back to him. "To see them in person."
"Why?"
"They seem normal."
"They are."
Minghao hums but doesn't answer. Perhaps he has a point - they do seem normal. But why shouldn't they? They're two of the most privileged people in the room, growing up under a banner of Syndicate peace and prosperity. Had he expected obvious criminality? Knives and guns, threats of violence?
The way he observes them with his mouth slightly downturned tells you he might have expected exactly that. He's unfamiliar with the Syndicates, and you think belatedly of the scar on his knuckles, the one you often wonder after.
You drain your champagne in one swallow. "They're here to make sure this is a union they support, not cause violence."
"The union was their idea." You cut a glance at Minghao. It's a truth that no one says outloud, least of all here. He returns your stare, his eyes inky and unreadable. "They wouldn't suggest it if they didn't support it."
"You told me being too honest would get me hurt one day. Maybe you should consider that as well."
"Should a husband not be honest with his wife?"
A passing server offers caviar on mother-of-pearl spoons. You ignore him, your eyes on the Choi heiress who turns to her brother and says something that shuts him up. Minghao gives the server a single look and sends him scurrying away, your fiancée sliding a step closer to you.
"You strike me as someone who uses truths to hide other truths," you note, looking him up and down. "You'll tell me one honest thing to make me confident while you hide six others."
Something flickers behind Minghao's eyes. It's that same flare of something like that first day you met him. Maybe surprise or recognition. You're not entirely sure, but it does something to you that you can't name, a little tug right behind your ribcage.
"Observant."
"I have to be."
"What have your cards told you about tonight?" You give Minghao a sharp look. He doesn't look at you but he sighs. "It wasn't a barb. I'm not sparring with you- not anymore, anyway. I’m trying to get to know you."
He laces his hands behind his back, waiting. Minghao is good at waiting, you've noticed. He doesn't ask for things twice, and he never clarifies himself - save for you. There is power in silence and waiting others out, and Minghao maneuvers that silence like a carefully sharpened blade that he's intimately familiar with.
"The same three cards," you tell him eventually. "The Tower. The Moon, reversed. Death."
"You don't have to pretend to believe in it for my sake."
"I don't know what I believe in. Perhaps there is some truth to your tarot and the spell jars you keep hidden in your pockets. Who is to say?"
Before you can answer, a ripple moves through the crowd. You watch as heads turn and you find the source. The Tower is moving, slow and inevitable toward you. Your heart lurches and you glance around, looking for your father, who should be here to receive this conversation, but he's nowhere to be found.
Minghao's hand settles at the small of your back, making you swallow thickly. The heat of his palm against your skin is an inferno, but it grounds you as the Tower approaches with his wife, children and Wisdom in tow.
You glance at Yoon Minji, the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. You hadn't noticed her at first, the woman a near imperceptible shadow lurking behind the Tower's wife. She's dressed in a blue so dark that it's almost black, hair pulled back and slick as oil. Her son is at her side, a twin shadow that you have heard is her image in more than just physical likeness.
Choi Moojin stops an arm's length away. Up close, he's larger than you remember, the kind of presence that fills up a room and makes you feel small. His eyes are fathomless, but surprisingly warm, a weird offset to the danger you know he poses.
"You look beautiful," he says, voice soft. "Congratulations on your engagement. Your families must be proud, you're an exquisite couple with good taste."
You dip at the knees and lower your head, bowing as deep as decorum for the moment demands. "Thank you, Tower. Your blessing is appreciated."
Seungcheol steps around his father, offering his hand to Minghao while his sister lingers behind him, a strange look on her face as she watches you, almost like panic. Her brother shakes Minghao's hand firmly before he takes yours and kisses the top politely. "Congratulations."
Minghao's fingers flex against your spine, the tiniest pressure before you drop Seungcheol's hand and the Choi's drift away. You feel yourself exhale as they do, relief flooding your system at their obvious approval. The Mountain will stand behind your marriage, which is as good as signing the paper and saying your vows.
The Wisdom goes with the Choi's, dipping her head toward you with a small smile that unsettles you, but her son lingers, drifting closer with a lazy grin.
Jeonghan offers a hand to Minghao. "A union of banking and shipping. Tell me, does love come standard with the merger, or is that an optional upgrade?
It's crass. From what you know of Yoon Jeonghan, it isn't surprising that he likes to see you squirm. Though he's next in line to be the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate when his mother steps down from the title, you're unsure if he's suited for it if he can't help but make inappropriate barbs at an engagement party.
You have half the mind to tell him so, but it's Minghao who answers, a sharp smile on his face as he shakes Jeonghan's hand. "We prefer equity over love."
Jeonghan laughs, delighted. "Enjoy the party. Congratulations on your union."
With a final wink, Jeonghan drifts away, chasing after Seungcheol who is arguing with his sister again. The Tower ignores his children, clapping someone on the back from Nexus Capital's board of directors.
Minghao's hand slides from your back to your wrist, thumb brushing the tourmaline bracelet once before he drops his hand entirely. You don't dare look at him. The touch is intimate and softer than you expect. It unsettles you that it’s the softest bit of warmth anyone has shown you in years.
Your fiancée waves to a group of people familiar to him but not to you. You expect him to lead you over and introduce you, but he doesn't, drifting away from you with a final look that you can't read. You watch him go, the place where his hand rested burning like a brand.
-
Your new penthouse is too large for two people. You knew that before you moved in, but with someone as quiet and absent as Minghao, it feels like you're on your own most days.
The penthouse occupies the entire crown of the residences at The Observatory in the northeast corner of the Upper District. Your new home is four thousand square feet of smoked glass, matte black steel, and pale ash wood that leaves the home cold.
The main living space is a single open expanse, the kitchen bleeding into the dining room and lounger. Floor to ceiling windows frame the open space on three sides, letting in the spill of city flights on a clear night. Tonight, it's cloudy, the fog on the glass pressing close and obscuring the world. It makes you feel like you're in your own dimension far away from Hyperion.
Your bedroom is in the east wing of the apartment, Minghao's is in the west. Two totally opposite ends of the space you're supposed to share together. Live in together. Be married in together. He'd requested your rooms remain separate, and though it hadn't bothered you at first, it does now.
It doesn't matter what bothers you, though. There's no one around to complain to. Your days have settled into a brittle sort of rhythm: you get up at seven to go to the gym to find him already gone. You never see him leave but when you make your mugwort and lemon tea, the kettle is always warm. He returns sometime between nine and noon, hair damp, expression icy. He gives you a polite nod, then vanishes to his wing of the apartment.
No words. Nothing.
You spend the hours alone learning the layout of your home. It's different from the rolling estate of your family. Smaller and bigger all at once, lacking the intricacies and oddities of a home that has been in a family for generations.
The windows never open - you suppose that makes sense, this high up. The air is triple-filtered and scent-neutralised, making the rooms feel dead and clinical. You decide to combat this every Wednesday after the cleaners have gone.
As soon as they're gone, you begin your work. The routine is simple, nothing extravagant. You take a small bundle of palo santo from the tin you keep with your tea and light one end, letting the sweet smoke rise. With the woody smoke drifting from the lit end, you walk the apartment slowly, clockwise while thinking on your intentions.
You trail the smoke along the windows, under the sofa, around the legs of the stools at the island. You grow hesitant when you near Minghao's room, but you let the smoke drift toward his door anyway. You don't open it, but your hands trace the doorframe, a small peace offering.
As you work, your mind empties save for your little intentions: peace, protection, harmony. You're kneeling in the middle of the living room, passing the palo santo beneath the low coffee table one last time when the front door opens without warning. You sit rod straight, turning to see Minghao come into the apartment. Your eyes flick to the clock and you frown. He's early today.
He's dressed in black workout clothes, hair damp, a bottle of water dangling in one hand. He stops the moment he sees you.
Smoke curls between you. He says nothing and neither do you. You half expect a question, a raised brow, anything. He looks at the palo santo in your hand, the thin ribbon of smoke, and then back to you. Something shifts in his expression that you can't place, but he doesn't say anything.
Instead, he steps carefully to the kitchen, giving you a wide berth despite the physical distance already between you, and opens the fridge. He takes out a second bottle of water, and sets it on the island counter top toward you.
"You look dehydrated," is all he says before he tips his head and walks back to his wing.
You remain on your knees, staring at him, lips parted a little. His bedroom door shuts with a distant click, leaving you in the silence and the curling smoke.
Eventually, you get up, knees cracking as you do. You feel a little dizzy and realize you are thirsty. You have no idea how he was able to clock that you're dehydrated by simply looking at you, but you file it away as one of Minghao's oddities, a neverending list that points to him not being the arrogant rich kid you expected.
Heading to the counter, you grab the water, the condensation on the bottle cold and exactly what you needed. As you drink it, Minghao surprises you by coming back out, a bag over his shoulder. You frown, eyes dropping to the bag.
"I'll be gone for three days," he tells you. "I'll see you on the morning of the third day."
"Where are you going?"
"Business." You don't like the ambiguity, but he's already halfway out the door. He hesitates and turns to you, mouth opening and closing as he chooses his next words carefully. "This is your home. Practice how you'd like."
"Pardon?"
"Your… practice. You don't need to hide it from me, Wicked."
You scowl. "I told you not to call me a wicked woman."
His mouth tilts. "I'm not. Simply wicked, is all. Not quite a wicked woman, not quite a practitioner, hmm?"
You glare through his logic and he shrugs, heading for the door and slipping through like smoke.
-
"Here," you say softly, shoving a bundle into Minghao's hand. He raises his brows, eyes skirting the crowd around you. "This is for you."
It's not the best time to give him the gift, but Minghao is never at the penthouse and keeps hours strange enough that you almost never see him despite living with him. The charity auction for the Archaeology Restoration Fund swells around you under the floating sky of the Lumina Tower, but as a moment of quiet opens up while you're standing next to the orchid walls, you take your change.
His dark eyes flick to your face, then back to the offering. He unwraps the silk with careful fingers, revealing the bracelet nestled inside. It is a deep blood-red cord, braided deliberately by your own hands over several quiet nights in the penthouse. Woven into the threads are three fine strands of your own hair, unmistakeable. At the center hangs a small, polished azabache charm, a piece of jet stone you sourced a few days ago. The stone is smooth and cool, carved with subtle protective sigils only visible under the right light.
He stares at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the braided cord and the jet stone. Something unreadable flickers across his features before he quickly schools it away.
“You made this?” His voice is low, almost cautious.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"The red is for strength and safety. The azabache is for warding off the evil eye. The hair binds my intention."
"It's not a curse?" You scowl and his mouth twitches. "You threatened to hex me, forgive my hesitation."
Minghao turns the bracelet slowly in his fingers, the azabache catching the soft light. He runs his thumb over the braided strands of your hair, expression softening by the smallest degree. "You continue to surprise me."
"Yeah, well. You don't have to wear it if you don't want to."
Minghao is quiet for another long beat. Then, without a word, he slips the red bracelet onto his right wrist. The contrast of the vivid red cord against his black suit and pale skin is striking. He flexes his hand once, as if testing how it feels, then looks back at you.
"Thank you." There's no mockery or deflection as he lowers his hand. "I'll wear it."
"Don't read too much into it."
"Hm. Too late. Thank you, Wicked."
For a moment, the nickname sounds fond instead of teasing, and the noise of the gala fades. The glowing orchids, the drifting lanterns, the murmur of high society - all of it recedes and leaves the two of you standing in this small pocket of quiet among the spectacle.
-
When you were a little girl, you always imagined that your wedding might be somewhere in a forest, somewhere where forests still legitimately existed. You'd be barefoot, feet planted firmly on a mossy ground, and your hands would be bound in red ribbon to your lover, covered binding oil distilled from flowers and herbs over your wrists until the ribbons were saturated and heavy with the smell of herbs.
This wedding is not that.
The air in the bridal suite is scented heavily with orchids and warm vanilla, the florals spilling over their vases and decorating every surface even here when no one can see them. You stand motionless before the towering mirror, the weight of your gown weighing you down as attendants move around you, adjusting the train of your dress and the butterfly-delicate gossamer of your veil.
Thankfully, the gown is a little like what you imagined. Forgoing the traditional white, it's made of layers of midnight silk, covered in thousands of hand-stitched obsidian beats and microscopic diamonds that fracture in the recessed lighting, turning it into layers of constellations. It spills dramatically into a trail of inky fabric.
You'd commissioned the dress six weeks ago, requesting the design to echo the deep, light-devouring suits Minghao favored. It was a deliberate statement of unity, power, and ultimately, ownership. You'd done it on purpose, and your father had approved when he'd seen it for the first time this morning.
A small win.
Your fingers drift beneath the long sleeve on your left wrist, tracing the black tourmaline and jasper cord hidden against your skin. The cord feels warm, a quiet tether to something older and more certain than the spectacle awaiting you. You breathe deliberately - four counts in, four out. It calms the frantic bird trapped behind your ribs, but only barely.
The reflection in the mirror is alien to you. You've never seen yourself look more elegant and composed, but inside you still feel like the little girl who collected moon water in jars and whispered secrets into manifestation journals.
Beyond the heavy double doors, the ceremony garden waits. The Garden of Eden is one of the city's finest venues, a floral dream suspended three hundred floors above Hyperion's rain-slicked streets. Real, living soil fills massive engineered beds through the space with towering tropical ferns planted, their glossy fronds glinting with dew. Multiple water falls cascade from tiered rock formations into koi ponds, the splash audible even from behind closed doors.
You'd chosen the venue because it was the closest thing you could get to the living earth in Hyperion. Minghao's mother had chosen it because it was the most luxurious venue she'd ever had access to up until now, a haven reserved for the elite. The commonfolk of Hyperion didn't have access to house plants, much less the night-blooming jasmine climbing up trellises and arches or the deep blood-red roses and exotic orchids dotting the aisles.
Hundreds of guests are already seated under the domed ceiling with an engineered twilight sky. Hidden audio systems weave strings and the resonant hum of crystal bowls through the space, frequencies chosen to evoke harmony and solemnity. You can hear the din of the crowd over the sounds, the Upper District elites shimmering in jewels and silks worth more than entire city blocks.
A soft knock interrupts your thoughts. Mina, your lead attendant, slips inside. She's only a few years older than you, but she's sharp-eyed and had years of service with your family, previously working with your sister. You don't mind her - she's not a friend, but she's also not unfriendly, which you'll take.
“It’s time, miss," she informs you. "The Tower and his family are seated and the Xu family is positioned. The garden is ready."
You nod once, throat tight and dry. There is no escape. The contracts were signed in that cold boardroom months ago. You'd known since the moment your sister died that this is what your life was now - the Tower upright, sudden change. The moon reversed, lies coming undone. Death, upright, great transformation. You'd been pulling the same cards for months, each the same thing.
It was the universe's way of telling you that this was your fate, as inescapable as any hard law or scientific rule.
Fragrant air greets you in the corridor. The staircase is full of flowers and dripping in vines, the steps covered in moss and trailing ivy that release sweet smells with every step. Swallowing, you walk down the stairs carefully, attendants behind you and ensuring you don't trip until you're at the bottom of the staircase behind a private screen, preparing to turn the corner and walk down the aisle.
Taking a breath, you turn the corner. Your heart pounds in rhythm with the distant music as the aisle comes into full view. The aisle stretches in front of you, a pathway edge with living white orchids. The ceremony cuts right through the heart of a lush garden, mist curling around the guests feet as they rise, hundreds of them moving in a wave of silk and murmurs.
Eyes track you from every angle - envy, calculation, hunger, approval, curiosity - but you keep your gaze fixed forward, suddenly latching to the man waiting beneath the grand arch of vines and cascading blooms.
Minghao is a shadow given form. He's dressed in black on black, the fabric so absolutely it seems to absorb the light and color from the greenery. His hair is styled longer, framing the exquisite balance of his face. His eyes find yours instantly, intense and unreadable, a stillness that calls to you.
Your pulse thunders as you start the walk. The train trails behind, gently managed by two young attendants as mist from the nearest waterfall kisses your skin, cooling the heat rising in your cheeks. Anxiety coils tight in your stomach, a living serpent, but you move with the trained grace of someone who has practiced this exact path in rehearsals. Future matriarch. Bride. Pawn in a larger game of shipping lanes, banking power, and Syndicate alliances. You wonder if your sister felt this same suffocating weight on her own path or if it was cut too short to ever consider it.
When you reach the altar platform, Minghao extends his hand. You offer him yours, hating the way your hands shake. He grips your hand firmly, and the contact sends a subtle spark up your arm, grounding amid the overwhelming sensory storm of the garden. For a single heartbeat, the hundreds of eyes, the cameras, and everything else recedes, leaving only you and Minghao.
His eyes are fathomless, easy to lose yourself in. His hand tightens a fraction around yours, his eyes only for you. "Temperance upright," he murmurs, only to you. "Patience. Balance. You embody those qualities. I appreciate them."
You blink in surprise when you realize he's talking about the tarot cards. You don't know what to say, the compliment stunning you, but Minghao doesn't wait for you to respond. His eyes flick to the officiant, a respected and neutral legal arbiter provided by Hyperion's council for this special occasion. She's dressed formally, her face perfect and impassive, making it impossible to tell how old she is.
Her voice is solemn but commanding as she urges the guests to sit, the ceremony beginning. Your hand remains in Minghao's, dropped between your waists as you stare ahead with unseeing eyes. You hear the officiant's voice, but you barely hear the words, your pulse loud in your ears as your heart hammers, each word spoken another piece of your sealed fate.
Ahead, the officiant speaks of alliance between houses and the merging of love and families. When you exchange rings, your hands are shaking again, stilled only by Minghao's gentle fingers as he clasps your hand to steady you, helping you slide the plain obsidian band onto his fingers, his sleeve pulling up just slightly to reveal his red bracelet.
Your ring is just as dark, inlaid with gold leaf and precious black stones that make it glimmer and flash dangerously. It feels heavy. Permanent. You watch as his nimble fingers slide it onto your hand, the single scar on his finger catching the light.
"Say the vows," the officiant instructs softly.
"I take you as my husband," you start, nearly whispering. You glance up at him and he nods a fraction, urging you to continue. You continue, voice clearer. "I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until this union is dissolved by law or by death."
Minghao doesn't miss a beat. "I take you as my wife. I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until death."
"It's-"
He cuts off the officiant's correction. "I know the words."
Your heart flutters, Minghao's choice to skip until this union is dissolved by law or by death a deliberate choice. Somehow it feels more powerful the way he's said it, like he's promising only death can tear you away from him. You think perhaps it's just the last bits of you clinging to the idea of romance, the idea of love that makes you feel that way.
The officiant pronounces you husband and wife and thunderous applause erupts, mixing with the hush of the waterfalls. Minghao lifts your face toward his with careful fingers, his touch lingering at your jaw, fingers gentle as they tilt your face upward. His eyes flicker with something so quickly you don't catch the emotion, and then he's leaning forward, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to your lips. He tastes faintly of wine, the touch lingering as he pulls away quickly.
Husband and wife. The words sink deep, heavy as the rings now on your fingers.
-
The reception is an ode to extravagance that most people cannot fathom. Spanning across three floors, each level opens into cascading terraces of real gardens with multi-tiered waterfalls feeding into glowing pools where rare bioluminescent koi swirl and swim. Walls of ferns, flowering vines, and fruit-bearing trees create alcoves with glass benches and trickling fountains. Each table is overflowing with food that won't be eaten, servers passing by with platters of rare chocolates dusted in edible gold and endless flutes of vintage wines and champagnes.
You navigate the crowd at Minghao’s side, his hand a near-constant presence at the small of your back. The contact is grounding for you but probably possessive in the eyes of your onlookers - and there are many. But only a single onlooker matters tonight, and as Choi Moojin approaches with his wife, you feel your spine go rigid until he offers his formal congratulations and blessing. As always, his daughter lingers nearby with that familiar haunted expression, her brother behind her like a shadowed gargoyle.
You smile until your cheeks ache. You exchange pleasantries with board members, accept compliments on the dress, the venue, the fabricated love story fed to the press. The floral scents grow heavier, the constant murmur of voices and music pressing against your temples. The bird in your chest flutters more desperately with every passing minute, and after nearly an hour and a half of relentless performance, you need a break.
"I need a moment," you murmur to him. "I'm just going to go to the upper powder room terrace. I'll be brief."
He studies your face carefully, then nods. “Take Mina and let security know where you're going."
You slip away with your attendant after telling security where you're going and getting their nod of affirmation before they mutter instructions into an earpiece. Mist from a nearby waterfall cools you off as you walk up the stairs, Mina helping with the heavy train. When you're finally alone on a private terrace, security just outside, you let yourself relax against a stone fountain, drawing in deep breaths of the mineral-rich air.
For the first time since the ceremony began, your practiced smile slips. Your feet hurt, your neck and shoulders ache, and you're starving, wishing you could stop the pleasantries for a moment to just eat.
A small, wet gasp cuts through the peaceful trickle of the fountain and you spin around, startled. Time fractures as you try to put the pieces together of the image in front of you. A man dressed as a server with the lower half of his face obscured by a mask stands directly behind Mina, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth while she screams into his palm. He draws a sharp blade across the softness of her throat, scarlet spraying.
Mina's eyes widen in terror, locking onto yours for a single, agonizing heartbeat before they glaze over, her body convulsing once before she goes limp. Blood pours down the attacker's arm and down the front of her uniform, spilling red onto the terrace floor.
A scream rips from your throat, raw and primal, echoing off the stone walls. "Security!"
No footsteps thunder toward you. No shouts of alarm. The doors remain closed. The posted guards don't answer your call, and the music and laughter from the reception floors below continue uninterrupted, as if the universe itself has muted you.
Terror floods your system like ice water. Your heart slams against your ribs so violently you feel it in your throat. Adrenaline surges, sharpening every sense while simultaneously making your limbs feel distant and heavy.
Your right hand dives into the hidden slit of your gown, fingers closing around the small, discreet knife you've kept on your person since your sister's death. You yank it free, gripping the handle with enough force that your knuckles hurt as you pivot from the fountain, putting it at your back for a sliver of protection.
The attacker releases Mina’s collapsing body and he crumples to the ground in a heap of blood-soaked fabric, her eyes open and staring. The masked figure turns toward you with predatory calm.
"Security!" You scream again, the sound of your voice bouncing off the terrace walls.
No one answers, and a single, horrifying realization crashes over you - either the guards have been compromised or they're dead, and this attack was timed with terrifying precision.
There's no time to think as the attacker lunges.
You twist desperately to the side, the blade whistling past your ribs by inches. The movement throws you off balance on the wet stone, but you slash out wildly with your own knife, catching the attacker’s sleeve and drawing a thin line of blood. He grunts angrily and pivots, his knife slashing at you again. You duck and stumble backward, the fountain’s stone foundation scraping painfully against your hip as you use it to keep distance.
Fear is a living thing inside you now, clawing at your lungs, making every breath sharp and ragged. I’m going to die here. On my wedding night. In front of a fucking fountain while people drink and celebrate without knowing. The thought fuels a desperate surge of fury and you lunge at him this time, catching him off guard as you stab upward.
You manage to nick him, but you don't know how to fight and his retaliation of your anger is brutal as his knife flashes against and slices across your forearm, cutting through silk and skin in a burning line of pure agony. Blood pours instantly, hot and slick down your wrist and hand, making your grip on your own knife slippery and you scream out in pain.
A second strike follows before you can recover, a deep gash opening up across your upper left arm as you turn away from him. The pain is white-hot and blinding, and you let out another choked, animal sound as your vision narrows, blood roaring in your ear.
Every heartbeat sends fresh agony through the gashes, but terror keeps you moving. You kick out hard, your heel connecting with the attacker’s knee and he staggers but recovers easily, closing the distance to kill.
And then Minghao is there, exploding onto the terrace like a force of nature. One moment he's at the door, the next he's a blur of controlled violence as the killer turns to face the more immediate threat. Minghao is fast, stepping inside the man's guard, hand shooting out to grip his wrist and twist with bone-cracking force. A sickening crunch echoes and the man screams, the blade clattering to the ground.
The man swings with his free hand, but Minghao ducks under the wild punch with fluid precision, driving his elbow upward into the man’s throat in a devastating strike. The sound is wet and choked, the cartilage shattering under Minghao's elbow.
You stumble backward against the fountain’s stone foundation, left arm hanging useless and burning, blood streaming down your fingers in hot rivulets. Your own small knife trembles in your right hand, slick with blood. Fear still claws at your throat, tight and awful as Minghao - your husband for less than two hours - moves like something trained for this exact kind of violence. The polished, soft-spoken heir from the boardroom is gone. In his place is something sharper, darker, and far more dangerous.
The attacker tries to recover, lashing out with a desperate kick, but Minghao catches the leg, yanks it forward, and slams his knee into the man’s inner thigh with brutal force, dropping him to one knee. Then Minghao is behind him, a single arm snaking around the attacker's neck. For a second, your eyes meet Minghao's, his gaze ice and fire all at once. Then, he snaps the man's neck hard, the crack loud and final.
The attacker’s body goes limp instantly, collapsing in a heap beside Mina’s body. Blood pools beneath both bodies, mixing with the water from the fountain and staining the delicate white orchids that edge the stone paving.
Minghao is heaving, catching his breath as he stares at you across the violent terrace. He takes a single step toward you before chaos erupts in the doorway, heavy footsteps thundering across the stone as members of the Choi Syndicate flood the space. Seungcheol is in the room first, face like thunder and gun in hand. Jeonghan is behind him, the lazy smirk gone and replaced with deadly focus, armed and gun raised over Seungcheol's shoulder.
Seeing Soonyoung surprises you - you hadn't realized the Sword of the Choi family was here. You'd heard he'd been unpredictable and unhinged as of late, but from what little you knew of him, he was Seungcheol's first line of defense and probably went everywhere the Tower's son did.
Behind him, you vaguely recognize another Sword of the Choi family speaking into a comm at his wrist. You've met Joshua several times at galas and parties, his family high up enough in the Choi Syndicate to run in the elite circles - you even remember them being disappointed he'd become a Sword instead of a socialite or something less violent.
More personnel pour in behind them, your father’s security, Nexus Capital executives, event staff in panicked disarray. The peaceful mist of the terrace turns thick with the metallic stench of blood and the overlapping shouts of orders while you lean against the fountain, light-headed and bleeding.
Your father’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Shut it down! Shut the entire fucking wedding down! Seal the floors now!" He pushes through the growing crowd, face flushed with fury. “I want this building locked. Find out how the hell this happened under our security! Someone’s head will roll for this!”
The chaos swells. Guests from the lower levels begin to murmur and push upward as rumors spread like wildfire. Security teams from both families clash in their attempts to take control, voices rising in overlapping commands. Someone is already photographing the bodies. Another is calling for medical extraction.
Through it all, Minghao moves straight to you.
“Everyone back!” he barks, voice sharp as Nexus Capital security moves toward you. "I will handle my wife. Get away from her."
Minghao sits you on the edge of the fountain, the water spraying your back and soaking through your dress. He drops to his knees in front of you, shrugging off his jacket in one fluid motion and pressing the expensive fabric hard against the deep gashes on your left arm. The pressure sends fresh waves of white-hot pain radiating through your shoulder and chest, but you bite back a cry.
“Breathe," he instructs, voice soft. "In for four, out for four."
You look at him sharply. "How do you know that?"
"You did it the entire time we were at the altar, Wicked. Where are you hurt?"
"Cuts on my arms."
"Deep? Tell me ba-"
Your father pushes closer, still shouting as he interupts whatever Minghao was about to say. “Minghao, let my people handle this. We need to get her to a secure-"
“No,” Minghao snaps, rising to his full height while pulling you to his side, hands pressed against your wounds to staunch the bleeding. “No one touches her except me right now. This is my wife. My responsibility.”
The possessiveness in his tone sends a strange shiver through you, mixing with the adrenaline and pain. He begins guiding you slowly away from the fountain, toward the far side of the terrace where the chaos is slightly less suffocating, his hands never leaving the wounds, applying constant, firm pressure.
Joshua separates himself from the Syndicate group and approaches carefully, hands raised in a clear non-threatening gesture. Minghao pulls you away but you squeeze his arm and whisper, "Syndicate. High up. Don't offend him."
"I don't care-"
"I can help," Joshua cuts in, earnest and gentle. "My fiancée is here tonight. She’s an ER nurse and is always prepared because I'm a bit of a disaster. She has supplies in her bag. Let her patch your wife quickly and privately. We can move to the adjacent private lounge. It’s secure.”
Minghao’s jaw tightens and his eyes flick to you, assessing the amount of blood still soaking through his jacket and the way your legs are beginning to tremble. For a long second, he seems ready to refuse. Then he gives a single, curt nod. “Briefly. Privately. No one else comes near her.”
Joshua signals quickly. A moment later, a woman in an elegant deep emerald gown slips through the crowd, escorted by a man you don't know. Her expression is focused and professional, despite the surrounding chaos. She doesn't waste time with introductions, marching toward the small, adjoining private lounge just off the terrace.
Inside, the space is quiet, dimly lit with warm amber lighting, furnished with low couches and lush potted plants. She works with swift efficiency, focused on helping instead of introducing herself. She orders Minghao to keep pressure on your wounds while she cuts away parts of your dress to clean the gashes with antiseptic. The sting makes you hiss through your teeth, fresh tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Minghao’s free hand finds yours, squeezing gently, surprising you.
"Cuts are deep but clean," she says, voice clinical. "No major vessels hit. You’ll need proper stitches and antibiotics soon, but this will hold for now."
She applies quick-acting clotting powder, then wraps your forearm and upper arm in tight bandages. The pressure is firm, immediate relief against the constant bleeding. Throughout it all, Minghao stays close, one hand on your back, the other assisting where needed.
Your mind spins. Mina’s lifeless eyes flash behind your eyelids every time you blink. The wet sound of her gasp. The way the attacker moved, professional, silent, deadly. This wasn’t random. This was targeted. On your wedding night. In the middle of the most public spectacle Hyperion has seen in years with some of the heaviest security you've ever been around.
You glance up at Minghao. His face is a mask of controlled fury, but his touch on you remains careful, almost tender as the woman finishes securing the last bandage.
"That'll hold until you get her to her own private care."
“Thank you,” you manage, voice hoarse and shaky. The pain is still there, a deep, throbbing burn, but it is no longer actively bleeding you out.
Minghao helps you to your feet, keeping his arm securely around your waist. He nods once at Joshua and his fiancée. "We're leaving."
Joshua nods and opens the door, letting you back into the chaos.
Outside, your father is still shouting orders to shut everything down, demanding answers, threatening careers. Syndicate members move through the growing crowd like shadows, securing perimeters. Soonyoung and Seungcheol stand guard near the doors, expressions grim while Jeonghan leans against a wall, watching everything with those sharp, unreadable eyes.
Minghao keeps you tucked firmly against his side as he guides you out of the private lounge and through the swelling chaos of the upper terrace. His arm around your waist is unyielding, taking most of your weight while his other hand maintains relentless pressure on your bandaged left arm.
Every step sends fresh throbs of pain radiating through the deep gashes, but the clotting powder and tight wraps are holding. Still, warm blood seeps slowly through the bandages, staining the sleeve of your ruined obsidian gown. The once-beautiful dress now hangs heavy and ruined, torn silk clinging wetly to your skin.
“Clear a path,” Minghao growls, cutting through the crowd.
Syndicate members fall in around you without question, creating a protective bubble as he steers you toward a discreet service corridor hidden behind a wall of flowering vines. The lush greenery brushes against your shoulders, leaving faint pollen and the sweet scent of jasmine on your skin. Mist from the waterfalls still clings to the air, now carrying the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.
Your head spins. The adrenaline that kept you upright during the fight is crashing hard, leaving your legs unsteady and your vision edged with black spots. You lean heavier into Minghao’s side, inhaling the faint pine and rain scent that always seems to cling to him. He doesn’t falter. His grip only tightens, steady and sure.
The private exit corridor is dimly lit with recessed amber lighting, two armed guards stationed at the end snapping to attention when they see Minghao, stepping aside instantly. A reinforced service elevator waits. Inside, the space feels claustrophobic, the mirrored walls reflecting your bloodied, disheveled appearance back to you.
Minghao says nothing. He simply helps you out when the elevator doors open directly into an underground private garage reserved for the highest tier of guests. . An armored black car idles, its engine humming. The driver steps out briefly to open the rear door and Minghao helps you inside first, easing you onto the leather seat with surprising care before sliding in beside you. The door seals with a heavy, reassuring thunk, and the car pulls away smoothly.
Minghao leans forward toward the driver and speaks in a fluid, melodic language you have never heard before, making you frown. It doesn’t sound like any of the common trade tongues used in Hyperion or Arkos, but the syllables roll off his tongue with effortless familiarity, carrying the weight of something old. One of the dead languages, you think. The driver responds in the same tongue, short and affirmative, before accelerating.
You stare at Minghao, startled. He settles back against the seat. His suit is ruined with your blood, the dark black of his shirt somehow darker. His hair is slightly disheveled for the first time since you met him, a few strands falling across his forehead. His eyes are sharp and unblinking, fixed entirely on you. He hasn’t relaxed. Not even slightly. His posture remains coiled, ready, one hand resting on his knee while the other occasionally flexes as if wanting to reach for a weapon.
You swallow hard, meeting his gaze head-on. “Was that your people? Did your family arrange this? To test me? To test the alliance?”
Minghao doesn’t look away. His expression remains unreadable, but something flickers behind his dark eyes. “I’m not sure."
The honesty lands like a stone in still water. No deflection. No smooth corporate reassurance. Just the stark truth that unsettles you more than any lie could have. In a world built on calculated performances and half-truths, his directness feels dangerous and alien.
You let out a shaky breath, leaning your head back against the cool leather. The city lights streak across his face in shifting patterns of neon violet and electric blue.
“Thank you,” you whisper after a long moment. “For saving me."
Minghao’s jaw tightens. "You’re no use to my family dead.”
The words aren't kind or romantic. They carry no warmth, no reassurance. Still, they're true. In this transactional marriage of power, your survival is an asset. The bluntness stings a little, and it unsettles you. He's repeatedly told you that honesty would get you killed, and hear he is being honest himself.
Well. Honest to hide other truths, you're sure, as is his way.
You study him in the shifting light. The scar on his right knuckle stands out pale against the dried blood on his hands and you're reminded of the way he dismantled the attacker. It wasn't a survival reflex like your clumsy attempt had been - it was the training of someone who practiced and who fought efficiently, someone professional.
"Who are you?" You ask, narrowing your eyes. The car glides through a tunnel, plunging you both into momentary shadow before neon lights wash over you again. “You’re not who my family was led to believe. That wasn’t the fighting style of a logistics prince. You killed him like you’ve done it before.”
Minghao’s gaze hardens. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching you with that intense, cataloguing stare that makes your skin prickle. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
The warning hangs between you and you can feel the weight of his hidden truths again. None of it makes sense - the scar, the ancient-sounding language, the way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch in that boardroom. Something isn't right with Xu Minghao, but you don't know what.
"I think I deserve to know who I just married," you say evenly. You ignore the warning, the throbbing in your arm. "My family thought they were allying with a neutral shipping empire from Arkos but you fight like someone who was trained to kill. You played into being an idiot party boy. You are not."
Minghao exhales slowly through his nose. For the first time, you see a flicker of something almost like weariness cross his features. He leans back again, eyes never leaving yours.
“This marriage is transactional,” he says evenly. “You don’t need to know everything about me. You only need to know that you're my wife and I would go through great pains to keep you alive. It has to be enough.”
The finality in his tone closes the subject like a door slamming shut. You want to argue, to demand more, but the pain in your arm is sharpening as adrenaline fully ebbs, and exhaustion is pulling at the fraying edges of your patience.
Minghao continues watching you, tense and alert, as if expecting another threat to emerge from the shadows at any moment. His hands, still stained red, rest on his thighs as the armored car glides through the upper levels of Hyperion’s streets, the neon sprawl of the city reduced to blurred streaks of violet, crimson, and electric blue beyond the tinted windows.
The car eventually slows and turns into a private underground entrance beneath a sleek, unmarked residential spire in the Upper District. Not the Observatory penthouse you selected as your starter home, but something else. A contingency location, you realize. One of the secure safehouses that must have been part of the joint security protocols you both negotiated and approved during those long, tense meetings.
When the vehicle comes to a stop, Minghao exits first, then reaches in to help you out with careful hands. His arm slides around your waist again, supporting your weight as your legs threaten to buckle on the polished concrete. Two figures step forward immediately from the shadows of the garage, security personnel you recognize from the joint vetting process you and Minghao conducted weeks ago.
A woman named Elara with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, and a man named Kai, broad-shouldered and quiet. They were among the handful both of you had personally approved after rigorous background checks and interviews. Neutral. Capable. Unaligned with either family’s deeper entanglements.
“Status?” Minghao asks them.
“All clear, sir,” Elara replies. “The building is locked down. Three additional teams on the perimeter. No unauthorized movement.”
Minghao nods once, satisfied, and guides you toward the private elevator. The ride upward is silent except for the soft hum of machinery. When the doors open, you step into a spacious, fortified apartment that is elegant but deliberately understated compared to the Observatory penthouse.
Minghao leads you straight to a wide, low couch in the main living area, easing you down with surprising gentleness. Elara and Kai take up positions near the entrance, professional and unobtrusive. A medical attendant has already been prepared in an adjoining room, but Minghao waves off immediate further treatment for now.
He kneels in front of you, his bloodstained hands resting lightly on your knees as he studies your face. For a long moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the building’s air filtration system and the distant murmur of the city far below.
“I need one of your little wicked jars,” he says quietly. “The one you’re still hiding on yourself.”
You blink, startled despite the fog of pain and exhaustion. "Why? And how do you even know I have one?”
Minghao’s mouth twitches, the faintest bit of amusement. “I’m observant.” He glances meaningfully at the torn sleeve of your gown where the bandages peek through, then back to your eyes. “And considering you’re still alive after what just happened, they must work. I would like to keep one with me for what I’m about to go do.”
"What are you about to go do?"
"Something very violent."
The request hangs between you and you hesitate before you lift your trembling fingers to reach into the hidden inner pocket sewn deep into the bodice of your dress. The small glass jar is still there, warm from your body heat. Black salt, rosemary, hematite, sealed with wax and a drop of your blood. You press it into his waiting palm. The glass looks small against his bloodstained fingers.
Minghao closes his hand around it carefully before tucking it into the inner pocket of his ruined suit jacket. "Thank you."
He rises to his feet, but doesn’t step away immediately. Instead, he looks down at you with that intense, unreadable gaze. “Do not leave this safehouse until I return. Elara and Kai have their orders and they answer to us both. Doctor Tzintzun is here - I understand she is your family doctor."
You nod. "Be careful. Please."
Minghao lingers one final second. His thumb brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead in a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it contrasts sharply with the violence you witnessed barely an hour ago. It makes your heart skip, the breath getting stuck in your lungs for a moment. Then the mask slips back into place, the familiar cool and controlled calm you know.
He lifts his wrist, flashing the bracelet you gave him. "You’re protecting me, right? I'll be fine. I’ll return before dawn. Rest. Let the doctor fix your arm, Wicked."
He turns and walks toward the entrance without another word. Elara and Kai acknowledge him with respectful nods as he passes, and the door seals behind him with a solid, final sound.
The silence that follows feels immense. You lean back against the couch, staring out the windows where the city’s distant lights glitter like cold stars. Your left arm pulses with deep, aching fire, but the bandages hold. Mina’s face flashes behind your eyes again, her wet gasp and spray of blood, the way her body crumbled. You swallow hard against the rising nausea.
Doctor Tzintzun sticks her head out of the adjoining room. "Ma'am? Whenever you're ready."
You nod and allow her to come out and help you to your feet. She guides you toward the adjoining room to clean, stitch and re-bandage you again. As she does, your mind drifts back to the car ride and specifically, your new husband.
None of it makes sense. The ancient language. The brutal efficiency with which Minghao ended the attacker. His unflinching honesty when you asked if it was his people. The blunt truth about your value to his family. And now, the small spell jar resting against his chest as he walks into whatever shadows he’s about to confront.
You close your eyes as fresh antiseptic stings the wounds, tourmaline cord still warm around your wrist. The universe had warned you with its cards. The Tower falling. Illusions stripped bare. Death and transformation. Tonight, it delivered all three in blood and violence, but a steady sense of foreboding had been building all night, like the cards aren't done with you yet.
You wonder, as the pain dulls under medication and exhaustion finally pulls you under, what exactly Minghao is doing out there and what background taught him to be this way. As you fall asleep, you hope the small jar of salt, herb and intention will be enough to bring him back so you can find out.
-
Minghao moves through the rain-slicked unverbelly of the Civ District like a shadow. The neon glow from distant shipping cranes reflects off puddles stained with oil and blood, turning the narrow alley into a fractured mirror of Hyperion’s endless hunger. He's swapped the ruined wedding suit out for something more form fitting and breathable - and more importantly, free of your blood.
He'd scrubbed his hands free of your blood a few hours ago, but now someone else taints his knuckles as he presses his hand to his chest, ensuring the small spell jar that is tucked there is undamaged. It's a strange talisman, this jar that you've given him. He doesn't think they work, exactly, but it's a fascinating little practice, this stuff of yours. He's since looked into practitioners and the culture of women who practice craft, but he still can't understand how or why you came to it.
Still, he likes to wear the bracelet you gave him, often looking at it before going into a room to add another body to his list or before he has to do something he needs strength for. He's never thought much about luck, fate, or the universe, but now he carries the jar and bracelet on him like personal tokens of faith and protection.
Of all the things that Minghao finds most surprising, how often he thinks of you now is number one on the list. This marriage between you is purely transactional, a bridge between Nexus Capital's banking power and the Xu family's growing logistics empire. A calculated move to secure favor with the Choi Syndicate as instructed by the Virate to expand foothold in Hyperion.
But, strangely enough, he is fascinated by you. He's not fascinated by much, but when he'd seen you in that board room hiding bruises beneath your sleeves and drawing your peculiar tarot cards in secret, he felt a slight crack in his plan to use you and push you to the side. You were not the sheltered, obedient heiress they described. You were something sharper. Something that watched the universe with quiet, stubborn belief.
And tonight, someone tried to kill you.
He'd been shocked to find you with a knife in your hand despite the terror in your face. He'd heard you scream - he still doesn't know how, considering how far he had to run to get to you. The universe, perhaps. It impressed him to see that you'd fought back despite how bad you were at it, and the steadiness in your voice when you asked him point-blank in the car, whether his people had tried to kill you had nearly cowed him.
Most heirs in this city would have crumbled. You fought. You pushed. You handed him the spell jar without fully understanding why he wanted it, just that he did. He doesn't know what he wanted either, but it's warm against his chest and it's nice to have. Perhaps if a little jar of rocks and dirt and blood can save you from an assassination attempt, it can save him from whatever plot is unraveling in the shadows.
Minghao’s jaw tightens as he reaches the service door of the nondescript warehouse. The man inside - Strakos - is a mid-level fixer who'd coordinated the attacker's movement tonight. He'd been sloppy, though, and Minghao was incredibly good at finding out information in a city that didn't understand the nuances of the Virate.
He slips inside without sound. The interior is dimly lit by hanging work lamps, the air thick with the smell of rust, seawater, and cheap synth-cigarettes. Strakos sits at table, back to the door, reviewing holo-feeds of some shitty porno that makes Minghao's blood boil. This man had helped plan your death, and he's sitting in the middle of a warehouse, fully clothed watching someone get fucked over a couch.
Minghao strikes before Strakos has time to react.
One hand clamps over Strakos's mouth, yanking his head back while the other loops a thin wire garrote around his throat. Strakos thrashes, hands scrabbling at the wire as Minghao gathers it in his hand and pulls, his mouth brushing against Strakos's ears.
"You ruined my wedding," he murmurs.
The wire cuts through flesh and blood wells instantly, hot and dark. Strakos bucks wildly, knocking over the table as he gurgles, hands clawing at his throat. Minghao holds firm, knees braced against the chair as he pulls, gritting his teeth. Strakos's struggle is ugly and desperate, his feet kicking as the chair legs scrape against concrete, wet chokes escaping despite the crushing pressure.
Minghao’s mind remains clear, detached. This is not rage. This is correction. The Virate taught him long ago that hesitation kills empires.
He thinks of your face in the car, exhausted but determined, eyes wide with pain as you demanded the truth anyway. He thinks of the way you pressed the spell jar into his palm without hesitation. Of the faint scent of incense and herbs that always clings to you, the quiet rebellion of your tarot cards and hidden rituals. You are not soft. You are not simple.
You are as unexpected to him as he is to you, he thinks. And he's been very sloppy around you, unguarded and far too honest in the way that he keeps thinking will get you killed.
The wire sinks deeper. Strakos's struggles weaken, then cease entirely. Minghao holds the tension a few seconds longer, ensuring Strakos is dead before he finally releases, the body slumping forward onto the table with a dull thud. Blood drips onto the concrete floor, and Minghao smashes the phone to stop the crude holo from playing.
Minghao wipes the garrote clean on the dead man’s sleeve and tucks it away. He scans the room quickly, deleting the holo-feeds and pocketing a small data chip that might contain further connections. Only then does he pull out his encrypted comm device - the same matte-black rectangle he gave you all those months ago - and dials his father.
Xu Jian answers on the second ring. "Son."
“It’s done,” Minghao says quietly. He stares at the corpse, expression impassive. "Now to trace the loose threads of the web to the spider."
A long exhale on the other end. “Be careful. Your little display at the reception has the Choi’ curious.”
Minghao’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Let them wonder. The message is clear: she is under my protection now."
"They don't know we're Virate. You could have exposed us."
"I made a calculated decision and you'll say nothing more of it. The Choi Syndicate has other things to worry about than wondering if we're Virate. I want you to look into who hired these scum. If it was Virate, we have a problem."
"It will be done."
In Arkos, under the old laws of the Virate - a loose but iron-bound confederation of family lineages bound by blood oaths far older than the Syndicates - Minghao isn't the quiet heir he is in Hyperion. He's the patriarch, the lead of his family, raised from childhood within the Virate's hidden ranks and trained in their shadows, a hidden member loyal to the Triptych.
Jian might appear to be the head of the family in Hyperion, but Minghao's elevation through blood and merit in the Virate is where the Xu family truly gets their power. While his father played the public face of Xu Worldwide Logistics here in Hyperion, planting seeds and building legitimate fronts, Minghao had been the blade ensuring those seeds took root. The true power behind the throne.
Of course what he did tonight was a risk. He knows that. Honestly, if he was doing what the Virate asked of him, he would have let them kill you. You weren't actually a necessary piece to the puzzle, but he knows that with you alive, he has a better narrative with the Choi Syndicate and it's annoyingly perceptive Wisdom and her son.
Minghao grimaces at the thought of Jeonghan and his eyes that see far too much. He knows that tonight will be a grave error and that the Wisdom's son will dig his teeth into Minghao and ask questions and prod, but it can't be helped now. What's done is done and Minghao had taken a calculated risk that he could keep the Choi's away from the Virate ties in favor of saving your life.
His father sighs on the other end like he can hear Minghao's thoughts. "This marriage is already more complicated than we anticipated."
"She is not what we expected,” Minghao admits. "She fought tonight, though she doesn't know how. Most heirs would have just screamed and died."
"You sound fond."
Minghao exhales slowly. Fond. The word feels too small, which unsettles him. From the first boardroom meeting, something had shifted. What was meant to be a strategic union already matters more than it should, and just meeting you has complicated Minghao's world when Minghao has never had complications before.
He killed for you tonight without hesitation. Not just because you are a valuable asset, but because the sight of your blood on the terrace floor had ignited something cold and possessive in his chest. He's unused to the feeling.
"I protect what belongs to me," Minghao says eventually. "She is Virate now, though she doesn't know it. I'm committed to her safety as I would be for you or mother."
His father chuckles softly. “You always did prefer the old ways. Be careful, son. You cannot lean on the Virate. We're in the shadows.”
"I know the rules. I was forged by them.”
Minghao ends the call and slips the comm back into his pocket. For a long moment he stands over the body, rain drumming steadily against the warehouse roof. His thoughts return to you again and again, like a current he cannot escape.
You, sitting across from him in the car, shaken and unflinching as you asked whether his people had tried to kill you. The quiet strength in your voice when you thanked him even after his blunt reply. The way you fought with that small knife, desperate and untrained.
This marriage was never supposed to matter beyond its utility. Yet tonight, watching your blood spill, something fundamental had shifted. You're no longer simply the Nexus heiress - you're his wife, and in the old customs of the Virate, that bond carries weight far heavier than any corporate contract.
Minghao straightens his jacket and leaves the warehouse the same way he entered. The rain washes away the last traces of blood from his hands as he walks toward the car, ready to shower and sleep.
He'll return before dawn, as promised. And later, he'll find the remaining threads of tonight's violence and cut them clean. And perhaps, in the quiet of whatever time he finds, he'll decide how exactly he's going to be a husband to a woman who believes in tarot cards and moon water in a city that only worships power, violence and credit.
For now, the head of the Xu family has done his honor bound duty to his wife, and somewhere across the glowing city, you're probably sleeping. Bandaged but alive, carrying the barest hints and pieces of Minghao's secrets and your strange, annoying charm with you.
Minghao touches the small jar in his pocket once more, feeling its faint warmth against his chest, and allows himself the smallest ghost of a smile in the darkness.
-
Minghao steps out of the armored car into the private underground garage of the safehouse, the rain from the Civ District still clinging to him like second skin. The neon glow of the city filters down in muted streaks, casting long, fractured shadows across the concrete.
He moves on autopilot, muscles aching from the night's violence. His mind is still razor sharp though, cycling through every detail of the kill, every loose thread he'd severed tonight.
Elara and Kai materialize from their posts near the elevator, postures alert. They relax when they see Minghao and bow respectfully, straightening as he approaches. They're among the few personnel both you and Minghao jointly vetted, neutral enough to serve the new union without picking sides.
“Report,” he asks, walking into the kitchen.
“All secure, sir,” Elara replies immediately. "Doctor Tzintzun treated her and gave her something for the pain and to sleep. She’s resting in the east wing suite. She did ask about you."
Minghao’s chest tightens at the words. She asked about you. Of course you did. Even bleeding and exhausted, you pushed for answers, for truth. He nods once.
"No one comes in or out. Not even her father or anyone from Nexus Capital."
Kai inclines his head. “Understood. The Choi Syndicate has sent discreet inquiries. Mr. Kwon personally. They’re offering additional support.”
“Let them offer,” Minghao replies. “We accept the appearance of cooperation, nothing more."
Minghao dismisses them with a wave and heads toward the east wing, leaving them back at their posts. He finds you in the master suite, tucked beneath dark sheets. Your face is relaxed in sleep, but tension still lingers in between your brows and your jaw as you frown. The black tourmaline cord peeks from beneath the edge of the bandages on your wrist. Minghao stands in the doorway for a long time, simply watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.
Something unfamiliar and dangerous twists behind his ribs. He had not anticipated this complication. The scales feel tipped out of balance, like something new has taken root, and he doesn't know what to do about it.
Minghao finally turns away and moves to the bedroom across the hall to strip off his tactical gear with mechanical, practiced movements in the bathroom. He's careful with your little spell jar, setting it down gingerly on the counter where the low bathroom light catches the glass.
He lets the scalding water melt everything but his thoughts away. He stands under the spray, watching the water swirl around his fink and fade from pink to clear. The heat feels good, unwinding his muscles and burning him to the point that the only thing left are thoughts of you and this new predicament he's in.
When he can't take the heat anymore, he steps out and changes into something soft and comfortable before settling in the middle of his bed with his computer in front of him. With the tap of a key, the screen projects holograms around him in a circle, broken only by his arm as he inserts the data chip from Strakos' warehouse into the computer.
He finds limited information on it - remnants of someone referencing the union of Nexus Capital and Xu Worldwide Logistics. He taps his fingers on his knees. The enemies in Hyperion are endless, but few of them have killing power. Most of the people in the city who hate his family are business competitors, minor patrons of various Syndicates in Hyperion. None of them have the power to send a Syndicate-sanctioned attack on his wife, which means this hit is higher up than simple city corporations.
It could be Syndicate, he supposes. He's still learning about the nuances of the three powerhouses that sit at the top of the food chain in Hyperion, but he's not convinced the Kim or Yong family would be moved enough by the marriage to do something so public about it - especially not with Choi Moojin's daughter engaged to Kim Yijun as a sign of union.
A sour feeling settles in Minghao's stomach. The easiest conclusion to make is that the threat is from the Virate. A finger of dread traces his spine at the thought. In a way, families of the Virate were similar to families of the Syndicate - they vied for power, it was always at war, and the most powerful family was always the one that was ten steps ahead. Unlike the Syndicates of Hyperion though, the families of the Virate collectively answered to the three heads of the Virate, the Triptych.
Except members of the Virate didn't know the Xu families were members. Outside of the Triptych, the Virate didn't even know Minghao existed. To them, Xu Jian was a retired member who had moved to Hyperion when he was seventeen after being honorably discharged and given the blessing of the Virate. Even with their blessing, Jian had given up all ties, powers, assets and favors from the Virate for life. That was the way it worked. His wife Luli, who had tried to leave the Virate once before, had joined him.
They'd left a key part of them there, though. Their son. The Triptych was in need of a family with old ties to be removed and relocated elsewhere, someone they could trust and that could believably sever ties with the Virate. The Xu family had been just that, and they'd given their only son to the Triptych to raise in the shadows, nameless and unclaimed as a Shade, forged in the Triptych's perfect image of an assassin before sending him to do the single thing he'd been created for: win over a Syndicate in Hyperion.
He sighs. He's tired - he's always tired these days, even more so than when he was a teenager learning how to become a shadowed killer. The lying and scheming is often harder than the killing, and trying to uncover his enemy hiding in the dark without access to real Virate influence and pull is a challenge.
An email to his personal catches his attention. It's one of the Trustees of Nexus Capital with more of Minghao's access to his new assets - your assets that are now his. It's overwhelming. Nexus Capital’s vast banking networks, offshore accounts, silent partnerships, voting proxies. Pages of sensitive data scroll past full of liquidity reports, hidden holdings in Syndicate-adjacent ventures, influence maps.
Minghao swallows. It's exactly what he wanted. With this level of access, the family can begin weaving influence deeper into Hyperion's financial arteries, and through the Choi alliance, they can steer shipping lanes and capital flows without the Syndicates ever realizing a new, quieter power is embedding itself beneath their foundations. The Choi's believe this is nothing more than a political marriage for port advantages. They have no idea what the Virate is capable of.
Minghao should feel satisfied. This is entirely the reason he was given to the Triptych and raised as a Shade, a nameless member in the shadows, someone without influence and without a name, but one of the most valuable members of their society. Everything is proceeding according to plan, and yet for the first time in his life, he feels sharp, unwelcome conflict like the edge of an enemy's blade.
His gaze drifts again toward the door where you sleep just across the hall. You were never part of the equation. You were meant to be kept at a distance, polite and useful, a spoiled brat who would go to parties and be the socialite Minghao was told you were. Instead, you have lodged yourself under his skin and you haven't even done anything - you'd simply looked at him after he'd killed the attacker tonight not in fear, but wary recognition that Minghao was also not what he seemed.
Protecting you tonight had felt instinctive. Necessary. The thought of you lying dead beside Mina had ignited a cold fury he rarely permits himself. And that realization terrifies him.
Loyalty to the family and to the old ways has defined Minghao's entire life - every choice he has ever made. It gave him purpose when his father focused on building the legitimate Hyperion front, it forged him into steel when he was being wiped and cut and tested. Attachments were always meant to be managed, never indulged, and yet here he is sitting in a safehouse, conflicted over a wife he doesn't really know.
If future objectives ever require sacrificing your safety, or keeping truths from you that could destroy the fragile trust beginning to form - what then? A few months ago, Minghao would have said he'd cut you away no problem. Now, he thinks he might need to cut you out like cancer, nearly killing himself in the process to sever the tie.
How unsettling. He isn't sure how he's gotten here, but as always, it's up to him to figure it out. Right now is not the time, though, so he rolls his shoulders and continues working through the remaining hours of darkness, mapping pressure points within Nexus Capital, noting which Choi figures might be influenced over time. Every new door opened by the marriage is another step into Hyperion's core, his entire purpose.
The first hints of dawn begin to lighten the sky beyond the glass of the bedroom. He glances up and realizes his current work has no business being done in the light of day, so he powers down the computer, the cyan numbers and screens vanishing. He stands and shuffles across the hall to check on you, opening the door as quietly as he can.
You're still asleep, breathing steadily in the same position he left you in. Sighing, he sits down in one of the chairs, leaning so his elbows are on his knees and his chin rests in his elbows, staring at you as you sleep.
For the first time in his life, the sharp edge of his purpose feels negotiable. Not abandoned or broken, but rather complicated by the strange, stubborn woman sleeping in front of him.
Perhaps you are wicked, but rather for the things you do to him instead of your actual deeds.
-
The last place you want to be tonight is the Eternal Bloom Gala at the Celestial Atrium in the Pearl District. The atrium is a floating marvel suspended between three interconnected spirals, gardens far more exquisite than even your wedding dominating every space. Though it looks nothing like your wedding, it's close enough to make your stomach turn, your fingers brushing across the closed wounds, still healing since the attack three weeks prior.
Massive domed ceilings of smart glass reveal the night sky above Hyperion, projected stars mingling with the real ones when the clouds part. Tiered terraces overflow with tropical foliage and cascading waterfuls that tumble into artificially glowing pools full of night-blooming lilies the size of dinner plates.
Crystal lanterns drift lazily overhead like captive moons, casting warm golden light that softens every sharp edge of wealth on display as women glide through the gardens in gowns of liquid silk and embroidered starlight. Servants in white move like ghosts, offering flutes of shimmering vintage and tiny edible sculptures dusted with real gold leaf.
Tonight, you're playing the part of socialite perfectly despite the bone-deep exhaustion that clings to you even now. Your gown is a deep forest green this evening, chosen to complement the venue’s living opulence and because it has sleeves that high the healing scars on your arm. Minghao stands a few paces away, devastating in a green so dark that it's almost black, his presence a dark anchor amid the glittering crowd.
Your husband is a startlingly good date. He's attentive in public, close enough for appearances, but never quite warm. He speaks to you more than he used to, small observations about the room, quiet comments on people passing by, but the deeper questions you ask still meet that same polite, impenetrable wall.
Despite asking multiple times, he still won't tell you who trained him to kill with such clinical efficiency. Won't explain the ancient language he used with the drive that night. It doesn't matter how much he dances around your questions - you still probe, willing to chip away at his armor with every conversation if you have to.
You turn your attention back to the circle of high society ladies surrounding you. As much as you hate it, they're the gatekeepers of Hyperion's upper echelons, wives and daughters of banking dynasties, shipping magnates, and Syndicate families. Their gowns shimmer in jewel tones, their smiles sharp as broken glass.
Though exhausted, you have spent the last hour slowly weaving Minghao into their world, dropping careful mentions of his insights on logistics and neutral trade routes, painting him as a valuable new addition to the delicate balance of power.
Lin stands at the center, as she usually does. She's always been a ring-leader, now married to a mid-level Sword whose name you forget. She carries herself with the confidence of someone whose family has hovered near the inner circle for generations. You've known her since you were teens, your circles overlapping heavily enough that she feels almost like an old yet complicated acquaintance.
Tonight, she's in deep crimson silk that catches the lantern lights like fresh blood, her smile sweet on the surface but sharp underneath You don't miss the way her eyes linger on Yoon Jeonghan as he glides by, bowing politely to the women and giving them all his dashing smile. You don't think it's dashing at all, feeling your spine stiffen as the Wisdom's son winks at you and Minghao before vanishing into the crowd.
Suianne is next to her, and you're surprised to see her. She'd married into the Yong family and though the Syndicate's were currently at peace, the Yong family and the Choi family had been fighting at the docks which was the entire reason you got married to Minghao. Neither of you speak of business tonight, instead focusing on her pretty, navy gown that flowers like water.
Eva stands to Lin’s other side, beautiful and brittle in shimmering silver, still nursing the very public sting of being discarded by Kwon Soonyoung after she let him into her bed. From what you'd heard, he's not spoken to her since and as you watch her eyes flick around the gala, you can see the humiliation that still clings to her.
The three of them form a petty but influential ring, always watching and always trading secrets. They're not your favorite women to spend time with, but you don't have friends. Not really. Your sister had always been the one to establish the relationships, and you'd only started after she'd died, making for awkward conversations and learning social queues clumsily.
Lin leans in slightly, lowering her voice as a drift of jasmine-scented mist curls toward you. "You have to tell us - honestly. How are you really finding married life with your mysterious Xu heir? The whole city is still rumbling about your wedding. I'm so glad you're alright."
You offer a measured, slightly tired smile, letting them see the exhaustion beneath the polish to make the performance more authentic. "Minghao is quieter than most men, but there's a steadiness to him I enjoy. He remembers small details."
"He certainly watches you closely," Suianne notes, tilting her head. "A man in love, I suppose."
You glance across the garden where Minghao stands speaking with a small cluster of neutral businessmen. His dark eyes find yours almost instantly, holding for a heartbeat too long. He tilts his head as if to ask are you okay and you nod back. He seems appeased, eyes flicking back to the men he's speaking to.
The two of you have moved back into the Observatory penthouse full time. The space no longer feels quite so vast and empty now that he joins you for breakfast some mornings. He even is willing to sit in the living room while you light palo santo, watching you warily. He still deflects every real question about his past, but the silence between you has grown less brittle.
"He's attentative," you agree, turning back to them. "Last week he remembered I prefer lemon-mugwort tea in the mornings without me saying anything. We’ve settled back into the penthouse, just the two of us above the clouds. It’s peaceful. We're still learning."
Eva lets out a soft, bitter laugh, swirling the liquid in her glass. “At least he comes home to you. Kwon Soonyoung fucked me senseless for three weeks straight and now pretends I don’t exist when we’re in the same room. The man is a ghost after he gets what he wants.”
Lina's smile turns knowing. "That's what you get for fucking the mad dog and thinking you could mend him after she left him."
Eva looks put out by Lin's comment, but Suianne drops her voice to a whisper. "Speaking of her - no one has seen her in weeks. Not since her engagement party. You used to be close with her, weren't you Lin?"
"We're still close," Lin sniffs. "She's simply busy with her fiancée. Kim Yijun is a demanding man." She waves a hand and turns to you. "Enough about Baby. Tell us more about your husband. Is he as intense in the bedroom as he looks in public?"
Eva shouts Lin's name as the question lands like spark on dry tinder. Heat floods your face instantly and your mouth opens and closes. For a moment, all your carefully practiced poise deserts you and you're left staring at Lin who looks rather smug, like she's caught you in a lie.
"Um," you manage. The women burst into delighted laughter, clearly pleased to have cracked your composure. “He is considerate. But that's not something I'm going to discuss in detail."
A smooth voice interrupts from just behind you. “Oh, Lin, you terrible thing. Must you scandalize the poor girl in public?”
You turn, grateful for the interruption, as a woman you don’t recognize steps into the circle with effortless confidence. She's utterly striking, tall and elegant in midnight blue silk that pools around her like shadows, her dark hair swept up with silver pins.
“Minael,” Lin says warmly, reaching out to clasp the woman’s hand. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. And with your husband, no less.”
Minael’s husband steps forward beside her, a tall, well-built man in impeccably cut black. His features are sharp, with cool grey eyes that seem to take in everything at once.
"Sato Ken," he introduces himself, offering his hand with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
You extend your hand to shake his, and the moment your palms meet, your gaze drops down involuntarily to his hand. There, across the first knuckle, is a thin, precise scar, nearly identical to the one on Minghao’s hand. Pale, deliberate, the kind left by wire or a very sharp blade. Not the sort of mark one expects on a society husband.
A chill slides down your spine. Ken's grip is firm, lingering just a fraction too long, and when you meet his eyes again, he's studying you with an intensity that feels uncomfortably familiar, As if he is cataloguing you the same way Minghao does.
Something in your gut turns rotten. A chill settles over you as you stare at Ken. Beyond him, something catches your eye. Near the top of the trees, a black bird lands, shuffling its wings. It's so black it's almost blue, oil-slick feathers shining in the light as it shuffles, craning its head until it blinks two beady eyes at you. You stare at it for a moment - you don't think you've ever seen a crow in the city before.
And then it flutters its wings and flies away through the open roof, vanishing into the inky sky like it was never there at all.
“Pleasure to finally meet you,” Ken says smoothly, bringing your attention back to him. “We’ve heard much about the new Xu-Nexus union.”
Minael laughs lightly, linking her arm with Lin’s. “Darling, you must tell me everything later. I’ve been dying to hear how the mysterious Arkos heir is settling into our little ecosystem.”
The conversation shifts around you, but you remain hyper-aware of Ken. He stands slightly behind his wife, eyes occasionally drifting back to you with that same probing focus. Something isn't right about Sato Ken. His wife seems perfectly well and good at socializing and you can tell Lira and the others are doting on her, but her husband is bad at this, his presence a palpable edge to the softness of his wife.
A tingle prods at the back of your neck, and instinct tells you to be wary of him. You engage with him little, ensuring that his wife is positioned between the two of you at all times. Your finger brushes against your bracelet, warm from your skin and grounding.
Thankfully, Minael and Ken don't linger long. After a few minutes of polite exchange, they drift away toward another group, the eerie man casting one final, lingering glance over his shoulder at you before disappearing into the foliage.
Moments later, Minghao appears at your side, moving with that silent grace you have come to expect. His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, warm through the silk. You suck in a breath, glancing at him, a little startled by his nearness.
“Are you ready to go home?” he asks quietly, voice pitched so the others can hear. “We were supposed to stay another hour, but you look exhausted.”
“Yes,” you murmur. “Please.”
He nods once and excuses you both from the group with polished grace, and guides you through the gardens toward a private exit. As you walk, you glance back one final time to see Ken watching you from across the atrium, half hidden behind a curtain of jasmine vines. An odd, unsettled feeling twists in your stomach and you turn away, leaning slightly into Minghao.
The armored car waits in the secure bay below. Once inside, the doors close behind you and the vehicle glides smoothly onto the road. You don't hesitate, getting onto your knees and reaching into your dress for the wrapped tarot deck you'd hidden in your pocket.
Minghao watches you from across the seat, eyebrow slightly raised. “Now?”
"Hush."
You shuffle the cards, the soft shck of the cards familiar. You don’t ask a specific question out loud. You rarely need to anymore. The deck knows, and three cards slip from the deck and fall face up onto the seat as you shuffle.
The Devil, upright. Ace of Swords, reversed. Nine of Wands, upright.
You stare at them, heart sinking. Chains and bondage. Blocked clarity. A wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant. The message feels heavy, layered with warning. Something binding. Something obscured. Something that requires continued vigilance despite deep fatigue.
Minghao leans forward slightly, studying the cards with open curiosity. “What do they mean?”
You don’t answer immediately, tracing the edges of The Devil with one fingertip. The image of chained figures stares back at you. Your mind drifts to Ken's scar, to the way he studied you.
"Well?" Minghao asks again.
You glance at him. "Do you know Sato Ken?"
"Who?"
You frown. "The man I just met at the party. He had a scar like yours, and grey eyes."
Minghao goes unnaturally still. "What scar?"
"You have a scar on your finger." You reach out and grab his hands. He lets you, frowning as you lift his hand to the light and point to the faint scar on his knuckle, thin as can be. His hands are warm in yours, the fingers rough against your skin. "This one."
Minghao stares at where your hands are linked. "That scar specifically?"
"Yes."
A vein in his temple twitches before he shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know a Sato Ken."
Not for the first time, it sounds like Minghao is telling the truth. But you think about the way he uses truth to hide other things, and as you drop his hands and look back to the cards, you wonder which card is Minghao. The man in chains or the wounded warrior still standing guard. Maybe both.
-
Being in the Lower District alone is a bad idea. You have no choice, though. Hours in the library in the Legal District have led you here, an impossible lead buried in nonsense files. It hadn't been easy to find - Sato Ken hadn't brought up any solid leads, nor had his wife. But your search had revealed a Sato Rhia who had died in a car crash a decade ago with her husband and adopted son, a young boy who was named Zhi Yuan, not Sato Ken, but who had the same uncanny grey eyes and the beginnings of a face like the man you remember from the gala.
Pulling your coat hood up against the drizzle, you begin walking toward the nearest transit hub that will take you down to the Lower District where your research indicated the shelter was. If Zhi Yuan passed through the system, someone might remember him. Someone might know how a boy with grey eyes and a future scar ended up.
You get lost twice trying to find the train to take you to the Lower District. You've never been there without security personnel, and when you finally board the train, you feel a sense of apprehension as the car rocks back and forth, neon smearing by on the windows before it shoots underground.
Sitting near the head of the car, you settle with your hand tucked inside your coat, finger brushing the hilt of your small knife. The other rests against the tiny vial of protective oil in your inner pocket, its glass warm and grounding.
Through the scratched windows, the city becomes visible briefly as the train dives in and out of subterranean tracks. People huddle under leaking overhangs, begging for credits or hovering near fires for warmth. When the train stops, you step out and cringe, the smell of too many bodies living close together hitting you all at once.
Climbing the stairs is dangerous, the grime and rain making the ascent slippery. You hesitate to touch the rail when you see the rusted filth, and instead ask the universe to keep you from busting your ass.
The streets here are narrow and chaotic, slick with oily rain that reflects stuttering neon signs in iridescent puddles. Real rain falls harder at this level, drumming against rusted metal awnings and corroded pipes. Gang tags in glowing spray-paint pulse on every wall, though above them are the looming symbols of the Syndicates.
Street vendors hawk bootleg data pads, hacked implants, and vials of questionable stims from flickering stalls. The air grows thicker, heavier, carrying the unmistakable smells of unfiltered rain, and fried street meat. You feel painfully exposed, your coat too clean and posture too refined for this district.
Eyes follow you - some curious, some calculating. You keep your head down but your sens sharp, hand never far from your knife as you navigate the rain-slicked streets.
The shelter squats at the end of a dimly lit side street, a squat brutalist building reinforced with bolted steel plates and outdated security cams that flicker with static. Faded holographic signage above the entrance flickers with the building name, though it's broken and half on so none of the letters seem to make sense.
Rain drips steadily from the overhang as you push open the reinforced door. Inside, the air is warm and stale. You curl your nose, immediately missing the freshness of recycled air. You hadn't realized what a privilege it was until now.
Rows of cramped cots line the main hall. A few residents glancing at you curiously. A man mopping the floor with water that doesn't look any cleaner than the sticky tile nods politely at you. You approach the front desk where a middle-aged woman in a worn uniform flicks through data on a tablet under the weak glow of a buzzing fluorescent bar.
“Excuse me,” you say, keeping your voice low. “I’m looking for information about someone who might have stayed here as a child. His name was Zhi Yuan. This would have been around twenty to twenty-five years ago. I think he was adopted by Sato Rhia and her husband Amar.”
The woman studies your face, noting how obviously out of place you are before she ignores you and goes back to reading whatever is on her tablet. You grit your teeth and pull out your phone, tapping the small tile on the desk to transfer credits.
"Try again," you say through your teeth.
She glances at the credits and stiffens, rolling her shoulders as she begins typing. "Zhi Yuan?" She repeats, voice raspy. "Might not have the records that far back."
"That far? It was only twenty something years ago."
She huffs. "Listen lady, we don't got fancy storage here. We delete shit."
"Are you going to do the search or not?"
She grumbles and hits a few keys. "All I've got is some random kid from Arkos here for a few weeks. That's it."
"That's it?"
"You can transfer me more credits, but it won't do shit."
You think about leaving a handful of rusty nails, but you force a sharp smile. "Thank you so much for your help."
As you reach the door, the older man in stained janitorial coveralls pauses his mopping. He's weathered with deep lines around his eyes and hands scarred from years of hard labor. He glances at you, then at the woman behind the desk.
"You shouldn't be chasing ghosts down, miss," he whispers. "Not that one."
You pause, turning back. “What do you mean?”
"The boy. Let him stay dead. Virate operates that way."
The word lands like cold steel against your spine. Virate.
It's an unfamiliar word to you, but it tugs at your gut, like something is telling you it's important. “What is the Virate?”
The man’s expression shutters immediately. He looks over his shoulder toward the back rooms, then back at you. For a moment, genuine concern flickers across his weathered face.
Better that you don’t know,” he says quietly, almost urgently. “Go home, miss. The Lower District isn't for you."
He returns to mopping without another word, the wet slap of the mop against cracked tile the only sound between you. You stand frozen for a long second, heart hammering, before pushing open the door and stepping back into the relentless rain.
-
Minghao sits across the table from his mother in the private tearoom of the Xu family residence in the Upper District. The space is deliberately designed, a copy of old Arkos interior design and architecture. Low tables of dark lacquered wood rest on mats woven from rare fibers imported at great expense, and the walls are paneled in warm cedar that release a faint, woody smell.
Soft paper lanterns hang at varying heights from the ceiling, their golden light diffused and flickering gently, mimicking the old-world illumination of ancestral estates back in Arkos. Outside the reinforced floor-to-ceiling windows, Hyperion sprawls in an endless, restless web of neon arteries, flickering holograms, and rain-streaked towers piercing the low cloud ceiling.
Rain taps steadily against the glass, a metallic percussion that Minghao has long since learned to tune out since moving here. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant with the steam rising from the teapot and the subtle notes of jasmine.
It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like the calm before a storm he himself is about to unleash.
Xu Luli pours the tea with the same graceful precision she has always possessed, her movements fluid, the delicate porcelain cup gliding silently across the surface of the table as she pushes it toward him. Her grey eyes catch the lantern light as she lifts her cup, sipping.
Luli looks eternally young. It's always unsettling to Minghao that his mother doesn't look like she ages, while his father lets himself age freely. He knows it's a status and power play, but he hates the way he looks at his mother and sees someone frozen in time, someone he will eventually surpass because augmentation and longevity is not for him.
Minghao watches her hands. Elegant. Steady. The same hands that once ran through his hair when he was a young boy, before the Virate claimed the rest of his childhood and turned him into a trained weapon, a blade at their beck and call.
He takes a slow sip of the tea, letting the rare Arkos blend warm his chest and ground him. The flavor is complex, floral and slightly bitter, with an underlying earthiness that reminds him of the herbs you roll into handles and distill into oils that you like to spray across doors and clothes and objects.
"You look well," Minghao offers, sipping his tea.
Luli smiles at him softly, the kind of smile she reserves only for him. "You look tired. The marriage has been… eventful."
“Eventful,” Minghao echoes, a dry note threading through his voice. He studies her face in the golden lantern light, noting every micro-expression. "My wife and I have not had an easy start."
"All marriages are complicated. Your father and I were not always easy, either."
“Now that you've mentioned it, I’ve been thinking about your life before Father. Before the Xu name became yours.”
Her fingers pause for the briefest moment on the teapot handle. Minghao catches it, the tiny tightening at the corner of her mouth, the way her stormy grey eyes flicker once toward the reinforced window overlooking the glowing, rain-streaked city below. The lanterns cast shifting golden patterns across her flawless face, highlighting the elegant line of her jaw.
“It was a difficult time,” she says lightly. "Your father and I found each other at the right time."
"You were out of the public eye for a while. Why was that?"
"Youthful rebellion," she snorts. "I thought I could escape the expectations placed on me. Your wife has done a better job at hers, I will admit."
"And yet you think she's wicked."
"I never said wicked. She's just strange."
Minghao tilts his head, watching her with the same intense, cataloguing focus he once used on targets in shadowed rooms. The lantern light plays across her features, softening nothing.
"Was there someone before my father?" The question catches her off guard and her cup clinks sharply against the plate when she sets it down. "I always wondered. I never could figure out what made you leave."
"Minghao-"
"The Triptych always told me you wanted to leave," Minghao continues, nodding. He puts his chin in his palm, watching his mother keenly. "And that's why they were willing to part ways publically, that you'd asked for it. But your first departure from the Virate wasn't after you received permission. So what was it?"
"Son…"
"I'm not angry. I'm just looking for some answers."
Luli is quiet for a long moment. She lifts her own cup, takes a slow sip as if buying time, and sets it down with deliberate grace. The soft clink of porcelain against lacquer sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming harder against the glass.
“Yes,” she admits at last. “I ran away with a lover.”
The admission hangs heavy in the air between them. Minghao nods, mind racing ahead. His eyes drop down to the red bracelet you'd given him, the azabache charm cool against his skin.
"Who was he?" He asks.
"Someone unsuitable. From outside the Virate. He was very charismatic, brillitan in his own way. I thought I could disappear and live outside the rules."
“And then?” he prompts when his mother falls silent again.
“I became pregnant.”
The words land like a blade between his ribs. Minghao goes very still. The lantern light suddenly feels too warm, the cedar scent too heavy. His mother continues, her voice trembling only slightly now, each word pulled from somewhere deep and painful she has clearly tried to bury for decades.
“I carried the child to term. A boy. We lived happily for a year before he decided that the child and I were too much. So I went back." She swallows. "The child wasn't Virate, though. So they took him and offered to place him somewhere safe and give me a new start, a single offer of mercy.”
"A safe start," Minghao echoes. "They offered to let you part with the Virate publicly if you did favors for them privately, didn't they?"
She chews her lip and nods. "I married your father and then we had you. You know the rest from there. We had you until you were five. Then we moved and you were theirs."
Minghao’s mind races, pieces clicking together with brutal, crystalline clarity. Grey eyes. The thin, precise scar. The way Sato Ken had studied you at the gala. You'd been unsettled by Ken, though Minghao had neither seen the man nor heard of him. None of his contacts knew of the name Sato Ken, and a quick online search had simply told the story of a businessman who married into a wealthy family.
In any other circumstance, Minghao might have disregarded it. But you'd been unsettled more than usual, insisting that the man with grey eyes - a Lin family trait from his mother's side - had the same scar as him. He trusted your instincts.
It was the same scar the initiated members of the Virate had, one where a finger had been severed during interrogation only to be later surgically added back on. The scar was always a reminder that members had passed, that they'd like the Virate take a part of them during an interrogation that felt realer than anything else Minghao has ever gone through, and that they could take it just as easily again.
He rubs his finger now, fingers brushing over the scar, remembering the snap of the bone and the way he'd nearly bit through his tongue. He'd not given up the information, though, and that had been enough to pass and earn the digit back.
If you were unsettled by a man with grey eyes and the same scar… well, Minghao didn't believe coincidences. Not since he had started watching you read your tarot and scribble into dream journals when you thought he wasn't paying attention.
“Does father know?” he asks eventually, voice low and tightly controlled.
“No. No one does. Only the Triptych."
Minghao exhales slowly, mind already spinning through the implications. If this Sato Ken was Minghao's brother - either by blood or initiation - he existed only in the dark. Which meant he was a Shade, and no one but the Triptych knew he existed. It unsettles Minghao more than he would like, mind scrambling to find a motive. Jealousy? Resentment? A move within a move by the Virate? It could be anything.
As a Shade himself, Ken shouldn't know Minghao existed. Not even the most coveted of the assassins belonging to the Virate knew the identity of one another, which was why Minghao thought nothing of Ken at the gala - hadn't even seen him. It makes him feel shaken, a ghost slipping by him that Minghao was trained to find, to see.
Worse was that Ken had seen you. Approached you. Shaken your hand. He'd done all that and Minghao simply hadn't noticed him. Years of Virate training had failed him, and he'd let something as dangerous as a Shade get close to you. It not only wounds his pride, but it wounds him.
Minghao feels the red bracelet you gave him shift against his wrist again. The azabache charm feels heavier suddenly, a small weight of your strange faith pressing against his skin.
He stands abruptly, the low table creaking as his knees push against it. Rain continues to lash the windows, the sound growing louder as the storm intensifies outside.
"I have to handle this," he mutters.
"What?" She asks, slipping into Zhenwen, a language dead to the world for generations but kept alive by the oldest families of Arkos. "What's happening?"
"Your illegitimate son tried to kill my wife."
"No," Luli shakes her head. "He was adopted into a family, outside of the Virate."
Minghao tsks. "You think the Virate gave away your child without training him? The Shade is born in darkness and has no name. I would know."
Luli closes her eyes, a single tear slipping down her eternal face. Minghao turns away before the sight can soften him. He cannot afford softness right now. Not when the delicate balance he has spent years maintaining is suddenly threatening to shatter around him for a haphazardly protected secret.
"I will do what I must for my family," Minghao tells her, steeling himself. "Blood for blood."
"Blood for blood," she agrees.
As he walks out of the room, he touches the red bracelet on his wrist, thumb brushing over the braided strands of your hair woven into the cord. The small protective charm you made for him feels both absurd and strangely vital at this moment. He wonders what you would say if you knew the truth, that the man you married carries blood older and darker than anything you have imagined. That the secrets he keeps are not just his own.
Whatever game is being played either by this half-brother of his or by the Triptych, Minghao will end it.
But for the first time, the thought of collateral damage makes his stomach turn because now, the collateral has a name, and she sleeps in the east wing of his penthouse and sticks her nose where it doesn't belong because she's too smart for her own good.
-
Thick, metallic air swallows you the moment you step into the bar. Sweet smoke chokes the room, the neon bleed of alternate reality systems flickering from behind closed doors. A few patrons sit slumped over table tops, nursing drinks lazily as though they're half in a dream. Most of the doors are shut, the private alternate reality rooms cutting them off from the bar and everything else in the real world.
Energy shifts immediately. Your skin prickles, and you scan the room, sensing the way energy here is a vacuum, like these rooms that offer everything but reality suck the essence of the soul out of the body.
The rain from outside clings to your coat in silver beads, but the oppressive warmth in the bar immediately makes your back and neck start to sweat. You step into the bar further, letting the door shut close behind you, cutting off the sound from the Pearl District. Neon from the district streets leaks through frosted windows in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the high wooden beams in shifting colors.
A few figures who move with the careful grace of people who have stepped between realities one too many times. You scan them all without making it obvious, your fingers brushing the black tourmaline cord hidden beneath your sleeve. The small knife in the hidden slit of your coat presses reassuringly against your ribs as your gaze settles on the woman behind the bar.
She's pretty, pouring someone a drink as she laughs at something the customer says. A simple black tank top shows toned arms covered in faint tattoos that seem to shift when the light hits them at the right angle. Her features are difficult to hold onto, like she's someone you might forget the moment you turn away while being strangely magnetic.
You drive toward the bar, hyperaware of the way the bartender notices you. Based on the description, you think she's who the Tower's daughter told you to find.
Kero, she'd said, eyeing you warily. Kero is good at information. Are you okay, though? I can help if you're in danger, you know that, right?
It had been a kind offer whispered at a gala last week, a rare moment where the two of you had been in the powder room and you'd been insane enough to ask her for a good source of information in the Syndicate.
Your heart pounds thinking about it again, remember the way she'd raised her brows and urge you to tell her if there was something wrong. Her kindness was a rarity in the Syndicate, and though you were somewhat familiar with her, facing her full on had been nearly overwhelming.
The bartender turns toward you as you slide onto a stool, her lips curving into a grin as she leans one hip against the bar.
"Hi," he drawls, eyes flicking up and down as she drinks you in. "New face. You look very expensive, sweetheart. What can I pour you?"
“I’m not here for a drink,” you say evenly. “I’m looking for Kero.”
Her smile doesn’t falter, but something sharp flickers behind her eyes. She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now, as if reassessing the woman standing in front of her.
"Kero is around. What do you need?" She asks eventually, fingers tapping the top of the bar.
"The Tower's daughter told me Kero might be able to help me with some information."
The words land with weight. She straightens slightly, the playful curve of her mouth diminishing. Mentioning the Tower’s daughter commands absolute authority here, you realize. She gives you a long, measured look, dark eyes tracing over your face, your coat, the way you hold yourself, drinking in every detail.
"I'm nothing if not a humble servant to the Tower and his children," she says eventually. "I'm Kero. You can come with me, sweetheart. Keep your pretty hands where I can see them, yeah? Baby is a good friend of mine, but I don't know you."
She slips out from behind the bar fluidly, exchanging a quick, wordless nod with the burly bartender who steps in to cover her station seamlessly. You follow, weaving between tables. No one notices you as you walk by, each customer staring off into nothingness with a glazed over expression that makes you shiver.
Kero leads you to a narrow hallway, the walls covered in flickering frames of alternate reality landscapes. You glance at them as you walk by, looking into lush forests, empty beaches, and night skies. At the end of the hall, she stops and presses her balm to a hidden scanner, a heavy wooden door hissing open after her clearance passes. She gestures for you to enter first, grinning and winking as you pass by her.
The private room beyond is small but surprisingly comfortable, a storage space turned lounger. Dim amber sconces cast warm, flickering light across two worn leather armchairs and a low table. A plush couch sits against one wall, and shelves hold bottles of rare liquor, scattered data pads, and a few precious paper books.
Kero closes the door behind you, engages the lock with a soft click, then turns with that same half-smile. She gestures to one of the armchairs, leaning casually against the table’s edge. You sit gracefully, unwilling to let her know that she makes you feel off keel.
Something about her unsettles you. In the dimmer room, her features are even harder to latch on to, like her eyes change everytime you look away or her hair is a shade adjusted. She watches you like a cat watches a mouse as you sit, and though you know mentioning the Tower's daughter has awarded you some power, you're not sure it's given you immunity here.
“So,” she says lightly. "What kind of trouble are you in, hmm?"
"Who says I'm in trouble?"
"It's written all over your face. You're tense as shit."
You give a small, knowing smile. “I’m not used to the Pearl District. That doesn’t mean I’m lost.”
Kero cocks her head. “Damn, no VR for you, huh? You rich types don’t really need to escape reality. You have everything you could ever want.”
“Not everything.”
"Unless you're trying to escape that fancy marriage."
"So you know who I am?"
Kero pushes off the table and walks over to a chair, dropping into it unceremoniously before pivoting sideways to hook the backs of her knees over the arm.
“Of course I do,” she snorts, dropping into the opposite chair and hooking her knees over the arm. “Big wedding. I wasn’t invited. Not high enough up the ladder, you know what I mean?”
"No."
"You're very honest, Mrs. Xu."
You meet her eyes without hesitation. “I’m very honest, yes.”
The name Mrs. Xu still feels foreign, but you no longer flinch. You so rarely hear people use your new legal name - most people still often see you as the heiress to Nexus Capital, content to use your family name because in this city, Minghao has married into your family, not the other way around.
"I met a man a few days ago at a gala and he left me with questions," you start slowly. Kero raises her brows. "No one really seems to know who he is, which isn't common among the elite."
She snorts. "You came here because someone isn't as well known as you?"
You ignore the barb, continuing, "He gave me the name Sato Ken. He doesn't seem to be much - just a mid-level businessman who married the daughter of a Patron of the Choi Syndicate. I think he might have a second name, though. Do you know anyone by the name of Zhi Yuan?"
Kero shakes her head. "Should I?"
"I don't know. Do you know what the Virate is?”
Kero’s entire posture changes in an instant. The lazy sprawl vanishes. She unhooks her legs and plants her boots on the floor with a quiet thud, leaning forward sharply and the playful glint in her eyes hardens into something guarded and alert.
“Virate,” she repeats, voice low and sharp. “What are you doing with the Virate?”
"I don't know what the Virate is."
"Of course you don't." She stands in one fluid motion, pacing a tight circle behind her chair, one hand dragging through her hair. “Tell me how you came across the Virate. Explain in detail."
You do. You tell her about the man from the gala, how something about his energy felt misaligned, your instincts screaming. How your research led you to the foster home in the Lower District where the cleaner had given you the strange, ominous warning about the Virate. About how you think Sato Ken and Zhi Yuan might be the same person.
Kero stops pacing. She steps closer, extending her right hand under the nearest sconce, palm down. You're not sure what you're supposed to be looking at until your eyes catch the smallest little scar, silver and right over the knuckle. Just like Sato Ken. Just like Minghao.
"Did he have a scar like this? Do you know?" She asks.
"Yes."
Kero pulls her hand back, flexing it once before sinking into her chair with heavier grace. The leather creaks as she rubs her temple, staring at the low table for a long beat while distant bass throbs from the bar’s VR rooms and rain drums steadily against the outer walls.
“Alright,” she says at last, voice quieter. "The Virate isn’t some street gang or Syndicate. They're like the Syndicate's here in the city but the structure is very different and they're a lot more complex. Think generations of bloodlines that build a shadow confederation that works in the cracks most people never see. They pull kids through foster systems, adoptions, quiet placements. Forge them. Shades, they call the ones with no names. Ghosts trained from blood and bone to serve the Triptych - the three who sit at the top.”
"Okay," you say slowly. "So you're saying maybe Sato Ken was Zhi Yuan previously, and now he's Sato Ken and he's a member of the Virate."
She shows her hand again, the silver scar making you shiver. "Virate initiation. They take the same finger during interrogation to see if you break. If you don't, they give you the finger back. If you break, you die."
You sit frozen, the weight of her words pressing down like cold rain. Minghao has that scar. You think of Minghao’s brutal efficiency on the terrace, the dead language in the car, the way he always deflects with half-truths. Your heart beats hard, frantic.
"If Sato Ken isn't a real name, you might be dealing with a Shade. It's hard to say. Shades are hard to find and are usually found only if they want to be… being uncovered for them is like death. They're the hidden assassins the Triptych likes to raise. Not even standard members of the Virate know who they are." Kero leans back. "Did he make any threats or have you seen him before?"
"No," you tell her. Your mind is on Minghao and not Ken - Yuan, whatever his name is. "Just met him at a party. My gut tells me he's important."
"If your gut managed to find an assassin for the Virate, that's a pretty good stomach."
You hum, noncommittal. "So you're a member of the Virate?"
"Was," she corrects. "Left when I was thirteen."
Both of you sit in silence as your mind races through fragments that feel too sharp to ignore. The scar on Kero’s knuckle. The identical mark on Sato Ken - Zhi Yuan. And Minghao. That thin, precise line across his first knuckle that you’d noticed from the very first boardroom meeting. The way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch. The ancient language he spoke in the car after the wedding attack. The effortless violence on the terrace. The way he knew about your practice without you ever showing him.
The realization settles heavy in your chest. Your husband - the man who pressed his jacket to your bleeding arm, who wears the red bracelet you braided with your own hair - is not who anyone thinks he is.
Kero doesn’t mention the Xu family once. Doesn’t connect Minghao to any of this. Her ignorance of your husband’s involvement is louder than any confirmation could be- Minghao is an unknown member of the Virate. A Shade, Kero had called it. A ghost wearing the face of a logistics heir, planted here for purposes far beyond shipping contracts and political marriages. You keep your expression neutral, swallowing the storm of questions and fears that you can't let consume you - not here, not with this stranger.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. "This helps."
You reach into the inner pocket of your coat and pull out two things: the sleek, matte-black digital card and a small silk pouch you’d prepared weeks ago during one of your quiet Wednesday rituals. You set the card on the low table first, then slide the pouch toward her with careful fingers.
“If you ever want a new private account set up, use this," you tell her. "It's completely clean and untraceable, with access to resources most people here only dream about in these AR rooms you run." You point at the pouch. "This is for protection. Black salt, rosemary, a bit of hematite. I made it myself. It’s nothing fancy, but… it's my way of showing gratitude."
Kero stares at the offerings, genuine surprise flickering across her face. She picks up the silk pouch, turning it over in her scarred hand. “You made this?” Her eyes lift to yours, sharper now. “Are you a practitioner?”
“I dabble. It was something I started as a kid to pass time. I.. didn’t have much of a childhood and some of the housemaids practiced.”
Kero’s lips curve into a faint, knowing smile, but she doesn’t press. She tucks the pouch into her pocket with surprising care. “If you ever want to apprentice with real practitioners, go to the Silver Thorn Apothecary in the Lower District, near the old canal bridge. Tell them Kero sent you. They don’t take just anyone, but they might make an exception.”
“I appreciate it.”
Kero leans back, studying you for a long moment. The amber light softens the edges of her shifting features. “Watch yourself with the Virate. They don’t play by Syndicate rules. They bind blood, erase names, and turn children into weapons. Once you’re in their sights, it’s hard to get out.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Still… there’s something about your energy. Stubborn. Grounded. I like it."
A small grin tugs at your lips. “I’m trying. I should go. Thank you again, Kero. For everything."
You stand and she rises with you, holding the digital card in her hand. "Don't be a stranger, Mrs. Xu. Try to stay alive."
Rain hisses down on you as you leave, your boots splashing softly in the shallow puddles pooling in the concrete. The Pearl District is alive with partygoers, tourists and socialites heading to clubs, casinos and more, their laughter harsh against the churning of your mind.
Minghao is a Shade. You know with utter certainty, somehow. He's a ghost - a weapon, and you have no idea what it means that he married you or what he wants. He'd told you that you were no use to his family dead and you still believe that, but now you want to know for what.
In an alley between buildings, you dig around in your pocket for your cards. You shuffle them quickly, rain beading on their glossy surface as you do. Three cards slip out one by one, catching on your wet hands until you pull them out of the deck and flip them over.
The Tower. The Moon reversed. Death.
Thoughts of the cards haunt you all the way to the train. Your hood is pulled low, the black fabric of your coat blending into the sea of weary commuters. The bracelet on your wrist feels heavier than usual, a quiet anchor against the unease crawling up your spine.
Pressed between a businessman muttering into his phone and a woman clutching a synthetic flower bouquet, a sense of unease creeps up on you. Eyes on you. Not the casual glances of strangers, but something deliberate and predatory.
The doors hiss shut and the train lurches forward, accelerating into the tunnel with a low whine that vibrates through your bones. You keep your gaze fixed on the scratched window, watching the blur of service lights streak past like dying stars. Your hand slips into your coat pocket, fingers brushing the matte-black comm device Minghao gave you months ago. The private channel. Encrypted. Off-grid. You haven’t used it yet, but it feels good to have in your hand.
You shift your weight, scanning the car without turning your head. Faces blur in peripheral vision, a sea of tired eyes, downturned mouths, and people asleep in seats. No one stands out. No one meets your eyes for too long. Yet the sensation builds, a slow pressure like storm clouds gathering before lightning splits the Tower.
Two stops pass and your pulse quickens with each one. At the third, you make a split-second decision to get off that's nowhere near your intended route toward the Observatory. You elbow your way toward the doors as they open, stepping onto the platform and into the sub-level station, ait thick with the scent of damp rot and the distant rumble of freight loaders. Neon signs flicker overhead, advertising cheap stim-packs and off-grid betting dens.
You don’t look back. Not immediately. You weave through the sparse crowd, heels clicking against cracked concrete, and take the exit stairs two at a time. The streets above are narrower, hemmed in by crooked buildings and powerlines that spark intermittently in the thin rain. You turn left, then right, cutting through a market alley where vendors hawk sticky buns and meat skewers, fat sizzling.
Still, the feeling follows.
Your breath comes sharper now and you pause at a corner stall, pretending to examine a rack of knockoff jade pendants while your eyes flick across reflections in a rain-streaked metal panel. Nothing. A shadow shifts two stalls down, but it's gone when you focus. Your instincts, honed by years of the universe’s subtle nudges, scream a single name.
Sato Ken.
The thought lands like a cold blade between your ribs. The scar on his knuckle flashes in your memory. So does his polished smile and the way his gaze had lingered too long at the last charity function, heavy with something unreadable. You’d felt it then too. The Devil.
You quicken your pace, ducking down a narrower side street. The rain intensifies, sheeting off overhangs and turning the ground into a slick mirror of fractured neon. Your coat clings to your skin, heavy and cold. Heart hammering, you slip into a shadowed alley between two derelict storage units where it smells of rust and urine.
Crates are stacked haphazardly against one wall, providing meager cover where you press your back to the damp brick, breathing through your mouth to stay quiet. Water drips from a rusted pipe overhead, steady as a metronome. For a moment, only the distant train rumbles and your own pulse fills the space.
A splash confirms you're being followed and you don't hesitate. Your fingers close around the comm device, pulling it free with trembling hands. The surface is cool, almost alive under your touch, drinking in the faint alley light. You activate it with a press of your thumb, the faint holo-sheen blooming like starlight in the dark. The private channel connects with a soft chime that feels too loud in the confined space.
It rings once. Twice.
“Come on,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the rain.
Your free hand grips the small knife in your other pocket, though the blade feels inadequate against whatever waits in the shadows. The universe had warned you. The cards had warned you. Death upright. Transformation through violence.
The line clicks open and Minghao's voice comes through, low and immediate. "What's wrong?"
You've never been happier to hear his voice. The sound of his calm and controlled voice nearly buckles your knees. You lean harder into the wall, eyes darting to the alley mouth where a silhouette might appear any second. Rain sluices down your face, mixing with the cold sweat on your skin. The feeling of being watched intensifies, a prickling heat at your nape like fingers hovering just above your spine.
"I need you to find me," you tell him, voice barely audible. "I'm about to get taken or killed."
"Wicked-"
"You have access to my medical records," you interrupt. "You should have been emailed how to access. I have a subcutaneous tracking chip. Activate the emergency beacon with the password given to you - it pings your private network. Do it now."
Footsteps again, deliberate now, closing in from the alley’s entrance. A shadow detaches from the gloom, tall and masked.
“I know you’re a Shade,” you whisper. “Maybe I mean nothing to you at all, but you saved me on our wedding night and if I’m still important to your family, you need to find me. Or at least my body."
Minghao says your name - not wicked woman, not wicked - just your name. You say nothing else, swallowing as you drop the comm in the rain and crush it under your heel, the sharp crack lost to the sound of increasing downpour.
When the figure steps out of the shadows, all you can see are the grey eyes. You stare at him head on, refusing to show him fear despite the way your hands tremble in the cold rain.
"Is your husband coming?"
"Yes."
He nods. "Good."
-
Thunder shakes the penthouse. It's not loud enough to drown out the hammering of Minghao's heart as he gets dressed frantically. For once, Minghao feels like he might be panicking. He's not entirely sure - panic is a foreign concept to him. As a Shade of the Virate, he doesn't operate in adrenaline and panic - he simply exists in the detachment of calm and deliberate decision making.
This doesn't feel like that. He has no idea when he started caring about you so much - can't even really figure out when it happened. He supposes between the random late night dinners, the rare instances of breakfast, and the weekends when he watched you sit at the coffee table with your little herbs and candles muttering to yourself, he decided he liked you.
Had you been the elitist, snobby socialite he assumed you were going to be, he wouldn't be in this situation. Yet fate - because he's starting to believe in fate - had put you into your position - unprepared and woefully unjaded - through the violence of your sister's death, and put you directly into Minghao's path. He doesn't know what else to call it, because only destiny could be this specific.
Rain crawls in silver streaks down the windows, turning Hyperion into a smeared galaxy beneath the clouds. Minghao stands in front of the open wardrobe in a black compression shirt and tactical trousers, fingers gone motionless around the clasp of his chest holder as the information he'd requested through your instructions appears across the retinal display he'd put over his right eye.
Minghao watches as your biometrics spike violently across the lens. Oxygen levels unstable, cortisol flooding yourself, neutral activity elevated. Nothing in your current vitals tells him that you're dying, which is the single positive news he has while he finishes buckling the holster before he opens another hidden compartment in his room, revealing weapons.
He takes the knives and two guns. They charge at his touch, the pulse letting him know they're primed as he holsters them. The red cord around his wrist slides with his hand movement, the azabache charm clicks against the gun as he removes his hand.
You'd looked so serious when you handed it to him, like you were testing him. He hadn't seen it then for what it was - a leap of faith to see if he was serious about you practicing your little customs without fear from him. Now he knows that he'd passed the test, because you'd start being more open around him. Not hiding things. Calling him and telling him you needed his help.
Minghao yanks a jacket over the holsters and accesses the medical feed again with a blink of his eyes. Nothing has changed, and your location still pings in an abandoned shipping corridor near Pier Nine. It's in Xu territory, a dock that belongs exclusively to Minghao's father, and by extension, Choi Moojin.
The hours Minghao has spent trying to track down his half brother have gone to waste. It appears that his brother has the jump on him, and why shouldn't he? Zhi Yuan or whatever the name he goes by now has known Minghao existed for far longer than Minghao has known he had a sibling, and it's clear that you've been in his sights for a while as an obvious attempt to get to Minghao.
Minghao is going to kill him. He made the decision long before you'd called him. He had decided before his mother even finished telling him about Yuan, about the first born son she naively thought the Virate gave away. It doesn't matter if Yuan is blood, though. He'd spilled the blood of those under the protection of the Xu family, and Minghao was bound by honor to pay him back.
Blood for blood.
It's not an easy situation. Minghao doesn't know if his brother is here by authorization of the Virate, or if he's gone rogue. The right thing to do would be to contact the Triptych, but Minghao has no plans of doing that. It's too much of a risk if they've sanctioned whatever attack this is, so he's decided to do what he wants. He knows it'll have consequences - he has carried out the punishment for this kind of thing plenty of times.
"Fuck," Minghao sighs, running a hand over his face.
As much as he wants to do this alone, he knows that the odds will be better if he has leverage. Everything with the Virate and the Triptych especially is above leverage and moves within moves, and Minghao doesn't have any right now. So he picks up the phone and dials a number he's never called before, heart hammering as the phone rings.
"Xu Minghao," Jeonghan answers softly. "What can I do for our favorite shipping heir on a rainy Thursday evening?"
Minghao slips a knife into the sheath at the base of his spine as he speaks. “I need a deal.”
Jeonghan pauses. "Oh?"
"In exchange for leverage and information on the Virate."
"I'm listening."
"I need protection and support from the Choi Syndicate if the Virate comes knocking at my door."
Jeonghan's no longer amused or joking when he says, "And why would they do that?"
"Agree to it before I say anything."
Jeonghan pauses. "Why'd you call me?"
"You're the heir to the Wisdom and you're smart. You'll know whether I'm lying or you'll figure it out yourself. Now I want a deal before I say anything."
The Observatory feels too high, too isolated tonight, suspended above the storm like a fragile glass cage. Neon from the distant Pearl District bleeds through the fog in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the matte black steel beams in shifting hues that do nothing to calm the unfamiliar knot twisting in his chest.
The line is silent for a beat too long. Jeonghan’s voice returns, stripped of its usual lazy amusement. “A deal, how bold. Alright - I, Yoon Jeonghan, Second to the Wisdom, affirm that the verbally negotiated agreement between us is valid and binding, and will be upheld by the Choi Syndicate under penalty of death or exile. Talk."
“The Virate,” Minghao starts, running a hand through his hair. "I'm a member. They raised me as a Shade. Nameless. Trained for killing and secret work. My family’s move to Hyperion, the logistics empire, this marriage - it isn't just business moves, it’s for the Virate. They wanted someone nameless but loyal to sow seeds and gain influence with one of the Syndicates of the city, ideally the Choi Syndicate."
A soft whistle from the other end. “And here I thought you were just another pretty Arkos heir playing at power. Continue.”
Minghao’s jaw tightens. He moves to the bedroom door, glancing once toward the east wing where you should be safe. The biometric feed in his retinal display pulses steadily, your location fixed, stress elevated but alive. For now.
“I have an unexpected target on my back,” he says, already striding toward the private elevator. “A Shade operative. One I didn’t know existed until recently. He orchestrated the wedding attack. Tonight, he has her. I’m on my way to eliminate him. It might blow back. If the Virate decides I’ve gone rogue or exposed too much, they’ll come for cleanup. I need Choi Syndicate support if that happens - protection, resources, a buffer. In exchange, I’ll give you information useful for leveraging a partnership with the Virate in Arkos. Real leverage. Names. Structures. Weak points the Triptych would rather keep buried.”
The elevator doors hiss open. Minghao steps inside, the mirrored walls reflecting a man dressed for violence. His hair is still damp from the earlier rain, eyes sharp and unblinking. Jeonghan is quiet again, but Minghao can hear the calculation in the silence, the Wisdom's son weighing angles, risks, opportunities.
"Hm," Jeonghan hums. "Interesting. You know this verbal agreement could be void based on your intent to threaten the safety of the Syndicate, right?" Minghao doesn't answer as the elevator plunges downward. "Why trust me with this?"
“Because you’re useful,” Minghao answers flatly. “And because my wife is bleeding time in a warehouse while we talk. Agree or don’t. But if I walk into this alone and don’t come back, you lose the chance at whatever game you’re playing with the docks.”
“You’re more interesting than I gave you credit for, Minghao. Fine. Deal. Choi support if the Virate comes calling. You deliver on the information. And try not to die, Baby would be devastated if the lead she gave your wife ended up with her dying."
Minghao pauses. "We'll discuss what you mean later."
"Sure."
Minghao pockets the phone. His mind cycles through possibilities of Yuan’s training, the scar, the grey eyes that matched his mother’s. Blood for blood. The old laws demanded it, but something sharper cuts beneath the duty now. Your voice on the comm, steady even in terror. The way you’d crushed the device rather than let it lead danger straight back here. Stubborn. Honest. Wicked in ways that had nothing to do with tarot cards.
The doors open into the cold concrete expanse. Elara and Kai snap to attention near the armored car, but Minghao waves them off with a sharp gesture. “Stay here. Guard the penthouse. No one in or out. If I’m not back by dawn, call Yoon Jeonghan."
“Understood, sir.”
Minghao slides into the driver’s seat himself, the engine humming to life. Rain hammers the garage ramp as he accelerates upward, the city’s neon arteries blurring past. His grip on the wheel is steady, but the red cord around his wrist catches the dashboard light.
His hands tighten on the wheel. He's ending this game of shadows tonight.
-
Your head throbs with a deep, nauseating pulse that radiates from the back of your skull down through your jaw. The world tilts when you try to lift it, the edges of the dim warehouse blurring like wet ink on parchment. The concussion is surely courtesy of the desperate headbutt you'd delivered when Zhi Yuan had grabbed you in that alley. The satisfying crunch of his nose breaking still echoes faintly in your memory, a small, defiant victory amid the terror.
Thick ropes bite into your wrists and ankles, securing you to a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. The warehouse is vast and derelict, one of the many abandoned husks along the Lower Water Street docks where Xu shipping containers sit in rows.
Rain hammers on the corrugated roof overhead, leaking in thin streams through gaps in the panels to form oily puddles on the concrete. Dim emergency lights cast long, sickly yellow shadows across stacked crates and rusted forklift skeletons.
You test the ropes around you subtly, keeping your movements small, but there's no give. Your small knife is long gone, though the black tourmaline bracelet is still there, warm against your skin, a fragile tether.
Across from you, Zhi Yuan is seated casually on an overturned crate. Blood has dried in dark rivulets from his broken nose down over his mouth and chin, staining the collar of his shirt. The injury makes his sharp, balanced features turn grotesque, his grey eyes eery in the low light. He holds a stained cloth in his hand, dabbing occasionally at the swelling in his face.
"You're not what I expected," he admits. "Though I suppose any woman associated with the Choi family fights back."
You lift your chin, ignoring the way the motion sends fresh dizziness spiraling through you. Fear coils tight in your gut, but you refuse to let it show. You meet his gaze evenly, challenging every boardroom lesson your father ever drilled into you since your sister's death.
"Headbutting you was worth the headache," you mutter. "Though I imagine it hurts worse on your end."
His mouth twitches into something like a smile. "I've endured worse. You know, most heiresses would be sobbing by now. Begging. Offering credits or Syndicate favors."
"I'm not worried."
"You think your husband is coming?"
"I know so."
He leans back and sighs. "I know so too." His eyes watch you carefully. "I saw the way you looked at my scar at the gala. Same as his. You don't miss much, do you?"
“Enough to know you're a threat. What do you want, Zhi Yuan? Or is it Ken? Does the Virate let you keep any name at all?"
His grey eyes narrow slightly, but the amusement doesn't fade. "Names are fluid for us. Tools. Zhi Yuan was the boy the system forgot. Sato Ken was the man who married well and smiled at galas. Neither is real. But you can call me Yuan. It's... familiar."
“Familiar because of whatever connection you have to my husband.”
Yuan stops dabbing his nose and watches you for a long moment. He rises slowly, pacing a few steps through the puddle-streaked space. His boots splash softly. Yuan drags another crate closer and sits across from you again, legs stretched out casually.
“Tell me,” he drawls. “How does it feel to be married to a man who was never meant to have a wife? A real one, anyway.”
“It feels like he's going to kill you." You stare at him. "And if he doesn't, the Choi Syndicate will. I'm not some random woman you can steal away in the middle of the night. Your turn - why me if this is about him or the Virate?"
"I was at your wedding, you know?" He cocks his head. "You made a beautiful bride. The intent was to kill you and turn the Choi Syndicate against him, but once I saw that he cared, I knew that wouldn't work. They would see his honestly. So now you're just bait. My brother owes me a conversation."
The revelation hits you like a physical blow. Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Brother. You look into Yuan's eyes and don't know how you missed it - Luli looks right back at you, the cool grey, the calm eye of the storm.
Yuan watches your reaction with dark satisfaction, leaning back slowly. “Yes. Luli’s firstborn. The one she tried to hide. I found out about him by accident, you know? There he was, golden second son, raised by our mother and Jian in relative comfort, given a public name and legit empire to inherit while being a Shade for the Virate. All while I rotted in foster homes and training cells, learning how to kill before I could read properly. It wasn’t fair. He got life, the light, the illusion of choice. I got the shadows and the scars."
The Devil upright. A man in chains, who cannot escape what he is bound to. The tarot cards make sense, suddenly. You're looking at the devil, a man who cannot or will not escape the fate he thinks he's tethered to. You think of the Nine of Wands upright - a wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant - and realize it's Minghao. Someone stuck between two worlds.
"I don't care where you're from or who you're related to," you spit out. "Only a weak man pities himself to this degree."
It hits a nerve. Yuan stands, violence written all over his face, but a device on the table a few feet away chimes and shows a hologram of a map, a red dot pinging as it approaches. Your heart lurches when you realize it's Minghao, throat tightening as the dot speeds through the roads of the Warehouse District.
"Finally," Yuan sighs. "I get to meet my brother."
Thunder rolls in the distance. Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch the entrance door, hearing the hiss of tires and the slamming of a car door. You can barely breath until the heavy metal door is being ripped open, rain pouring in as a dark silhouette slips through. Minghao shuts the door behind him, water streaming off of his black jacket, hair plastered to his forehead and neck. His eyes are unreadable, scanning the room before they fall on you.
Minghao strides forward, ignoring Yuan entirely. Your heart stutters, the violence in his eyes like nothing you've seen.
"Are you okay?" His voice cuts through the rain, low and steady.
You manage a nod, the motion sending fresh spikes of pain through your skull. The ropes bite deeper as you shift, but you hold his gaze. “I’m alive.”
Minghao’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along his cheek. For a heartbeat, the polished heir you met in the boardroom vanishes completely. This is the man who snapped an assassin’s neck on your wedding night. This is the Shade.
"Good. I'll be just a moment, okay?"
You nod and only then does he turn to his brother. Yuan is standing, clearly annoyed. The resemblance is unmistakable now that you know to look for it - the same sharp-soft balance in their features, the same predatory grace. But where Minghao carries a coiled stillness, Yuan vibrates with resentment, grey eyes burning with untapped rage.
“Brother,” Yuan greets. “Took you long enough.”
Minghao doesn’t waste words on pleasantries. “You’re no family of mine. We cull men weak enough to be driven by petty jealousies.” Minghao gestures to him. “Knives only. Old way. No guns. No tricks. You and me."
Yuan’s smile widens, splitting the dried blood on his lip. “You still cling to the old customs? You're a little princeling here - you aren't Virate.”
“I honor what I am,” Minghao replies. He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the wet floor. Beneath it, the compression shirt clings to his frame, revealing the holster straps and the faint outline of the small spell jar you gave him, still tucked against his chest. The red bracelet on his wrist stands out like a slash of blood against pale skin. “Do you?”
Yuan laughs, low and bitter and strips down to a similar compression shirt as Minghao. Two blades appear in his hands, thin, wickedly curved karambits that catch the light. “I was forged in the same dark you were. Let’s see which of us the Triptych favored more.”
Minghao draws his own knives. No flourish. Just efficient, practiced motion. One in each hand, shorter than Yuan’s but perfectly balanced. He rolls his shoulders once, eyes never leaving his brother’s face as the rain hammers the roof in relentless sheets and water drips from cracks overhead, plinking into puddles that spread across the concrete like spilled ink.
You test the ropes again, heart hammering against your ribs. The black tourmaline bracelet feels warm against your skin, a small circle of your own intention. You close your eyes, sucking in a short breath as you center yourself and focus on the single intention you have: Minghao living.
The fight begins without warning and you flinch. Yuan lunges first, a blur of motion across the wet floor, his karambit slashing in a wide arc meant to open Minghao’s throat. Minghao twists inside the reach, blades flashing up to parry. Metal screams against metal and sparks fly, tiny and bright in the dimness. They separate, circling each other like lions.
Yuan attacks again, faster this time, feinting low before slicing high. Minghao ducks, but not quite fast enough as the blade catches his shoulder, opening a shallow line of red. Blood wells immediately, mixing with rainwater. Minghao doesn’t flinch. He counters with a vicious upward thrust that forces Yuan to leap back, boots splashing.
Each collision is brutal, knives cutting air. Feet slide on the slick concrete, searching for purchase. Yuan is slightly taller, leveraging reach, but Minghao is faster and more economical with his movements, his efficiency brutal as he slashes Yuan across the rib, tearing fabric and flesh.
Minghao presses the advantage, driving Yuan backward with a series of rapid strikes. Their blades lock, faces inches apart, and for a moment, they strain against each other, muscles corded, breath visible in the damp air. Yuan’s grey eyes gleam with something like joy.
"I knew you liked the girl," Yuan goads. "This isn't business for you. This is emotional."
Minghao headbutts him hard and Yuan's face explodes in blood again, the damage you'd done earlier doubling. He stumps and Minghao follows, his knives dancing in a pattern too fast for you to track as he cuts open Yuan's shoulder, his forearm, his thigh. Minghao moves like pain is irrelevant, cutting Yuan until the man is screaming and kicking at Minghao for distance.
Yuan feints left, then spins, driving a blade toward Minghao’s kidney. You suck in a sharp breath but Minghao pivots and catches Yuan's wrist, twisting violently with a sickening pop. Yuan roars, dropping one karambit while swinging wildly with the other. Minghao takes a cut across the chest for it, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he yanks Yuan forward and drives his own knife upward where it sinks into Yuan's side, just under his ribs.
Yuan gasps, eyes widening. He tries to pull away, but Minghao holds him close, almost intimate. Their faces are inches apart, rain dripping from Minghao's hair onto Yuan's cheek.
"Blood for blood," he says, voice hard. He says something to Yuan in that same language you don't understand before he twists the knife.
Yuan’s mouth opens in a silent scream while his free hand claws at Minghao’s shoulder, leaving bloody streaks. His grey eyes lock onto Minghao’s for one long, terrible second. Then the light in them gutters out. Minghao yanks the blade free and Yuan collapses to the wet concrete with a heavy splash. Blood spreads beneath him, dark and final, mixing with rainwater and oil. The body twitches once, twice, then stills.
Minghao stands over his brother for a long moment, chest heaving, blood running down his arms and torso. Then he turns to you. The shift in him is immediate and devastating as the killer melts away into something soft. He crosses the distance in three strides, dropping to his knees in the puddle before your chair
His hands are trembling as he unties the ropes at your wrist, careful as he cuts through them with the knife slicked in his brother's blood. His dark eyes search your face frantically, cataloguing every bruise, the swelling at your temple, the way you’re favoring your head.
"Are you hurt?" He murmurs. "Tell me where. Please."
Please. You don't think you've ever heard him say that. Not to you. The way he says it is devastatingly soft, his sharp eyes round as he looks up at you, hands hovering like he doesn't know what to do.
“I’m okay," you whisper.
Minghao cuts away at the ropes around your ankle before tossing the knife and pulling you forward, careful not to press against any injuries. His embrace is fierce and gentle at once, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other spanning your back. You can feel his heart hammering against yours, fast and terrified in a way his face never shows.
It's the first time he's touched you - honestly touched you - since your brief kiss at the altar and the night you were almost killed. His touch is grounding and warm, the smell of him comforting but laced with the metallic tang of blood. You pull away, your hands hovering as you look at all the places he's bleeding.
“You’re bleeding-"
“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls you back in, his voice muffled by your hair. "You are nosey and you are stubborn and you are fascinating. Thank you for calling me."
"Minghao, you need stitches."
“Later.” He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed. Rain drips from his lashes. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters right now.”
The spell jar is still pressed between you, warm against his chest. You can feel its faint outline. The red bracelet on his wrist brushes your skin as he cups your face again. Something inside your chest cracks open, relief, fear, the strange blooming warmth you’ve been trying to ignore for months.
“I knew you’d come,” you whisper.
“I will always come for you.” The words are quiet, almost reverent. He kisses your forehead, then your temple, avoiding the bruise, then the corner of your mouth. Not possessive. Just desperate reassurance. “I’m sorry you had to face him alone."
“I headbutted him. Broke his nose.”
A soft, startled laugh escapes him. “Of course you did.” His thumb traces your jaw. “My wicked, impossible wife.”
He helps you stand, supporting most of your weight when your legs threaten to buckle. The warehouse spins for a moment, but his arm around your waist anchors you. He keeps you turned away from Yuan’s body, shielding you with his own as he guides you toward the broken door.
Outside, the rain is still falling in torrents. Minghao’s car idles just beyond the entrance, lights off, engine humming low. He helps you into the passenger seat with painstaking care, buckling you in, checking the angle of your head, murmuring soft instructions to breathe slowly. Then he rounds the car and slides behind the wheel.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Rain lashes the windshield. Minghao’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles white. Blood still trickles from the cut on his chest, but he ignores it, eyes fixed on you.
“I killed my brother tonight,” he says eventually, voice hollow. “For you. I need you to know I would do it again. I understand I have not been forthcoming or warm, but I care for you.”
You reach across the console and take his hand. His fingers curl around yours immediately, tight enough to hurt. The red bracelet shifts between you.
“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you.”
He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes closing again. When they open, the intensity is back, but softer now. Protective. Possessive in a way that feels like safety rather than the chains you'd felt that first meeting in the boardroom.
“Let’s go home,” he says.
You nod, exhaustion crashing over you like the rain outside.
-
Doctor Tzintzun finally steps back, wiping her hands on a sterile cloth. The Observatory penthouse is quiet except for the low hum of the air filtration system and the distant patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Fog presses close outside, turning Hyperion into a muted glow far below
The doctor packs her kit with efficient movements, glancing between you and Minghao. “The stitches on your arm will hold, but keep them dry. Concussion protocol is in place - rest, dim lights, no screens. As for you, Mr. Xu, those cuts were deep. Change the dressings in six hours. Pain management is on the bedside table. Call if anything worsens.”
Minghao nods once, voice low. “Thank you. Elara will see you out.”
The door seals behind them with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the low-lit living room. Your body aches in new and old places, your temple tender from the concussion. But you’re alive. He’s alive.
Minghao sits on the wide, low couch beside you, closer than he’s ever been in this space. The black silk robe he wears hangs open at the chest, revealing the edge of white bandages and the hard planes of muscle beneath. His hair is damp, falling across his forehead in dark strands. The red bracelet you made him still circles his right wrist, the azabache charm catching the soft amber light from the single lamp. He hasn’t taken it off.
You shift slightly, the oversized shirt you wear - his, you realize - riding up your thighs. The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. The fight. The blood. The truth of what he is. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the faint scar on his knuckle, the way his chest rises and falls with careful, controlled breaths.
He turns toward you, dark eyes intense in the dimness. For once, there’s no polished mask, no deflection. Just raw, unguarded focus on your face.
“I don’t know why you get under my skin,” he says quietly. "I was trained not to let anyone close. Attachments were liabilities. You were supposed to be a transaction - a bridge that was useful and controllable."
He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch lingers, callused fingertips tracing your jaw. “But you fight back when you should crumble. You read the universe in cards and smoke and believe in it so stubbornly it makes me question everything I was forged to be. You called me when you were terrified and trusted me to come.”
His thumb strokes your lower lip, eyes dropping to watch the motion. The air between you crackles, charged like the moments before lightning. Your pulse quickens, heat blooming low in your belly despite the exhaustion and pain. You can smell him, clean skin, faint pine.
“I don’t understand it,” he murmurs, leaning closer. "You affect me. You make me want things I was never meant to have.”
"So have them," you murmur.
He laughs and kisses you. It’s not the chaste brush from your wedding. This is real and hungry, months of restrained tension exploding between you. His mouth claims yours, tongue sweeping in to taste you deeply. You moan softly into him, hands fisting in the front of his robe, pulling him closer. He tastes like mint and rain and something darker, needier. His hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip.
The world narrows to the wet slide of tongues, the soft sounds of breath and need, the heat of his body pressing you back against the couch cushions. Your bandages pull slightly but the pain is distant, drowned in sensation. His scent envelops you. The low groan vibrating from his chest makes your pussy clench.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps against your skin, voice wrecked. “If this is too much after I lied-"
“Don’t you dare,” you whisper, threading fingers through his damp hair and tugging him back up for another searing kiss.
Minghao makes a low sound and shifts you both, pulling you into his lap so you straddle him. The robe falls open completely, revealing his bandaged torso and the hard length of him pressing against you through thin fabric. Your shirt rides up, bare thighs against his hips. He’s already hard, thick and hot, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you.
He kisses you like a man starving, hands roaming under your shirt to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble tight and you let out a shaky sound, overwhelmed.
“So fucking perfect,” he growls, breaking the kiss to yank the shirt over your head.
Cool air kisses your skin, then his hot mouth is on you, sucking one nipple deep while his fingers pinch and roll the other. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, the suction - all of it pulls desperate whimpers from your throat. You arch into him, grinding down against his cock, feeling the thick ridge slide against your dampening folds through your panties.
“Minghao-" His name breaks off on a moan.
He switches sides, lavishing the other breast with the same filthy attention, sucking hard enough to leave imprints of his teeth on your skin. One hand slides down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you soaked.
“This wet for me already?” he murmurs. “My wicked wife.”
Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling deep. You cry out, hips rocking instinctively as he starts to pump them slowly at first, then faster, thumb finding your clit and circling with devastating pressure. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers working in and out of your pussy fill the room, mixing with your gasps and his low groans. He kisses you again, swallowing your moans as he finger-fucks you harder, scissoring and curling until you’re trembling on the edge.
“Come for me, baby,” he demands against your mouth. “Let me feel it.”
The orgasm crashes over you, sharp and sudden, and you clamp down hard around his fingers, thighs shaking as it rips through you. He doesn’t stop, working you through it with deep, steady strokes until you’re whimpering his name.
He pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a groan. “Taste so good. Need more.”
Before you can catch your breath, he lifts you effortlessly, ignoring the way you yelp, hands hovering near his injuries. He lays you back against the wide couch and kneels between your spread thighs, peeling your soaked panties down your legs and tossing them aside. The cool air hits your exposed, dripping pussy, making you shiver. Minghao stares like a man possessed, eyes dark, lips parted.
He spreads your thighs wider, hooking your legs over his shoulders, and buries his face between them. The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit draws a broken cry from you, his tongue parting you like velvet.
“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he mutters, voice muffled.
He sucks your clit between his lips, tongue flicking rapidly while two fingers plunge back inside you, fucking you in time with his mouth. It makes you suck in a sharp gasp, lost to the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers. You fist his hair, hips grinding against his face as another orgasm builds fast and brutal. He curls his fingers against that perfect spot inside you, sucking hard on your clit, and you shatter again with a sharp scream, thighs clamping around his head as you come again.
He laps you through it, gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive. Only then does he rise, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. His cock strains against his pants, a wet spot forming at the front that makes you eager. You reach for him, tugging the fabric down, freeing his thick, heavy length to reveal a flushed dark head slick with precum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking once, and he hisses, hips jerking.
“Need to be inside you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Now.”
He sits back on the couch, pulling you into his lap again so you can straddle him with your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. His cock slides hot and bare against your soaked folds as you grind down, coating him in your arousal.
“Fuck me,” you whisper lips dragging against his. "Like you mean it. Like I'm yours. Like you should have on our wedding night"
Minghao grips your hips, eyes locked on yours, and pulls you down onto him in one smooth, relentless thrust that has you gasping into his mouth, your hands cradling his face.
The stretch is exquisite, burning pleasure as he fills you completely, bottoming out with a shared groan. You’re so wet he slides in easily, but the fullness makes your breath hitch. You can feel every ridge, every throb of his cock buried deep enough to make you shiver.
"Fuck," he hisses. His hands knead your ass, guiding you to rock on him. “So fucking hot and wet around me.”
You start moving, riding him slow at first, savoring the drag of his thick cock against your walls. He floods your senses - his scent, the taste of him still on your lips from earlier kisses, the sight of his bandaged, muscled torso flexing beneath you, the feel of his hands guiding you harder, faster.
He surges up, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss as he thrusts up to meet you. The angle hits deep, grinding against that spot inside of you that has you twitching. Sweat slicks your bodies where they press together, his heart pounding against yours.
“Ride me harder,” he growls, one hand pressing your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock inside you. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”
You do, grinding down with fluid rolls of your hips until the pressure builds again. He sucks harshly against your neck then lower, biting and licking his way toward your chest. The feeling of his teeth scraping against you sends you over, coming around him as you hide your face in his neck, crying his name.
Minghao curses, flipping you onto your side gently with your back to his chest. He's careful as he lifts one of your thighs and hooks it over his, and he slowly thrusts back into you from behind in a single, fluid stroke. His arm wraps around you, hand cupping your breast, pinching the nipple as he fucks you with long, drawn out thrusts that have you panting.
"My pretty wife," he pants against the shell of your ear, nipping lightly. "Fate brought you to me. I know it. I never believed before until you."
You moan helplessly, pushing back to meet every thrust. Another orgasm crashes over you, vision whitening as your walls flutter and squeeze him. Minghao groans deeply, pace faltering until he buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking as he spills inside you.
You stay locked together, panting, bodies slick with sweat. His cock softens slowly inside you but he doesn’t pull out, holding you close. His hand strokes lazily over your stomach, down to where you’re still joined, feeling the mess of your combined release leaking out.
After long minutes, he presses soft kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw. Turning your head, he kisses you properly again.
“I never intended this,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss. “I was supposed to use this marriage, keep my distance, and fulfill the Virate’s purpose. But you deserve better. You deserve a real husband. Protection, honesty, partnership. I promise you that - until death, like I said. No more shadows between us."
"I would like that," you whisper, looking up into his eyes - open and honest for the first time. "Thank you."
Rain taps against the window as you lay there, tired and safe in his arms. For once, you don't worry about anything - there is nothing to worry about. The Tower has already fallen. The illusions are gone. All that remains is what you choose to build from the wreckage.
-
The wedding you always imagined is better than your first one. Late afternoon light filters through the canopy of trees in soft, dappled gold, catching on the mist that clings to ferns and low-hanging moss. The air carries the scent of damp earth, pine resin, crushed herbs, and night-blooming jasmine. For once, the rain has paused, like the earth is letting you have this brief moment among the trees.
This is nothing like the extravagent wedding suspended three hundred floors above the city. No cameras. No political theater. Just earth. Just intention. Just truth.
You're barefoot on a small clearing of soft moss and fallen petals, wearing a simple slip of midnight silk that brushes your ankles. Minghao stands across from you, barefoot and dressed in loose black linen that makes him look less like a Shade and something softer. More solid. Something yours.
A length of hand-dyed red silk binds your hands together, soaked through with oils, saturated with the smell of rose and mugwart and something bitter. Baby stands a respectful distance away beside Seungcheol, her haunted expression gentler today, almost peaceful. Jeonghan leans against a tree with his usual lazy smirk while Kero grins, all teeth.
“This is the one that matters,” Minghao murmurs. "Until death."
— minghao is your best friend with benefits, and you two made a deal to always test one of your fetishes, and you were always willing to fulfill his as well.
WARNINGS: +18, smut, fingering, clit stimulation, nipple play, the candle wax is a specific one, oil play, slight overstimulation, he's so careful 🥺
KINKTOBER MASTERLIST
“hao, you’re gonna burn my ass,” you joked the first time he brought it up, eyes wide and a little skeptical as he set the candle down between you two. the idea of him dripping hot wax on you sounded insane, like something that could only be sexy until the second it wasn’t—until it actually hurt. but minghao, being minghao, didn’t push. just raised an eyebrow, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. and of course, he did.
now, laying beneath him, your back arched, nipples taut and sensitive, you’re not sure why you ever doubted it. the heat of the wax as it dripped, that slow, steady burn, was almost too much—almost. but just enough to have you gasping, your jaw slack, eyes rolling behind your eyelids as you felt the warmth seep into your skin.
“fuck—minghao,” you could feel his eyes on you, watching your every reaction. the candle he brought wasn’t some cheap thing you pull out when the power goes out—it was something specific, something he researched. because of course he would. the wax didn’t scald, didn’t burn like you’d thought, but melted into this massage oil when he smeared it over your skin, making it glisten in the yellow light of his room.
“you like that?” he murmured, his voice low, teasing as the warm oil pooled between your breasts, and his fingers smeared it down over your ribs, sliding lower. “told you i wouldn’t hurt you.”
you couldn’t even form words at this point, too lost in the sensation of his fingers pressing into your skin, slick with the oil, and the way the heat seemed to spread through you. your legs were already spread wide, hips arching up, begging for more before you even realized it.
his fingers traced over your skin like he had all the time in the world, focused, and maddeningly slow. when he finally, finally let his fingers slide between your legs, you could’ve cried from the relief, the way his thumb pressed against your clit, slick and warm. “fuck—hao, please—”
he chuckled softly, and dipped his fingers lower, dragging the oil over your folds. “so needy. and here you were, all scared i’d burn you.” he didn’t stop though, didn’t pull away, just pressed the pad of his thumb down harder, slow circles over your clit as his other hand slid back up to your chest, tweaking a nipple between his fingers.
the mix—the heat from the wax, the firm pressure of his fingers—was a lot, but in the best way. every nerve in your body felt alive. “minghao, fuck,” you gasped again, hips bucking up against his hand, needing more, needing him inside you, needing anything.
but he was still taking his time, watching you with that same half-smirk on his face like he was enjoying this even more than you were. “you’re so fucking pretty like this,” he muttered, thumb pressing down harder against your clit as he finally slid two fingers inside you.
your back arched off the bed, the orgasm building inside you like a coil tightening, and you couldn’t stop the moans falling from your lips. his other hand stayed on your chest, playing with your nipples, fingers slick with the oil, adding to the warmth, the pleasure.
“shit, hao, i’m—” you couldn’t even finish your sentence, too lost in the way his fingers felt inside you, the way his thumb kept working your clit. everything felt so good, so fucking good, and you knew you were close, knew you weren’t going to last much longer.
he seemed to know too, because he sped up, fingers fucking into you harder, faster, while his thumb kept that steady, maddening pressure on your clit. “cum, honey,” he whispered, and oh, his velvety voice... that was all it took for you to fall apart.
your whole body tensed, then shuddered, legs trembling as you came hard around his fingers, moaning his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say. minghao didn’t stop though, kept his fingers moving inside you, drawing out your orgasm until you were gasping, thighs shaking, body spent.
finally, he pulled his fingers out, but not before dragging them over your swollen clit one last time, making you whimper from the overstimulation. he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your hip, then up to your belly, chest, until his lips were hovering over yours, a smug grin on his face. “see? told you it’d be worth it.”
Ya’know how they say: “Dino never bows”… what if reader makes him… ?? 😋
“dino never bows” until you make him
WARNINGS: reader and chan are each others booty calls, dom!reader x sub!chan, smut, power play, finger sucking, cock/balls squeezing-punishment?, cock riding, oral (f. receiving), hair pulling, degradation, praising, arms pinning, dirty talk, dry hump, jealousy, reader is called by ''noona'', bowing.
“ya! dino never bows!!!!!”
hoshi’s voice pierced through the restaurant, loud enough to make you pause mid-laugh at jeonghan’s joke. you looked over your shoulder, just in time to see chan stomping back to the table, his jaw tight and his hands shoved into his pockets. behind him, a girl you vaguely recognized from campus was walking the opposite direction, her head held high like she’d just won a pageant.
wonwoo raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between chan and the girl. “what was that about?”
“he just got dumped,” seungkwan snorted, not even trying to lower his voice.
“i didn’t get dumped,” chan snapped, dropping into the seat at the farthest corner of the table. his arms crossed over his chest, and he glared at the drink menu like it would soothe his ego flames.
“then what was that, huh?” jeonghan chimed in, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “looked like a classic walk of shame to me.”
“it’s not a walk of shame if i wasn’t even interested in her,” chan shot back, rolling his eyes. but the tips of his ears were burning red, and everyone knew it.
hoshi leaned across the table, eyes wide with fake sympathy. “oh no… our poor dino… bowing to rejection for the first time…”
“i said i didn’t get dumped!” chan’s voice cracked halfway through, and the whole table burst into laughter.
you raised an eyebrow at him, your lips twitching as you fought to keep a straight face. “what’s with the attitude, chan? you mad or something?”
his eyes flicked to you, narrowing slightly. “why would i be mad? can we not do this right now?”
“oh, we’re doing this,” seungkwan said, his grin practically splitting his face in half. “because ‘dino never bows,’ right? except now he’s sulking like a kicked puppy.”
“i’m not sulking,” chan mumbled, his voice muffled by his hands.
“okay, whatever helps you sleep at night,” you teased, turning back to jeonghan. but out of the corner of your eye, you could see chan glaring daggers at you, and it only made your smile grow wider.
the car ride home was tense, to say the least. chan hadn’t said a word since you both left the restaurant, but the way he slumped in the passenger seat, arms crossed and face scrunched up, was louder than any tantrum he could’ve thrown.
“where are we going?” he finally snapped, his tone sharp.
“my place,” you said simply, not even glancing at him.
“your place?!” he sat up straighter, glaring at you. “why the hell are we going to your place? you were supposed to drop me off at home.”
“yeah, well,” you said, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel, “plans change.”
“you can’t just—”
“shush,” you interrupted, cutting him off. “you’re being annoying.”
his jaw dropped again, and for a moment, he was too stunned to respond. but the second you parked the car in your driveway, he was back to sulking.
you got out without a word, leaving him to follow you up to the front door like a kicked puppy. when you finally unlocked the door and stepped inside, you turned to him, crossing your arms.
“bow,” you commanded, your voice firm.
chan blinked. “what?”
“you heard me,” you said, tilting your head. “bow.”
“are you serious right now?” he asked, his tone incredulous.
“as serious as you were when you tried to make me jealous earlier,” you shot back, smirking.
his face flushed, and he looked away. “i wasn’t—”
“bow,” you repeated, cutting him off.
“fuck no! i won’t!”
chan’s voice shot up an octave, like a toddler who’d just been told no more screen time. he crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly on your living room floor, his pout so exaggerated you almost expected him to stomp his foot.
you raised an eyebrow, your expression shifting into something that could only be described as menacing. chan froze, his breath hitching as he caught the way your eyes darkened—almost black, like a storm cloud about to burst.
“excuse me?” your tone was mean enough to slice through his little tantrum.
he stammered, backtracking immediately. “i mean—uh, i just—”
your arm shot out faster than he could process, your hand finding its target with exactitude that made his knees buckle. you grabbed a handful of his cock and balls through his jeans, squeezing just enough to send the poor boy to hell.
“oh my god—fuck!” he moaned, his head snapping back as his whole body curled forward, instinctively trying to escape the pressure. but you didn’t let go
“what was that? didn’t quite catch that.”
“i said—” his words were cut off by another involuntary moan, this one louder and more desperate. it was, admittedly, the best sound you’d ever pulled from him. his hands flew to your wrist, not to stop you, but to ground his shit, his fingers trembling as he gripped you.
“thought so,” you murmured, loosening your hold just enough for him to breathe. “dino never bows, huh? looks like dino’s about to fold.”
his eyes snapped up to yours, wide and pleading, his lips parted as he panted. “you—fuck—you’re evil,” he managed, though there was no real bite to his words.
“evil?” you echoed, tilting your head like you were contemplating the idea. “nah, i’m just practical. someone’s gotta keep your cocky ass in check.”
he whined—a genuine, high-pitched whine that made your stomach flip—and you couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face.
“you’re insane,” he gasped, his knees wobbling as you finally released him. he staggered back, his hands flying to his thighs as he tried to collect himself, but his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes betrayed him.
“insane?” you repeated, crossing your arms. “coming from the guy who just moaned like i handed him the meaning of life?”
“shut up,” he grumbled, his voice shaky. but the way he bit his lip and avoided your gaze told you everything you needed to know.
“say it,” you said, stepping closer until there was barely an inch of space between you.
“say what?”
you grabbed his chin, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to look at you. “say you’re sorry. and say you’ll bow.”
his lips parted, a soft gasp escaping before he quickly clamped his mouth shut. he stared at you for a long moment, his pride and submission warring in his head. but when your thumb brushed against his jaw, his resolve cracked.
“…i’m sorry y/n-nie”
“and?”
he swallowed hard, his cheeks flaming. “and i’ll… bow.”
you tilted your chin higher, arms crossed tight as you stared him down, the very picture of authority. “and you better bow with your waist, not like some punk. i’m your noona, after all.”
chan blinked, his mouth parting slightly like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. then, like the good little brat he was, he dropped his gaze and bowed low, his hands clasped nervously in front of him, hovering over the space between his legs.
“good,” you hummed, circling him like you were inspecting a new recruit. “at least you know how to listen sometimes.”
he stayed bowed, head low, but you could feel the tension radiating off him—his pride battling against the heat creeping up his neck.
“what?” you teased, stopping in front of him. “you gonna cry?”
his head snapped up, eyes blazing. “no!”
you smirked, stepping closer, your fingers brushing under his chin to tilt his head back up. “then what’s with the face, huh? all red and flustered. you look like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”
“you’re so—” he started, but you cut him off, pressing a finger against his lips.
“ah, ah,” you tutted. “no backtalk.”
his eyes widened, the defiance fading intothe face of someone who was growing needy he licked his lips, his tongue just barely brushing against your finger, and you felt the shift—the moment he gave in.
“that’s better,” you said softly, leaning down until your faces were inches apart. “show me what that mouth of yours is really good for.”
his breath hitched, but he nodded, sinking to his knees without another word. his hands found your thighs, steadying himself as he looked up at you, waiting for permission. you let him wait a moment, savoring the sight of him like this—wide-eyed, obedient, and completely at your mercy. then you reached down, tangling your fingers in his hair. “go ahead.”
he didn’t need to be told twice. his hands slid up to your hips as he pressed his face between your legs, no panties—chan doesn't even get surprised anymore—his lips and tongue immediately find you with a desperation that made you sit slightly on his face. you moaned, your fingers tightening in his hair as you rocked against him.
he groaned against you, the vibration making you gasp, mainly because his tongue is rolling inside your little hole, and you knew he was doing it on purpose.
“careful,” you warned, tugging his hair hard enough to make him pull back. his lips were swollen, his eyes glassy, and you could see the smugness lurking beneath the glossy lips.
“what?” he asked, his voice rough. “you’re the one who told me to use my mouth.”
“and you’re the one who’s about to regret getting smart with me,” you shot back, pulling him up by his hair and dragging him to the couch.
you pushed him down, climbing onto his lap and pinning his wrists above his head. “you think you’re so clever, huh?”
“i—fu-u-uck—” he stammered as you rolled your hips against him, the friction pulling a low, desperate sound from his throat.
your hands made quick work of unbuckling his belt, fingers steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins. you pulled his pants down just enough to let his cock spring free from the navy blue briefs he was wearing, the fabric dampened at the tip where he’d been leaking. his abs flexed involuntarily as the cool air hit him, and you couldn’t help yourself—your hands slid under his shirt, pushing it up to expose his toned chest.
“god, chan,” you murmured, tracing the ridges of his abs with your fingertips. “you’re so fucking hot. like, unfairly hot. it’s distracting, y’know that?”
he froze for a moment, his ears turning bright red. he remembered the first time you’d said something like that—half-drunk at a party, your fingers poking at his stomach while you laughed about how annoying it was that someone could be this good-looking and have abs.
“you like my muscles, noona?” he asked, his voice pulling you back to the present.
you rolled your eyes, but your grin gave you away. “obviously, i do. doesn’t mean i’m gonna let you off the hook for being a little shit earlier.”
you licked your palm, wrapping it around his length and smearing the precum that had already gathered at the tip. his hips bucked slightly into your hand, and you tightened your grip just enough to make him gasp.
“noona,” he whined, his voice already high-pitched and needy.
“shh,” you soothed, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw. “be good for me, baby boy.”
chan nodded, his hands gripping the couch cushions like they were his lifeline as you lined him up with your entrance. you dragged the tip of his cock through your slick folds, teasing him, making him squirm beneath you.
“please,” he begged, his eyes wide and glassy. “please, noona, i’ll be good, i promise.”
you sank down on him slowly, the stretch making you both moan. his hands flew to your hips, but you slapped them away, pinning his wrists to his sides.
“don’t move.”
“yes, noona,” he said, biting his lip to keep from making too much noise.
you started to ride him, your hips rolling in a rhythm that had him whimpering beneath you.
“sorry,” he choked out, his head falling back against the couch. “sorry, noona.”
“say it again,” you demanded, your nails digging into his chest. “say you’re sorry, and that you’ll never pull that shit again.”
“i’m sorry,” he whimpered, his voice cracking. “i’ll never do it again, i swear.”
“good,” you said, leaning down until your lips brushed against his ear. “because if you ever make me jealous like that again, i’ll rip that girl’s throat out with my nails.”
chan’s eyes fluttered open, a small, breathless laugh escaping him despite the situation. “you’re scary, noona.”
“damn right i am,” you replied, nipping at his earlobe. “but don’t forget, i’m yours. i don’t want anyone else—not your hyungs, not anyone. just you, my handsome baby boy.”
his breath hitched at your words, his hips jerking involuntarily as you rode him harder, faster, chasing both of your highs. “ahh noona,” he gasped, his voice desperate and broken. “d-dont say that! i—fuck, i’m so close.”
“hold it,” you commanded, your fingers wrapping around his throat lightly. “don’t you dare cum until i say you can.”
his entire body trembled, his hands fisting the couch cushions as he fought to obey you. you could see the effort it took, his muscles taut, sweat dripping down his temples.
“good boy, cum.” you praised, finally letting yourself fall over the edge. your orgasm crashed over you, your walls clenching around him and pulling him over with you.
“noona,” he cried out, his hips bucking as he spilled inside you, his moans muffled when you pressed your fingers to his lips. he sucked them obediently, his eyes locked on yours as he rode out his high.
in which you’ve always been yunho’s only choice — even if he’s never been yours.
♬ xo (only if you say yes) enhypen
pairing: yunho x f!reader
words: 9.8k
warnings: unrequited feelings (or are they), he’s embarrassingly down bad, angst, jealousy, weed, alcohol, vomit mentions, brief mingi x reader, smut with handjob, fingering, unprotected sex lovemaking, 18+ mdni
notes: this fic is double the length i was intending… i have a big GROSS crush on this man can u tell
YUNHO CUSSES UNDER HIS BREATH, KNEECAP JOLTING WITH PAIN. he hadn’t even realised that for the last ten minutes his leg has been restlessly bouncing as if it was about to run away, not until his knee came into contact with the wooden table and knocked over his forgotten drink — a red plastic cup filled with some bitter motor oil, shoved into his hands by san with a shout that he needed to “lighten the fuck up.”
it’s done nothing to cease the anxiety buzzing under his skin, coiled tight in his chest — matters only made worse by that singular bong rip he did about an hour ago. his mouth still feels dry, throat still hoarse from the embarrassing coughing fit he had in front of the entire circle.
when you pulled him over to the designated smoke corner by the wrist, flashed him that adorable smile of yours, yunho denied the offer only once before that smile fell into a pout — and all of the sudden he was filling his lungs with smoke for the sole purpose of impressing you.
the opposite effect was had, unfortunately.
the party had barely started for either of you — both yet to even greet the birthday boy — and here you were stuck at yunho’s side, patting his back as he wheezed through gulps of water, insisting that you’re ‘right where you want to be’ each time he apologised for ruining the mood.
still, he watched the way you swayed along to the thumping music in your seat, longing to be on the dancefloor instead of sitting here with your weak puss of a best friend. parties have always been more of your scene than his. the only reason he ever comes these days is just to be your plus one. at least, until you find someone else.
someone who can match your energy better. in more ways than just dancing and drinking.
yunho insisted that you leave him to go actually enjoy the party, and it was met with little resistance from you before you’re hopping out of your seat and practically skipping over to the crowd. yunho kept his eyes trained on you, watching as you bump into wooyoung and give him a side-hug before disappearing into the sea of dancing bodies.
wooyoung’s eyes flit across the room, searching knowingly until he lands on yunho, then giving him a thumbs up and a nod — a wordless promise that he’ll keep an eye on you.
see, everyone who knows yunho, knows you. and they also know that he’s been in love with you since the day you first named him a friend.
what they don’t know — or rather, what they can’t wrap their heads around — is why yunho has gone this many years without so much as a word to you regarding his real feelings. he’s watched you make out with strangers at clubs, take his own friends home at parties, been your shoulder to cry on through your breakups with men who aren’t him.
the simple fact is, yunho values your feelings over his own. a million times over, and then some more. if he’s not who you want, who you choose to feel that way towards, then how could he be so selfish as to ruin your friendship by trying to make it something it’s not?
it’ll always be you for yunho. even though, for you, it’s anyone but him.
yunho heaves a sigh. he winces as he rubs his knee, sure to find a bruise there in the morning. grabs his half-spilled drink, downs the rest of it and immediately regrets it as a gag seizes his throat. if he lingers too long on the thought that he wants someone this bad with nothing in return, he’ll make an even bigger idiot of himself here when the tears start to run down his face.
yunho’s phone buzzes in his pocket, a welcome interruption from his racing thoughts.
reading the notification though — the anxious churning in his gut curdles into a sinking pit of nausea.
Wooyoung: might wanna come get your girl, song mingi’s about to be balls deep in her ass
Wooyoung: uh oh! think i just heard a queef 🥹
Yunho: Thanks man.
he mentally cusses his useless friend out, but he quickly reels himself back in with the reminder that he’s got no right feeling jealous over someone that owes nothing to him. besides, wooyoung only ever offers to just watch you, not interfere with any of your…endeavours.
yunho grimaces when he stands, his legs lighting up with pins and needles from how he’s been glued to this stiff fucking chair for an hour. clenching his teeth and pushing through it, yunho shoulders his way through the crowd, peering over all the bobbing heads to find wooyoung.
his eyes quickly hone in on a mess of red hair with roots desperately needing a touch up, tucked into the neck of a taller, much broader man.
“san!” yunho calls out through the thick bass in the air — knowing wooyoung probably won’t hear him with his tongue leeched onto san’s pulse.
wooyoung and san have been friends for as long as you and yunho — except, they quickly established the mutual attraction and have been happily dating since. in comparison to yunho, who…erm, has been warming the cuck chair ever since you lost your virginity to his high school lab partner.
san peers at him through narrow slits, giving yunho the ‘what’s up’ nod men do and patting on his boyfriend’s back. wooyoung raises his head, looking offended over the interruption.
“where is she?” yunho shouts over g-dragon’s voice booming through the speakers telling everyone to get their crayon.
wooyoung tilts his head, pointing with a jut of his chin. “riding mingi.”
the joints in his neck audibly crack when yunho whips his head in the direction — then the world narrows down to just you. your body as it rolls and sways, pressed flush up against a man he can barely register; hypnotised by the grinds where your hips connect, the gropes where your hands fall. wondering how it’d feel on his own skin..
“she’s had too much.” san rudely interrupts, practically roaring over the music into yunho’s ear. “mingi’s been pouring everyone’s drinks. he was supposed to make sure no one got too fucked up but…”
“—got a bit distracted trying to get himself fucked.” wooyoung cuts in with a snicker.
bile burns yunho’s throat, sharp and hot. his entire body tenses. subconsciously he clenches his fists, just from the anger of a man that’s not him thinking of you that way — touching you that way, but the couple behind him notices, trading cautious glances.
“think it’s about time you take her home..” wooyoung claps yunho on the back. “we’ll stick close by. for support.”
san cuts his boyfriend a ‘play nice’ look. wooyoung shrugs, taking a sip of his drink and grimacing at the burn.
with that, yunho bulldoses through the path of people until it’s him, you and mingi all standing in a cramped triangle. you’re both looking the opposite direction, but when you register the new presence at your back and glance over your shoulder, your glossy eyes instantly light up at the sight of your best friend. it breaks his heart just a little bit at how you make no move to detach yourself from mingi, only smiling at yunho while you’re wrapped up in another man’s arms.
“having fun?” you shout at yunho, which also gets mingi’s attention. he gives your best friend a once over, lips slowly dragging down in a scowl.
you’re enjoying yourself so much, it nearly hurts yunho to have to rip you away from the fun and end your night for you. but the burly man you’ve currently found yourself dryhumping on the dancefloor has let you mix far too much alcohol with the weed in your system, and probably won’t relent so long as he can lure you into sharing his bed. if you weren’t so fucked up, yunho wouldn’t have even interfered — wishing you the best like a good friend should, ignoring the pain in his heart as you get off to hands that aren’t his and he gets off alone.
“it’s time to call it a night,” yunho replies to you, tone gentle even as he strains to talk over the music.
“what?!” you shout back, obviously crossfaded and so fucking gone. how does mingi feel okay with trying to fuck you in this state?? yunho gives wicked side-eye to the other man, before realising that mingi’s moving just about as sober as you are..
“you’ve had enough,” yunho tells you, changing his tone to like he’s explaining to a child. “i’m taking you home now, okay?”
even in your half-conscious state, you pout — knowing that it’s a surefire way to bring yunho to a heel. and it’d work, any other time. it almost does this time. but yunho wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let you go in this state.
he reaches for your arm, just tugging lightly to get you to budge. mingi scoffs loudly, pulling you closer into his stupid perfectly toned chest.
“yah, are you her boyfriend or some shit?” mingi furrows his brows at him, like a shit stain on his white air forces. “it’s over. she wants this now, man.” he adds, gesturing down to his crotch.
if he was standing any closer, yunho’s sure you’d be able to hear the way his confidence falls to his feet, even over the music and mingi’s baritone voice.
he’s so caught up in overwhelming hatred for this guy, he doesn’t register the way you shove mingi a little. yunho’s staring at him, mingi staring straight back.
yunho addresses you by name, holds out his hand. “we’re going.”
mingi groans. “bro, just fuck off.”
you look between the two men, though your gaze is so distant that you probably don’t even understand the language they’re speaking.
mingi gets in his face, walks the slightly taller man down until his back’s bumping into the people dancing behind him.
yunho can’t feel anything other than ringing in his ears, the bass pounding in his chest. he’s never gotten into a fight — nothing serious outside of like, a middle school playground at least, but yunho braces for one anyways. he thinks he could hit this guy. whatever happens, you’re not leaving with him.
it’s part protectiveness, which he’ll wear proudly on his chest. part jealousy too, which he’ll admit only to himself.
he never wants to get in the way of the choices you make, act like some kind of saviour for his own selfish agenda. but he won’t lie and say he takes no joy in stopping someone else from having you in all the ways he dreams of. just this once.
“yah! you two — stop trying to fuck in my living room!!”
hongjoong’s voice rings out over the speakers, the birthday boy’s brows drawn and face cross at how you’re both about to make a ruckus at his party. the crowd steps to the side for his little, angry frame stomping over, his hips swaying even more pronounced than normal because of the mixture of substances in his system. yunho catches wooyoung standing amongst the parted crowd, offering a guilty shrug. no doubt he warned their host about the incoming brawl before it could start.
“what’s going on here?” hongjoong has both hands on his hips as his head whips between the two men standing too close for comfort. “mingi, where were you when i needed a drink?! yeosangie offered to pour me one instead and he dropped the fucking bottle.”
his boyfriend seonghwa appears behind the tiny ball of fury, strutting like he came straight from a runway as he always does. his face holds no emotion, save for an intimidating glare in his eye.
you link arms with yunho, evidently sobered up enough to read the situation — and his entire side lights up with heat under your touch.
“we were just leaving.” you insist, suddenly itching to be anywhere but this dancefloor for the first time tonight.
hongjoong keeps raving on about how you haven’t even tried the cake yet, while mingi’s pulled away in the other direction by seonghwa, whispering in his ear (doesn’t look like anything nice..)
you tried your best to appease the birthday boy enough to get his blessing for you and yunho to leave — though he’s too in his head to focus on any of it, caught up and smiling at himself over the fact that you chose him.
—
yunho grips the steering wheel a little tighter each time he forces himself to not check you out. you’re slumped against the seat, head lolled to the side and wind whipping at your hair, skimpy top just barely hanging on by the thin straps on your shoulders.
his knuckles are pale at this point.
he won’t disrespect you, especially not while you’re barely..there. but you look so pretty. you always do. just, he has to focus on the road right now and you’re not helping.
there’s also the fact he’s over the fucking moon that you ditched a hook-up for him (admittedly a really attractive one at that, too). instead of any other man getting to have you in his bed, you’re sitting pretty in yunho’s car, watching cars pass by out the window.
he’s got it rolled down for you, and keeps making sure that you’re facing to the window in the case that you have to throw up. it’s happened before… you were sitting in the back, squeezed in between wooyoung and jongho, then no warning before you ruined his car floor and their shoes.
yunho cleaned up your mess on a sickeningly humid summer day, while jongho watched and made fun of him for being such a simp.
that’s just the lengths he goes to, being in love with you.
it’s why he lets you slump all your body weight on him as he helps you out of the car and into his house. sets you down on the couch like you’re made of porcelain, fetches you a bottle of water and a bucket (just in case..), tucks you into his wool spiderman blanket that you always claim when you’re over.
yunho sits on the leg-end of the couch, watching you down the bottle in record time and let your vision go out of focus staring at the ceiling. no doubt your head must be spinning from the comedown. he knows he should probably let you rest, but he can’t bring himself to leave you just yet. he’s already been selfish tonight, so what’s one more little thing?
he’s not sure how fast time goes by as he sits there in silence. counting the lashes on your eyes, watching each rise and fall of your chest. waiting for you to need him again. you were both just at an entire lively party, but yunho thinks this is the most happy he’s felt all night.
eventually, he feels his own eyelids getting too heavy for each blink, and decides it’s a sign to finally let you sleep.
“i’ll get you some more water, and then it’s bed time i think.” yunho says, going to stand.
“wait—” your hand flies out from under the blanket, reaching for his wrist to stop him. “don’t go.”
yunho blanches at you. you’ve said little to nothing since climbing into his car, and the next words he thought he’d hear from you weren’t anything close to that. he figured you may have even been asleep already.
he says your name softly, a question.
you tug his wrist a little tighter. “please.”
yunho’s sitting next to you within seconds, even scooting a bit away since he sat right against you in his haste. he knows he shouldn’t get ahead of himself — you just want him to stay, nothing more.
all that reassuring himself is for nought when you just.. wrap yourself around his arm. you kind of push him into the couch’s back, nuzzling your head into his shoulder while his own stares at the ceiling in shock.
you’ve hugged before, of course. cuddled on rare occasions when he was able to keep his lower half angled away. but this all feels different. he doesn’t know why he’s interpreting this as anything different. you don’t see him the way he sees you, he tells himself. over and over again like a mantra.
“yunho..” you murmur in such a soft way that melts his whole heart. “i didn’t wanna sleep on my own tonight..”
“oh..” he gulps down a thick wad of spit, feeling like it’s wrong before he even says it but knowing he has no ill intentions. “did you want to come into my bed?”
you hum, smiling as your knuckles come to brush along his cheek. yunho tenses for a split second before telling his body to relax, even while his mind spins at a mile a minute.
“what do you want?”
yunho has to gulp again so he doesn’t say anything he’ll absolutely regret. buys himself time by fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, slyly pulling it down so it covers his lap. fuck, what’s even an acceptable answer in this situation? a light-hearted, friendly one and not just an admission of years worth of pent up feelings?
“just want you to feel okay,” he croaks, not entirely trusting his mouth to not say any more. he sighs, feeling the warmth of your breath fanning his pulse. this is really fucking dangerous.
you play with the hair at his nape, and he only hopes you don’t mention the beet red shade of his ears.
“hm, i was okay when i still had someone for tonight..” you pout, not realising the things those words do to his heart. “now i’m restless and all alone.”
“i’m here.” he replies way too quickly, instantly regretting it because he knows he just came off desperate. you’re just spouting nonsense, you’re sober and high and you’re worked up, that’s all…
“yeah?” you whisper, grin tugging at your lips. “you won’t let me feel alone?”
the effect your voice is having on his dick right now is, wow… it should be studied. entirely conscious of how rapidly his body’s reacting, he tries to shuffle and put a bit more space between you, but you know exactly what he’s doing and won’t let him — your other hand coming to slide up his chest, curling around his torso and keeping him close.
there comes his name from your mouth again — soft and syrupy and way too fucking sexy. “why won’t you hold me back?” you ask through a pout.
you wait for his face to twitch, knowing damn well the effect your pout has on him. yunho’s hands twitch where they’re sat in his lap, wishing desperately to reach out and hold you but too concerned with covering the obvious lump in his pants.
“this is…” his throat bobs. “you’re not in the right frame of mind.”
neither is he, he thinks. he could be wildly misinterpreting every thing you’re saying and doing. that’s the conclusion he comes to at least. you don’t want him like that. maybe another man, but not yunho. he knows that like a fact.
“i’m thinking clearly enough to know what i want.” you say easily. your hand trails down his chest, fingers dancing lightly across his stomach and causing the muscles to flex. you giggle over it, and yunho knows he needs to get the fuck away from you right the fuck now or he doesn’t know what he’ll do. he can’t stick around to find out — he can’t do that to you, or to his own heart.
it belongs to you and only you, it always will. but he can’t let it try and match the beat of yours when you can’t offer it to him.
he’s not who you want. you might just want someone, anyone — and yunho’s here and you know he’d never deny you anything. just settling for the closest man, train of thought foggy from the alcohol.
yunho says your name as he peels your hand from his body, a gentle warning. “i really think you should go to bed—”
the words die in his throat when you shift suddenly, his hands futilely reaching out as if he could bring himself to even grab you right now — and he has no time to prepare himself for the way your thighs bracket his and you plop down into his lap.
yunho puts all of his brainpower into stifling the noise that almost clawed its way up his throat. you’re just sitting there, smiling sweetly at him as your hands come to cup either side of his neck. his hummingbird pulse hammers under your fingertips and he knows you feel it with the way your eyes sparkle at him.
he can’t bring himself to put a singular thought to how his boner prods into you. oh god, he’s so fucking hard. he has to kill himself now.
“yunho,” you start and his heart clenches. just saying his name, acknowledging that it’s him, your best friend, and he’s not just acting as a placeholder right now. “what’s going on inside that head?”
for a solid moment, he doesn’t answer. can’t. you’ll see right through him if he lies and he refuses to tell you the truth.
by the time he works up the courage to mutter an answer, his mouth’s gone dry. “i’m thinking that you need to have some more water…and you need to sleep.”
you hum in disapproval. “that’s all that’s on your mind?” you shift your hips a little to make a point, his cock twitching in response before his hands fly out and still you by the waist.
yunho says your name lowly — intending for it to be a warning, but it’s lost in how he can’t help but breathe heavily at the feeling. it’s really you on top of him. not his imagination in a wet dream, not some girl to fill the void. it’s you and it feels so fucking good and right.
but this is wrong, it’s all so, so wrong.
“you’re drunk,” he reminds both of you. “you’re not thinking straight, you don’t actually mean any of this — we need to get you to sleep, okay? please?”
yunho won’t let anyone take advantage of you while you’re not sober. he’s no exception, no matter how long he’s waited or how much he’s dreamt of this. he’s weak when it comes to you, the feel of your body weight on top of him like this, but he knows he needs to man the fuck up and make good choices for both of you.
“why can’t i mean it?” you scoff, and fear grips his lungs over the thought of unintentionally upsetting you. “i told you what i want, why aren’t you listening to what i’m saying??”
“you’re drunk.” he reaffirms.
it’s supposed to be final, a nonnegotiable fact. he hopes maybe this time you’ll come to some semblance of your senses and snap out of this alcohol-fuelled act. he hopes he’ll think a little straighter once you’re off of him too, and he can remind himself what’s fact from what’s just your drinks talking.
you haven’t wanted him in all the years you’ve been best friends — why would you start now, when you’re barely sober and your first choice for a hook-up isn’t around?
you frown at him, and yunho’s heart just shatters. you look so let down and hurt. he can’t really understand how he managed to upset you this badly, outside of just cockblocking mingi and not letting you make a move on your best friend that you don’t even want. he thinks he was pretty justified in those decisions though. as much as it pains him to see you this way, he needs to stand his ground if he’s even half of the good guy you see him as.
“fine.” you murmur, voice wavering like you’re tearing up. he ducks his head close to yours to check, even when you purposefully turn your face away so he can’t see you.
you climb out of his lap and crawl back to your spot on the couch. yunho can’t will himself to move, partly from the shock and partly because he needs to wait for his boner to go down before he stands.
his eyes widen to saucers when you raise your arms up over your head and just tug your top off in front of him. he blinks stupidly at you in your bra for a split second before his head whips away, internally scolding himself for being such a fucking perv.
you have changed in front of him before, you’re comfortable in your skin and his friendship like that — but the image hits him in the gut and in the cock because he’s so turned on right now, and you are too. because that’s the furthest he’s ever gone with you and you still don’t even see him as anything more than just a friend.
yunho murmurs something about bringing you more water and some painkillers for the morning before he practically bolts into his kitchen, putting some much needed distance between you and him (and his cock).
he lingers in the room, talking his boner down and only returning to the living room when he’s basically soft. he finds you turned into the back of the couch, blanket pulled over your body. he leaves the things on the floor at your side and retrieves your phone. he puts it on a far-away charger in hopes that you’re too drunk to know where to find it, in case you try to call over some other man to pick you up and take care of you.
it’s okay. he’ll explain all of this to you in the morning when you’ve got a clear head on your shoulders. you’ll probably be mortified, apologising profusely for coming onto him like that. and he’ll probably just smile, nodding that he knows you meant nothing even if it tears his chest open to admit that.
yunho casts you one last, sad glance before flicking the lights off and plopping into the armchair by the couch.
he still isn’t going to let you sleep on your own tonight. and if you do call some other man over, well.. he’s gotta be here and ready to kick them out.
—
yunho jolts awake like lightning struck him in the dick upon being pulled from him slumber at the sounds of you gagging. briefly thinking it was something else for a shameful split second (the freaky ass dream he had last night is to blame..) before his vision comes into focus on you dangling off the couch and heaving into the bucket.
his feet are moving before he even registers it — and a few blinks after waking up he’s at your side once again, holding your hair from your face and rubbing your back for comfort.
“don’t look at me,” you mumble, voice still drowsy with sleep. adorable, he thinks briefly.
yunho already had his eyes shut and head turned in the opposite direction, knowing you hate being sick around other people. “i won’t.”
when you’re all done, he uncaps the bottle of water and brings it to your lips. you don’t take it from him, just tilt your head back and let him pour it down your throat. you make a small noise in relief, and yunho frowns at the thoughts that begin to waft through his head, made only worse by the fact that you’re still in your bra.
he keeps his head down as he offers you your top and you pull it back on, whole time telling his cock to behave.
you basically lay on him as he keeps you propped upright and helps you trudge into the bathroom. he leaves you be when you shoo him away. yunho then figures he should check your phone for you, and get started on some breakfast after.
not my fucking circus.. yunho thinks as he scowls over the very unwelcome name filling all the notifications on your lockscreen. mingi was blowing up your phone well after you left the party and settled down at yunho’s place. some of them look like he’s come to the conclusion you cheated on him, when he also proclaimed yunho as ‘the boyfriend’…. eh, we listen and we don’t judge or whatever it is that you say. yunho would also have a generational crash out if he fumbled you.
he flinches like lightning struck the same place twice when he hears the bathroom door unlock and open. he doesn’t miss a beat in rushing over to you, helping you back to the living room.
you flop down onto the couch like a ragdoll, and yunho can’t help but breathe out a laugh. he loves you, he truly does.
“what did you want to have for breakfast? i’ll cook for us.”
with your face in the cushion, your reply is muffled. it was only one word and he tries, really tries to not let himself think that you just said “you.”
yunho coughs. “sorry, what?”
you turn your head. “i said anything is fine.”
er, he doesn’t think so..
“alright.”
he rubs his neck, watching you just lay there as his mind kicks back into overdrive. do you even remember..?
“ah, i put your phone on the charge by the way. i just checked it — mingi’s been texting you.”
his breath’s halted in his throat as he waits for your reply, tries to gauge the furrow of your brows and press of your lips.
“oh, okay.” you say, completely unaffected by such news. “thanks for charging it.”
the conversation ends there, or at least it should, but he really doesn’t know what to do with that answer. doesn’t know what to do with himself, fidgeting with all this uncertainty.
“you.. uh, you okay?”
“yeah why?”
“well, it’s just that i thought…” yunho tries to pick out the right words from his scattered thoughts, words that aren’t just curses on mingi’s whole bloodline. “last night you were pretty close with him, i figured you would—”
you cut yunho off with a laugh. he looks at you like you’ve just pulled a gun on him.
“do you genuinely think i want mingi?”
heat rushes up his neck, settling in the tips of his ears and apple of his cheeks. “..well why wouldn’t i think so? he was all over you at the party.” and you were too, he can’t bring himself to add. hurts him too much to acknowledge it.
you shrug. “it’s a new day. but i wouldn’t have slept with him anyways — i don’t intend to now, either.”
yunho… doesn’t know what he thinks anymore. how could you have not? how else are you supposed to act if you want someone?
you scoff, watching how his face shifts in confusion. “yunho, you wouldn’t catch a woman’s intentions even if a pussy slapped you in the face.”
he chokes on his own spit over that.
he’s more than eager to reinstate some space between you as he all but rushes to the kitchen — the dream he had last night (and the events of last night itself) isn’t helping the way his body reacts to you speaking so vulgar about him.
after fixing you both up some eggs on toast, and then putting some random ass cartoon on the tv for you to watch while he cleaned up, yunho at last fell back onto the couch with an exhale.
you catch him off guard when you curl into his side, nuzzling into his warmth. he gets a flash of deja vu from last night. only this time, yunho trusts himself to at least place a careful hand on the small of your back. you’ve woken up with a clear head now, so he doesn’t feel that pang of guilt doing so much as just returning the gesture.
though you’re a physically affectionate person, you’ve never really shared that with your own best friend. you see, yunho’s only just grown out of the age where he could pop a boner over you merely breathing a certain way. so, for years now, he’s had to shrug away from your touches and affection, not willing to ruin your entire friendship over a hug.
you’ve accepted the fact that it’s just not his love language (but it really is though, he just wants to be respectful of you). so it’s odd, that you’re acting like this now. cuddling up into him like you would for one of your boyfriends.
“i remember everything, by the way.” you speak suddenly, eyes trained on the tv while yunho cracks his neck to stare down at you. “i really wasn’t as drunk as you kept telling me i was.”
“oh.” is all he can really say. “but then why were you..”
he trails off, swallowing the words back down and choosing to just pretend to also watch the tv. he doesn’t know if he’s mentally ready to have this conversation right now.
“what?” you press him. “why was i what?”
yunho’s heart grips a bit, instantly worried over your tone and assuming he’s upset you. “i’m sorry if i said anything that—”
“—god, yunho, you only offend me each time you don’t acknowledge the obvious.” you look up at him then, and your eye contact sucks the air form his lungs. “tell me what you’re thinking. for real this time.”
yunho chews on the fat of his cheek, accepting the fact that this is happening after years of evading it. he tips his head in an almost imperceptible nod, then closes his eyes for the confidence to speak this out loud.
“last night, i thought that maybe you wanted me. as more than just a friend.”
there’s nothing from you, not even a hitch of air — and he realises you’re both holding back on breathing right now. yunho cracks his eyes open, face pinched in worry.
you lift your brows at him like you’re expecting him to continue. “….well?”
“well, you weren’t sober so i assumed it didn’t mean anything. just..” he swallows, throat suddenly too dry. “..worked up from the party, right?”
there’s a suspended moment of disbelief, in which neither of you fill the silence with more than just shaky breaths. yunho’s too intimidated by you, by this conversation. he can’t read your intentions anymore — not after you so easily admitted to not even wanting a man you were all over.
are you going to be upset that he drew this conclusion? is this the moment that you assert the line between you and him — that you could never be more than this and he’s stupid to have hoped so?
yunho thinks you’ll do anything but just.. burst out into laughter.
you pull yourself off of him, and curl into your own body with helpless cackles. yunho can’t really do anything but just wait for it to be over. the sound of your joy is always music to his ears, but it just feels foreboding right now. because what the hell does that mean? what’s so funny??
you wind down a bit, wiping tears from your eyes with stuttered giggles. “oh, i love you. i love you yunho but you are so, so, so dumb.”
“uh…fuck you?” he huffs, lip quirking into a smirk. okay, so we’re just laughing this off, cool…
you roll your eyes, and he’s unprepared for the way both of your hands come to cup his face, thumbs brushing across his cheeks as you smile at him so sweetly.
“what did it mean to you?”
in that moment, all the air is sucked from the room. you could probably hear ants fucking two rooms over in this heavy silence. yunho’s too shellshocked to react — the reality around him hasn’t sunk in yet, his system won’t be able to handle it.
oh god, is this actually happening?
“i think you already know..” he blushes, sort of glancing down at his lap, in reference to how his body very clearly reacted to you sat on top of him.
“no, i don’t.” you answer, and there’s a flicker of sadness across your eyes.
yunho feels a surge of confidence in his chest, suddenly determined to prove his feelings to you after years of shoving them under the surface. only if that’s what you’re asking.
it’s like you’ve read his mind when you mutter, “show me?”
yunho’s breath hitches, glazed eyes trained on your mouth before he’s leaning in, only stopping when he feels his lips slot against yours.
yunho forces an inhale through his nose, knowing that your mouth will steal all the air from his lungs as you surge forward to kiss him back.
he rips himself away to whine, “it meant everything. you’ve got no idea how long i’ve wanted—i, fuck, i don’t even know,” he dives back in again, pressing with a little more force this time until his chest bumps yours. his heart hammers against your ribs, chasing the beat of yours to match it.
and you just let him, let his lips part yours and his tongue to lick into your mouth. he’s not quick enough to stifle the groan that leaves him over tasting you like this. years of dreaming and imagining couldn’t have lived up to this — the real thing, incomparable to all his fantasies of you.
you tilt your head and allow yunho to kiss you deeper, sliding your hands down to his shoulders while his own wrap around your middle. not even meaning it as he squeezes, just checking that you’re really here.
you must figure what’s racing through his mind, and you giggle onto his lips as you pinch the side of his neck, proving that he’s not dreaming.
“you do want this?” yunho feels the need to ask, chest already rising rapidly.
you cock your head and give him a sort of ‘bitch really’ look.
“only if you do.” you smile, adoring how glossy his lips are.
yunho has to huff out in disbelief at that.
“if i do?” he says your name sternly, shaking you in his arms a little. “everyone but you could tell! i was shit at hiding it but you didn’t even realise. that’s why your exes all hated me, why i do everything that i do for you—”
“—yunho, i’ve been throwing myself at you for years.”
he looks at you like a deer in headlights.
“each time i thought i couldn’t get any more shameless, i’d reach a new low. i thought i must’ve not been your type, or maybe you were gay and that’s why you only ever treated me like a friend.”
“what do you mean? you have never been just a friend.” he raves, completely and utterly lost at how you’d even come to that conclusion. “i mean, i never wanted to assume or make a move in case that’s not how you saw me, i couldn’t risk ruining everything.”
“do you understand that half the things i do are just to get a reaction out of you?” you deadpan. “i was begging for you to ruin it. i just wanted some sign, any sign that you felt it too.”
yunho doesn’t know what else to do other than just kiss you. kiss you with all the confidence in himself that he’s lacked over the years of your friendship, brushing off every sign you’ve given because he was certain you could never, never see him that way.
the only thing that’s certain now, is that he’s fucking dumb. and he’s wasted too many years over it.
he kisses you with the force of every time he’s wanted to in the past, every moment the urge passed through his head and he had to shove it into the deepest pit of his brain.
each time he had to duck his head so you couldn’t see his blush over the sight of you in a towel; each time he awkwardly covered his lap when you’d casually strip in front of him; each time he had to rip his eyes away from your cleavage when he knew you didn’t have a bra on; each time he’s watched your exes kiss you and touch you and pull little noises from your lips, and all he could do was watch and shamefully get off to the memory of it later, wishing it was him.
it could’ve been, earlier on. if only he’d said something. he owes it to you to make up for lost time.
yunho kisses you hard yet slow, channeling years worth of bottled-up desire into the swipes of his tongue against yours, the gentle squeezes and caresses of your waist. it’d be so easy to trail up, up, up until he’s grabbing the part of you that’s always hypnotised him, like a dog to a fucking bone. but he doesn’t want to misread this for anything more than what you’re giving him — so he just savours the way your boobs press so firmly up against his chest, focuses on kissing you as passionately as he can.
you test the waters by trailing your hand down to his chest, spurred on by the way he licks into your mouth as an encouragement to continue. your fingers creep further, brushing over the tent in his pants before your palm closes around it. yunho sort of flinches back from the kiss, forehead falling on yours as he casts his eyes down at your hand cupped over his length. his brows furrow, studying the feel of your hand on him for the first time and unintentionally bucking up.
you giggle, noticing the very large spot of precum staining the fabric. yunho can’t help but grin over the noise, finding you so fucking cute right now. he kisses you again, already sickeningly addicted to how it feels — your smiles slotting against each other.
things heat up pretty quickly with your hand on his dick. he is just a man, after all.
yunho’s helpless to all the little groans and sighs he lets out onto your tongue, more precum seeping into the fabric and ruining this perfect pair of pants even more. he’s never gotten off from the barest contact like this, but for you he definitely could. he’ll take whatever you’ll give him.
ever the mind-reader, your fingers dance up to his waistband and pull the elastic down. yunho breaks the kiss just to study your expression first, and when he’s met with your pleading eyes, he huffs a laugh in defeat and helps you pull his pants and boxers down his thighs.
his cock slaps against his stomach, leaving a stamp of precum on his shirt. he’s been leaking like a damn faucet over you. he doesn’t cum as quick as when he’s jerking off to the thought of you, so the real thing will have him done in an embarrassing amount of time.
he’ll try his best for you, though.
you reach for him, and he winces at your fingertips just tapping him. feeling your skin on his. your hand comes to wrap around just below the tip, and your fingers don’t even meet where they hold him.
your eyes sparkle at yunho, and he just melts.
“big boy.”
his cock twitches way too hard over those words, and you make a little startled noise at how it moves between your fingers. his eyes are so entranced with you right now, the focused look on your face — while your own are trained on his boner, the size of it.
“i’ll get shy..” yunho murmurs.
you offer him a sweet smile, and before he can return it, you spit directly onto the head of his cock.
he throbs at the sudden sensation, then his jaw goes slack as your hand gathers the saliva and pre beaded at his tip to drag down his length. you’re not even gripping him that tight, or moving that fast.. but just the sight is fucking him up all the same.
down to the base, back up to the tip. a few times over, just listening to his laboured breathing and weak hums of approval, until you find a rhythm and your fingers tighten.
yunho throws his head back onto the couch backrest when you flick your wrist in the strokes, an unnecessarily loud groan ripping from his chest over that.
he sort of anchors himself with the hands holding your waist and fucks up, mind tuned in solely to the feel of the circle of your hand around him. tries to memorise its shape, the unfamiliar ridges of your palms, for the next time he needs to get off.
you catch him completely off guard when a second hand joins the first, enclosing just around his tip and rubbing it with the ball of your thumb — other hand still focused on twisting up and down the rest of his length.
yunho thinks he sees glimpses of heaven’s gates behind his eyelids when he clamps them shut, moaning out over how fucking good you are to him. he’s never even used two hands on himself, and his heart just clenches thinking of how you’ve done this with guys who aren’t him.
he doesn’t linger on that thought long before his lower abdomen coils dangerously tight far too quickly — and he has to rip your hands off of him before he can bust all over his couch and ruin this for everyone and for ever.
“sorry,” he huffs, voice hoarse like he’s just scaled a mountain. “that was close.”
“i got too eager..” you shrug guiltily, though your proud grin holds no remorse.
he feels your grin on his lips when he kisses you again. your hands hover by him, untouching while they’re coated in the mess of fluids.
while he’s not turning to complete mush at the feel of your hands on him, yunho takes the chance to drag his own around and rest on your tummy. twitching, desperate to feel you beneath your clothes. you’ve never left anything up to the imagination — and he’s only even more turned on by the fact that he now knows you were doing it on purpose.
he tsks at the thought of you assuming he must’ve liked men to hold no reaction to your bare body all these years. but just as you were forward, yunho had a talent for hiding all the boners he’d pop. so talented that you never even fucking realised.
“may i?” he asks so gently, eyes almost entirely black from his dilated pupils.
you nod, but that’s not to his standards, see.
“words.” he whispers, not attempting to hide the shit-eating grin.
you roll your eyes, but he felt the way your stomach flexed over the little instruction.
“yes, please.”
and you used manners too. oh, how he fucking loves you.
you watch his hand as it travels down your thigh, breaches past the hem of your skirt. two fingers press into the dip of your panties, and you hear the way his breath catches at the dampness under his fingertips. feeling how your body reacts to him.
his throat bobs in a gulp. he watches you watch his arm disappear further under your skirt as he pulls your underwear to the side just enough for a finger to prod at your hole. wet and hot and his head is spinning.
you whine, urging him to keep going. yunho thinks he gets out a nod before sliding his middle finger into your core. you hum as you feel each ridge dragging against your walls.
“always been attracted to your hands,” you admit in a sigh.
yunho’s lip curls, his hooded eyes brightening at your voice. “what about them?”
“they’re long.” your face falls into a silent moan when his ring finger joins the middle.
compared to him, you’re pretty quiet as his hand works at you. no more than just pumping in and out, watching your brows pinch when his fingertips brush by that sweet spot.
“is it alright?” he murmurs, a bit worried over your silence.
“feels so good.” you whisper, making a point by scooting your hips closer and leaning back a little to let him reach even deeper.
knowing that he’s not completely disappointing you, yunho crooks his fingers up, heat flaring in his belly over the whine that leaves you.
his fingers curl into your walls with each thrust of his hand, thumb fumbling to push your underwear further aside so he can press it on your clit.
the pressure instantly has your body jolting, arms wrapping around yunho’s as you kind of fall into him. he kisses the crown of your head, determined to keep his fingers moving at a pace that’s got you whimpering.
he wants you to cum before he does, it’s only right. you’ve seen his size now too — you should know he needs to put in the work if he wants it to fit without hurting you.
on that thought, yunho adds his pointer to the fingers fucking into your pussy, then gives a swipe of his thumb on your clit.
the way you moan his name has yunho falling in love all over again.
he kisses your temple, your earlobe. leaves pecks all over your hair while he focuses on his fingers making you feel the best he can give. now that you’ve let him kiss you once he just can’t stop giving them to you.
he nuzzles his face into your neck to kiss there too. opens his mouth, tastes your pulse on his tongue. resists the urge to suck his mark onto the skin before he moves further down.
yunho leans back a bit, bending down to get at face level with your legs and then put his head between them. but you know what he’s doing before he can do it, and you stop him with a gentle tug on his hair.
“wait, no..” you give a small smile, flustered. he has such a big crush on you, oh my god. “i’m shy.”
he pouts, then his mouth curls into a smug grin. “i just want a taste.”
you smack his arm playfully. “you womaniser… another time, i promise.”
that’s all he needs before his hand’s getting back to work, and he bites his lip in the concentration of circling his thumb around while the rest of his fingers curl up.
you ball his shirt in your fist, grounding yourself as you start to throb around yunho’s fingers. he grins, so in love and so desperate to have you cum for him — because of him.
“yunho, i’m..” you gasp out, and he groans at your pussy clamping down around his fingers — still fucking them into the tight space.
“i’ve got you.” he whispers against your hair, kissing your forehead before his free arm comes to hold your back.
your eyes screw shut, mouth falling open as you let go — cum gushing around his fingers where he’s still relentlessly curling them up.
you sag all your weight on to him and he chuckles fondly, brushing his hand through your hair. he slowly drags the other out of you, and you make a muffled noise on his chest over it.
yunho doesn’t speak as you catch your breath. he doesn’t expect anything past this — you’ve already given him more than what he thought he’d get in this lifetime and the next.
you raise your head, connecting your lips again. you both get lost in the kiss for a bit, yunho chewing on the plush of your lower lip before you pull away.
“do you want to?”
yunho nods, not even thinking once, and your mouth cracks into a sly grin.
“words?”
he smiles at just how cute he finds you, but his face falls as a thought occurs to him.
“i don’t have any condoms..” he admits, sort of shy over the fact that he doesn’t get around nearly as much as you do in comparison.
he’s never really kept any because they’d just expire, unused in his bedside table. his hand sees more action than any box of condoms he’s purchased.
“it’s fine. i want you.”
yunho blanches at what you’re suggesting. you can’t just say shit like that to him.. if you ever wanted to get rid of him, there’d be no hope.
“are you sure?” he asks, wide eyes looking at you a little lost, lips swollen from all the heavy kisses.
“yes. very.” you smile, sealing the promise with a tender kiss.
before he just goes on a spiel about how madly he’s in love with you, yunho lays you down on the couch. he grabs a cushion to prop under your head, and you thank him in such an adorably small voice.
he sits back and takes the view in, running his hands over the sides of your body. wanting to remember this moment, and also too shy to actually begin — still in shock that any of this is even happening, and now you want to have sex with him.
with his incessant staring at your tits, you do him the favour of pulling your top off, bra shrugged off with it. you go for your skirt next, and he realises you’re probably getting impatient at him just ogling and drooling over you.
“sorry,” he mutters, trying to help you pull your skirt off your legs. “you’re just so fucking gorgeous.”
“yeah? you should show me.” you tease, thumbs hooking into your underwear to drag that down too.
yunho meets you halfway, tugging it the rest of the way down while his actual concentration hones in on your pussy, glistening with arousal. all for him.
he doesn’t want to make you wait any longer and risk you changing your mind, so yunho doesn’t even bother with his own clothes as he crawls over your body.
his hips line himself up, both hands focused on holding you and comforting you through this. yunho nudges in slowly, face crumpling with a moan at how your warmth swallows his tip.
he sucks a breath in through his teeth and keeps going, near shuddering above you until he bottoms out, hips meeting your ass.
he keeps telling himself to breathe, hand fumbling for your breast to hold on for some type of support. he kneads the flesh between his fingers, wincing each time your pussy flutters around him, adjusting to the size.
“you can move.” you tell him, amused at how entranced he seems with your boobs.
yunho nods, pulling out just to push back in even deeper. you both shuffle up the couch a little from the force of the thrust, and yunho thinks part of him died from the force of trying not to cum the instant he slid in.
he catches the grin on your face and he groans, burying his head in the crook of your neck. “i’ve thought of this for, fuck.. a really long time.”
you hum, fingers threading gently through his hair.
“i’m embarrassed…i don’t want to disappoint you.”
“you couldn’t,” you whisper right at his ear, making him shiver above you.
at that, yunho starts to move his hips at a steady pace. pulls back to watch your expressions, encouraged by every little sigh you offer him. he angles his pelvis up to hit your g-spot this time, and you react accordingly with a gasped moan, his confidence surging.
yunho doesn’t let his hips tilt another way even a fraction, aiming for the spot that has you seeing stars with each quick snap into you. you look so pretty beneath him, prettier than anything his brain could’ve conjured up on his own with nothing but his hand to keep him company.
“good? does this feel okay?” yunho asks desperately, grabbing onto the couch’s backrest so that he can focus on fucking you as best as possible.
your only response is a light moan, and yunho bites his tongue to distract his body, cock pulsing like crazy inside of you.
“please, i need to know how you feel.”
“just don’t stop,” you all but beg, holding him to you in a hug. and well, he’d be an idiot to not listen.
yunho latches his mouth onto your breast, and you squeak when his tongue laps at the nipple. your mouth gets even louder for him, thighs locking him in at the hips as he hits your spot so perfectly each time he fucks forward.
one airy moan of his name from your lips is what sends yunho toppling over the edge — groaning desperately onto your chest, nearly ripping the fabric of his couch as he fucks you through his orgasm. spilling inside you with each thrust, only stopping when it starts to burn from sensitivity.
even then, he makes no move to pull out. doesn’t even allow himself to get air back in his lungs before he’s diving in to kiss you — pouring all of his love into his lips on yours.
it could’ve been an hour that you both laid there, unwilling to move and not caring to clean up as you clung onto the heat of each other’s bodies, his cock long having gone soft inside you.
“i need to pee,” you say eventually.
“without me?” he pouts and you roll your eyes, shoving him lightly.
he slips himself out of you and sits back, tugging his shirt off over his head and balling it up before pressing it between your legs.
you hold it there as you sit up, raising a brow at him. “been taught well?”
yunho rubs his neck, shy. “not from any of my own experience..”
you just giggle, pressing a kiss to the pink-dusted apple of his cheek.
“you know i love you?”
yunho’s eyes go wide, your words punching him straight in the chest and knocking out his breath.
“don’t feel like you need to say that..”
“why not?” you reply easily, “i already tell you all the time, and now you know how i really mean it.”
well, he can’t argue with that. he’s never been able to argue with you anyways.
yunho holds your head with both of his hands, long fingers splayed across your cheeks.
“i love you too.” he kisses you, and it’s the sweetest taste he’s ever known. the taste that you’re his. “so fucking much.”
— Synopsis: Where you “unfortunately” caught your best friend's roomate—your unsaid enemy—masturbating in their shared apartment.
— WC: 4.6k
— WARNINGS: smut, monster cock!seungcheol, explicit language and content, overstimulation, dry fucking, oral as a tongue massage (f. receiving)—a reward <3, body fluids (cum), dry humping, cock riding, dumbfication, degradation, aftercare, exhaustion, and DIRTY TALK.
here’s how it always goes with seungcheol:
you walk into a room, he immediately finds something to scoff at. maybe it’s the way you dress, maybe it’s the way you talk, maybe it’s just the fact that you exist in his general vicinity. but it doesn’t matter what you do—he hates you. or, at the very least, that’s what he insists on showing you.
joshua, your best friend and possibly the only person in the world who can tolerate both of you without losing his mind, always tells you to be the bigger person. “he’s not that bad,” he says, as if seungcheol didn’t practically hiss at you last week for sitting on his side of the couch.
but whatever. you don’t go out of your way to piss him off, and he doesn’t go out of his way to be nice. that’s just the way it is.
which is why you hesitate when joshua calls you:
“i swear, i wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. i left my keys at your place before i flew out, remember?”
“okay, but i literally don’t want to step foot in his apartment,” you stress, cringing at the thought.
“it’s my apartment, too,” joshua deadpans.
you groan, already feeling a headache coming on.
“just go in, grab the folder on my desk, and leave,” he insists. “cheol probably won’t even be home.”
which is how you find yourself standing outside their apartment door, holding joshua’s keys and hyping yourself up like you’re about to enter enemy territory. which, in a way, you are.
you unlock the door, push it open,
and immediately wish you hadn’t.
seungcheol. on the couch. fisting his cock.
your brain short-circuits. like, full shutdown, blue screen, cease all functioning mode.
the man is spread out—legs wide, head tipped back, theres a drop of sweat that drips from his neck aand land in the middle of his chest. hes exposing his toned abs that clench with every up and down of his hand. and his cock is huge. thick from the base to the top and flushed deep red at the tip, veins prominent as his fist works over it.
he’s so lost in it that he doesn’t even register your presence at first, not until he finally cracks his eyes open and sees you standing there, frozen stunned into silence.
the next few seconds happen in slow motion.
his eyes widen. his entire body stiffens. his hand stops.
“WHAT THE FUCK—”
seungcheol scrambles to cover himself, reaching for the nearest thing—which, unfortunately for him, is a shirt that does nothing to hide the absolute tent he’s pitching. his face goes red, splotchy from the neck up, and he looks so flustered that for a split second, you almost feel bad.
“why the fuck are you here?!” he practically barks at you, voice ragged from whatever the fuck he was doing before you ruined his life.
you blink, still processing the image that’s now burned into your brain for eternity. “uh. joshua?”
“what about joshua?!”
“he… he needed a document.”
seungcheol lets out a sound that is so frustrated, so exasperated, that it almost doesn’t register as human. “and you didn’t think to knock?!”
“why would i knock?! i didn’t think anyone would be jerking off in the living room like a fucking pervert—”
“IT’S MY APARTMENT.”
“IT’S JOSHUA’S TOO.”
“HE’S NOT HERE.”
“WELL, NEITHER AM I, NOW.” you turn on your heel, hand reaching for the doorknob. “i’ll just get the doc later—”
but before you can escape, he rasps, “don’t you dare tell joshua about this.”
you pause. smirk. oh, this is fun.
back still facing him, fingers still wrapped around the doorknob. you should leave. should pretend none of this ever happened. but something—some sick, wrong part of you—doesn’t want to.
so you turn. lean back against the door. cross your arms.
“what?” he snaps, shifting on the couch, the shirt still pitifully draped over his lap.
you tilt your head, dragging your gaze slowly down his body—his hard nipples, the taut muscles in his arms, the way his thighs tense like he’s fighting the urge to close them. you can see the way he twitches under the shirt.
“you’re still hard,” you note, your voice syrupy sweet, but your eyes gleam meanly.
seungcheol tenses. “so?”
“so… you’re mad at me for walking in,” you say, cocking a brow, “but you’re still hard as fuck.”
he grits his teeth, but his silence is loud as hell.
so you take a step forward. just one.
his breath hitches.
“cheol.” you coo at him. “you sure you hate me?”
he glares, but it’s weaker now, faltering under your scrutiny. you can see it—the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way he’s not telling you to stop.
so you take another step.
and another.
until you’re standing right in front of him, the shirt the only barrier between his cock and your eyes.
his jaw tightens. “don’t.”
“don’t what?” you murmur, reaching forward to trace your fingers over his wrist—the one that was just wrapped around his cock. “don’t call you out? don’t get closer? don’t—”
in a flash, he grabs your wrist, yanking you down.
you gasp as you land on his lap, his hands firm on your hips, his cock pressing against your ass through the thin barrier of the shirt and your clothes.
his lips are right by your ear when he growls, “don’t fucking test me.”
you shiver, but you’re not scared, you’re thrilled.
so you shift, pressing back against him, and smirk when he lets out a sharp breath through his nose.
“or what?” you whisper.
his grip tightens. “you really wanna find out?”
your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss.
“yeah,” you breathe, lips brushing his jaw. “i do.”
he snaps.
the shirt under you is gone.
his mouth crashes into yours, hot and angry, his hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to burn the shape of you into his palms. his teeth nip at your bottom lip, his tongue prying your mouth open, swallowing the gasp you let out when his fingers dig into your hips.
you grind down, moaning into his mouth when you feel just how fucking thick he is, leaking against your skirt.
his hands are rough when he yanks your skirt up, bunching the fabric around your waist with no intention of letting it fall back down. you barely have a second to breathe before his fingers push past your thighs, finding the front of your panties hooking his thumb into the damp fabric and pulling it to the side.
the rush of cold air makes you gasp, thighs trying to snap shut, but his thighs pins them open. and maybe, he has a shred of decency in him, because he lets out a low breath and murmurs, “this is gonna be rough.”
no warning. just that.
you should stop him. you should tell him to go slow, to prep you, to at least spit on it—but you don’t, you need to feel this big cock stretching you until every single thought inside your head gets completely erased.
there’s no lube, no prep besides the mess between your thighs, just the torturous process of sinking down.
seungcheol watches all of it. watches the way your lips part, how your lashes flutter, how your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders the lower you go. he’s leaning back against the couch, one hand gripping the plush of your ass, the other wrapped around his base, guiding you onto him like you’re something delicate. like he’s trying to help.
but he’s not.
because he knows what he’s doing when he taps his cockhead against your clit first, dragging the tip through your slick, coaxing out little whimpers that make him smirk. he knows what he’s doing when he presses up, just the tip slipping inside, barely enough to be satisfying but more than enough to make your thighs twitch.
your breath catches in your throat, your whole body twitching up as you take the next inch too fast. your brain is empty, your body is working on instinct, thighs shaking as you brace yourself against him, trying—failing—to push down further.
and he sees it. sees how you’re struggling, sees how your muscles twitch like you’re about to give out, sees how you want to take it but your body is fighting the stretch.
so he helps.
his hands clamp down on your waist.
and then he slams you down.
the sound that leaves your throat is so ruined that he cant help but feel a bit of compassion.
because suddenly you’re full. suddenly you’re sitting completely in his lap, completely engulfed in him, your thighs flush against his, his cock buried so fucking deep that you can feel it pressing up against every nerve inside you.
but when you try to move, try to lift yourself even an inch—nothing.
your thighs won’t cooperate. your muscles won’t listen.
you can’t move.
“oh?” seungcheol tilts his head, smug grin curling at his lips as he grinds up, watching the way your mouth falls open at the sensation.
“too big for you, baby?”
you whimper.
“thought so.”
and then he takes control, because you can’t move—so he does it for you. his hands lift you effortlessly, dragging your hips up before slamming you back down, setting the pace, forcing your body to take what it’s given.
and you can’t think straight anymore. every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, every time he slams you down it punches little whimpers from your throat that only make him hungrier.
“awww… thought you were so tough. but you can’t even fuck yourself on my cock, huh?”
you cry out, body giving up, melting against his chest as you desperately try to follow his rhythm, hips twitching with little, pathetic attempts to keep up. your body isn’t even yours anymore—just a toy, something for seungcheol to use, something he’s breaking in with every brutal roll of his hips.
his fingers dig into your waist, gripping you so tight it hurts, but the pleasure drowns it out. you’re so deep into it, into him, that every ounce of shame has left your body, every shred of dignity gone. because you can’t do anything but take it, can’t do anything but let him use you like you were made for this.
he tilts his head, watching you fall apart, watching how your thighs tremble with every slap of his hips against yours.
“damn,” he laughs, licking his lips, voice mocking. “you’re making such a fucking mess of yourself.”
you whimper, forehead pressing against his collarbone.
and then he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.
“mm-mm, don’t hide now,” he says, smirking. “be a good girl and let me see that dumb little face while i ruin you.”
a sob rips from your throat, high-pitched and wrecked.
he groans, grinding up into you.
“fuck. bet the neighbors can hear you, huh? joshua’s gonna be so fucking embarrassed when he gets a noise complaint for his dumb little best friend getting dicked down like a whore.”
your whole body jerks, a whimper escaping your lips at the humiliation, the filth dripping from his tongue.
and he sees it.
his grin turns cruel.
“oh, you like that?” he taunts, thrusting up so deep your back arches. “you like knowing that you’re loud enough to make it everyone’s fucking problem? that you’re such a good little fucktoy for me that i can’t even keep you quiet?”
you nod, because you can’t lie. his fingers tighten around your jaw, his lips brushing against yours as he coos.
“poor little thing.”
he thrusts up again, so hard, so deep that your whole body bounces, hands scrambling against his chest, voice cracking in a choked-out sob.
and he moans, deep and satisfied, because you’re so fucking perfect for him. because your body is his to use, to mold, to ruin.
“joshua’s gonna kill me c-cheol.”
his hips snap up again, knocking the breath from your lungs.
“but you’ll tell him it was worth it, won’t you, baby?”
he smooths one over your back, pressing down so your tits rub against his burning skin, while the other stays firm on your hip, keeping you still. your body jerks with every pulse of his cock inside you, twitching as you flutter around him, so overstimulated you can’t tell where the pleasure starts or ends.
“s-seungcheol—” his name is nothing but a broken cry, muffled against his neck, but he’s relentless. he doesn’t even let you finish, just shifts his knees slightly and thrusts up into you with all the power in his core.
“fuck,” he hisses when you clamp down, crying out into his skin, and he wraps an arm fully around you to hold you up. “shh, baby, you’re being so loud.”
his hand snakes up your back, fingers tangling into your hair, forcing you to lift your head. you meet his gaze, and it knocks the breath from your lungs. he looks fucked, mouth parted, sweat dripping from his hairline, chest heaving, but he still manages to look at you like he’s about to devour you whole.
“c’mon,” he coos, tilting his head, his grip tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “tell me it was worth it. tell me how good my cock is.”
he punctuates it with a sharp snap of his hips and you keen, trying to lift yourself, trying to relieve some of the intensity, but your thighs betray you. seungcheol laughs, breathless but smug, and his fingers press bruises into your skin as he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing.
“see? can’t even move, huh? my poor baby,” he murmurs, voice syrupy sweet, his free hand cupping your cheek now. “you’re just gonna sit here and take it like the perfect fucktoy you are.”
heat prickles at your skin at the words, your brain too fogged up to be embarrassed, too fucked out to do anything but let him guide you. he rocks you against him, making sure you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, rubbing at all the right places, pressing into you deeper than you thought was even possible.
“you take me so well, baby,” he praises, leaning in to press his lips against yours, just enough to tease. “so fuckin’ tight, so warm—fucking heaven.”
his hand slides between your bodies, two fingers finding your swollen, neglected clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over it. the sensation makes your thighs twitch, your nails dig into his back, a fresh wave of tears pooling at the corners of your eyes.
“shhh, i got you, baby,” he whispers, kissing your jaw now, your temple. his fingers on your clit work in time with the slow, torturous grind of his hips. “i got you, yeah? you gonna cum for me? hm?”
he kisses you full on the mouth when you sob, swallowing the sound like he wants to keep it forever. and then he speeds up just a little, rolling your clit with more pressure, meeting every rut of your hips with a firm thrust up.
you shatter.
your whole body seizes, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as you clamp down so tight on him that it sends him tumbling over the edge with you. he groans, long and low, holding you so tight against him that you can feel every pulse of his cum inside you, hot and deep. his hips jerk once, twice more before he stills, forehead pressed against yours as you both gasp for air.
it’s quiet for a moment, the only sounds are the distant hum of the city outside the window, and the soft squelch when he finally shifts, making you both moan.
your body trembles like a leaf caught in the wind, and seungcheol drinks it in, the heat of your overstimulated form twitching against his chest as he presses slow, lingering kisses into the curve of your neck. his lips move down, sucking at the pulse point that hammers beneath your skin. your breath stutters. his fingers, nails just barely grazing, trail down the arch of your spine, featherlight but enough to make you shiver. you barely even realize you’re moving, the last bit of strength in your boneless limbs used to weakly push yourself up, to let his cock slip free from where it’s buried inside you.
the second it leaves you, your body gives out. you collapse right into his chest, heavier than before, spent and trembling, the exhaustion hitting all at once. you can’t even pretend to be embarrassed about it. you just sigh, your lips brushing the base of his throat as you settle against him, body limp.
seungcheol holds you steady with both hands, like he’s afraid you might melt right into the couch and disappear. his broad palm cradles the back of your head, fingers splaying across your scalp, scratching at your roots. he keeps the other hand wrapped around your waist, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your ribs. the tension in his body hasn’t left yet. his shoulders are still tight. you know him well enough to know what’s coming before he even says it.
“you good?”
you hum in response, nuzzling into his chest as your fingers curl weakly against his pecs. “just a little sore.”
he exhales through his nose. shifts beneath you. you can feel his fingers flex where they rest on your waist, like he wants to squeeze but holds himself back. then, with zero effort, he grips the back of your neck and lifts you up, just enough to force you to look at him. your lids are heavy, half-lidded, dazed, and fuck, that shouldn’t make him feel so possessive, but it does.
his thumb sweeps across your cheek, his jaw tensing. “shit. i’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over your features like he’s searching for anything more than just exhaustion. “lemme take care of you, hm?”
you don’t have it in you to resist, don’t even want to. you let him move you, let him handle you like you weigh nothing as he lifts you from his lap and shifts you onto the couch, laying you down as if you’re something delicate. and maybe you are, now, after the way he ruined you. maybe that’s why you don’t fight him when he presses your thighs apart, watching as they just fall open on their own, spread wide like a doll.
you don’t have the strength to do much else than whimper softly as his thumbs spread you further, gaze locked onto your swollen cunt, still so slick from where he fucked you. his jaw clenches.
you don’t even get a warning before he moves in, before his hands grip your thighs to keep them open as he dives between them, mouth sealing over your clit in one slow stroke of his tongue.
you jolt, a weak little gasp punching from your lungs. your fingers barely find the energy to tangle into his hair, and the grip is nowhere near as firm as it usually is, but he groans anyway. whether it’s from the feeling of your grip or from the way you instantly react to him, you don’t know. but he doesn’t stop.
his tongue moves slow, warm and so fucking wet as he licks broad, flat strokes over your sensitive flesh, working you open again with patience. he isn’t trying to overstimulate, isn’t trying to get you off again—though you can already tell it wouldn’t take much. his focus is entirely on easing the ache, on massaging every tender inch of you with his mouth, his lips, his tongue.
“feels good?” his voice is muffled against you, but it vibrates in just the right way.
you nod, breath hitching when he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling it in slow circles. your body twitches, heat curling at the base of your spine. “cheol…”
he moans against you, and presses you down harder against his face. your hips jump, an embarrassing whimper breaking free as his tongue dips lower, tracing around your entrance before dragging back up, collecting every bit of slick along the way.
you whine, fingers curling tighter in his hair. he doesn’t tease. doesn’t prolong it. just keeps his pace slow and steady, gentle enough to soothe, firm enough to keep you on the edge of something, even if you’re too sensitive to chase it. and if the way he’s grinding his hips into the couch tells you anything—it’s that he’s just as affected as you are.
he’s not eating you out to get himself off, but fuck if it isn’t working.
the obscene sounds of his mouth working between your thighs filling the entire apartment, mixing in with your breathless moans and the way he groans right into your cunt. you don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed about the way your cum is smeared all over his chin, his jaw, his cheeks—how it drips down onto the couch below with every intentional roll of his tongue against your entrance.
his tongue works in circles, pressing flat to your hole before dragging up again, tasting every bit of your arousal as it gushes out onto his lips. his mouth is open the entire time, tongue rolling and flicking, nose nudging against your clit as he angles his head lower. he flattens his tongue, groaning as he drags it up through your folds before plunging it into you, so messy that you swear you see white behind your eyelids.
your back arches, chest rising in sharp, hiccupped gasps, every single nerve in your body on flames. your thighs twitch in his grasp, and he squeezes them tighter, keeping you spread open just for him. his hands slide up, one wrapping firmly around your waist, keeping you pinned in place, while the other travels up, up—his fingers finding the stiff peaks of your nipples.
your eyes snap open, a gasp catching in your throat as he rolls one between his fingertips, twisting just enough to make your eyes roll. you swear you hear him chuckle against you, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
“breathe,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your clit before sucking it between his teeth, tongue rolling in lazy, teasing circles on the swollen bud. “breathe for me, baby.”
you try. you really do. but the way his mouth moves, the way his fingers tweak and pull, it’s too much. you’re spiraling. you feel another orgasm creeping up so fast it steals the air right out of your lungs.
he sees it. he knows.
his grip tightens on your thigh, his tongue flicking faster, working you open as his free hand continues to play with your tits, kneading the soft flesh, fingers rolling your nipples in rhythm with the lazy grind of his tongue against your clit.
your moans turn high-pitched, desperate. your body twists beneath him, unable to keep still as the pleasure builds, climbing higher and higher.
but then—a whimper.
not from you.
from him.
you force your heavy lids open, head lolling to the side as you try to focus on him. and fuck, the sight that greets you is almost enough to make you cum then and there.
seungcheol is rutting against the couch. grinding, fucking humping it like a damn dog, his hips rolling in slow thrusts, his rock-hard cock straining against his stomach, smearing precum all over his abs and the fabric beneath him.
he whimpers again, this time louder, his brows furrowed, his breath coming in short, uneven pants.
“fuck,” he groans, mouth still pressed against you, voice muffled by the way his tongue keeps working you over. he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his chin soaked. his eyes are dark, glassy, pupils blown wide as he looks up at you. “can’t—fuck, i can’t stop. you taste too good.”
your chest tightens, a desperate, aching cry slipping from your lips as you clutch at his hair, thighs twitching in his grasp. “cheol—gonna—gonna cum, oh my god—”
he moans, actually fucking moans, his hips grinding down harder against the couch as he redoubles his efforts, tongue circling your clit in precise, teasing flicks, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to send you over the edge.
your body locks up. your back arches. your mouth falls open, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, all-consuming.
seungcheol doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow down. he works you through it like it’s his mission, licking you clean, his tongue rolling over your entrance, collecting every last drop as your body trembles violently beneath him.
your chest heaves, your vision blurring, but even through the haze, you can feel him still grinding against the couch, still so fucking hard and desperate, all because of you.
your brain is slow. dial-up connection slow. everything feels like it’s underwater, your body floating somewhere between consciousness and the best orgasm-induced coma of your life. it’s warm, so warm, like your body is still riding out the fever of your high, tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth, throat dry, muscles heavy like they’re full of sand.
you don’t even remember when it happened—when you blacked out, when you got moved. just flashes of cool wipes dragging over your skin, a damp cloth pressed between your thighs, seungcheol’s hands gentle, careful, murmuring something you were too gone to comprehend. like déjà vu, like something out of a dream.
but you’re awake now. sort of. and you’re in his bed.
the sheets are soft, cool against your fevered skin, and it feels so good that you can’t help the tired, pleased moan that slips past your lips, involuntary, barely conscious.
but it’s enough to make him look at you.
you blink, vision still a little hazy, but yeah, that’s definitely seungcheol, sitting at his desk, dressed in a loose shirt and sweats, hair damp, probably from a shower. there’s a slight smirk on his lips, but his eyes are soft as they sweep over you, taking in the way you’re still half-buried in his sheets, limbs heavy, body relaxed.
then it hits you.
the documents.
joshua.
fuck.
your eyes widen, and you jolt up too fast, regretting it immediately when the soreness between your thighs protests, a sharp ache shooting up your spine. “fuck—”
seungcheol’s already up, one hand pressing to your shoulder, guiding you back down before you can do any more damage. “hey, hey, relax. you’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“the—documents,” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut again as the exhaustion creeps back in. “joshua.”
he chuckles, and you open your eyes just in time to see him shaking a small stack of papers in his hand. “yeah, yeah. i got it. sent them over while you were passed out.”
you frown, groggy. “i was supposed to send them.”
“and joshua needs to get used to me handling shit for you,” he says, grinning as he sets the papers down. “besides, he’d probably prefer not to get another noise complaint under his name.”
your face heats up instantly. “oh my god.”
“mhmm,” seungcheol hums, tilting his head. “wanna know how loud you were?”
“no.”
he laughs, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, thumb tracing your cheek. “then go back to sleep, baby.”
you glare at him. or, at least, you try to. it’s weak, and he knows it, because all it takes is one more stroke of his thumb before your eyes flutter shut again, body sinking further into his bed.
yeah. you can fight him about the joshua thing later. maybe. probably not.
The styling room was quiet, save for the soft hum of equipment and rustle of fabric as you made the final adjustments to Yeosang’s hair. He sat still beneath your touch, head tilted slightly while you tousled the last wave into place. “All done,” you said, stepping back to inspect your work. His platinum blonde strands glinted under the lights, artfully messy, a little sharp around the edges, just like the moodboard had asked for.
Yeosang glanced in the mirror and nodded. “You’re dangerous with your hands.” You arched a brow, fighting a smile. “Tell that to your roots next month.” He snorted and slid off the chair with his usual quiet grace, stretching his arms before heading toward wardrobe. As he passed by the doorway, you caught movement in your peripheral.
Yunho.
Fresh from makeup, already in partial wardrobe, his vest wasn’t buttoned yet, sheer sleeves loose around his forearms. He filled the doorway with quiet confidence, black hair falling into his eyes. “You ready?” he asked casually, stepping in. You nodded once, but your fingers tightened slightly around your comb as he approached. His presence always filled a room. But today… today he looked carved from something darker, something deliberate.
He sank into the chair Yeosang had just vacated, resting his arms on the armrests, legs spread just a little too wide and you swallowed. From the counter, you grabbed the concept sheet, needing a second to compose yourself. You’d already glanced at it this morning, but now, with Yunho sitting there, watching you through the mirror, you studied it again. The reference photo showed him with his hair pulled back into a half ponytail, loose strands around the face, sharp angles softened at the jaw. You hesitated. Because Yunho had never worn his hair like that before.
Even the few times he’d grown it out, he always left it down, pushed back with a beanie or styled away from his face with texture and volume. Never pulled up. Never tamed. “You good?” he asked, tilting his head. His voice was calm, but you didn’t miss the curiosity flickering behind it. You lowered the sheet slowly. “You’ve never worn your hair up before.” Yunho shrugged, the movement lazy. “First time for everything.”
You turned away so he wouldn’t see your expression. Something about that answer, about the way he said it, like it meant something more, made the heat bloom low in your stomach. You cleared your throat. “Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with.” You stepped behind him, fingers brushing the nape of his neck as you began combing through his thick, dark hair. He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned back into the touch just a little and you pretended not to notice. But god… this was going to be a problem.
Your fingers moved with practiced ease, separating strands, smoothing them down, combing through from root to tip. Yunho’s hair was soft, mainly because you being a hair stylist and his girlfriend, you made sure to keep it healthy, it was silkier now that it had grown out past his ears, thick and slightly wavy in the back. You ran the brush down again, slower this time, focused.
And then he moaned. A quiet, low sound from deep in his chest, not dramatic or playful, but real. Felt. “I love when you play with my hair,” he said, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. His eyes stayed half lidded in the mirror, jaw slack, neck tilted ever so slightly like he was offering himself up and your grip on the brush faltered. “Shut up,” you hissed, instantly flustered. “We’re at work.”
He grinned, the kind of grin that said he wasn’t sorry at all. “Didn’t say anything inappropriate.”
“You moaned.”
“Did I?” he said innocently. “Pretty sure that was just a sigh of appreciation.”
You smacked his shoulder with the back of the brush, and he laughed, warm and unbothered, but he didn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. You fought the urge to roll your eyes and instead leaned closer, reaching forward to gently section off the top half of his hair. The tips of your fingers grazed his scalp again, and you could feel it, the way he shivered, barely perceptible but very much there. “You keep reacting like that, and I’m gonna clip your hair up with a binder clip and call it a day,” you muttered.
“You know that would still turn me on, right?”
“Yunho.”
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “But if you keep touching me like this…”
Your fingers paused just behind his ear.
“I’m gonna start thinking we’re not working.”
You inhaled sharply through your nose. You were dangerously close to threading your fingers into his hair instead of the tie you’d just picked up. But you couldn’t let him win. Not here. Not yet. You ignored every word he said after that, at least on the outside. Inside? You were a wreck.
The texture of his hair, the way it slipped between your fingers like ink, the low heat rolling off his skin, it all worked against your professional resolve. But you kept going, sectioning the top half carefully, gathering it like muscle memory, like it wasn’t driving you insane to feel him melting under your hands as he stayed still, unnervingly so, just watching you through the mirror.
When you finally tied it off, a few stray strands framed his face exactly like the reference photo, except better. Way better. His cheekbones looked sharper, his lips more plush, and his eyes… God, his eyes looked lethal now, framed by that loose dark curtain. Your hands dropped to your sides before you could do something you’d regret in public. That’s when the door swung open.
“Next victim,” Wooyoung announced, striding in like he owned the place. “What’s up, hot people?”
You stepped back automatically as Yunho slowly stood from the chair, rolling his neck once. The way his hair moved, soft and heavy in the back, controlled on top, made your stomach flip and he caught the look in your eye before you could hide it. And he grinned. Full blown, smug, knowing grin. “Thanks, baby,” he said, sauntering past you like nothing had happened. “That felt amazing.”
You knew he wasn’t just talking about the styling as Wooyoung flopped into the chair Yunho had just left, completely unaware of the storm he was walking into. “Think you can make me look that good, too?”
You cleared your throat. “I can try.” But you weren’t looking at Wooyoung. You were still watching Yunho, and he was still watching you over his shoulder, that damn grin playing on his lips as he walked backward out of the room.
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The main set was dimly lit, warm with moody tones and artificial smoke curling through the air. You stood with the rest of the styling staff behind the monitors, clipboard in hand, headset looped lazily around your neck as the photographer called out directions. The boys were cycling through individual shots, Yeosang already done, Wooyoung next, San prowling the edge of the backdrop waiting for his turn. And then there was Yunho.
Center of the frame. Looking like temptation in high definition. His vest was now buttoned up tight, hugging every inch of that maddening torso, the sheer sleeves catching just enough light to make you clench the clipboard tighter. But it was the hair. The fucking hair. Pulled back, slightly tousled, ends curling softly behind his ears, that elegant half ponytail making his entire jawline look criminal.
He wasn’t even doing much, just tilting his head, staring down the lens like he was trying to melt it. But your eyes were glued to him. You’d never seen him look like that. Calm. Controlled. Hot as sin. And he knew. You could feel it every time his gaze flicked slightly off camera. Like he was looking for you.
You shifted your weight, arms crossed tightly now, forcing yourself to glance at your clipboard. It didn’t help.
“You good?”
You froze at Mingi’s voice, way too close. You turned your head to find your boyfriend’s best friend standing just to your left, hands in his pockets, a curious smirk tugging at his mouth. Before you could respond, Jongho’s voice came from your other side. “You’ve been staring for, like, five full minutes.”
“I have not,” you snapped a little too quickly.
They both blinked at you and Mingi leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You gonna survive or should we get you a cold drink?”
“Or a dark room?” Jongho added helpfully.
You opened your mouth to tell them both to shut up and that’s when Yunho shifted his stance in front of the camera, slowly lifting his hand to run it through the loose strands that framed his cheek. His fingers brushed right over the tie you’d fastened, tugging it just enough to make a few locks fall back over his face. It was so deliberate. And you knew exactly who he was doing it for. You made a strangled noise in your throat.
Mingi snorted. “That’s a yes.”
Jongho chuckled, nudging you with his elbow. “Better go fix his hair, noona. Looks like he messed it up just for you.”
“Pause for a second!” The photographer’s voice cut through the bass heavy music playing over the speakers, calling for a quick break to adjust lighting. Yunho stepped off the mark, taking a few long strides toward the edge of the set.
You were already moving. Clipboard forgotten, headset discarded somewhere near Jongho’s smug little smile, you crossed the floor with practiced ease, head high, face calm, totally unbothered. Except, of course, for the fact that Yunho had just intentionally ruined the half ponytail you had styled, and now everyone was expecting you to fix it.
He was waiting. Arms relaxed at his sides, smugness radiating off him like steam from a hot sidewalk. His eyes met yours and held, a glint of amusement, no, satisfaction, blooming behind his dark gaze as you stopped in front of him, ignoring the way your pulse skipped when he tilted his chin slightly, giving you full access to the mess he made. Of course he did.
“You pulled pieces loose,” you muttered under your breath.
“I did,” he said, voice low. “Terrible of me.”
You stepped in close, brushing your fingers through the front sections that had fallen out of place. He smelled like clean skin and faint cologne, bergamot and warmth. His hair was soft, still holding its shape where you’d styled it, except for the few strands he’d deliberately tugged loose like some kind of tease.
Your hands worked quickly, re tightening the band at the crown. But your breath caught when he leaned in just enough for his voice to ghost across your ear. “I missed your hands.” Your fingers stuttered. Then you yanked the tie just a bit tighter and he flinched. “Oops,” you said flatly, stepping back.
Yunho smirked, adjusting his vest like he didn’t just flirt with you while a dozen people watched. “You wound me.”
“Not yet,” you whispered, low enough for only him to hear and his eyes darkened. Just slightly. Just enough.
“Back to position, Yunho!”
He turned slowly, gaze dragging over you before he walked back to the center of the set, ponytail perfect once again, jawline sharp, and the ghost of a smirk still curving his lips.
You exhaled slowly as Mingi, off to the side, gave you a thumbs up and wiggled his brows. You were so screwed.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The shoot wrapped with applause and scattered laughter, the energy still humming even as the team began to disperse. Monitors shut off, lights dimmed, props moved to the side. Staff collected clipboards and cables, stylists gathered their kits, and the boys started peeling out of concept clothes like they couldn’t wait to breathe again.
You lingered near the edge of the room, watching it all wind down, waiting to leave with Yunho. Wooyoung had already flung himself onto the nearest couch, shirt halfway pulled over his head, whining about being tired. San was laughing at him. Yeosang was still taking mirror selfies in full wardrobe. And Yunho had already changed. Gone was the sheer vest and tailored trousers, replaced now by his usual comfort fit, black oversized hoodie, sage green cargo pants.
But what made your chest tighten was that he’d left his hair up. The ponytail was still in place, slightly messier now, a few strands curling loose behind his ears, but still, it was up. Like he liked it. Like he didn’t want to take it out. And it looked obscenely good with that hoodie. He was sitting on one of the stools by the mirror, bent over slightly as he laced up his sneakers, sleeves pushed to his elbows. You tried not to stare. You really, really did. But there was something about the contrast, the softness of the tied up hair, the street style slouch of his clothes, the strength in how he moved that made heat bloom low and slow again in your stomach.
Yunho glanced up mid lace, catching you from across the room. And he smiled. Not the teasing smirk from before. Something quieter. Warmer. But still dangerous. He patted the empty space next to him on the bench. Didn’t say a word. Just the pat. Like an invitation. No…. like a challenge.
You took a small step forward, just one, already feeling the buzz under your skin like a lit fuse. And that’s when San’s voice cut through the air like a damn whistle. “Hey,” he called, swinging his duffel bag over one shoulder as he approached, all warm smiles and post shoot glow. “You two wanna grab food with us?”
You blinked. “Us?”
“Me, Mingi, and Jongho,” San nodded. “We’re gonna hit that Korean BBQ spot near the studio. The one Mingi always says has the life changing pork belly.’”
From the corner, Mingi threw up a fist and hollered, “Because it does!” Jongho just rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath about needing real sustenance as you turned slightly to glance at Yunho, who was now sitting upright, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes on you like he hadn’t even heard San. But the little tilt of his head and lift of his brow said it all, up to you, baby.
Your stomach did a little somersault as San looked between the two of you, then squinted. “Unless…” His voice lowered just slightly, amused. “You’ve got other plans?”
“No,” you said too quickly, straightening your shoulders. “No plans.” Yunho’s smirk returned, barely. He looked like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as you added, “I could eat.”
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The BBQ place was buzzing, the familiar clatter of metal chopsticks, sizzling meat on grills, and background music just loud enough to compete with San and Mingi arguing over the best dipping sauce.
You sat squished between Yunho and the wall, close enough that your thigh brushed his every time either of you moved. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he hadn’t stopped leaning just slightly toward you the whole time, arm draped casually over the back of the bench, fingertips ghosting your shoulder every so often like he forgot they were there. He didn’t forget. You were pretty sure he was doing it just to see how long you’d last before combusting.
Jongho was flipping the meat like a pro, San was already halfway through the side dishes, and Mingi was leaning back in his chair, eyeing the empty drink menu like it had personally wronged him. “This is a crime,” Mingi announced. “We have grilled pork, rice, good company, and no soju?”
“We just sat down,” Jongho deadpanned.
Mingi scoffed, waving his hand. “I’ll order it. We need a bottle or three. Especially with them here.”
San snorted as you raised an eyebrow, amused. “Them?”
Mingi just grinned. “You’ll see.”
You rolled your eyes and slid out of the booth. “I’m going to the restroom. Try not to set anything on fire.” Yunho let his hand trail along your back as you passed, barely brushing your waist. You didn’t react. But he saw the way your breath hitched.
The second you disappeared around the corner, Mingi turned, eyes locked on Yunho like a heat seeking missile. “Well, well,” he said, dragging out the words. “You know she’s gonna pull your hair out by the time she’s done with you tonight.”
Yunho didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just lifted a slice of pork belly with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. Then he smirked. “I hope so.”
San groaned. “Jesus Christ.”
Jongho shook his head, flipping another slice. “Can we not talk about hyung getting manhandled while we’re eating?”
Mingi laughed, raising his hand for the server. “I’m just saying, she’s been giving him that look all day. You saw it, right?”
San leaned back with a shit eating grin. “She looked like she wanted to mount him mid photoshoot.”
“Yeah,” Mingi nodded. “And he looked like he wouldn’t stop her.”
“Still wouldn’t,” Yunho said, completely unbothered and the other three groaned in unison. “God, it’s like watching a porno in slow motion,” Jongho muttered just as your footsteps sounded as you returned. The table went suspiciously quiet, all four guys suddenly very focused on grilling, pouring drinks, and not saying a damn thing.
You paused, eyes narrowing. “What’d I miss?”
Mingi handed you a shot glass without looking up. “Nothing. Drink.”
Yunho reached under the table and squeezed your thigh once. Just enough to make your eyes widen. Just enough to make you wonder what the hell he and his ponytail had planned for later.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
Dinner had stretched into that sweet, blurry haze where the food was mostly gone, the laughter was too loud, and everything tasted like salt and soju. Half a dozen empty bottles littered the table, side dishes were a mess. You were flushed, comfortably buzzed, your legs pressed to Yunho’s under the table, the two of you talking low between bites, laughter curling around every soft brush of his fingers against your thigh. But San had pulled you into a back and forth drinking game halfway through dinner and now you were laughing harder, cheek warm against Yunho’s shoulder while you teased Jongho for being the only one still sober enough to read the bill.
“Okay,” Mingi grinned, holding the next bottle high. “One more round!”
“God,” Jongho groaned, “You’ve said that four rounds ago.”
“Shut up and accept your fate.” Mingi filled every shot glass with wild bartender flair, sliding one each toward San, Jongho, Yunho, and then to you. But before Yunho could reach for his glass, your hand shot out and snatched it instead. All four of them paused as you turned, shot glass in hand, and looked right at Yunho. Then, without a word, you reached up and fisted the tie of his ponytail.
His breath caught. So did everyone else’s as you tugged, firm but not cruel, tilting his head back just enough to expose the sharp line of his throat, jaw flexing as he looked at you, pupils dark and blown despite the ambient lighting. “Open,” you said softly.
His lips parted instantly and you poured the shot into his mouth slow, watching the way his throat worked to swallow it down, his lashes fluttering just slightly as the liquor burned it’s way past his tongue. Then you let go and Yunho exhaled like he’d just been kissed.
You didn’t say a word, just turned back to your food like nothing had happened as the table erupted.
“WHAT THE FUCK!”
“Noona!!”
“Oh my God! I think I just got pregnant.”
Jongho buried his face in his hands. “I want to leave.”
Mingi was howling. San looked half deranged, half proud. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
You just smirked and sipped your own shot as Yunho leaned in close, voice a whisper of gravel and desire against your ear. “That was not smart.” You turned your head slightly, your smile lazy. “Who said I was trying to be?”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
Yunho and Yeosang’s apartment was warm, low lit, and smelled faintly like sandalwood and laundry detergent, clean, lived in, and just the right amount of chaos. The front door clicked shut behind the two of you, the night air replaced by the familiar comfort of home as you both kicked off your shoes.
“Hey,” Yeosang called from the couch without looking away from the TV. He was half buried under a throw blanket, eyes glued to the screen. Next to him, Wooyoung was curled sideways in a hoodie two sizes too big, elbow deep in a bag of chips. “You’re late. That pork belly better have been worth it.”
“Ask Mingi,” Yunho muttered as you slipped past the couch with a quiet smile and headed straight for the open kitchen and pulled open the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, twisting off the cap as the laughter from the TV show carried faintly through the space.
You leaned against the counter, sipping slowly. And that’s when you saw him. Across the kitchen, standing in front of the hallway mirror, Yunho was adjusting his ponytail. His hoodie was loose, sleeves bunched around his forearms, but it didn’t hide the way his shoulder blades shifted under the fabric, or how his back curved slightly forward as he undid the tie.
Your eyes dragged over every movement as he finger combed his hair back again, the dark strands catching light, falling heavy and soft between his fingers. He tugged it higher this time, a little tighter. The kind of hold that said, don’t even try to pull it out unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences.
His jaw flexed as he twisted the band into place. You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just watched him. Because something about him, barefoot in his apartment, in baggy cargo pants and a hoodie, his hair tied up with your hands still technically the last ones to touch it, made your stomach flip.
He looked up and caught your reflection in the mirror. And you saw it happen. That flicker in his gaze. That change in air pressure. He turned slowly to face you, leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, head tilted. “Thirsty?” he asked, nodding toward the bottle in your hand.
You didn’t answer him. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t say a damn thing. You just capped the water bottle, set it quietly on the counter… and walked. Straight past the living room, past the hallway mirror, past Yunho, your shoulder brushing his chest as you passed him. No eye contact. No pause.
You didn’t need to look back. Because you felt him follow. His footsteps were silent, but the weight of his presence behind you was impossible to ignore. Heavy. Focused. Dangerous in the way that made your breath catch halfway down the hallway.
You reached his bedroom door and opened it slowly, slipping inside without hesitation. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his bedside lamp. Warm toned, cluttered in a comfortable way, a jacket tossed over the back of his gaming chair, ipad on the nightstand, phone charger trailing off the bed. The scent of him lingered thick in the air, clean skin, cedar, a hint of something spicy from his shampoo.
You stepped to the center of the room and waited as behind you, the door clicked shut. Yunho stood just inside the threshold, hoodie slightly wrinkled, his hands loose at his sides, chest rising slow but deep. The hair tie had loosened a little in the walk down the hall, a few strands falling back into his face again.
He crossed the room in just a few slow steps, gaze fixed on you like he was already imagining a dozen ways the next hour might play out. His hands found your waist first, warm, steady, fingers pressing just enough to remind you how big they were. He pulled you flush against him, his voice low and amused right at your ear. “So,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth brushing your skin, “you gonna admit how much you love the ponytail now… or after I make you scream?”
You exhaled sharply, not from surprise, but because he was already kissing you, deep and slow, his mouth lazy but deliberate, like he had all night to ruin you and no intention of rushing a single second. He kissed like he knew you, every breath, every beat, every bite that made your knees buckle just a little. Because he did. And he used it.
Each kiss backed you up one step… then another… then another, until the backs of your legs hit the edge of the bed and he smiled against your mouth like he’d just won something. That was his first mistake. You grabbed the front of his hoodie in one hand. And his ponytail in the other. Yunho froze when you fisted it tight and pulled, just enough to tilt his chin up, mouth parting slightly as his breath caught. He didn’t expect that.
“You talk a lot of shit,” you said softly, voice threading with heat as you tugged him down to sit on the bed. He went willingly, eyes wide, lips still parted as you straddled his thighs with a slow roll of your hips, fingers still gripping the ponytail like a leash. “Funny how you think you’re gonna be in charge tonight.”
His breath stuttered. And that’s when it hit him. He wasn’t. Not even close. Yunho didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe as you rolled your hips once against his lap and slowly leaned back just enough to slide your hands under the hem of your top.
His eyes followed every motion, lazy, hungry, dark with anticipation as you pulled your shirt up over your head, exposing skin inch by inch. You dropped it beside the bed without breaking eye contact, relishing the way his jaw tightened the moment your bra came into view.
You weren’t in a rush. You knew what you were doing. He’d spent the whole day teasing you, back at the studio, at the restaurant, with his smug little glances and that damn ponytail you styled yourself. Now? You were going to enjoy watching every single ounce of power drain from him as you peeled yourself open like a gift with his name on the tag.
Your hands moved down, undoing the button of your jeans next. Yunho’s hands twitched at his sides like he was fighting every instinct to grab you. “Don’t move,” you said quietly and his breath caught as you stood slowly, pushing your jeans down your legs with deliberate care, knowing full well his gaze was locked on every curve, every shift of your hips as you stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
You stood there in nothing but your bra and underwear, blue and black mismatched, head tilted slightly, arms relaxed at your sides. He looked ruined already. But you weren’t done. Not even close. You crossed back to him, slow and confident, straddling his lap again, the heat between your bodies undeniable as your mouth brushed his ear, breath hot and teasing. “Strip.”
His hands moved instantly. Because of course they did. Because unho wasn’t in charge tonight. You were. His hands came up immediately, he obeyed, just like you told him to. But not without a little flair. First, he reached behind him and tugged the hoodie off in one clean motion, the hem brushing over your thighs as it came free. He tossed it to the floor without breaking eye contact, his jaw set, chest rising a little faster now beneath his thin white tee.
But instead of rushing like he should have… he slowed down. One hand dipped beneath the hem of his shirt and paused, fingertips brushing his own skin, his abs tightening just enough to make you feel it under your thighs. His other hand gripped your hip like a warning, like a test, like, come on, baby, push me.
You tilted your head, one brow raised. “Are you stalling?”
“Maybe,” he murmured, thumb brushing your skin. “It’s more fun when you’re watching.”
You narrowed your eyes. Then leaned forward just enough to tug his ponytail again, sharper this time, not enough to hurt but enough to make him exhale hard through his nose, his hands freezing like you’d shut off the power in his body. “I said strip,” you whispered, your voice silk wrapped steel.
Yunho sucked in a breath and yanked the shirt over his head this time, fast, like he finally understood the stakes. You sat back and let your eyes drag over him, shoulders broad, muscles taut, stomach flexing under your gaze. You could feel the heat rolling off of him now, barely contained beneath his skin, like he was straining to keep himself still for you.
Then he reached for his his pants. And this time? He slowed down on purpose. Smirking. Dragging it out. Pushing your buttons the same way you’d pushed his. Like a challenge. Like a threat. Like a promise. Your fingers curled into his thighs.
“Careful,” you said, voice low.
“Or what?”
You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. “I’ll make you beg before I even touch you.”
Yunho’s breath hitched as he moved you off him so he could kick his pants and underwear off. And for the first time tonight, he didn’t have a comeback as stood fully naked now. And he was gorgeous.
Flushed skin. Thighs tense. Chest rising in shallow breaths. That cocky smirk he wore so well? Barely hanging on now, threatening to break under the weight of whatever the hell you were about to do to him. He was already wrecked. And he knew it.
You let your fingers drag slowly up his bare chest, nails teasing his skin. He shivered, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach, touch, grab, do something. But he didn’t. Not without permission. “Now…” you whispered, standing up, reaching on your tippy toes so your mouth could brush the shell of his ear, “go get your favorite toy.”
Yunho tensed and you felt it. That flicker of hesitation. The way his breath stilled for a fraction of a second before he exhaled and carefully looked at you. He didn’t ask what you meant. He knew. You saw the flush creep higher up his neck, spreading to his ears. Saw the way his jaw flexed, his body practically vibrating with restraint as he nodded once.
And you didn’t miss the way his dick twitched as he turned toward the closet. He was trying not to look too eager. But you saw right through it. The closet door creaked open as he reached up to the top shelf, behind a stack of folded hoodies, and there it was. A black box. Sleek. Discreet. You’d only seen it a couple times before, during nights when the lines had blurred enough for him to let you in a little deeper, let you see the part of him he kept tucked between dominance and desire.
The part that liked you in control.
He brought it over to the bed, wordless, offering it to you like something sacred. You took it slowly. Opened it carefully. Nestled inside was the harness. The strap on he’d picked with you in mind, size, color, shape, weight. Everything. Yours for the nights he gave himself over to you completely. Like tonight.
You looked up at him, now standing at the edge of the bed, chest bare, dick heavy between his thighs, hair still tied up but starting to come loose around his temples as you took your time pulling the harness out of the box, laying it across the bed with quiet, deliberate grace. The leather was warm from storage, flexible but firm, the familiar weight settling into your palms like muscle memory.
Yunho stood in front of you, bare, still flushed from the inside out. His chest rose with every breath, his eyes dark and heavy lidded as he watched you step into the harness, pulling it up over your hips with a slow, practiced roll. “You remember how this works,” you said softly, fingers working the straps into place. He nodded. Then, without being told, he dropped to one knee.
Yunho’s large hands moved with care, adjusting the side straps with quiet reverence, tightening, pulling, making sure the harness hugged your hips just right. His fingers brushed your thighs as he double checked the buckles, knuckles grazing the soft skin just above your panties. The way he looked up at you from his knees? Obscene.
You hooked your thumb under his chin and tilted his head back. “Good boy.” A breath escaped him like it’d been knocked right out of his lungs. You let him stand then, let him climb onto the bed first, slow, crawling on elbows and knees, the muscles in his back flexing with every shift forward, his skin practically glowing in the soft lamplight.
He arched a little, already in position, already waiting. Obedient. Eager. Yours. You reached for the drawer in the nightstand, fingers finding the bottle of lube without even looking. You popped the cap and drizzled it generously over the strap, then more in your hand, warming it as you watched him exhale into the mattress. “You still want this?” you asked, voice lower now, serious, because even in the filth, this part mattered most.
Yunho turned his head slightly, lips parted, cheeks flushed. “Yes,” he rasped. “Please.” Your smile was slow, dangerous. “Good.” You straddled behind him, lube slick in your hand, heat rolling off both your bodies as you reached down and finally touched him, one hand steady on his hip, the other gliding the lubed up strap through your fingers once more before pressing it gently between his cheeks.
Yunho inhaled, deep and shaky as you leaned forward, your chest brushing his back, lips ghosting his spine as you whispered, “Relax for me.” He nodded, head low between his arms, fingers twisting in the sheets as you started slow. One hand spread him open just enough, the other guiding the strap’s tip to his entrance. You pressed in carefully, not even breaching him yet, just enough for him to feel it. Just enough for him to know what was coming.
He sucked in a breath.
Then you pulled back.
Waited a beat.
And did it again, press, withdraw, tease.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned, hips twitching. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Mhm,” you murmured, pressing in just a little further this time, making him stretch around the tip before easing back out again. “I like watching you fall apart.”
Yunho whimpered into the mattress, whimpered, and it made your own body clench with heat. So you did it again. And again. And this time, you pushed in just deep enough to have his breath stutter and his fists ball into the sheets.
“Shit,” he choked. “You’re such a….”
You rolled your hips forward, shallow, controlled and he cut off with a hiss as you smiled, gripping his hips tighter. “Something you wanna say?”
Yunho turned his face toward the pillow, growling under his breath. Then, louder, sharper, “Just fuck me already.”
You stilled and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” he growled again, louder this time, practically shaking with need. “Fuck…. please. Just fuck me.”
You let out a soft hum, shifting forward, your grip tightening on his waist. “Since you asked so nicely.” And then you pushed in deep. And Yunho moaned like he’d been waiting his whole damn life for it as you gripped his hips, steady and sure, as you slowly pushed forward more, inch by inch, watching the way Yunho’s back arched, muscles tightening, breath catching.
The stretch was deep, deliberate. And you didn’t rush it. You took your time filling him, giving him every inch, letting the harness settle flush against you as you bottomed out and he gasped. Fingers twisted in the sheets, forehead pressed to the mattress as he tried to breathe through it, through the fullness, the heat, the slow burn of being completely taken.
You stayed still, your hands sliding over the curve of his hips, soothing. One of them dragged up his spine, the other smoothing down to the dip of his lower back as you leaned over him, chest against his back. “You good?” He nodded, tight, shaky.
“Say it,” you whispered.
“I’m good,” he rasped. “So good.”
You kissed his back, soft and slow. “That’s my boy.”
And then you started to move. Gently. Just a slow pull back, a shallow thrust forward, measured, smooth, the kind of rhythm that let him feel it. Every inch. Every motion. You watched the muscles in his back ripple, the way his arms shook slightly from how hard he was gripping the blankets.
He moaned low, raw and guttural. “F…. Fuck…”
You smiled, hips rolling forward again, deeper this time. “I want you to feel all of it,” you murmured, voice dark against his skin. “No rushing. Not tonight.” He moaned again, desperate, helpless as you rocked into him again, dragging it out, building that pressure just right.
And Yunho was already trembling. Already ruined, and you’d barely even started. Your thrusts stayed steady for a moment longer, hips rolling deep and slow, just enough to keep him on the edge, trembling, mouth spilling breathy curses into the sheets.
But then you felt it. The shift. His body opening up, fully adjusted, muscles relaxing beneath your touch. His thighs spread wider, back arching just enough that you could feel how ready he was. You tightened your grip on his hips and snapped your hips forward, just once, firmer, and Yunho moaned, loud, raw, and absolutely wrecked.
“Arch back,” you breathed, voice sharp with command. “Now.” He obeyed instantly, shifting his weight onto his palms, back curving into a perfect arch that made you groan under your breath. “Good boy,” you said, and that praise hit him like a damn drug, his head dropping slightly, hair falling loose around his face as he whimpered.
And that’s when you grabbed it. His ponytail. Your fist wrapped tight around the base, yanking just enough to pull his head back and own every inch of him and Yunho choked on a moan. “Oh my… fuck!” You smirked. “You’re so easy to ruin like this.” Then you started to move. Harder. Deeper.
Each thrust slapped against him with purpose, your grip on his ponytail keeping him right where you wanted him, head tilted back, mouth parted, completely under you. He was panting now, loud, his thighs shaking, hands gripping the sheets like his life depended on it. “Look at you,” you murmured between thrusts, voice syrup slick and cruelly sweet. “All that cocky energy gone the second I fuck you right.”
He groaned, shameless, head tilting further back into your grip as you pulled his ponytail tighter and he whined. “Please…”
“For what?” you taunted, hips snapping faster now, driving into him harder, rougher, making the bed creak beneath the rhythm. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”
“Y… Yeah…. fuck, yes!” His knuckles were white, whole body trembling now. And still, you didn’t let up. Not when he sounded that pretty. Not when he looked that good. Not until you had him gasping and moaning your name like it was the only thing he remembered how to say.
Your hips slammed into him now, rhythm unforgiving, the slick sound of skin and dildo echoing through the bedroom loud and obscene. The bed creaked beneath you, headboard rattling slightly against the wall, but you didn’t slow down. Not when Yunho was begging for it with every ragged breath. He was a mess beneath you, his body rocking forward with every deep thrust, arms barely holding him up, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. You still had his ponytail wrapped tight in your fist, using it to keep his head tilted back, mouth open, his moans getting louder with every stroke.
And then he cried out. Loud. Too loud. His voice broke around your name, spilling into the room like a warning shot, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt, that anyone still in the apartment just heard Yunho moan like he was being fucked into the afterlife.
The image of Yeosang and Wooyoung out there, wide eyed and traumatized over their bowls of popcorn?
Delicious.
But not as delicious as the way Yunho came. Because it hit him hard. You felt it in the way his whole body locked up, how he whimpered your name one more time, desperate, broken, and then shuddered, coming untouched beneath you. His arms gave out, chest collapsing into the mattress as he trembled through it, cum dripping onto the sheets below.
You didn’t stop. Not right away. You rode him through every twitch, every gasp, your grip in his hair softening only once his body began to relax, tension leaking from his limbs like he’d just been exorcised. And maybe he had been.
You slowed, pulling out carefully and Yunho collapsed completely, face buried in the pillows, panting like he’d run a damn marathon. He looked ruined. And perfect. You reached down, gently unfastening the harness, sliding it off your hips piece by piece with the same calm authority you’d carried all night. The strap hit the floor with a soft thud, and you let your fingers trail across his spine once before sitting back on your heels, reaching for the edge of the bed.
But you didn’t even get the chance to move. Because in a flash, he grabbed you. Your yelp caught in your throat as Yunho’s hands locked around your waist, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing. The air left your lungs as your spine hit the mattress, and suddenly, he was above you, towering, eyes dark, hair half falling out of its ponytail, sweat slicked and completely feral.
The tables had turned.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he rasped, voice still rough from moaning your name. His hands slid up your sides with purpose, not slowing as they reached the clasp of your bra. You opened your mouth to say something, maybe to tease, maybe to push him again, but your breath hitched instead when his fingers made quick work of the clasp, dragging the straps down your arms before tossing the bra somewhere behind him.
“You think I was gonna let you finish with me and walk away?” he murmured, mouth already lowering to your chest. “Not a chance, baby.” Your eyes fluttered shut as his tongue dragged across one nipple, then the other, slow and possessive. Then he was moving again. Gripping your hips. Dragging you down the bed like he owned you.
“Yunho…”
You barely got the name out before your panties were halfway down your thighs, ripped off so fast you gasped. You barely had time to breathe, let alone process the shift, before his head dipped between your legs and his mouth was on you. No warning. No hesitation. Just pure, greedy need.
You cried out, back arching, hand flying to his hair, gripping what was left of the messy ponytail he hadn’t bothered to fix. He groaned at the pressure, tongue sliding through your folds with a hunger that was dangerous. “You’re so wet for me,” he muttered against you, voice all gravel and heat. “I didn’t even have to touch you yet.”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Because Yunho had taken back control. His tongue worked like he knew your body better than you did, slow licks, teasing flicks over your clit, then deep, firm pressure that made your thighs clamp around his head on instinct.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t fucking let up. If anything, he groaned into you, loved how tight your grip got in his hair, how your hips arched up to chase his mouth, how close you were already. “That’s it,” he murmured, dragging his tongue up your slit before sucking your clit into his mouth again. “You gonna come for me, baby? After all that talk?”
You whimpered, hands fisting the sheets now, one leg hooked over his shoulder as your whole body trembled. Every nerve ending was strung tight, on the edge, about to snap. And Yunho knew it. You felt it, that moment, that rush, your body about to tip over the edge….
And then he stopped.
You gasped, eyes flying open as the sudden loss of contact sent a pulse of frustration right through your core. “Yunho….” you started, voice high, broken. But he was already moving. Crawling up your body like a fucking storm, flushed and glistening, lips wet from you, hair wild, eyes locked on yours with heat so sharp it nearly split you open.
You didn’t even have time to ask why, because you felt it. His dick, hard again, pressed against your thigh as he settled between your legs. “You were gonna come?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, bracing himself on his forearms as his mouth hovered over yours.
You nodded, breathless, thighs still shaking and he smirked, dark. “Not yet.” Then he kissed you, filthy and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue while his dick slid along your folds, hot and heavy, teasing you all over again.
You didn’t even have a second to recover from the intensity of his mouth before Yunho was grabbing you again, hands strong and steady, that dominant energy flooding back in like a tidal wave. “Up,” he ordered, voice rough and low. Before you could question him, he was already pulling you upright, manhandling you into his lap like he owned you, because, right now, he did. His back was pressed to the headboard, legs spread wide, and you landed right where he wanted you, knees on either side of his hips.
You barely had time to brace yourself. Because one hand gripped your waist, and the other wrapped around the base of his dick, hard again, thick and glistening from the way he’d been grinding against the bed while he wrecked you with his mouth. He lined himself up. And you sank down. All the way. Both of you moaned, loud and helpless, your hands flying to his hair, fisting the loosened ponytail, dragging his head back slightly as your hips met his and the stretch sent shockwaves through your body.
Yunho swore under his breath, his fingers digging into your thighs like he needed something to anchor himself. “You feel…” he started, but didn’t finish, just groaned, letting his forehead fall against your collarbone. “Fuck.” You rolled your hips once, slow, and he choked on a sound, trying to hold back.
You pulled his hair again, forcing his eyes up to yours. “Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t hold anything back.” He moved. Fast. One hand locked around your waist, the other fisted in your hair as he shifted his hips and slammed up into you. You screamed. Your nails clawed at his shoulders, your breath catching violently in your throat as he pounded up into you again and again, no teasing now, no control games, just raw, relentless need. Each thrust knocked the breath from your lungs, your body rocked forward by the sheer force of it.
“Yunho!” you sobbed, voice high, strangled.
“That’s it,” he growled, mouth at your neck, breath hot and ragged, pounding up into you so hard the headboard slammed once, then again. “Say my name. Let them fucking hear it.”
You couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. His dick hit dead on with every snap of his hips, slamming right into your g spot like he’d mapped it himself. You were shaking, thighs locking around his waist, your back arching as you tried, failed, to ride it out.
Your hands gripped the loose mess of that ponytail, pulling as you cried out again, louder this time. “Yunho…. fuck, I’m…” You shattered. The orgasm tore through you like fire, your entire body convulsing as you squirted around him, soaking both of you, your scream ripped from your throat with such force it echoed in the damn room.
“Oh fuck,” Yunho growled, eyes wide as your body clenched around him, liquid heat dripping down his thighs. “God, baby, look at you…”
But he didn’t stop. He didn’t slow. You couldn’t even speak, your body was writhing, twitching, completely overwhelmed as he kept fucking up into you, watching your soaked, wrecked expression with pride written all over his face. “You’re not done,” he breathed against your lips. “Not even close.”
You were still pulsing around him, body trembling from that first explosive release, when Yunho wrapped his arms around you and moved. You gasped as he lifted you effortlessly, flipping you onto your back and laying you out beneath him. The sheets were damp, your body soaked with sweat and slick, and Yunho looked like something straight out of a fever dream, his chest flushed, lips parted, hair a complete mess now, the ponytail barely hanging on, strands falling wild across his face.
He knelt between your legs, still inside you, and you could see the twitch of restraint in every muscle as he gripped your waist. And slammed into you again. There was no rhythm now, just need. His hands dug into your sides, holding you in place as he fucked you with ruthless precision, dragging desperate, high pitched sounds from your throat every time he bottomed out and hit that same devastating spot.
The bed was a mess.
You were a mess.
Yunho looked like a man possessed, eyes locked on your face as you fell apart all over again.
“Baby,” you gasped, tears stinging your lashes, voice wrecked, barely audible. “Please…”
He grunted, teeth clenched. “Please what, baby?”
You couldn’t speak. Your mouth moved, but nothing came out except a broken moan as he leaned over you, hips still slamming into yours, and growled right into your ear, “You want me to feel you up, baby? Is that it?”
You could only nod, desperate, choking on your own pleasure, fingers clawing at his arms as your body started to seize beneath him again. And then it hit. Hard. Your second orgasm crashed into you like a wave, violent and blinding, your entire body arching off the bed as you cried out his name, thighs shaking uncontrollably, eyes rolling back.
Yunho’s grip on your waist tightened. One, two, three more thrusts…. And then he was gone too. His hips slammed forward one last time, buried deep, and he groaned, loud and guttural, as he spilled inside you, thick and hot and so much you felt it flood through you instantly.
His body dropped forward, forehead pressed to your shoulder, both of you panting, shaking, soaked in sweat and everything else. The room was silent except for the sound of your heavy breathing and the faint creak of the bed still rocking from the aftermath.
You didn’t say anything.
You couldn’t.
Neither could he.
Because Yunho had never come that hard in his life.
You were both completely, utterly wrecked.
Exactly as you wanted.
Exactly as you both deserved.
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The mirrored walls of the ATEEZ practice room were already fogging with heat and effort. Music thumped from the speaker in the corner, San and Mingi mid warmup while Jongho leaned against the wall, stretching.
The clock on the wall read 11:08. The others still weren’t there yet.
“Late again,” Mingi muttered, pausing mid stretch. “What’s new.”
Just then, the door opened. Yunho shuffled in first, hoodie halfway over his head, backpack slung lazily on one shoulder like he hadn’t fully woken up. Yeosang followed, looking suspiciously smug for a man who’d barely said a word. Wooyoung came in last, in borrowed sweats, sipping iced coffee and radiating the kind of chaotic exhaustion you only got from hearing your friends go feral in the next room.
Yunho kicked off his shoes with a grunt and peeled his hoodie off revealing the crime scene that was his hair. Tied up the night before. Wild and knotted now. Strands sticking out in every direction. Half his ponytail had somehow exploded, the other half barely holding on for dear life.
Mingi froze. And then burst out laughing. “Oh my god.” He pointed at Yunho, mouth open. “You look like you got hit by a car.”
“Shut up,” Yunho grumbled, raking a hand through the chaos like it’d help. It didn’t.
Jongho squinted. “You okay, hyung? You’re walking a little… weird.”
“He screamed her name,” Wooyoung added helpfully. “Loud. At least twice.”
Yeosang chimed in, sipping his own coffee without flinching. “Three times. I counted.”
Mingi was practically on the floor now. “You screamed? Jeong Yunho? Screamed? I gotta call Seonghwa.”
“No one’s calling Seonghwa,” Yunho muttered, tugging his hood back up, already regretting being born and flipped them all off.
Yeosang sipped his drink.
Wooyoung and San grinned.
And Mingi? Mingi looked at Yunho’s ruined hair, and smirked like the little shit he was. “She really broke you, huh?”
Yunho didn’t answer. But the crooked smile that twitched at the corner of his mouth said enough.
summary: in which your boyfriend discovers he has a kink with his adams apple
warning: slight sub yunho, dry humping, yunho comes in his pants
genre: smut
pairing: idol yunho x afab reader
word count: 2.3k
masterlist
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You hear the knock before the doorbell, three short raps, always the same. You don’t even need to check the peephole.
When you open the door, Yunho’s standing there in his oversized black chrome hearts hoodie and grey sweatpants, hair damp and curling slightly at his temples, eyes a little tired but still crinkling when he smiles at you.
“You look half dead,” you tease gently, stepping aside to let him in. “That’s because I am,” he groans, toeing off his shoes. “If I hear one more yell about synchronization, I’m faking an injury.”
You laugh, closing the door behind him. “Want food? I made ramen.” He gives you a look like you just offered him salvation. “You are the best thing to ever happen to me.”
“You say that to your ps5 too.”
“Yeah, but I mean it with you.”
You roll your eyes but your smile betrays you, and as he follows you into the kitchen, he brushes a hand across your back, just light enough to make you feel it even after he’s already moved past.
Dinner is lazy. He props an elbow on the counter while you reheat the broth, sipping water and watching you like you’re the main show tonight. Every few seconds, his head dips, either out of exhaustion or just to rest it on your shoulder.
“You sure you’re not gonna fall asleep in the middle of this movie?” you ask, sliding his bowl in front of him. “
No promises. But if I do, I’ll dream about your ramen.”
You both carry your food to the couch, feet tangled in the blanket already draped there, the sound of the opening credits playing softly in the background. He slouches down immediately, bowl balanced in one hand, chopsticks lazily twirling noodles with the other.
You end up leaning into him while you eat, the scent of soap and aftershave and something unmistakably Yunho winding around you like gravity.
“I missed this,” he says suddenly.
You glance at him. “What?”
“This. Just… being here. With you. Nothing else going on.”
He doesn’t say it with any weight, no expectation or awkwardness, just a quiet truth he wanted to let hang there.
You nudge your shoulder into his. “Then you should come over more.”
He hums low, almost like a purr. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”
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The bowl’s long forgotten on the coffee table, chopsticks resting sideways like a half finished thought.
Yunho’s head is propped against the back of the couch, one arm slung lazily around your shoulder, thumb absently stroking the fabric of your shirt. You’re curled into his side, legs folded, face tucked just beneath his jaw, and the only light in the room comes from the muted flicker of the TV screen.
He can’t remember what the movie is. Something with a spaceship, maybe. Explosions. Big emotions. None of it sticks. What does stick is the weight of you against him, soft, warm, grounding. The way your hand rests on his chest, fingers fidgeting like you’re half distracted. The way your breath fan against his neck every time you exhale.
It’s that breath that does it.
He shifts just slightly, trying not to make it obvious. But then you move, just the tiniest bit, nose brushing against the corner of his jaw. You sigh, soft and content, and then…
Your lips press there. Just a kiss. Light. Almost innocent. Yunho’s body went tense, but he keeps still. Eyes still half on the screen. But the movie’s a blur now.
You kiss him again. This time lower. A little slower. A little more purposeful. Right at the hinge of his jaw.
His arm tightens slightly around your waist as you kiss his throat, lips dragging down just enough to brush over his adam’s apple.
He swallows.
Hard.
Your mouth moves with the motion and he feels it. Not just the contact, but the sensation of it. The way your lips glide over the rise and fall. The heat that coils through his stomach instantly, sharp and unexpected.
You do it again. And this time, you nip causing a shiver bolts through him. His head tips back a fraction on instinct, baring his neck further to you without meaning to. Like his body already knows it likes this.
“Y/N…” he says, your name more breath than voice, like a warning or a plea, he’s not sure which. But you just hum against him, lips now dragging lazily over the base of his throat, and suddenly Yunho isn’t tired anymore. Not even a little.
He should be able to control this. He’s always in control when it comes to stuff like this.
He wants to. Wants to stay chill, stay casual, just enjoy the moment with you like he always does after practice. But your mouth, God, your mouth, is doing something to him that he wasn’t even prepared for.
You kiss his neck again. Slower this time. Right below his ear, lips soft and warm, and he swears he hears his own breath hitch. His hand, resting harmlessly at your hip just a moment ago, tightens in the fabric of your shirt.
You drag your lips lower, across his pulse, over that spot just above his collarbone. He swallows again. Can’t help it. And when you move even lower, when you kiss directly over his adam’s apple again, lingering there, teasing…..
He lets out a noise he didn’t mean to. A soft, desperate little moan. Barely a breath. But it betrays everything.
You pause, lips still pressed to his neck, and he feels you smile.
“Y/N…” he breathes, but it’s no use.
Because then you do it again. Your mouth ghosts over the same spot, his adam’s apple, and this time, you nip again, just enough to make him twitch. Enough to make his thighs tense, his hips shift slightly under the blanket, his breath leaves in a sharp exhale.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice cracked and low. He didn’t even know that was a thing. Didn’t know that was a button. But now you’ve found it, and you are pressing it.
“You like that,” you whisper, right against his throat.
He nods, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Yeah,” he exhales. “I really…. really like that.”
The movie might as well not exist. He couldn’t tell you a single thing about it anymore, not when your lips are dragging slow, open mouthed kisses along his throat now, not when you’re zeroed in on the one spot that just made him moan like that.
Your fingers trail up his chest, soft and lazy, like you’re playing with your favorite toy. Your mouth dips again, another kiss, right over his adam’s apple, and when your teeth graze it, just the barest scrape…. “Shit,” he hisses, head falling back more fully now.
You don’t stop. You kiss lower, right over his pulse, and your hand starts moving too, sliding down his chest, over his stomach, under the blanket and down toward the waistband of his sweats.
His whole body reacts before he can think. “Y/N…” he tries again, but this time it’s strained, ragged. Desperate in the way it drops from his mouth.
“I know,” you murmur, kissing his neck again, letting your breath tickle his skin. “You don’t have to say it.”
When your hand palms him, firm, slow pressure through the soft cotton of his pants, Yunho bucks his hips without meaning to. “Fuck,” he groans, biting down on his bottom lip like he’s trying to hold back the sounds threatening to spill out of him.
He’s hard already. God, he’s so hard it’s embarrassing how fast it happened, how much control he’s lost just from your mouth and your hand and that knowing smile you’re pressing into his skin.
“I didn’t know you liked your neck played with so much,” you whisper, lips brushing just beneath his ear now. “Especially right here…”
You press a kiss, right there again, as you palm him a little harder, a little slower, your hand moving in rhythm with his shallow breaths.
Yunho groans, loud this time, no filter, no shame. “You’re evil,” he breathes, voice hoarse and low. “You’re actually evil.”
You just smile against his throat. “But you’re not stopping me.”
“Not a fucking chance.”
His brain short circuits when you move. One second, you’re curled into his side, hand palming him slow and torturous through his sweats, lips still teasing his throat like you’re memorizing it. The next, you’re shifting up and over him, straddling his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His hands instinctively fly to your hips, big palms settling there like they were built to fit. “Y/N…” he groans again, already breathless, already fighting for control. But you don’t give him any time to recover.
You rock your hips forward. Once. Slow. Just enough for him to feel the heat of you through your shorts, your core pressing down right on him. He’s so hard already that the friction shoots straight through him like a jolt.
And then your mouth is back at his neck. Kissing. Licking. Teasing.
Yunho’s grip on your waist tightens. His head drops back fully against the couch, throat completely exposed now. “Please…” he mutters. He’s not even sure what he’s asking for. For you to stop? For you to never stop?
Then you do it.
Your lips drag back down to the front of his throat, right over the spot that’s already swollen from your earlier kisses, and this time, you suck.
Slow, deep pressure right on his adam’s apple, lips sealing around it, tongue dragging over the skin as you pull a hickey to the surface like you’re claiming it.
Yunho loses it.
He lets out the kind of sound that borders on a whimper, something desperate and broken and utterly helpless.
His hips thrust up into yours on instinct, grinding against you now as your movements sync, your lips marking him while your body drives him crazy.
“Y/N, fuck….” he gasps, one hand flying to your lower back, the other gripping your thigh like he needs to anchor himself to reality.
He knows he should stop you. Should say something. Should do something before he comes in his pants like a virgin.
But every time he tries, every time a shaky breath or half formed protest climbs up his throat, it dies the second your hips roll down and your mouth seals back over his adam’s apple.
You’re grinding harder now, body pressing flush against him with every motion, the friction building so perfectly he can barely breathe. He feels the heat of you even through the layers between you. And it’s so much.
The couch creaks beneath you. The blanket’s half kicked off. The movie is forgotten, fading into static background noise.
All Yunho knows is you, your breath hot against his throat, your thighs clenching around his waist, your hips grinding down again and again, matching the desperate little bucks of his own body as he chases the edge like a man possessed.
Then you suck again. Hard. Right on the spot you’ve already marked, right where it’s sore and sensitive and begging for more.
You devour his adam’s apple with your mouth, lips tight, tongue flicking, suction deep, and it’s too much.
He moans. Loud. Unrestrained. Like you stole the last of his self control right out of his chest. “Y/N…. fuck, I’m…”
You grind down again, slow and hard. And that’s it. He bucks up into you, hips stuttering once, twice, and comes. Right there in his sweatpants.
The orgasm crashes into him like a tidal wave, stealing the breath from his lungs. His hands clamp down on your hips like he’s afraid you’ll stop before he’s finished. His thighs jerk under you, a low groan tearing from his throat as he rides it out.
You feel it.
You feel everything, the shudder in his body, the twitch of his dick under the damp fabric, the way his whole frame just… gives out beneath you, head falling forward to bury his face in your shoulder.
His breath is hot against your skin. Shaky. Wrecked.
You don’t move. You just hold him there, still rolling your hips lightly, still licking the edge of the hickey you just finished painting on the most sensitive part of his body.
He’s not even embarrassed. He’s too far gone for that.
“You’re evil,” he mutters again, voice muffled and dazed.
You hum, grinding your hips against him again. “Still not stopping me.”
Yunho lets out a laugh, low and breathless. “Please don’t.”
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Yunho walked into practice like he hadn’t just been devoured alive the night before.
Well, he tried to. Hoodie on, water bottle in hand, headphones still in like he wasn’t trying to be seen or talked to. But the second he tipped his head back to take a drink….
“Oh my god,” Mingi blurted from across the room. “Is that a hickey on your neck?!”
Wooyoung looked up from tying his shoes. “Wait. Where….” He squinted. Then gasped. “Bro. That’s not a hickey. That’s a fucking target.”
San, already mid stretch, sat upright so fast his spine cracked. “No way,” he said, eyes narrowing. “No way she did that to you.”
Yunho yanked his hoodie up higher. “It’s not that bad.”
“You literally have a bruise on your windpipe,” Wooyoung said, getting up just to inspect it closer. “Did she try to eat you?”
“She didn’t try,” Mingi muttered. “She succeeded.”
Yunho groaned, flopping onto the studio floor like he could sink into it and disappear. “You guys are the worst.”
“Hey, we’re not the ones getting throat fucked by affection.”
Yunho threw a water bottle and missed as Jongho walked in, took one look at the chaos, then turned slowly to Yunho and raised a single unimpressed brow. “Seriously?”
Yunho just sighed, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s not my fault.”
San shrugged. “It kind of is. You gave her access.”
“And a neck that pretty?” Wooyoung added. “You were asking for it.”
“She just…..likes my neck, okay?” Yunho snapped, flushed and flustered.
Mingi grinned, wide and devious. “Oh, we can see that.”
summary: in which it’s your birthday and your boyfriend lets you ruin him
warning: sub yunho, dom reader, light bondage, face riding, edging, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, choking, squirting, cockwarming
genre: smut
pairing: yunho x afab reader
word count: 5.7k
note: this is basically a birthday present to myself 😭
masterlist
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The sun had fully risen over two hours ago, Yunho was already awake, wide awake and staring at the curve of your back as you breathed slow and deep beside him. His girl. His birthday girl.
God, you looked like peace. A tangled mess of sheets, limbs, and skin he’s memorized a thousand different ways but still couldn’t get enough of. Your hair was a little wild, your body bare except for his clinging to your frame like it knew what it was doing.
He stretched once, quietly, and rolled toward you, careful not to wake you just yet. Not until he was ready. Today was yours. But you were his. All day. And Yunho planned to make sure you didn’t forget either of those things.
His hand slid under the hem of your shirt, his shirt, draped over your hips. You shifted, murmured something sleepy. Yunho smiled, already half hard and barely touching you. He leaned in and pressed his lips to your shoulder. Just a kiss. A little one.
Then another, closer to your neck.
Then another, just beneath your ear.
Your breath caught.
Good morning, baby, he thought, dragging his lips down your spine, slow and deliberate. He felt your back arch, just a little, enough to let him know you were waking up. Not fully. But close.
“Yunho…” you whispered, barely audible.
“Shh,” he hummed against your skin. “Happy birthday, baby.”
You were still half asleep, but he could feel your body beginning to react, goosebumps trailing under his mouth as he kissed his way down your side, dragging the shirt up inch by inch.
His hands found your thighs, and Yunho pushed you onto your back, slow enough to give you the chance to stop him, but you didn’t. You sighed, lazy and soft, head turning toward him as your lashes fluttered open.
You looked at him like you were dreaming and he kissed the inside of your knee.
“You’re not allowed to get up today,” he murmured. “Not until I’ve had my fill.”
He didn’t wait for you to reply.
His lips trailed along your inner thigh, slow and reverent. He was taking his time. You deserved to be unwrapped like a present, savored and spoiled. And Yunho was going to make sure you started your birthday with his mouth between your legs and his name spilling off your lips.
Yunho had every intention of taking his time. Of teasing you slowly, lazily, until you were breathless and writhing. But then your hand slid into his hair.
And tugged.
Not hard, not rough, but firm. Deliberate.
You looked down at him through half lidded eyes, still blinking the sleep away, lips parted. “Take off your shirt,” you said, voice still scratchy from sleep.
He obeyed instantly.
The moment the fabric was over his head and tossed somewhere to the floor, you leaned up on your elbows and let your legs fall open wider, like you already knew what he needed. What he craved.
“Get back down there,” you murmured. “I want your mouth.”
God, he almost came from just that.
Yunho smirked, ducking his head as he sank between your thighs, resting his arms beneath them so he could keep you spread open, tilted perfectly toward his mouth. But you stopped him again with a tug on his hair.
“Let me,” you whispered, sitting up just enough to guide him with your hand, your voice like silk wrapped in heat. “Don’t think. Just stay still.”
Yunho stilled. Heart pounding.
You settled back against the pillows with a pleased sigh, draping one thigh over his shoulder, fingers buried deep in his hair. “Good boy.”
And that was it. He was gone.
His lips met your pussy in a slow, open mouthed kiss, the kind meant to ruin a person’s mind. You were already wet. Already warm and so sweet on his tongue that he groaned, burying his face deeper.
You let out a soft moan, back arching slightly. “Don’t stop.”
As if he could.
Yunho stayed exactly where you wanted him, moving only when you guided him. Something new to him. Let you have control. Your fingers directed him, tilting his head, pulling him in, holding him steady as you rolled your hips gently against his mouth.
Fuck, he thought, nearly drunk on the way you moved against him. On the tiny, whimpering sounds you made when his tongue slipped inside you, then dragged up to flick against your clit. You tightened your grip in his hair at that, tugging him closer.
He flattened his tongue and licked you again, and again, groaning into you, letting the vibrations do the rest.
Every little shift of your hips sent another wave of slick warmth over his mouth and chin, and he swore he could spend the entire day right there. If you wanted to use his face like this, ride his tongue until your legs were shaking? He’d let you. Gladly.
You gasped when he sucked on your clit just right, your legs twitching, breath hitching.
“Right there, baby?” he asked, voice low and raw against you.
“Mmhmm… just like that,” you breathed, hips rolling again. “Don’t move unless I tell you.”
Yunho’s dick throbbed at that, trapped against the mattress beneath him, untouched. But he didn’t care. He grinned against you, moaned into your folds, and let you grind against his tongue as long as you wanted.
This was yourday.
And your pleasure was the only thing on his mind.
He could feel your thighs start to tremble, the subtle shifts in your breath turning into something sharper, shakier, closer. You were getting there. He could feel it.
But then you pulled back.
He blinked, lips slick, breath shallow. Confused, dazed. Your fingers tugged at his hair again, but not to pull him closer. No, this time, you pulled him back, off you completely. He let out a needy little whine before he could stop himself.
“Mm… mmm,” you murmured, voice smug now, powerful, wicked. “You don’t get to finish me like that.”
You sat up fully, pushing him onto his back with a palm to his shoulder. He went easily, brows furrowed, chest rising fast. He was so hard it hurt, but all he could do was stare at you as you peeled off his shirt, the one you’d been wearing, and straddled his face like it was your throne.
Yunho’s mouth went dry. Then immediately wet again.
“Hands behind your head,” you were breathless but firm.
He obeyed, arms folded beneath his head as you sank down slowly, pussy brushing his lips with a slick, shudder inducing glide. His mouth opened, eager, reverent, tongue flicking up to meet you as you rolled your hips forward.
“Oh fuck” you gasped, head falling back, fingers tangling in his hair again.
Yunho moaned beneath you, deep and raw, the sound vibrating right where you needed it. He gripped the pillow tightly, resisting the urge to move, to buck his hips up or flip you over and take what he was dying for. But you were grinding on him now, riding his mouth, and his only job was to make it perfect.
And he did. Of course he did.
His tongue circled your clit, then flattened, letting you grind against him. Every time you rolled your hips forward, he moaned louder, letting you feel the way you ruined him. His nose brushed against you with every thrust, his chin and jaw soaked, and he loved it, lived for it.
“You’re so fucking good at this,” you whimpered. “God, Yunho…”
Your praise made his dick twitch where it was trapped beneath his sweatpants, untouched, throbbing. He groaned into you, needing you to know how good you tasted. How good you looked above him, messy, flushed, lost in pleasure.
Then your thighs started to shake again.
This time you didn’t stop it.
You gripped his head with both hands, riding his tongue faster, messier, as the tension built, your moans breaking into soft cries, hips stuttering forward.
He sucked on your clit and gave you everything you needed, everything he had, until your body locked up and your thighs clenched tight around his head. Your back arched, breath caught, and came hard, grinding out every last drop of your orgasm against his mouth.
Yunho let you ride the aftershocks of your orgasm for as long as you needed, his hands gliding slowly up and down your thighs, fingertips smoothing over goosebumps and trembles. You still hadn’t moved from his face, straddling him with that dazed, blissed out look that made something possessive curl in his chest.
Eventually, you sighed, a soft, satisfied sound, and eased yourself off, sliding down to settle in his lap. Your thighs were sticky and warm against his, body still humming as you leaned into him, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around you, drawing you in close.
Chest to chest. Skin on skin. His girl in his lap like you belonged there forever.
He sat up fully, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Then another. His lips wandered lazily along your collarbone, neck, up to your jaw. Slow, reverent. Like he was savoring every inch of you, drinking you in like the sweetest wine and he was never going to get enough.
“You’re glowing,” he murmured against your skin, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile as you let out a breathy laugh.
“I better be,” you ran your fingers through his messy hair. “You practically made me see stars.”
He chuckled, low and smug, and kissed the corner of your mouth. Then, with a teasing tilt of your head, you sighed dramatically against his ear. “Happy birthday to me.”
And fuck, did something shift in him.
Yunho’s lips paused against your throat, then curled into a devilish smirk. His breath tickled your skin as he nuzzled closer to your ear, voice dropping low and intimate, silk laced with heat. “Tell me how you want me.”
The words were a promise. A gift. A temptation.
He kissed just beneath your ear, soft and slow, then added, “It’s your day, baby. You say the word, and I’ll do anything.”
One hand slid down your back, palm splayed against your spine, holding you steady. The other dipped lower, gripping your thigh, pulling you in closer, flush against the ache that had been building beneath his sweatpants all morning. He was hard, painfully so, but he didn’t move.
Not until you told him to.
His voice was breathless when he spoke again, the tension coiled thick in his gut.
“You want it slow?” he murmured. “Want me to lay you down and take my time, make you come again before I even fuck you?”
Another kiss, featherlight, to your cheek.
“Or you want it rough this time?” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “Want me to pin you down and ruin you a little?”
His hand gripped your thigh tighter, and he pressed up ever so slightly against your heat, just enough to tease, to let you feel exactly what you done to him.
“Tell me,” he whispered again, like a secret. “Tell me how to fuck my birthday girl.”
Yunho wasn’t sure what answer he expected, maybe something sweet, whispered shyly in his ear. Maybe something filthy, with your hand already stroking him through his sweats while you made promises you fully intended to keep.
What he didn’t expect… was your mouth on his. Hot and sure, all tongue and hunger, stealing the breath right out of his chest before he could take another.
He groaned into it, hands gripping your hips on instinct, but you were already shifting. Moving. Guiding.
And then, pushing him back down and Yunho let you. Happily. His back hit the pillows as you straddled his hips again, but this time, fuck, this time, you rolled your hips against his, slow and deliberate, and his whole body jerked beneath you.
“God…. baby,” he gasped, his eyes fluttering open just in time to catch your wicked little smile.
You didn’t say anything, hand sliding between you, dipping into the waistband of his sweats. His breath hitched hard as your fingers wrapped around him, warm and soft and sinful. His hips bucked reflexively, his hands twitching like he wanted to grab you again, but you were already one step ahead of him.
With your other hand, you reached across the bed, fingers brushing the edge of the bedside table, searching.
Yunho’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What are you….”
Then he saw it.
The scarf.
That ridiculous, obscenely sheer, leopard print scarf he’d worn on stage a few weeks ago, left behind when he’d come home still half drunk on adrenaline and thrown it somewhere in the chaos of taking you against the wall. He hadn’t even thought about it since.
But apparently, you had.
You smiled sweetly as your fingers closed around it, drawing it toward you like a magician unveiling the next part of a trick.
Yunho swallowed hard. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh,” you purred, stroking him slowly with one hand as you lifted the scarf with the other, “I absolutely would.”
He could’ve stopped you.
He could’ve grabbed your wrist.
But he didn’t.
He let you take his hands, guide his arms up over his head. His eyes never left yours, his heart pounding, breath shallow as the soft fabric slid around his wrists, looping once, twice, tight.
Then came the final twist, tying the extra length to the headboard, cinching it with a firm tug that made his dick twitch in your grip.
Yunho exhaled a low, shaky laugh.
“Oh my god.”
“Mmhmm,” you hummed, stroking him a little harder now. “How’s that feel, baby?”
“Dangerous,” he muttered, chest rising with every breath. “You’re fucking dangerous.”
She grinned. “You love it.”
God help him, he did.
Completely at your mercy, bound by a damn stage scarf that still smelled faintly like his cologne and your perfume, Yunho couldn’t even pretend to fight it. His arms strained slightly against the headboard as he bucked into your hand, eyes already hazy, wrists strained against the headboard as you shifted on top of him, grinding just once, slow and punishing, before lifting yourself off.
Yunho tried to follow you with his eyes, his head turning as far as it could, chest heaving. You were moving downward, crawling down his body with a look that made his blood run hot and his dick twitch in anticipation.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, voice half gone.
You just smirked, kissing his chest first, then his sternum. Your tongue darted out to taste the sweat already beginning to form along his skin. Then trailed lower, licking, nibbling, kissing, slow as molasses, savoring every inch of him.
Yunho clenched his fists, bound tight above his head, as your mouth moved over his stomach, nails lightly scraping down his ribs.
“Baby,” he choked, hips twitching. “You’re killing me…”
“Shh.” You licked just beneath his navel, breath hot. “I’m unwrapping my gift.”
Then your fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweats. He hissed as you tugged them down, dragging the fabric torturously slow over his hips, thighs, and finally off his legs, leaving him bare. Hard. Helpless.
Your eyes flicked up to meet his, mischief dancing behind them.
Yunho’s entire body was on fire, his dick flushed and aching, already leaking at the tip. He groaned as you settled between his legs, palms smoothing up the inside of his thighs.
“Don’t tease,” he pleaded.
So, naturally, you did.
Your tongue was the first thing he felt. Just the barest flick, right at the tip, so soft and quick it made his entire body jolt.
Yunho let out a broken sound, somewhere between a gasp and a whine, his hips jerking up before you pushed them back down with a hand on his stomach.
“Stay still.”
“I can’t!”
“Yes, you can,” you murmured, licking the bead of precum off the slit with a delicate swirl of your tongue. “You’re my good boy for my birthday, remember?”
He nearly lost it right there as you licked again, this time slower. Just the tip. Teasing, tasting, letting him watch as your tongue danced over the most sensitive part of him like you had all day to do so.
And Yunho? Tied up, desperate, panting through clenched teeth, could do nothing but take it, shaking. Not in a dramatic, overdone way, but with the kind of twitching, subtle tremors that only came from true restraint. His fists were clenched tight above his head, bound by that ridiculous leopard scarf, his whole body taut like a drawn bowstring.
And you were still between his thighs, still fucking teasing him like you had all the time in the world, tongue swirling over the tip of his dick again, featherlight and slow. You let your lips brush him without wrapping them around him. Let your breath ghost over his skin between each barely there lick. You knew what you were doing, God, you knew.
Licking him like you were tasting frosting from your favorite dessert. Like he was a treat. A toy. Your own personal form of entertainment.
“You’re really not gonna take me?” he rasped, hips twitching helplessly beneath her. “You’re gonna do me like this?”
Your only reply was another lazy lick up the underside of his shaft.
“Baby… fuck…” he groaned, head pressing back into the pillow. “Please.”
Still no mercy.
You dragged your tongue up the vein on the side of his dick, swirling once around the head before pulling back to blow cool air over the slick.
Yunho actually whimpered.
And that? That earned him a smug little grin.
“Oh, now we’re getting somewhere,” you wrapped one perfectly manicured hand around the base of him just to hold him still. “Didn’t think I’d get you begging this fast.”
Yunho huffed, his chest rising with shallow, desperate breaths. “I’m not begging.”
“Mmm.” You flicked your tongue right across the slit again, making his whole body jolt. “No? Sounded a lot like *******please to me.”
He gritted his teeth and you licked him again. And again. Always just the tip. Just enough to keep him right there, to make him feel everything and get nothing.
“You always boss me around,” you teased softly, fingers stroking the base of him while your tongue danced at the head. “Always in control. Always making me beg.”
You looked up at him then, eyes dark and gleaming. “So today, you’re gonna be good for me.”
Yunho groaned, low and wrecked. “I am being good…”
“No, no, no,” you sang, pressing a kiss to the very tip, then resting your chin on his thigh. “Good boys don’t talk back. Good boys beg.”
You gave him one long, slow lick.
“Come on,” you taunted him. “Say it. Tell me how bad you want my mouth.”
Yunho’s body arched, his hands pulling instinctively at the scarf. He was dripping now, aching, completely at your mercy and half ready to lose his mind.
But when he looked down at you, smirking, smug, gorgeous, he felt his pride crack.
He licked his dry lips, voice rough and thick with need.
“Please,” he whispered, begging. “Let me feel it. Let me feel your mouth, baby. I need it so bad.”
You smiled like the devil.
Then flicked your tongue once more.
“Hmm. Almost.”
Yunho thought maybe, maybe, you would finally give him relief.
The way your eyes burned into his, the way you licked your lips before climbing back up his body, straddling his hips like you meant business, he really believed this was it. That his birthday girl was about to sink down on him and take what you already wrung him dry for.
But then?
You stopped.
Not sitting. Not grinding. Just… hovering.
Just high enough that his dick, red, leaking, throbbing, pressed against the slick heat of your pussy. The length of him sat snug between your folds, nudging your clit with every tiny shift.
And you grinned like you had won the lottery.
“Comfortable?” You asked, as if you weren’t actively torturing him with your body.
Yunho let out a guttural groan. “Baby, I swear…”
Your hips rolled forward just slightly.
Just enough for the head of his dick to drag against your clit.
Yunho’s mouth dropped open. Your gasp, soft and sweet, was like a match tossed onto gasoline.
And then? You wrapped your hand around him again.
“I’m just getting myself off,” you whispered, eyes half lidded, grinding slow and deliberate with him caught between you. “You don’t mind, do you?”
His brain was melting.
His dick, hot and twitching, throbbed helplessly in your fist as you stroked him with a rhythm that had nothing to do with mercy. Every pump of your hand slid him through your folds, the shaft of him gliding against your soaked pussy, the head catching on your clit each time you rolled your hips forward.
“Fuck…. fuck, baby”
“Shhh,” you breathed, biting your bottom lip. “Feels so good when it rubs right there…”
Yunho growled. Actually growled. His hips tried to thrust up, but you only pressed him back down with a firm grip on his stomach.
“Don’t move,” you scolded, breath hitching as another perfect pass of his cockhead made you twitch. “You don’t get to come until I say.”
He was about to lose it. His thighs trembled. His wrists strained. His abs flexed beneath your palm as your pussy brushed over him again and again, soaking him, teasing him, taunting him.
“Baby, please..”
You didn’t stop.
You just moaned softly, voice a little higher now, rhythm picking up, clit brushing him perfectly each time you stroked his dick and let the heat of your body glide down his length.
“You’re so hard for me,” you moaned, head tilting back. “So desperate. So fucking good like this…”
He was dying.
And he’d do it again.
Yunho’s world narrowed to one unbearable, maddening truth:
He was being used.
Used by the person he loved more than anything. Tied to the headboard by his own goddamn stage scarf, dick trapped between your soaking folds, slick and throbbing as you rode him not for his pleasure, but your own.
And it was so fucking hot, he could hardly breathe.
Your hand still stroked him, slow but purposeful, every motion dragging the head of him right across your clit. Over and over. Again and again. Your hips rolled with every stroke, chasing the friction, chasing the high, chasing your orgasm like he was just a means to an end.
“Fuck, Yunho…” you whimpered, breath hitching as you leaned forward, free hand bracing on his chest. “You feel so good like this…”
Yunho gasped as your pussy caught on the ridge of his head again, wetness coating every inch of him.
“I can’t…” he grunted, muscles straining beneath you. “I can’t take it..” he needed to be inside you.
“Yes, you can,” you teased, eyes locked onto his. “You’re gonna lay there and let me come all over your dick. Be good for me, baby.”
He groaned, so deep it was almost a growl.
His dick was leaking like he’d never been touched before. The ache, the pressure, unreal. But you didn’t care. You were grinding harder now, rhythm stuttering, thighs tightening around him as you moaned.
“Right there…. right fucking there!”
Yunho watched you come undone.
Watched your hips buck, body shake. Watched you throw your head back with a moan that shattered him, long, ragged, drenched in satisfaction as you came hard against him.
Your pussy throbbed against the tip of his dick, soaking him in warmth and slick and the sheer power of it. He felt every pulse of it like it was inside you, like he’d earned it, even though you still hadn’t let him in.
Yunho’s head fell back. His wrists twisted in the scarf. He let out a broken, desperate sound that barely qualified as a whimper.
“Please,” he choked out. “Baby, please let me…”
You cut him off with a kiss.
Hot. Deep. Smug as hell.
Then you leaned back up, blinking through the haze of your high, and grinned down at him.
“Not yet,” you said sweetly. “You haven’t earned it.”
Yunho was barely holding on.
His body was strung tight, sweat slicking his chest and throat, wrists aching where they pulled against the scarf tied to the headboard. His dick was pulsing, painfully hard, flushed, dripping, and all you done was grind on him and stroke him like he was a toy made for you and only you.
He’d begged. Pleaded. Whispered your name like a prayer and a curse.
And now?
Now your hand was back.
Wrapped around him again, slick with your release, stroking him slow at first. Teasing. Just enough friction to drive him insane.
“Please,” he rasped, voice cracked. “Please, baby, please, I need to come…”
“Shh,” you cooed teasingly, leaning over him, lips brushing his jaw. “You’ll get to. When I say.”
He groaned, hips jerking up into your fist, chasing the rhythm you were building. It was getting faster now, tight and perfect. Your thumb dragged over the head of him and Yunho saw stars.
“I’m close,” he gasped. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna…”
You stopped, pulled your hand back.
Gone.
Gone.
Yunho let out a strangled, broken sound of pure agony. His hips bucked at nothing, the climax that had been clawing up his spine ripped away in the cruelest way possible.
He was panting. Twitching. Nearly shaking from the denial.
And you smiled.
“Oh, my poor baby,” you mocked, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach. “So close again?”
He could only groan. Desperate. Ruined.
You waited just long enough for his muscles to twitch down from the edge, then wrapped your hand around him again.
This time, you stroked him hard and fast.
No build up. No teasing.
Just raw, perfect friction, slick and tight and merciless.
Yunho’s entire body arched off the bed, his moan breaking free with no filter, no control. He was coming, dick twitching violently in your hand, spilling over your fingers and his own stomach, breath ragged and uneven as you didn’t stop.
And then?
You moved.
While he was still coming, still gasping through the peak, you sank down onto him.
“Fuuuuuuck” His voice broke entirely.
You were hot. Wet. Tight.
So tight he saw white.
The sensation of you wrapped around him while his orgasm still tore through him was too much, too good, fucking illegal. His hands gripped at nothing. His hips jerked helplessly beneath you as you seated yourself fully, moaning at the stretch.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, shivering as you adjusted to his size. “You’re still coming….. shit…”
Your hands pressed to his chest, keeping him grounded, controlled. His dick twitched violently inside you, still spasming as you squeezed around him, milking every last drop.
Yunho didn’t know where he was anymore.
His brain was gone, melted, blown to pieces, drenched in the white hot haze of overstimulation. His arms were still tied above his head, body slick with sweat, lips parted as he tried to remember how to breathe.
And you, God, you were still riding him.
Hard.
Fast.
Stopping just once to pull up as you didn’t come but the sheer thrust of him inside you making you squirt. Wetness soaked him as you sank back on him.
Your hands braced on his chest, thighs slapping against his with each bounce once again, wet and hot and merciless. You hadn’t slowed down for a second. You had taken him inside while he was still coming and just kept going, using the aftershocks of his orgasm like a weapon.
Every thrust was agony. Pleasure. Torture.
He was so sensitive he could barely think. His dick pulsed helplessly inside you, every inch of him raw and twitching, overstimulated to the edge of madness.
“Baby…” he gasped, voice hoarse, eyes fluttering shut. “I can’t… I can’t, fuck, it’s too much…..”
You didn’t stop.
Didn’t even flinch.
Instead, you slowed just enough to lean forward, pace easing as you reached up, soft and deliberate, and wrapped your hand around his throat.
Yunho’s eyes snapped open.
You hovered just above him, grip firm but careful, grounding him as you smirked down at his ruined, breathless face.
“Shhhh…” Your thumb brushed along his jaw. “What is it you always say to me when I say that exact same thing?”
Yunho stared at you, dazed, panting as you leaned in, lips brushing his ear as you repeated his words back to him, the same words he would say to you when you were in his position.
“I know you’ve got another in you.”
His whole body shuddered.
And then you slammed back down.
He gasped, no sound, just breath. You started moving again, riding him hard, riding him through it, even as he whined, even as his hips jerked and his dick throbbed with the threat of another climax that he wasn’t ready for.
His fingers curled tight in the scarf, knuckles white, throat caught in your hand, and the burn in his gut came fast, too fast. You kept your eyes locked on his, moaning your pace quickened again, grinding down when you felt him twitch.
“You’re gonna come for me again,” your hand tightened around his throat just enough to make his eyes roll back. “Be good. Let go.”
Yunho broke.
He came again with a cry, loud and unrestrained, body shaking as his dick spilled inside you, throbbing violently with another orgasm that left him gasping, undone, and completely yours.
You didn’t stop until every last pulse finished. Until he was wrecked. Used. Overwhelmed.
Yunho didn’t know how he was still hard.
He shouldn’t be. His thighs were trembling, his abs flexing with every breath, and his dick had just emptied itself into you again, pulsing and twitching inside you like it had nothing left to give.
But then you kissed his jaw. “One more.”
Soft. Sweet. Inevitable.
You didn’t lift off him. You didn’t start bouncing again. No, this time, you ground your hips down against his, slow and deep, rolling your body like you knew every nerve ending inside him personally.
Yunho gasped. His hands clenched in the scarf above him. “I… I can’t….”
“Yes you can,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “I know you can, baby.”
Your hands flattened against his chest for balance, thighs framing his hips as you rocked against him again. The drag of your pussy over his spent dick was too much and not enough at once. Wet. Hot. Clenching. Needy.
You were chasing it now, your final high, rolling your hips in slow, tight circles as you kissed along his jaw again and again, whispering breathless little praises in between gasps.
“You feel so good,” you moaned. “Still so fucking hard inside me… Yunho…”
Yunho could barely breathe. His hips bucked instinctively beneath you, caught in the rhythm of your grind, the sheer heat of you soaking around him.
You were close. He could feel it. The flutter of your walls, the little whimpers in your throat, the desperate tilt of your hips.
And somehow, somehow, he felt the burn start to build again.
No way. No fucking way.
But it was happening.
You leaned down, foreheads nearly touching, fingers lacing gently into his sweat damp hair as she whispered against his lips. “Come with me.”
One more roll of your hips, just right, and he snapped.
Yunho let out a broken moan, his dick twitching inside you as you gasped, your own orgasm slamming into you like a wave. Your body locked up, trembling on top of him as you came with a choked cry, pussy pulsing around him, milking every last ounce of him all over again.
Your moans tangled.
Your hips rocked through it.
And when the aftershocks finally stilled, when the shaking slowed and the gasps softened into breathless laughter, you collapsed onto him, chest to chest, arms draped around his shoulders, lips pressed to the hollow of his throat.
Yunho was floating somewhere between post orgasm bliss and complete physical shutdown.
His arms were still tied above his head, wrists sore but forgotten. His body, still trembling in places, was pinned under you, your chest pressed to his, breath steadying, thighs cradling his hips like you had no plans to move for the next ten years.
And he was still inside you.
Softening now, yes. But not gone. Not even close. You were warm and snug and curled into him like you meant to cockwarm him until the next century. He loved it. He hated it. He wanted to die and do it again.
You shifted just slightly, and he whimpered.
“Shhh,” you hummed, lips brushing his throat. “You’re fine.”
And he was.
Until the door opened.
“Happy Birthdaaaa…”
“OH MY FUCKING GOD.”
The scream came from Wooyoung, who stood frozen in the doorway, both arms extended forward holding a handmade cake, slightly tilted, decorated in frosting that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY Y/N!!!”
Behind him, San let out a strangled gasp and physically backpedaled into Yeosang, who dropped the soju bottle he’d been carrying with a muted thud.
Yunho’s eyes flew open.
He looked at you. Still on top of him.
You looked at him. Absolutely not moving.
You both looked at the door.
And Wooyoung? Still. Holding. The. Cake.
“Oh my god,” San whispered, face already turning red. “Is he… is he tied up?”
“WITH THE SCARF?!” Wooyoung shrieked. “IS THAT…. IS THAT YOUR STAGE SCARF?!”
Yeosang, hands in his hoodie pockets, stared for a beat too long. Then quietly said, “You guys didn’t lock the door?”
Yunho let out the softest, most broken, “Please kill me.”
But the cherry on top?
Was you.
Still comfortably seated on top of him, not the least bit panicked, chin resting on his chest like you hadn’t just ridden him into next week. You glanced toward the open door, utterly unbothered, then gave a sweet, satisfied little smile.
“Hi, Woo. Is that cake for me?”
Wooyoung screamed, dropped the cake on the nightstand in horror, and slammed the door shut.
Yunho groaned like his soul had just ascended without him.
“Please untie me,” he whispered, eyes closed. “Please untie me before I have to go live in the mountains forever.”
NEED. (joshua hong x reader x yoon jeonghan) - PART TWO
summary: when you’re told by doctors that you need to get off your suppressants and go into heat, your beta husband thinks he has the perfect alpha in mind to help satisfy your needs.
word count: 6.5k
warnings: omega!reader, beta!joshua, alpha!jeonghan, established relationship (joshua x reader), angst, feelings of insecurity and self doubt, miscommunication, so much love between reader and joshua, cheating (?) if you want to interpret it that way, smut, nsfw, unprotected sex, mentions of heats, ruts, knotting, scenting,voyeur jeonghan, polyamory.
PART ONE
masterlist
In the six years you have been with Joshua, you have never doubted him or your relationship.
It’s what you loved about the two of you the most. The trust that exists between you is the size and strength of mountains. It’s the reason why you two are so strong, because the foundation is solid. It’s always been you and him against the world. For any obstacle, any difficulty you have dealt with, Joshua has been your support through it, always.
Even in the darkest moments of your relationship, like insecurities or bad communication, when you or him need to process things and need space, there is always an undercurrent, an understanding that you two would eventually come together to resolve it. There has never been a place for doubt.
Until now.
This time is different, you can tell. He is withdrawn not from the world, or for his own mental benefit, he is pulling away from you. You realise it in the days after your heat, once you fully regain your senses. Physically, he is there. He still loves to cook for you and cuddle on the couch after work. You still paint together on the weekends, or play badminton in the backyard. He fixes the shower when it starts leaking while you keep him company from where you sit next to the sink. You put little, shiny pins in his hair and he indulges you while you coo at him.
Everything looks fine. Any other person would think you’re being paranoid or crazy. But you’re not. Something about him is different. Something has changed. And you don’t know what to do about it.
This is exactly why you didn’t want to go into heat. This was the very thing you dreaded most of all. You were losing your husband, bit by bit, in that painful way that chips at the cracks. There will be no big blow up. It will disintegrate like this, slowly but surely, until there’s nothing left to salvage.
You’re terrified.
You go back to work after many months of sickness. Ever since your heat, you feel much better. As much as you don’t want to admit it, spending it with an alpha really did help. Your fatigue and aches are gone. You haven’t gotten a fever in weeks. You're fit as a fiddle, and ready to rejoin the workforce again. You’re thankful for the distraction. It keeps your thoughts from spiraling, plagued by the dread of your slowly crumbling marriage.
When you get home from your first day back at work, Joshua has prepared a lavish meal for the two of you, all of your favorites laid out on the table. You stand in the doorway of the dining room, eyeing the spread as he grins at you with that silly pink apron you got him as a joke but he loves wearing, and before you know it, there's a layer of tears coating your eyes.
“Hey.” He walks closer to you, voice soft as he gathers you in his arms. He wipes under your eyes, concern bleeding into his face.
“What’s wrong? Did you have a bad first day?”
You shake your head. “No, it was great.”
“Then what is it?”
You look up at him, at how worried he seems. His expression is gentle, so calming, and just being close to him like this, his subtle flowery scent puts you at ease, even if your mind is well and truly drenched in fear.
“Shua,” your voice is shaky, “are we okay?”
His expression falters, drops just a little, before picking up again. You know him too well, maybe to your own detriment, because you catch it immediately. Even as he hugs you tight and plants a kiss on your mark, your brain lingers on that expression.
“Of course we’re okay, my love.”
Your face crumples. He’s lying to you. Your Shua, who would rather cut his hand off than deceive you in any way, is lying straight to your face.
You don’t know what to do.
You fret for days afterward, distressed and unable to let it go. Things aren’t okay, because if they were okay, Joshua would sense immediately that you are upset. And maybe he does, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He doesn’t sit you down and talk to you until you open up to him, like he would usually do. It’s like the last straw. You need to do something, or you will lose him forever.
You don’t know if the idea is born from desperation, or if you genuinely don’t have any other choice, but when you’re calling Jeonghan right after work one day, you feel like this is the only thing you can do. You watch people walk past you urgently on the sidewalk as you stand still near the edge, everyone around you eager to get back home. The line rings a few times before Jeonghan finally picks up, his voice clear over the commotion around you.
“Y/N?”
“Hey.” Your breath stutters a little. You haven’t really talked to Jeonghan since your heat ended. This feels a little awkward. “Are you still at work?”
“I’m just getting ready to leave. Is everything okay?”
You grit your teeth at the question. “I wanted to talk to you. I’m actually not far from your building. Do you- do you think you can come down?”
There’s some shuffling before Jeonghan speaks again. “Of course, angel. Tell me where you are, I’ll be there in five.”
Your heart skips a little at the nickname. He called you that extensively during your week long heat, and you’re reminded of it now. God, you need to pull yourself together before you see him. Jeonghan might be the only person who can help you.
You seat yourself outside a café and order a coffee just because. You shouldn’t really be having caffeine in the evening, but whatever. Joshua would reprimand you for shooting your nerves like this after sundown, and all the memory does is make your chest feel heavier. You wait for Jeonghan, mindlessly playing on your phone. When you spot him crossing the road, you feel a bit more at ease. He gives you a smile as he approaches, hands digging into his overcoat. It’s huge on him and nearly swallows him, the same loose fitting style he always manages to pull off. His hair pokes out from under a dark wool cap.
He sits opposite to you at the tiny table. Underneath it, his leg brushes against yours. You flush a little. Your last memory of Jeonghan is a very intimate one, and it’s a little bit of a struggle separating that from him right now. However, he seems unfazed.
“I didn’t know who else to call.” You admit, feeling a little hesitant. Jeonghan’s face is soft and open. He nods slowly, waiting for you to continue. And so you do.
It feels like word vomit. You can’t stop once you really start talking about it, all of it spilling out of you. You’re really not used to keeping your feelings bottled up. This was, again, because of Joshua. He has always been your confidant. You talked to him about any and everything. It hurts your heart that now you have to talk to someone else, but you feel like you don’t have a choice.
By the time you finish, you’re crying, tears running in thick tracks down your cheeks. Jeonghan doesn’t interrupt you even once, handing you a tissue so you can wipe your runny nose as you keep crying. He places a comforting hand over your wrist on the table, but doesn’t push further. By the end of it, you feel like you’ve unloaded tonnes of garbage on him, and it has left you pleasantly empty. Hollow.
“I’m sorry.” Your voice is hoarse, all cried out. You sniffle again. “It really isn’t fair to you to hear all this. But I just don’t know what to do.”
Jeonghan shakes his head. “Don’t apologise. This is partly my doing.”
Your eyes widen. “Absolutely not. None of this is on you.”
You can see Jeonghan’s jaw tick as he clenches his teeth, but he doesn’t protest. So you just barrel on.
“I was hoping you would talk to him.” You finally say.
Jeonghan blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Me?”
You nod. “He listens to you. He trusts your advice. You don’t understand Hannie, he- he lied to me. My husband doesn’t lie to me. I don’t know what the hell is going on in his head, but this is bigger than anything I’ve ever dealt with before.”
Jeonghan seems to be pondering your request, his left cheek dented in a way that shows that he’s biting the inside of it. He watches you closely, as if he’s trying to pick you apart.
“Can I ask you something?”
You nod. “Of course.”
“How do you feel? After your heat?”
Your eyebrows furrow and you fidget a little. “Fine. Better than I have in months.”
He nods a little, still thinking. “Do you remember any of it?”
Now you feel your face burn hot. In all honesty, most of the exact events are blurry. You only remember the blinding pleasure, Jeonghan’s scent, some of your lucid intervals where Joshua fed you and bathed you. That's it. You tell Jeonghan that. He nods again.
“Okay. I’ll talk to him. Until then, you sit tight. You’re very distressed, and I’m sure that’s making him feel worse.”
You huff. “It’s hard not to be.”
Jeonghan squeezes your arm a little. “I know, angel. But you have to try. I could smell how upset you were across the street. He’s your mate, he will obviously have noticed.”
You’re a little surprised that Jeonghan could smell you so far off. Even the waiter who served you couldn’t tell, but Jeonghan could. Probably because you’ve spent a heat with him. That must be it. You nod and agree.
Jeonghan walks you to the train station and waits until you board the train before leaving himself. Just before you can get on, he gently grabs your wrist, pulling you close enough to lay a small kiss on your forehead, right between your eyebrows. You flush at the feeling, heart kicking painfully against your ribs. His scent hits you strongly this close, and your omega relaxes.
A twinge of guilt hits you at the feeling, at experiencing comfort by Jeonghan’s presence and not your husband. But you’ve been restless and anxious for weeks. You miss Joshua terribly in this moment. It seems to you that Jeonghan is temporarily trying to scrub that void. You give him a small smile before saying goodbye.
You ponder on your conversation the whole way home, and you hope against hope that somehow, Jeonghan can get through to Joshua. It seems like a long shot, but Jeonghan has been friends with Joshua for so long for a reason.
You have your fingers crossed.
………………………………….
Work is slow nowadays, which isn’t really good for Joshua. He needs a distraction badly, but it looks like he’s not getting it, which only makes him spiral even more. He has completed so much work in advance that he has completely run out of things to do, so he has to pretend to be busy, while also somehow trying to keep his mind occupied.
It is not working.
Today is as dull as yesterday was. Joshua is going through his calendar for the rest of the month, organizing it and adding trivial stuff he normally wouldn’t, just to waste some time. It’s nearly lunch time, but he hasn’t seen Jeonghan all day. He heard that some people from the team went out on site to do some work, so that’s probably why. Frankly, he’s relieved. It’s hard to avoid Jeonghan when they share a cubicle wall, so this gives him a bit more breathing room.
He can’t look at Jeonghan the same way anymore.
Unfortunately, the one thing he has been avoiding finally catches up to him, because Jeonghan finds him in the breakroom during lunch. Joshua stiffens when the alpha sits opposite to him, considering they haven’t properly spoken in weeks. He doesn’t speak, just looks down at his food. But Jeonghan needs no conversation starter to get straight to the point.
“You need to tell Y/N what happened.”
Joshua freezes, finally meeting his friend’s eyes. Jeonghan’s stare is hard, firm in a way it rarely is.
“I don’t have to. It’s fine.”
Jeonghan’s entire face shifts, and Joshua feels a little uncomfortable with how angry he looks. Jeonghan doesn’t get angry. It isn’t like him.
“If it’s fine, then why the hell is your omega calling me and crying her eyes out, scared that her marriage is falling apart?”
Shock seizes Joshua in a vice-like grip, eyes wide and unblinking. “What?”
Jeonghan sighs then, pinching the bridge of his nose. He leans forward, planting his elbows on the table, and looks at Joshua earnestly.
“Tell her, Shuji. She will understand. I promise you she will.”
Joshua can feel his face twist, wetness unexpectedly and quickly coating his eyes. He blinks rapidly to clear them. “I can’t.”
Jeonghan’s hold on his wrist is firm but gentle. He runs a soothing thumb over Joshua’s scent glands. Smaller than his, but there nonetheless. Joshua wants to pull away, still feeling the guilt of what happened during your heat, but he can’t bring himself to. He has been trying to deal with this on his own for a while now, and he misses you. He misses the comfort you bring him. Any semblance of it, even if it is from Jeonghan, means a lot.
Because he can’t tell you what happened. It would break you.
It was the third day of your heat, and it showed no signs of slowing anytime soon. Joshua had spent nearly an hour between your legs, licking and sucking until he felt like his own lips were tingling. He was heady off the taste of your slick, even sweeter than you usually are. You had cum so many times that he lost count. Every few seconds, he ground his hips into the mattress, trying to find any relief for himself, and when you started babbling about Jeonghan’s knot, he finally stepped to the side, laying beside you, devouring your lips in a heated kiss while Jeonghan filled you up the exact way you needed.
He was so hard, and you were moaning so sweetly, muffled into his mouth, your nails scratching his scalp. He couldn’t help himself, sliding a hand into his pants so he could stroke himself to the same rhythm that Jeonghan was thrusting into you. He watched you cum, and he watched your greedy little cunt swallow Jeonghan’s knot as he came right afterwards.
Joshua’s eyes met the alpha’s as he moaned and filled you up, and before he could react, Jeonghan was leaning down to brush his lips against Joshua’s ear.
“Come on, Shuji. Come all over yourself.”
And he did, the most intense orgasm he’s had in a while, hips jerking as he groaned, eyes locked with Jeonghan’s. The alpha bit his bottom lip, watching Joshua shudder and moan. The moment was so charged, so hot, that it felt almost natural, like it was meant to happen.
It hit him with a weight of a thousand trucks when he came to his senses.
Joshua was honestly shocked that you didn’t bring it up after your heat ended. You went along with your daily routine just as usual, like nothing had happened. It took him a while and a few casual conversations with you to realise that you genuinely didn’t remember, too caught up in your heat and the intensity of your emotions at the time. So that left him in a very difficult position.
Should he just forget all about it, considering it was a one-off, and move on? You probably won’t need to have another heat for years. You’re already considering getting back on suppressants. The chances of this happening again are slim to none. He could write it off as a mistake and close this chapter.
Except it isn’t that easy. Not when he still remembers all of it in sickening detail. The way Jeonghan’s eyes darkened when he watched him cum, his scent so potent as Joshua inhaled. And the fact that he has to see Jeonghan every day. Remember how good it felt to have Jeonghan guide him through his orgasm like that. It’s too much to take. Joshua feels dirty with it. He feels like he has cheated on you, even though Jeonghan is adamant that this isn’t what it is. But the fact that they even have to debate about this is proof enough in Joshua’s head that it is exactly that. Jeonghan thinks Joshua is being ridiculous, he has thought that since the day it happened.
“I fucked her in more ways than I can even count, but this is where you draw the line.” He deadpanned just before leaving the house after your heat. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Shuji. And this will get out of hand if you don’t do something about it.”
And Jeonghan had been right.
It did get out of hand, because you went to Jeonghan to talk about how upset all of this has made you. Joshua did this, he forced your hand by being withdrawn. Now here he is, thinking about an alpha in ways he shouldn’t, and there you are, leaning emotionally on said alpha outside your marriage. Jeonghan has become so intertwined in this whole mess, it’s hard to separate him from what is going on between you two. He can’t solve this without involving the alpha.
Joshua’s head hurts.
“Be there with me.” He finally says to the alpha. “When I tell her. Please be there.”
Jeonghan looks a little surprised, but nods anyway. “Are you sure that’s-”
“Yes.” Joshua interrupts him. “She’ll hate me for it, but at least you will be there to support her. You’re the only one who can.”
Jeonghan smiles a little at that, but there’s nothing happy about it. “I’m just as much at fault here as you.”
Joshua shakes his head. “No, this is on me. She only ever did this because of me.”
Jeonghan sighs and stands up to leave, but just before he turns, he says one more thing.
“The problem in your relationship Shuji, is that you are both too self sacrificial for your own good.”
The sentence sticks with Joshua for the rest of the day.
………………………………..
[jeonghan]: we’re on our way. he’s ready to talk
Ever since you got that text, you’ve been on edge. You’ve opened and closed the fridge so many times you’re pretty sure you’ve ruined the food inside. You keep pacing around the living room, fiddling with little things over and over, waiting for them to show up. You wonder why Jeonghan is coming too, but you’re glad for it nonetheless. If it’s something that urged Joshua to bring Jeonghan along, then you’re sure you will need him there. He calms you down the same way Joshua does. You try not to linger on the thought, because of how much shame and guilt it causes you. You have too much on your mind right now to deal with this.
When they finally show up, toeing their shoes off near the door and walking into the living room, you’re standing next to the couch, fiddling with your hands. Your mate’s eyes meet yours.
“Hey.” He says. He looks pale, eyelids heavy. Even when his lips tick up, it’s an expression riddled with emotional exhaustion. His shoulders are a little slumped, and your heart aches at the weight he carries. You give him the best, most comforting smile you can.
You both sit on the couch, facing each other. Jeonghan sits on the armchair opposite the two of you, trying to make himself scarce. Just before Joshua speaks, he turns his head to look at Jeonghan, who gives him a small nod. Your heart is pounding nearly painfully. You dig your nails into the palm of your hand.
Joshua’s confession is a mix of emotional rambling and what actually happened that night. His voice quivers when he goes into the details of it. Jeonghan sits rock still, staring at the floor, as if making sure his presence doesn’t affect you two in any way. You watch your husband’s face as he tells you what he did with Jeonghan. You listen to his words carefully. At any moment, he will tell you how this changed the way he sees you now. You still still as a rock, waiting for the dreaded finish, the big and horrific confession that will explain his behavior these last few weeks. Where is he going with this? When will he tell you?
But Joshua stops talking to take a deep breath, like he’s done, adding to it with an apology only.
“I’m so sorry.” His words are strained. “I feel so guilty. So, so guilty. I can’t begin to tell you-”
“Wait.” Your voice is a little hoarse. Joshua stops talking immediately, wide, remorseful eyes looking at you. “That’s- Is that it?”
There’s a small silence. Joshua’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”
“Shua….” You can’t help the laugh you bark out, half shocked at the incredulity of the situation, half relieved. “I thought- I thought it was me. I thought you didn’t want to be with me after that heat. I thought that was why-”
Your breath catches, face scrunching as a wave of tears hits you. Joshua looks horrified, furiously shaking his head as he shuffles closer to you. You let him hug you, crying into his shoulder as you hold him tightly to your body. Joshua kisses over your bite mark over and over, whispering a string of ‘no’s into your skin.
“I would never. I would never-”
You sob into his arms, feeling like you’ve just lost fifty pounds. Your head is nearly dizzy with relief, breathing in his calm scent, fisting his shirt so tightly that it wrinkles instantly under your hands. Joshua laughs wetly.
“I thought you would hate me for this. I thought-”
“You….” You shake your head. “You fucking idiot.”
Joshua pulls away just enough to look at you, smiling as he wipes your eyes before kissing you deeply, and you immediately kiss back hard, pouring all your love for him into it. He cups your head, tilts it until you feel like he’s devouring you. Your core stirs. You missed him so much that your body is immediately ready for him. You sigh and moan into him, tears already forgotten. It’s only him, him, him. You need him so bad.
There’s shuffling to your side, and you are acutely reminded of the fact that Jeonghan is still there, watching all of this. You break away from Joshua, turning your head to look at the alpha who has now stood up from where he sat previously. He gives you two a relieved smile.
“I think I’m gonna head out now.”
Your mind blanks. “No. S-stay.”
Both men look at you, shocked. You turn your head back to your husband, feeling a little nervous.
“Can he stay?”
Joshua watches you closely. At this proximity, you can see the way his eyes darken at the notion, his gaze drifting down to your lips as he licks over his own. You fight the urge to kiss him again.
“Okay.”
Jeonghan’s face morphs into one of amusement as he ticks an eyebrow up. You can see even from the distance that the cogs in his head are turning. You both want him here, in this moment with you.
Without saying anything more, he sinks into the armchair again, leaning back more and spreading his legs a bit. You feel Joshua’s lips on your neck as you watch the alpha. He only levels you with a heated stare.
“Go on, omega. Give me a show, then.”
Joshua moans into your neck, and you have to fight to keep your eyes from rolling up. You’re already sopping wet, you can tell, and the way Jeonghan’s eyes are dragging down your body isn’t helping. You turn to your husband and pull his head up to press a searing kiss into his lips, infinitely more charged than the previous one, your hands moving frantically to unbutton his shirt.
Clothes fly off, both of you desperate to feel all of each other. It’s been a while, and you missed him so, so much. His cock is hard and heavy in your hand as you stroke him. He moans into your mouth, pushing you back until you are laid out on the couch cushion, Joshua fitting himself snugly between your open legs.
“Baby,” he rasps and you whine at the sound. “Can’t wait. Need to be inside you.”
You nod frantically and buck up into him, feeling the delicious way his shaft drags through your slit. Joshua pumps himself a couple of times before lining up, sinking into you with one smooth motion. Your mouth drops open at the feeling as he carves his way through your unprepped walls. Joshua always gets you ready, making you cum on his mouth or fingers at least once before you take his cock. The only time he hadn’t was when he went on a three week long business trip. You feel the same desperation now, having gone for a while without intimacy, too impatient to think of anything except having his cock inside you immediately. It burns in the best way, just the slightest twinge of pain amplifying the waves of pleasure shooting through your body. When he settles all the way inside, he groans deeply, stilling.
Your eyes meet his, and you can’t help the way they mist over as you look up at him. Your everything, the love of your life. You cannot imagine ever being without him, you would cease to exist. Joshua smiles, and you feel like your heart is about to explode.
He leans down on his elbows so that he is closer to you, his forehead pressed into your sweaty one. He pulls back almost all the way, until only the head is snug inside you, before pushing all the way in again. You moan at the feeling.
“So tight, baby. Always so tight and ready for me.” He groans, his lips brushing yours as he starts fucking into you, nice and slow but firm, each thrust landing exactly where you want it to, his cock pressing insistently into your soft spot, making you see stars.
“For you, Shua.” You stutter out, already losing your head a little when he doesn’t let up on his thrusts, wave after wave of stimulation hitting your senses like an assault.
“Hm? Only for me? Bet you were just as tight when Jeonghan fucked you.”
You moan at the same time as you hear a low hum from the armchair. You don’t dare turn your head, don’t dare look at the man watching you get fucked. But you can smell him, even from here. His pheromones are dense and all encompassing, an alpha in the room letting you know of his presence. You can’t ignore him even if you want to, and especially not when your husband is adamant on bringing him up.
Joshua’s hand reaches up, cupping your jaw and tilting your head up so he can lick over your puckered lips. It’s slow and tantalizing, a contrast to how much faster and harder his thrusts have gotten. Already, you can feel a familiar knot tightening in your stomach, and you don’t even have to warn him, because Joshua can feel it, the way you clench desperately around him. He knows it all too well, this feeling, so he bites your bottom lip hard a d tugs it, mumbling into your mouth.
“Cum for me.”
And you do. You gasp and cry as your orgasm racks through your body with enough force to make all your limbs seize up. Joshua doesn’t slow for a second. He never does. Sex with him is not a race, it’s a marathon. This is just one orgasm of many, and with the way he’s looking down at you, like he wants to devour you whole, you know you are in for a long night.
And maybe a small part of Joshua wants to prove to the alpha who knotted you that he knows how to take care of his omega. He still has his pride, after all.
As you come down from your high, Joshua pulls out and wraps his arms around you, tugging you up and seating you firmly on his lap, straddling him. Your limbs are liquid, still recovering from your orgasm, but he doesn’t need you to do anything right now except be a good girl and take his cock. So he grips you tight around the waist, pulls you down on his nearly draped body, your back facing Jeonghan, and then he lines up and starts thrusting into you, harsh and fast. You cry out at the feeling, scrambling to hold on to something. Joshua cups the back of your head, holding you firmly in place.
“Don’t.” His voice is sharper. “Take it, baby. No squirming. Be a good girl.”
He knows what he’s doing. And he can see it over your shoulder, the way Jeonghan’s eyes are trained right where his cock disappears into your stretched out hole. The way his shaft glistens with your juices every time he pulls out, only to get coated again when he sinks into you. Then, as if sensing his stare, Jeonghan looks up, eyes meeting Joshua’s.
Joshua thrusts up again and then stills, buried deep inside you. You gasp as you catch your breath in big gulps, not protesting against the small reprieve. Jeonghan’s lip ticks up, and he finally speaks.
“Why’d you stop, Shuji? About to come?”
Joshua wants to squeeze his eyes shut tight, but he can’t bring himself to look away from Jeonghan, the dark pools of liquid almost sultry. When Jeonghan chuckles, it’s light and low. Joshua can feel you clench around him at the sound. Fuck, this is turning you on just as much as it’s turning him on.
“I don’t blame you.” Jeonghan keeps talking, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his legs, eyes drifting down your bare back. “Her cunt’s too good. Squeezes you just right.”
You mewl in Joshua’s arms, squirming a little. He curses and grinds into you, a little something to edge you two more. Joshua’s head spins. Even though Jeonghan hasn’t touched either of you, hasn’t even stepped close, hasn’t even touched his own cock, it still feels like he’s tugging the strings for both of you. His command is undeniable. Is this what it’s like, being with an alpha?
Joshua doesn’t think he can last long. At this point, he doesn’t even want to. He begins fucking you again in earnest, making you gasp and turn rigid in his hold again.
“Shua,” you weep, voice high and lovely with a need that makes both men groan. “Gonna cum again. Please.”
“Go ahead, baby. Soak my cock.” Joshua punches back, making sure to undulate his pelvis just right so that it brushes your clit with every thrust. It drives you wild, he knows this, and Joshua is adamant to put on the show that Jeonghan demanded. With a view like this, there’s no way the alpha will miss it.
Joshua tugs your head back just enough to press his lips into yours so he can mumble directly into your mouth.
“Come on, darling. Give Jeonghan something to look at.”
That does it for you. You squeeze hard around his cock and cum, and Joshua can immediately feel the difference, the slide of his cock easier as you gush around him. He can feel it drip down his balls, probably ruining the couch too, but he doesn’t care. Not when Jeonghan curses loudly and squeezes his erection through his pants, an action that makes Joshua finally topple over the edge as well, shuddering as he empties himself inside you. You’re trembling in his hold, still coming down from your high, panting. Joshua feels his cum leak around him, can probably imagine how it looks right now, mixing with your own juices, foamy and milky around his shaft. He’s almost envious that he can’t see this view. He lays a soft kiss on your bare shoulder.
Across the room, Jeonghan has a tiny smirk playing on his face, watching as your sweaty bodies come down from your highs. When his eyes meet Joshua’s, he winks.
Joshua has to hold back his smile.
…………………………………..
Jeonghan’s entry into your relationship is seamless.
You think it’s because of the dynamics at play here. He’s an alpha, a presence that was clearly missing between you two. While Joshua and you have known each other intimately for a very long time, Jeonghan is a natural at taking care of people. He picks up on not only your needs, but Joshua’s as well, bending to accommodate you two effortlessly.
Joshua thinks it has nothing to do with him being an alpha, and everything to do with the history between you three. Jeonghan has always been there, since before you and Joshua even knew each other. You tease him about it sometimes, saying he probably would have ended up with Jeonghan if you hadn’t been in the picture. It makes him laugh incredulously.
“I don’t think so.” He says, turning his head to look at Jeonghan, who is folding his clothes to put in the bottom most dresser drawer, the one you had emptied out for him. Jeonghan only winks, making you shriek with laughter and Joshua’s jaw drop. It makes his heart flutter a little, knowing Jeonghan was interested in him even back then.
He loves seeing you get to know Jeonghan even more.
Your status helps a lot, an alpha and an omega built to fit snugly into each other’s lives. While Joshua is good at calming you down, making you feel at ease, Jeonghan lights a spark in you, heated and passionate. He understands the nuance that comes with navigating a relationship that is already so well established, and he never pushes. Joshua can see how much you appreciate that, and it makes you more receptive to Jeonghan’s advances.
The first time Jeonghan kisses Joshua, you’re in the room.
You’re snuggled up on the couch between them, curled so tightly and warmly that you’re almost half asleep by the time they’re halfway into the movie. Joshua watches you, your body slumped over between them, wondering if he should just turn the movie off and head to bed. Jeonghan seems to read his mind.
“I can take her inside.”
When he turns his head to look at the alpha, he’s closer than Joshua anticipated. The light from the television dances across Jeonghan’s face, casting sharp shadows. Joshua feels his breath hitch.
It feels more natural than he ever could have thought. Up close, Jeonghan’s lips taste of something sweet. It’s soft and slow, and by the time he pulls away, he feels like he’s dizzy.
He can’t believe he’s lucky enough to have both of you.
Jeonghan all but moves in after that first night he watched you and Joshua on the couch. It’s almost like he was never away in the first place. There’s nearly no adjustment required. An extra pair of boots next to yours by the door, a blue toothbrush in the glass next to the sink, a bunny shaped mug in the cupboard above the coffee machine. Jeonghan is a light sleeper, and an early bird. He takes up making breakfast for all three of you before work, while you and Joshua take care of dinner because he’s usually so tired by the end of the day.
Joshua is grateful that he works with Jeonghan, but he knows it makes you feel a bit pouty that you’re left out the whole day. So they make it a point to focus all their attention on you when they get back from work in the evenings. Jeonghan scents you extensively, something that Joshua has never been able to do, and it puts him at ease knowing that you smell like Jeonghan. It feels even better when Jeonghan scents him too, because then you both smell like him, and Jeonghan loves that.
It’s a couple of months later, during a scenting session like this, that your heat gets triggered.
You never ended up using suppressants again, and that must be the reason why. This time around is even more charged than before, with both your alpha and your beta actively involved in taking care of you. Jeonghan is even more mean about it, dragging out every orgasm until you black out, which ultimately gives you a longer break afterwards. When Joshua complains that he’s being too hard on you, Jeonghan calls him a brat and fucks him into the mattress as well, and that’s when you realise your heat triggered his rut.
It’s nearly a week of endless bliss, and you feel like a changed person at the end of it.
You’re still in your nest, dozing in and out of sleep, your head resting on Joshua’s bare chest. In the distance, you can hear the shower running, and Jeonghan humming a little tune that you don’t recognise. Joshua does, apparently, because he starts quietly singing along. It makes you grin and look up at him.
His smile is lazy and sleepy. He looks blissed out in a way you have never seen him. Before Jeonghan, you never imagined that you and Joshua could get any happier, but apparently you could, if the giddy feeling inside you and the joy on your husband’s face is any indication.
Joshua brushes a slow finger over your mark. You shiver at the feeling. He gives you a contemplative smile.
“Do you think you want to take Jeonghan’s mark?”
You blink up at him, surprised but not really. “Only if you want me to.”
He laughs at that. “Sweetheart, we’re way past the need for you to ask me this stuff. You are as much his as you are mine.”
The sentence warms your chest. You lay a kiss on his shoulder. “I love you.”
He turns to capture your lips in his, starting soft and sweet, but quickly getting heated. You’re a little surprised when you feel his erection poke your thigh, convinced that both of you were thoroughly fucked out after the intensity of the last week. But you feel something stir in your core too, legs spreading as Joshua rolls over on you.
Fifteen minutes later, Jeonghan walks out of the shower to the sounds of pretty little whines and moans coming from the bedroom. He smirks and huffs, beelining straight to the source of the noise, knowing he will have to shower again, but not caring when the sight of his two lovers intertwined together greets him as he opens the door.
summary: you have never, in your entire life, thought that an alpha would be interested in you. so when choi seungcheol, your quiet but confident alpha coworker, starts courting you, you don’t know what to do with his affections.
word count: 6.4k
warnings: omegaverse au, a/b/o dynamics, alpha!seungcheol, omega!reader, touch starvation, typical omegaverse vernacular, mentions of omega misogyny and stereotypes, lots of descriptions of physical touch, emotional neglect, mild angst, smut, nsfw, unprotected sex, heats, knotting, scenting, all that omegaverse jazz, im just down bad for caring, loving alpha cheol sue me ig
masterlist
Growing up, you were taught to believe that tradition is the heart and soul of a strong family unit.
Your father was an Alpha in every sense of the word. Strong, stoic, slightly aloof. He provided for the family, working long hours to put food on the table. You can count on one hand the amount of times he has even looked at you, let alone interacted with you in any way. Your mother stayed at home, but she didn’t have a lot of free time either. Between caring for five children and household work, you were left to fend for yourself more often than not. You were the second eldest of your siblings.
Whether fortunately or unfortunately, you were the only one who presented as an omega. All your brothers and sisters were Alphas, which means the hammer really came down on you. Your mother made sure you knew how omegas were supposed to behave. Docile, submissive, made to cater to Alphas. It didn’t matter if the world was moving away from these stereotypes. In your household, your father’s word was law, and that meant you had to fall in line.
You cut them off the second you turned eighteen, not that they cared. The last words your mother ever said to you were that no Alpha would put up with your demands, and you would end up alone with no mate, no pups, no family.
Whatever. You don’t need a family. You would be fine on your own.
That was nearly a decade ago. You are a grown woman now, with a stable job, a cozy house, and good friends. Yes, after struggling through college with no one by your side, struggling to unravel how your family’s beliefs had screwed with your head, you even managed to make friends. Your job is a corporate, boring desk job, but the people there are very nice and accommodating. On your first day there, you met Boo Seungkwan, a fellow omega, who welcomed you as one of his own, metaphorically taking you under his wing.
Seungkwan is unlike any omega you have ever met in your life. He is loud, he takes up space, he gets annoyed with his Alpha friends, snaps at them, even calls them names sometimes. It had shocked you when you first saw him interact with Mingyu, who sat one desk over from you. And it shocked you even more when Mingyu never once shut Seungkwan down, instead engaging in petty banter with just as much zeal. You cannot imagine your father or your brothers tolerating Seungkwan’s tone, but Mingyu took it in stride.
They both fascinated you. And you fascinated them.
Seungkwan is a naturally affectionate person. When he tried to hug you for the first time, every hair on your body stood up, every muscle turning rigid with tension. You cannot explain how it felt, like someone was slashing at your inner omega with knives, and unintentionally, you snarled from deep within your subconscious. Seungkwan nearly flew off you, eyes wide, mouth dropped open. He held his hands up to placate you as you tried to regulate your breaths.
He never touched you again.
You can list off in your head the number of times someone has touched you. Your father, never. When you started walking properly as a toddler was the last time it was your mother. You had shaken hands with teachers at graduation, both high school and college. You had accidentally bumped into people on the subway. The doctor touched you when you went in for checkups, and that was hell too, making your heart pound painfully and your skin feel like it was on fire. You don’t know why you’re like that. You just are. Touching hurts. So you avoid it.
Choi Seungcheol knows exactly what it is.
He is interested in you from the second he first sees you walk into the office. You don’t work in the same team. He is in finance, you are in marketing, but he sees you often because you are on good terms with Seungkwan, and Seungkwan is friends with literally everyone. He likes watching you. You are quiet, calm but witty. You can keep up with someone as hyperactive as Seungkwan quite easily, and you like ribbing on Mingyu sometimes too, who you also seem to be close with. Seungcheol wonders if there is something going on there, but then he sees Seungkwan hug you, your visceral reaction to it, and it all clicks into place.
You’re a touch starved omega.
He has seen it once before when he was a teenager. It isn’t common, and often only happens with severe neglect. It makes no sense to him. You’re so beautiful, and the handful of times Seungcheol has been in the same vicinity as you, he has caught a whiff of your scent. Sweet like honey and flower petals. He cannot imagine that another Alpha has never been interested in you, or tried to court you. His heart aches at the thought of you being so alone for so long, and the Alpha in him wants to comfort you.
But he has to take this slow.
It is a random Thursday evening when Choi Seungcheol approaches you for the first time. You are standing outside the office building, fiddling with your phone, when a very distinctly alpha smell hits your nose. You turn your head to see him there, a mere few feet from you. He offers you a tiny smile.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” You recognise him. “Seungcheol?”
“That’s me.”
You’ve seen him around the office. You’re not sure what department, but he’s in the break room sometimes when you and Seungkwan are in there. His presence isn’t loud or overwhelming like alphas often are, but there’s a very distinct, confident air about him. He carries himself with the self assured stance of a man who is comfortable in his skin. You like people who know what they want out of life, like Seungkwan, like Seungcheol. But you never had any reason to speak to him before.
“Are you waiting for someone?” He asks.
You shake your head, holding up your phone. “Just looking for a cab. My car’s in the shop, so I’ve been commuting like this.”
He nods. “I can give you a ride home, if that’s okay?”
You hesitate a bit. You don’t want to impose on him, even though he is the one who offered. But you look down at the app again, at how you’ve been looking for something not crazy expensive for the last ten minutes. You weigh your options as he waits patiently for your answer, before reluctantly nodding yes.
Seungcheol’s car smells like him, and it’s the first time his scent hits your nose strongly enough for you to decipher the notes. Cedarwood and leather. It’s heavy, but not potent, grounded in earthly tones. Involuntarily, you feel yourself relax. That doesn’t happen often when you’re among alphas. The only other one you feel remotely okay with is Mingyu.
Seungcheol makes small talk with you as he drives. None of the questions are too invasive; why your car is in the shop, how your current project is going, what are your usual plans for after work. You talk about Seungkwan, the common link between you two, and Seungcheol praises Seungkwan’s people skills, his ability to hold attention during work meetings. You conclude that you like listening to him speak. His voice is deep, kind of brassy without being grating to the ear. It’s soft too, despite being so manly, and you wonder again how an alpha can have such a strong presence while simultaneously being so accommodating.
“Thank you.” You smile at him genuinely, when he stops before your apartment complex. He nods and smiles back, and your breath catches at the little dimple that dents his cheek. Every little thing adds to his allure. You can feel the omega in you stir, and you leave the car before you can dwell on what that means.
You haven’t had much luck with romance in the past. You presented later than most people your age, and by the time you came to terms with your upbringing, trying to break away from it, you were well into college. You know alphas looked at you, of course. They were alphas. Their biology meant that they would sniff out an omega. But it was never about you, specifically. Your aversion to touch worries you sometimes when it comes to finding a mate, but you are also averse to the very idea of a mate, especially after what your mother had always said. You have grown resentful of the idea that an alpha could be anything like the ones you grew up with. So you banish any thought of that from your mind.
Seungcheol starts showing up more and more in your life after that.
When he greets you in the break room and Seungkwan realizes you know each other, he insists that you all sit together, and that’s how you end up having lunch with him every day. He always offers a taste of his food, which you politely decline, insisting he should eat. A few days of this and he starts bringing a smaller box with him, saying you can eat from it without worrying about his portions. It catches you off guard, that he sets food aside for you, but something inside you preens at the thought, and your heart beats faster when you accept the food.
Seungcheol drives you home a few more times as well, saying he lives in the same direction anyway, and you can ride with him until your car is back from being fixed. You wrack your brain on how to repay all his kindness, and you are so caught up in it that Seungkwan has to sit you down and spell it out for you.
“He’s courting you, dumbass.” His eyes bore into you, and you blink hard a few times, trying to process his words.
“No he’s not.” You scowl. “He’s just being kind.”
“He’s cooking extra food and packing it every day for an unmated omega. He is offering to drive home an unmated omega every day.” Seungkwan rolls his eyes.
You bite your lip anxiously, because putting it like that makes it so much more obvious. Is Seungcheol courting you? You have never been courted before. No wonder you didn’t notice.
You fret over it for a few days. And it is on one of your rides home with him that Seungcheol finally speaks up.
“It might not be my place to say, but you seem a little worried.” His voice is low, cautious. “Is something bothering you?”
You have been looking for an opening to bring it up with him anyway, so you try not to think about how Seungcheol guessed that you’re worried and instead ask him what’s been on your mind.
“Seungkwan seems to believe that you are…. courting me.” You try to keep your voice level as you say it, fidgeting on your seat. When he doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, you feel your face burn hot.
“I’m sorry, I’m being ridiculous.” You shake your head, trying to wave off the annoyance that you now feel at your omega friend. Curse him and his crazy, outlandish suggestions.
“Why would it be ridiculous?” He says finally, eyes still on the road.
“What?”
“The thought of someone courting you shouldn’t be ridiculous.”
Your face is still burning hot. You don’t know what to say to him, how to even begin unraveling why you think this way. Even Seungkwan hasn’t had your trauma dumped on him yet.
Seungcheol’s car slows down in front of your building. He puts it into park and reaches the backseat for his satchel. From it, he removes a black, velvet box. He pulls it open, and you have to strangle a gasp in your mouth as you eye the glittering silver chain of the bracelet. It has a single charm on it, cherries, also silver and gleaming in the light.
“I wanted to gift this to you from the start.” He confesses. “But I figured it would be better to start smaller. Like with food.”
Your heart is beating fast, your eyes trained on the bracelet as he removes it from the box. You don’t dare look up at him. You’re scared. He doesn’t push for you to speak. Silence fills the small space between you two.
“Seungcheol, I-” You hesitate. “I have issues.”
He chuckles a bit, but not unkindly. “We will take this as slow as you want. You call the shots. I’m just asking for a chance to be the one to love you the way I think you deserve.”
You call the shots.
You look at him then, to find that his eyes are already on you. Dark and warm like the earth. It grounds you, and you can feel your shoulders loosen just a bit.
His fingers brush your skin just slightly as he clasps the bracelet on your wrist. Your omega stirs, restless, on guard. You don’t get a wink of sleep that night.
……………………….
Seungkwan is fawning all over your courting gift the next day, nearly beside himself. He’s flushed so red you are afraid he will explode. Mingyu is grinning ear to ear too, swaying in his chair.
“Couldn’t have been anyone better.” He claims. “Seungcheol’s alpha game is on a whole other level. If anyone can wow you, it’s him.”
You don’t have time to question his words, because Seungkwan starts shedding actual tears, and you have to try and console him without any physical contact. That doesn’t work, of course, so Mingyu steps in. It becomes a whole thing, and before you know it, the words slip from your mind.
Seungcheol comes to your desk and asks you to have lunch with him from then onwards. Every day, you sit with him, without Seungkwan now, and he plops a warm, packed lunch in front of you. When you try to protest, he waves it away in dismissal. The omega in you loves it, you realise, being fed like this. You’re sure there’s something deep rooted in your primal nature that approves of being brought food, especially by an alpha that has made it clear he is interested in you.
You are curious about Seungcheol, and he indulges you in every conversation. You learn that he is the youngest of many brothers, all alphas. He’s an athletic guy. He likes to play sports and travel. He has a small, but very loyal circle of friends. You also learn that he has liked you for a long time. It flatters you, even if you find that thought a bit unbelievable. Seungcheol asks that you tell him about yourself as well, your hobbies, your interests, and what you want for your future. He is an attentive listener, and he often lets you drone on and on without feeling any need to edit you. Your heart flutters at how his eyes soften when he looks at you. How he always maintains a distance. He never touches you, not even once. Every word of his feels like balm on your skin.
He asks you on your first date after courting you for a good two months. And he pulls out all the stops for it. It’s romantic, but not overly so that it would freak you out. You both talk yourselves hoarse about any and every topic under the sun, and by the time he walks you to your door, your entire body is buzzing with a warm, comfortable energy.
“You’re so different, Seungcheol.” You mumble as you lean against the doorframe. He hums inquisitively as he watches you.
“How so?”
“You never ask anything of me.” You watch him. “I don’t understand it.”
Seungcheol sighs, staring off into space for a brief moment.
“I think people get it so wrong.” His voice is so quiet that you almost have to strain to catch it. “Alphas are supposed to be this domineering, uncontrollable, all powerful authority. But that’s just not true. It’s the omegas who are the heart of it. Omegas who hold everything up. An alpha is just…. there to love and protect.”
He stares at his feet then, kicking them slightly.
“I know you struggle with…. touch.” He continues. “I also know that’s not your fault. You’ve been let down so many times that your omega just can’t trust again. I get it.”
When he looks up, his smile is soft, whimsical almost. The dim light of the lobby frames him, makes his brown hair look lighter. “I hope that you can trust me. Not immediately. Not with all of you. But maybe just a little bit.”
When your vision gets misty, you try to blink away the tears, but that only makes them fall past your eyeline. Seungcheol reaches up, ever so slowly, to brush one away with the pad of his thumb. When his skin meets yours, it tingles. Your fingers tremble. You try not to shudder. You close your eyes, and you let his barely there touch linger. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.
He holds your hand when he drives.
It starts with just linking his pinky with yours. But you try to take the brave step of allowing more, until your fingers are intertwining with his large, warm ones. His hand in yours feels like an anchor preventing you from floating away. Your omega preens, licks over old wounds, and you try not to think about how good the simple act of holding hands feels. You feel like a teenager, feeling so giddy over just holding hands, but when you see Seungcheol try to tamp down a smile, you let yourself feel this happiness.
He likes placing his hand on your lower back when you walk with him, a silent sign of him being there, someone you can rely on. The first time he scents you, it’s a very cautious brush of his wrist against yours. It makes something uncomfortable zip through your skin, and he doesn’t try it again. But then you miss it, the feeling of him making you just a little bit his, and you shyly brush your wrist over his by yourself during one movie night. He lets you, doesn’t rush, doesn’t stop you. He lets you run your wrist over his until you are satisfied that a part of you smells like him and a part of him smells like you.
Your heat hits the week after that.
It’s more painful this time, since your omega recognizes a specific alpha, knows that there is a potential partner out there who can give you a knot. You cry through it for one night and one day, but then you break, your mind muddled, and you call Seungcheol between broken sobs. His voice only makes you cry more as he tries to placate you over the phone. He knows your omega is being unreasonable. There’s a good chance that you won’t be able to handle it anyway. When he hangs up, you almost fall apart.
You hear knocking on your door an hour later, and your heat-addled brain is convinced that it’s Seungcheol. When you see a random stranger there, an omega at that, your face crumples.
“I come bearing gifts.” The man says with a grin, holding up a large canvas bag. Its familiar scent hits you hard, cedarwood and leather, and you snatch the bag from him. When you open it, you find heaps and heaps of Seungcheol’s clothing. Shirts, sweaters, flannels, and by the smell of them, it is anything he has worn in the last few days. You preen at the scent, shoving your nose into the cloth. It calms you down, you can feel your cramps give way for the first time in hours, and you look up gratefully at the stranger who saved you at a time like this.
His name is Jeonghan, and you remember him from Seungcheol’s stories. You recognise him too, from pictures you’ve seen, now that you aren’t delirious with pain. Jeonghan helps you get back in bed and helps arrange all of Seungcheol’s clothes in your nest. He cooks while you rest, making a good few portions of nutritious, easily heated up stew that will last you for the rest of your heat. He tells you how worried Seungcheol is, how badly he wishes he could be there, and that he hopes his scent can hold you over enough to get you through this. He ends up being right, because after three more slightly less painful nights, your heat finally breaks.
You’re embarrassed when you see Seungcheol next, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He assures you that it’s perfectly normal, and he is even flattered that your omega trusts him enough to want his help during your heat. He asks if the clothes helped, and you thank him for them.
“‘M not giving them back though.” You pout. He only laughs heartily.
“I will give you all of them, sweetheart. Just ask.”
Your heart flutters. Your omega purrs, satisfied.
You go over the events of the heat in the following days once it’s over, how badly you wanted him there, how difficult it was to live off his scent alone, especially as it kept fading from his clothes day after day. When he is sprawled on your couch the next Saturday, you finally ask him to scent you.
His eyes go wide, flitting between yours, as if trying to decipher your state of mind.
“Are you sure?” He sits up, forgetting the TV completely. “You have to think about it. Scenting is….. very intimate.”
You nod. “I have thought about it, Cheol. If I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t ask.”
He only hesitates for a moment longer, nodding. “Okay.”
You don’t know what to do with yourself as he turns to face you properly. Your heart is beating fast already, and you play with your fingers, trying to calm down. He must notice, because he reaches for your hands, gently holding them between his own.
“Deep breaths.” He instructs you. “Everything is okay.”
His voice has a deep, calming timbre to it, and you feel yourself soften slightly at his words. This is happening. You are trusting an alpha to invade your most sensitive sense. Despite how nervous you are, you think of the comfort it will bring.
“Can we do it in my nest?”
That catches him by surprise too. That’s two in one day, and if you weren’t so anxious, you would find it a bit comical. But he nods, and you notice how eager it is. Your heart squeezes a bit, and you realise that Seungcheol really has gone so long without acting on his very base instincts of touching and scenting you. His alpha must be restless beyond belief at this point.
Five minutes later, you’re lying on your bed, surrounded by a carefully organized mess of clothes that you’ve built into the perfect nest. You have lots of pieces of clothing in there, and you can see Seungcheol’s nose twitch a bit in annoyance when he catches the scent of another alpha, zeroing in on the wool scarf that once belonged to Mingyu. It’s common knowledge that an omega will create nests from the clothes of any person they find comfort in. You have things from Seungkwan in there too, but they are nothing compared to the huge piles of clothes that belong to Seungcheol, and that placates him a little. He knows that if and when he mates you, he is going to shred Mingyu’s scarf into a million pieces. Until then, you can have it.
He hovers over you, making sure he isn’t crowding you too much. You look more at home here, more at ease, and he wants to think it’s because you are surrounded by his scent. The alpha in his growls deep, satisfied, seeing who he already deems as his omega lying like this between clothes that belong to and smell like him. Your chest rises in a deep inhale before the air leaves you in a long whoosh.
He starts with leaning down to nuzzle against your cheek. You close your eyes, tilting your head to the side and up. You can practically feel how shaky his breath is as you present yourself to him like this, and you marvel at his restraint once again. Your hands clench into fists, and you feel a surge of need in you again.
“Cheolie.” You rasp.
“I’m here.” His breath hits your neck and you shiver at the feeling. Then he leans down to the junction between your neck and shoulder, just over your scent gland. He exhales on it carefully, and it’s warm against your skin. You bite your lower lip hard.
His tongue is tentative as it licks over the now swollen, needy gland. He keeps doing that for a couple of minutes, little kitten licks that relax your limbs the more he swipes over the area. He breathes out again, his breath mixing with the pheromones now coming off you in waves. He leans lower, closer to you, his elbows on either side of your head, before finally latching his lips over your skin to give in a soft suck.
Your back arches involuntarily, pleasure zipping through you. You know your scent is thickening with your arousal, and so is Seungcheol’s. The heady mix of both of them is making your head spin a bit. Seungcheol alternates between licks and sucks, making sure to cover the skin around your glands with his spit too. It feels deliciously territorial, a side of him you have experienced only fleetingly when he places a hand firmly on your waist, or when an alpha gets a bit too close and he stares them down. You wonder about it, about how badly he is holding himself back from pummeling another alpha into the ground when he gets too close. Mingyu has mentioned it a few times, that Seungcheol’s scent sours when he feels jealous. You want to see more of it. You want him to claim you as his.
It’s the first time you feel the need to be claimed, and it makes you whimper. Seungcheol hums into your neck.
“Feel good?” His voice has dropped a few octaves, and the low grunt makes something zip down your core. You barely managed a jerky nod.
“Yes, Alpha.”
The title makes him bristle pleasantly, and he doubles his efforts at making sure your scent glands are bathed in him. He keeps going for what feels like hours. When you walk into the office the next day, Seungkwan’s nose scrunches up, claiming he would confuse you with a mated omega if you reeked even a little bit more.
You get addicted to the feeling of Seungcheol scenting you. And he is more than happy to provide. Every morning, he grips your waist tight, lapping over your neck before you walk into work, making sure everyone in the building knows that you have an alpha you can call your own. He whispers to you how delicious you smell when your scent is mixed with his, how good it makes his alpha feel. You are shy about it still, but he loves it when you carefully and hesitantly kiss over his own scent glands. You don’t know why he would want your scent, but he claims he wants it just as bad, says he is as much yours as you are his.
By the time your next heat rolls around, you are sure you want Seungcheol to spend it with you.
He’s hesitant, naturally. You two have come a long way, but helping you in heat is basically the final step. The end of the line. There’s no coming back from something as intimate as that, and he worries. You know he is only looking out for you, but you also know yourself. There’s no way you can make it through this heat without him now. He could drench his clothes in buckets of his sweat and it still wouldn’t replace the feeling of his lips suckling on your glands, his hands running slowly over your waist. You need him there, and you tell him as much.
Seungcheol takes the preparation during your pre-heat very seriously. He asks for time off for both of you, essentially solidifying in the office what is going to happen. Seungkwan is shameless about it as he teases you, but you whack him upside the head with a thick folder and that shuts him up. Seungcheol shows up at your place with a large bag of his essentials. Anything he will need, some groceries he picked up along the way, and more of his clothes. At this point, you wonder if he has anything left in his closet at all.
He cooks and portions meals for you. He stashes protein bars, electrolyte packets, and a case of water bottles in your room. He doesn’t let you move, telling you to rest as much as you can because you’ll be needing your strength when the heat hits. His implication makes you flush, and you wonder how it will feel. You watch him putter around your room from where you lay in your nest, making sure everything is accessible to him. You’ve never taken a knot before. If you think back to before you met Seungcheol, the very thought of one would repulse you. But as you ponder about it now, him naked over you, skin to skin, shoving the swollen base of his cock inside you, you can’t help but think of how good it will feel.
Seungcheol, as in tune with you as he is, can smell the shift in your scent. He gives you a tiny smile, heavy with understanding.
“Are you still with me, omega?” He asks, leaning over to run a cool hand over the heated skin of your forehead. You hum. Your eyelids feel heavy, and it takes a lot of strength to keep them open. Seungcheol places his hand over your eyes to keep them closed.
“Try and sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
You listen to his words without a second thought. It seems your brain is already shutting down, depending on him to tell you what to do. Your nap is short lived and fitful, and when you wake up again, you are breathing heavily. Your shirt is already sticking to your back. Eyes only half open, vision unfocused, you paw at the shirt, trying to lift your heavy arms so you can pull it off.
“Here. Let me.” His voice cuts through the haze. You can feel his hands, still cooler than your body temperature, grip your shirt so he can tug it off you. Cool air hits you, and you wonder if he has turned the thermostat down to better cater to your needs.
“Better?”
You hum, turning towards the sound. You blink furiously until your vision is clear enough to see his head of thick brown hair to your right. You reach for him.
“Alpha.” Your voice trembles, and a painful cramp shoots through your lower stomach. You wince. Seungcheol is on top of you immediately, leaning down to bite gently on your scent gland, as if coaxing your omega to calm down. It listens, settling a bit.
“I’m here.” His weight on you feels heavenly. You can feel your muscles relax. But the cramp persists. “Tell me what you need.”
“I don’t-” You almost cry out as you feel the cramp sharpen. “I don’t know. Alpha, please-”
He shushes you, hands dipping into the waistband of your shorts until he is tugging them off. They stick to your crotch like skin, leaving wet strings as they part from you. Your inner thighs are already drenched. Seungcheol had noticed as you slept, but he didn’t want to wake you. The more you are turned on, the easier it will be to make you cum multiple times, and the quicker your heat will break in the long run.
He doesn’t wait before he reaches down, carefully rubbing the pads of his fingers over your swollen clit. You gasp and jerk at the feeling, and Seungcheol uses that moment to dip two fingers inside your desperately clenched opening. Your eyes nearly roll up at the feeling, and you don’t hold back your satisfied sigh. It encourages him to sink in to the last knuckle, feeling almost no resistance as your body stretches to accommodate him. All that courting, that dating, that scenting, it may have been slow as hell, near torture for him, but it seems that by now, every cell in your body is moulded to recognise him. He watches you arch into him, your legs spreading more, your pussy greedily sucking his fingers in, and he marvels at how pliant you are under him. You have truly given all of yourself to him, and he takes that as a great responsibility. You’re his omega, bite or not, and he will make sure you are heavy with his pups by the time you leave this nest.
Fuck. Maybe your heat is making him delirious too. His alpha is rearing to knot you. But he needs to prep you first.
You cum on his fingers twice before he even thinks about putting his cock in you. He coaxes each orgasm out of you with the expert curl of his fingers, his lips at your ear, whispering praises that seem to reverberate in your skull about how good you are, the perfect little omega for him, how much he loves your tiny little pussy, how much he loves taking care of you like this, how badly he wants to give you his knot. You’re sobbing by the time he is lining his tip against your entrance, cheeks drenched in heavy tears, still so turned on despite already cumming twice, and when he penetrates you, sinks into you in one fell swoop, you lock around him and cum hard for the third time. He groans, long and low, struggling against the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, watching you writhe under him.
“Good girl.” He coos, voice so gravelly and deep that you could cum again just hearing him talk. “So good for me. So perfect.”
You’re lightheaded, the air feels like cotton pressing into your skin. Your limbs have no power, and you are surprised you can even spread your legs for Seungcheol. Just his massive cock sinking into you is enough to drive you up the wall, and when he finally starts moving, you wail.
Seungcheol encourages you every step of the way. He coaxes you to talk through the rough pounding, even if your words are incoherent and choppy. You babble on about how good his cock feels, how badly you want his knot and his cum. Every sound from you seems to rile him up even more. When you keen, your omega whining long and high pitched in the depths of your chest, it only spurs him on. He fucks you through another orgasm before the base of his cock finally starts to swell, and at the promise of a knot, you writhe desperately.
He shoves himself inside you, knot swelling and locking inside your weeping pussy as he groans and finally cums, flooding your insides with his seed. Tingles run over your skin, through your very bones, as the desperate, primal creature inside you settles, finally sedated, finally happy. Seungcheol’s torso undulates over you, bare skin to bare skin, prolonging his own high so he can dump more of his load inside you. He is shiny with sweat and exertion, and you admire him as the fog in your head lifts. His hair falls over his eyes, and his lips are pretty pink from being bitten raw. You pull him down by his broad shoulders, nuzzling into his neck, nibbling on the skin. He hums and lets you stake your claim on him.
“Better?”
You nod, allowing him to pull you both so you are lying on your sides, waiting for the knot to go down. Your muscles feel muted, like someone flipped a switch inside you. By the time Seungcheol’s knot goes down, you are almost half asleep. He tries his best to make you stay awake long enough to down a bottle of water and a protein bar, promising you food when you wake up next, tucking you carefully into your nest.
The next few days are bliss.
You never associated heats with anything good before. They were always painful experiences, a flurry of cramps and dizziness, like a trial you had to get through. But Seungcheol flips the script around. He pumps you full whenever you ask for it, knot after knot, until you are so satisfied that you can’t think straight, can’t even speak right. You are covered, inside and out, with him. He litters your body with his marks, tongue and teeth working overtime to make sure that no part of you is unblemished. He feeds you during your lucid intervals, bathes you when he can, then fucks another knot into you until you are tuckered out again. When day four hits, your heat finally breaks, and you are more grateful for him than you are for yourself. You can’t imagine it’s easy to keep up with you.
“Are you kidding?” He grins, stretching out beside you in your nest. “You’re a dream. I couldn’t have asked for a better omega. You were so perfect for me, every single day of your heat.”
You flush at the praise. It somehow hits even harder than the words he whispered while driving his cock into you in the throes of heat. He nuzzles your neck, sighing and relaxing beside you, licking over your scent gland. There’s no need for that. You reek of him anyway. But you let him do it, dreaming of the day his teeth break the barrier of your skin there, making you his permanently.
summary: in which your boyfriend is crashing out without you while on tour
warning: dom yunho, possessive yunho, needy yunho, sub reader, unprotected sex, shower sex, overstimulation, established relationship
genre: smut
pairing: idol yunho x afab reader
word count: 2.7k
note: this was requested by @ecriggs1990
masterlist
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Wooyoung’s voice was exasperated.
“Y/N. Babe. Please.”
You balanced your phone on your shoulder while zipping up your overnight bag. “He’s that bad?”
“That bad?” Wooyoung scoffed. “The man nearly bit my head off because his mic pack wasn’t charged. Yunho doesn’t get mad. He just… stands there. And broods. Sexy for the fans. Hell for the rest of us.”
You bit your lip, already mentally on the plane. “He’s not… sleeping?”
“He’s not sleeping. He’s not eating. He jerks off like, four times a day, and he’s still walking around with a hard on.”
You laughed. “How would you know?”
“I share a wall with him. I’ve been listening to your name in three different tones for a week straight. Please come to Berlin. Fix your boyfriend before he humps the mic stand on stage or kills Jongho for teasing him.”
You rolled your eyes but your heart was pounding. “Text me the hotel and venue.”
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That night that you arrived, the venue was packed.
The floor beneath you shook with the bass as ATEEZ hit the stage, lights strobing and fans screaming. You pressed closer to the barricade, blending in as one of the many.
But not to Yunho.
He spotted you instantly.
You weren’t even looking at him yet, too focused on cheering with the rest of the crowd, but the moment his gaze found you, everything about him shifted.
His jaw clenched. His dancing sharpened. His eyes darkened.
You swore you saw his hand flex mid choreo like he was imagining it against your throat instead of in the air.
Like muscle memory.
He was feral for the next hour. Drenched in sweat, intense, so focused it felt like he was only performing for you. Every thrust of his hips was just a little harder. Every growl into the mic, a little deeper.
And every time he passed your side of the stage, his eyes stayed locked.
By the time the show ended, your legs were shaking and you were the one dripping, from nothing more than a look.
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Backstage was chaos.
But it parted like the Red Sea when Yunho stepped through, still breathless from the final bow, hair sticking to his forehead, chest heaving, and eyes scanning until he found you.
And he dropped.
Dropped to his knees like you were oxygen, like prayer, like salvation.
You barely had time to set down your bag before his arms were around your waist, face buried in your stomach, groaning your name.
“God, baby… I can’t…. I need you. Right now.”
You ran your fingers through his sweat damp hair, pulling lightly to tilt his face up.
“Hi,” you whispered.
He just stared. Hungry. Starved.
“I almost flew home,” he rasped. “I was gonna say fuck the tour. I’ve been losing my mind without you.”
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The ride to the hotel was fast. Too fast.
Yunho couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He kissed you like a man possessed in the elevator, dragging you close, lips devouring yours until the ding of the door forced him to pause.
But the moment the hotel door shut behind you, he pounced.
He pressed you against the wall, tugging your shirt over your head with shaking hands.
“Take off your pants,” he growled. “Now.”
“Yunho…”
“I’ve waited three weeks,” he panted, pushing down his own sweats, dick already hard and leaking. “Three weeks of my fist. My imagination. My fucking dreams.”
You backed toward the bed, pulling your jeans down, eyes wide.
Yunho followed like a hunter, like you were prey. “You don’t understand,” he murmured, “what it’s like to crave someone so bad you can’t breathe without them.”
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t have to.
Because the second you laid back, he was on you, kneeling between your thighs, dragging your panties off and moaning at the sight of you.
“You’re already wet,” he groaned, running his tongue flat over your slit. “Fuck, I missed this taste. Missed you.”
You cried out as he licked you open, devouring like a man finally given water in a desert.
His fingers pushed in deep, curling right where you needed them, tongue flicking mercilessly against your clit.
“Come for me,” he whispered, voice thick with need. “Please, baby. I need to feel you fall apart.”
You didn’t last. Couldn’t.
You shattered, legs trembling, sobbing his name like worship.
And he didn’t stop.
Yunho pulled himself up, slick chin glistening, eyes wild with lust. “Turn over.”
You obeyed instantly, and his hands grabbed your hips hard, lining himself up before slowly pushing in.
Deep.
So deep you gasped, fists clenching in the sheets as he bottomed out.
“God…. fuck… this pussy was made for me,” he groaned, thrusting hard, deep, desperate. “No one else. No one else can have you. You’re mine.”
The room filled with wet sounds, breathy moans, and the slap of skin. He fucked you like he was trying to brand himself inside you, his pace punishing but precise.
He tugged you up, chest to his, one hand gripping your throat just enough to make you moan.
“You’re gonna take all of it,” he whispered into your ear. “Every inch, every drop.”
Your orgasm hit like lightning, so hard you cried out, body going limp in his arms.
But Yunho didn’t let you fall.
He followed you down, fucking you through it, growling your name as he finally came, spilling deep inside with a broken gasp.
You collapsed into the mattress, both of you panting, covered in sweat and bliss and everything you’d been needing for weeks.
Later, in the silence of the suite, tangled together under sheets, Yunho kissed your shoulder, voice raw and soft. “Don’t leave.”
You smiled against his chest. “Not until you’re done touring.”
His arms tightened around you.
“Then I’m never letting go.”
Your thighs were still trembling when you tried to shift, sensitive and slick, but the low sound behind you stopped you cold.
A groan. Dark. Deep.
You glanced back over your shoulder, and there he was.
Still inside you. Still thick.
And getting hard again.
“Yunho?” you whispered, blinking through the haze of your last orgasm.
He didn’t answer with words at first, just rolled his hips up gently, his dick twitching deep inside you, already fully erect once more.
Your mouth fell open. “You’re… already?”
He smirked. That maddening, cocky, drop your panties smirk you were pretty sure he learned from Mingi. The one he only used when he knew he was about to wreck you.
“Dancer’s libido, baby,” he rasped, sitting up and dragging you effortlessly with him.
Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, your hands bracing on his chest.
“I haven’t even had my fill of you yet,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw as he kissed up to your ear. “You really think I’m gonna stop now?”
His hips rolled again, slow and teasing, and you whined, still so sensitive it almost felt too much.
Almost.
But god, your body didn’t want to stop.
Yunho leaned back against the headboard, grabbing your hips with those strong dancer hands. “Ride me.”
You blinked, your body aching in the best way, breath shallow. “Yunho..”
“Come on,” he murmured, dragging you forward just enough that you gasped, his dick pressing even deeper. “Let me see you. Let me watch you.”
Your body moved before your brain could catch up, hands braced on his chest, hips starting to move.
He groaned low in his throat, head falling back. “Fuck yes, just like that. Take it all, baby.”
You started slow, the stretch intense, rolling your hips while Yunho kept a tight grip on your waist, guiding you, watching every single twitch of your face like it was a performance just for him.
“Look at you,” he breathed, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You were made to ride me.”
You whimpered, thighs burning, clit brushing his pelvis with every grind. “Yunho, I..”
“Faster.”
He sat up suddenly, one arm wrapping around your lower back, the other gripping your ass to pull you down harder.
His mouth found your throat, sucking bruises, tongue hot against your skin.
“Don’t stop,” he murmured. “Don’t you dare stop. I need you like this. Need to feel you come again.”
Your body trembled with each thrust. The angle, the friction, the heat, it was overwhelming.
And Yunho was just watching you, fucking worshiping you with his eyes.
When you clenched down hard around him, sobbing his name again, he cursed loud and held you there, thrusting up into you as he chased his own high.
“Shit, baby, you’re gonna make me come, ride me through it, fuck, yes….yes”
You felt him spill inside again, the heat of it, the twitch of his dick, the way he held you so tight you could hardly breathe.
You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you a sweaty, shaking, breathless mess.
He stroked your back as your heart pounded against his.
“That’s two,” he whispered against your temple, voice smug and sweet.
You laughed softly, still clinging to him. “You’re insatiable.”
He hummed. “For you? Always.”
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The bathroom was already fogged with steam by the time Yunho pulled you into it, one hand clasped around yours, the other resting low on your back.
Neither of you had said a word since the second round. You didn’t need to.
The look in his eyes said everything.
He turned the water hotter, then backed you into the marble tiled wall, steam curling between your bodies as it rained down in thick, heavy drops. His fingers brushed wet hair from your face, his other hand cradling your jaw.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice hoarse, low, reverent.
You nodded, breath shallow. “Yeah. Just… sore. Ruined. All the good things.”
He grinned, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, “One more?”
You smiled into the kiss, fingers curling around the back of his neck. “Greedy.”
“I told you,” he breathed, sliding his hand down your spine to palm your ass, pulling you flush against him. You could already feel him getting hard again, his dick thick and pressing into your belly, twitching between you.
“God,” you whispered, glancing down. “Are you ever not hard for me?”
He smirked, leaning in to kiss your throat, slow and lazy. “Not when I know what’s mine.”
Yunho didn’t rush this time.
He guided you back under the spray, letting the water trickle down both your bodies as his hands slid slowly over your hips, your waist, your breasts, relearning the terrain like he hadn’t already claimed it twice tonight.
His lips followed. Neck. Collarbone. Between your breasts. Down your stomach.
By the time he knelt between your legs, the tiles were slick, and so were you.
“You’re trembling again,” he murmured, mouth grazing your inner thigh. “Still sensitive?”
You nodded, clinging to the bar behind you. “Still needy.”
He groaned, kissing up the inside of your leg. “Good. That makes two of us.”
He didn’t go down on you again, this time, he simply stood, gripped your thighs, and lifted you like you weighed nothing.
Your back pressed to the shower wall, one of his hands supporting you, the other lining himself up at your entrance.
And then, with a single, slow thrust, he was inside.
You both gasped.
Water coursed down his back, your legs wrapped tightly around him as he filled you again, stretching you perfectly, the heat of his body just as overwhelming as the heat of the water.
This time, Yunho moved slow.
No desperation. No rough pace.
Just deep, rolling thrusts, his hips grinding into yours, his forehead resting against yours, your breath mixing in the thick steam.
You moaned quietly into his mouth, fingers sliding into his wet hair. “Yunho…”
“I’ve never missed anyone like this,” he whispered. “I was scared I was making you up. Like you were a dream.”
You kissed him, soft, slow. “I’m here. Real.”
His thrusts hit deeper at that, more focused, deliberate.
Each time he pushed in, it felt like he was trying to memorize every second. Every pulse. Every sound you made.
“I love you,” he breathed, lips brushing your temple.
Your eyes fluttered shut, heart thudding.
“I love you too.”
That was all it took.
He fucked you through that confession like it was sacred, until you were both trembling, water pounding around you, your body spasming in his arms as he finally came, deep and slow, with a guttural moan of your name.
He held you there for minutes afterward, your face buried in his neck, his arms tight around you, your bodies still joined beneath the falling water.
Neither of you moved.
Eventually, he carried you out, wrapped you in a towel, and whispered promises into your skin as he dried you off and tucked you into bed.
You fell asleep on his chest, still aching, still dripping, still loved.
And Yunho?
He finally slept like a man who had everything he ever needed.
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Morning came soft and golden.
Sunlight spilled through the thin hotel curtains, casting honeyed light across the bed and the two tangled bodies within it. The sheets were barely covering you, twisted down to your waist, Yunho’s arm slung across your stomach, one of your legs tangled between his.
His nose was pressed to your shoulder. His breathing was slow, even. Peaceful.
He hadn’t let you go all night.
You stirred just a little, sore in all the best ways, and his grip tightened automatically, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy grunt.
“Still here,” you murmured, smiling as you ran your fingers through his messy hair.
“Mmm. Good.” His voice was scratchy, deep from sleep. “Was worried I’d wake up and it would’ve been another wet dream.”
You laughed, turning your head to kiss his temple. “Nope. Just your actual, very real girlfriend. Sore. Feral. Starving.”
“Same,” he groaned into your neck. “For food and for you.”
You were just about to roll over, maybe even climb on top of him again, when there was a knock at the door.
Yunho froze.
You both stared at each other.
“Room service?” you offered hopefully.
Another knock. And then, a voice, cheerful, sing song, and very familiar.
“Yunhoooooo! Is your soul cleansed? Is your aggression gone? Is your dick dry?”
Yunho groaned into your chest like he wanted to die. “I’m gonna kill him.”
You laughed, clutching the blanket to your chest. “You should’ve known he wouldn’t let you have a quiet morning.”
Reluctantly, Yunho sat up, dragging on the hotel robe and raking a hand through his wild bedhead. He glanced back at you, admiring the sight of you wrapped in white sheets, bare shoulders and collarbones glowing in the morning sun.
“Stay right there. Don’t even breathe in his direction.”
You smirked. “I make no promises.”
Yunho yanked open the door.
Wooyoung didn’t even wait for an invitation. He sauntered in, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, and an absolutely shit eating grin on his face.
He took one look at Yunho’s disheveled state, robe barely tied, bruises blooming along his collarbone, that specific post orgasm glaze still clinging to him, and then glanced past him to you.
Wrapped in sheets. Bite marks on your throat. Lips swollen. Hair a mess.
Wooyoung grinned wider.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled, taking a sip of coffee. “Look who finally got laid and decided to not be a raging dick to the rest of us.”
Yunho deadpanned. “Get out.”
Wooyoung ignored him completely, walking over to the edge of the bed and offering you a two-fingered salute. “Thank you for your service. On behalf of the band, the staff, and our collective sanity.”
You covered your mouth, giggling. “I aim to please.”
Yunho groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I swear to god…”
Wooyoung plopped onto the armchair. “He’s been intolerable, you know. Growling. Snapping. Jerking off like he was getting paid. Mingi walked in on him humping his pillow.”
“Get out!”
Wooyoung stood with a flourish. “Fine, fine. I got what I needed. Visual confirmation that the devil has been exorcised via orgasm.”
He turned to you with a wink. “Please ruin him again before Paris.”
Yunho physically shoved him toward the door.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
The door slammed shut behind him, finally leaving you two in silence again.
Yunho turned back around slowly.
You were biting your lip, trying not to laugh.
“You humped your pillow?”
“Do you want me to gag you with a pillow right now?”
yunho gets all clingy and desperate for you and end up fucking you slow and soft.
❛ content 2.7k words, 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, male reader, soft dom!yunho, established relationship, yunho is incredibly soft & clingy, unprotected sex (p in a), fingering, so much praise, pet names, creampie, loving sex, handjob, size & praise kink implied, yunho talks a looot, begging, lots of kisses, edging, crying, overstimulation, aftercare.
the evening had bled into a soft, velvety night, the only light in the living room coming from a single salt lamp that cast a warm, amber glow.
you were curled against the corner of the sofa, a book resting in your lap, but you hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. your attention was entirely consumed by the weight and warmth of the man whose head was comfortably nestled in your lap.
jeong yunho — your sweet boyfriend.
he was tall, all long limbs and lean muscle, yet he folded himself up to fit against you with a proficient ease. his head was heavy on your thigh, his face turned into your stomach. one of his arms was wrapped possessively around your hips, his fingers splayed wide against the small of your back, as if even in this state of utter relaxation, he needed to anchor himself to you.
you carded your fingers through his hair — soft, obsidian strands that slipped through your digits like silk. each stroke earned a soft, contented sigh from yunho, a vibration you felt through the fabric of your sweatpants.
he'd been clingy all day, more so than usual. a lingering hand on your waist while you made coffee, his chin hooked over your shoulder as you scrolled on your phone, his large frame crowding you gently against the kitchen counter just to steal a kiss.
"you're quiet tonight," you murmured, your voice a low rumble in the quiet room.
yunho nuzzled deeper into your stomach, his breath warm through your shirt.
"just thinking," he mumbled, his voice husky with impending sleep.
"about?"
"you," the answer was immediate, as if it were the only thought that ever occupied his mind.
yunho tilted his head back, and in the dim light, you saw his eyes. they were his most disarming feature : large, doe-like, and the color of rich, dark honey.
right now, they were wide, earnest, and swimming with a devotion so profound it sometimes stole your breath.
"always about you."
you smiled, tracing the elegant line of his brow.
"what about me?"
"how you feel. how you smell. the little sound you make in the back of your throat when i kiss you right here—"
yunho shifted slightly, pressing his lips to the soft spot just below your navel, making you jolt. his arm tightened ever so around you.
"—how lucky i am."
his words, so raw and sincere, sent a familiar heat curling low in your belly.
you tugged gently on his hair, guiding his face up to yours. yunho came willingly, his body unfolding from yours until he was hovering over you, caging you against the sofa cushions. the size difference was never more apparent than in moments like this — he was a canopy, blocking out the rest of the world, his broad shoulders casting you in a private shadow.
"you're being pathetic," you whispered, the term of endearment falling easily from your lips.
it was your secret code for this — for when his love for you became so overwhelming it turned him into a desperate, clinging mess.
a slow, beautiful blush crept up his neck.
"i know," he breathed, his dark eyes flicking between yours and your lips. "you make me that way. you have no idea what you do to me."
yunho dipped his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was anything but pathetic — it was deep, and languid, and tasting of the shared red wine from dinner. his tongue swept into your mouth, not with aggression, but with a reverent curiosity, as if mapping a familiar territory he never tired of exploring.
one of his soft hands came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that contrasted the growing hardness you could feel pressing against your hip. when he broke the kiss, you were both breathless. a string of saliva connected your lips for a second before breaking.
his eyes were glazed, his lips swollen and wet.
"i need you," yunho whispered softly, the words a broken plea. "please. can i have you? i'II be so good for you. i'll make you feel so good."
the directness, the raw need in his voice, made your head spin. you nodded, your own voice failing you.
"yeah. yes, yunho."
that was all the permission he needed.
in one fluid, startlingly strong movement, your boyfriend scooped you up from the sofa, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back. you yelped, clinging to his neck, burying your face in the column of his throat as he carried you effortlessly to the bedroom.
yunho smelled like clean linen, his own unique scent, and pure, absolute want.
he laid you down on the cool duvet as if you were something infinitely fragile and precious. the bedroom was dark, but the city lights from the window painted silver lines across his form.
yunho stood by the bed, just looking at you, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. his gaze was a physical caress, trailing from your flushed face, down your chest, to the obvious tent in your sweatpants.
"so beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. "my beautiful boy."
he then joined you on the bed, not looming over you, but lying on his side, propped up on an elbow.
his free hand came up and began to undress you with a painstaking slowness that was its own form of torture. yunho peeled your shirt off, his knuckles slowly brushing against your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. when your chest was bare, yunho leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your sternum, his tongue darting out to taste your skin.
"your heart is beating so fast," he whispered against your skin, his breath a cool contrast. "is that for me?"
"only for you," you gasped, arching into his touch.
yunho hummed in approval, his hands moving to the waistband of your sweatpants and underwear. he dragged them down your legs, his eyes darkening to near black as you were revealed to him, fully hard and already leaking against your stomach.
"look at you," he breathed, his voice thick with awe.
he wrapped a large, warm hand around your length, not yet moving, but just holding you. the sheer size of his hand, the way his fingers almost met his thumb, made you feel incredibly delicate.
"perfect. so perfect for me."
yunho began to stroke you, a slow, maddening rhythm. his eyes were locked on yours, watching every single micro-expression that flitted across your face.
his thumb swiped over your cockhead, smearing the precum, making the glide slick and effortless.
"you like that, baby?" he cooed, his voice a soft, hypnotic melody. "you like how my hand feels on you? tell me."
"y-yes," you moaned sweetly, your hips bucking into his fist. "yunho—please…"
"please what, my love? use your words for me."
his pace increased slightly, his grip firm and perfect.
"more... i need more."
yunho smiled, a soft, adoring thing.
"you'll have everything. i promise."
he released you, ignoring your whimper of protest, and quickly shed his own clothes.
the sight of him always stole the air from your lungs. yunho was all smooth, pale skin and elegant lines, and he was overwhelmingly, magnificently hard. his erection stood thick and heavy against his stomach, and a fresh wave of heat and anticipation pooled in your gut.
he didn't immediately cover you.
instead, he reached over to the nightstand, retrieving the lube. the click of the cap was obscenely loud in the quiet room. he poured a generous amount onto his fingers, warming it between them, his eyes never leaving yours.
"i'm going to open you up now, okay?" he said, his voice gentle but firm — it wasn't a question of if, but more a statement of care. "i'm going to make you ready for me. i want to feel every part of you."
you nodded, spreading your legs in a silent invitation.
yunho shifted down the bed, settling between your thighs. the first touch of his slick fingers against your entrance made you jolt. he shushed you gently, his other hand splaying across your lower belly, holding you down with a comforting weight.
"just relax, sweetheart. give it to me. you just need to let me take care of you."
he pressed one finger inside, slow and inexorable. the stretch was familiar, a welcome burn. he watched your face intently, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"there," he whispered, curling his finger just so, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed. "that's it. that's my boy. so responsive for me."
yunho began a slow, scissoring movement, working you open with a devotion that was almost religious. when he added a second finger in you, the stretch intensified, a delicious, full feeling that had you panting.
"you're taking me so well, baby," he praised, his voice husky. "so good. always so good for me."
he crooked his fingers again, brushing relentlessly against that bundle of nerves that made you see stars. your moans became higher pitched, your legs trembling around his body.
"yunho... i'm close—just from this," you moaned, your orgasm building alarmingly fast.
"not yet, baby," he cooed, immediately stilling his hand, letting you come down from the edge.
he was a master of your pleasure, knowing just how to push and when to pull back.
"you don't come until i'm inside you. until i'm filling you up. understand?"
the command, delivered in that soft, loving tone, was the most potent aphrodisiac.
you nodded frantically, desperate for him. yunho added a third finger, stretching you thoroughly, preparing you for the big main event. the sounds were wet and lewd, and his dark eyes were drunk on the sight of his fingers moving in and out of your body.
"i think you're ready," he finally said, his voice rough with his own need.
yunho withdrew his fingers, and you felt empty, bereft.
he moved over you, his body aligning with yours, the head of his cock nudging against your stretched, slick entrance. he braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours. his black hair fell into his eyes, and his lips were parted, his breath coming in ragged puffs.
"look at me," he pleaded softly.
you forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. the love and raw hunger you saw there was staggering.
"i love you," he whispered, and as he spoke the words, he began to push inside.
the feeling of him entering you was an experience you could never, ever completely get used to, no matter how many times you did this. it was always a revelation — the initial, breathtaking stretch, the slow, burning fullness as he slowly sheathed himself inside you, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.
yunho moved with an excruciating slowness, his eyes locked on yours, watching for any sign of discomfort. a low, broken groan tore from the deep of his throat.
"oh, god... you feel—you're so tight. so perfect. you're hugging me so perfectly."
when he was fully inside you, hips flush against your ass, you both stilled, panting.
the feeling of being so completely filled, so utterly possessed by him, was overwhelming. you could feel every inch of him, the subtle throb of his pulse deep inside you. tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
"you okay?" yunho asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding still. he leaned down and kissed the tears away. "my sweet boy. you take me so well."
"i'm okay," you managed to choke out, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him even deeper. "move, yunho. please—move."
he needed no further encouragement.
he began to move, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in with that same devastating slowness. it wasn't a frantic, pounding rhythm; it was a deep, rolling, sensual grind. every single thrust was a deliberate act of worship, designed to drag against every single nerve ending inside you.
the room filled with the sounds of your joined bodies : skin slapping softly against skin, your ragged moans, and his constant, breathless stream of praise.
"that's it," yunho moaned, his forehead dropping to yours. "take me, baby. just like that. you feel so good. you're my heaven—my everything."
his thrusts began to gain a little more force, a little more speed, but the underlying tenderness never faded. he was making love to you, with his entire body and soul.
yunho shifted his position slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit your prostate dead-on. a sharp, electric pleasure shot up your spine, and you screamed his name, your nails digging into his back.
"there?" he gasped, a wicked, loving smile gracing his lips. "you like it when i touch you right there?"
he adjusted his hips, ensuring that every subsequent thrust battered that same sweet little spot relentlessly, again and again. you were babbling, a mess of 'yes' and 'more' and 'please, yunho, don't stop'.
the pleasure was building to an unbearable peak, coiling tight in your gut.
"y-yunho, i'm gonna—i’m gonna cum," you sobbed, the overstimulation from his earlier fingering making you impossibly sensitive.
the orgasm was rushing towards you, inevitable and terrifying in its intensity.
"come for me, baby," he commanded, his voice guttural and raw. "come for me. let me see you. i want to feel you come all over yourself while i'm inside you."
yunho’s words, his touch, the feel of him filling you oh so completely — it was all too much. your world shattered into a supernova of pure, white-hot pleasure.
your back arched violently off the bed as you came, stripes of hot release painting your stomach and chest. your hole clenched and fluttered around yunho’s cock, milking him rhythmically through your climax. the sensations were so intense they bordered on painful, a relentless wave of ecstasy that seemed to have no end.
through the haze, you heard yunho's broken cry.
the feeling of you pulsing around him was his undoing. his thrusts became erratic, desperate.
"oh, fuck... i can feel you... i'm—!"
with a deep, guttural groan, yunho buried himself to the hilt and came. you felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release deep inside you, filling you up, marking you as his.
he then collapsed on top of you, his full weight a comforting, grounding pressure, his face buried in your neck as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm with soft, helpless whimpers.
for a long time, the only sound in the room was your shared, ragged breathing, slowly returning to normal. he was still inside you, softening, but he made no move to pull out. instead, he rolled you both onto your sides, keeping you locked in that intimate embrace, his arms wrapped around you like vines.
yunho nuzzled into your neck, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your damp skin.
"you.." he whispered, his voice deep and hoarse. "you are... incredible."
you could only hum in response, your body feeling boneless and utterly spent, humming with a deep, resonant satisfaction.
yunho finally, reluctantly, pulled out, a soft gasp escaping you at the sensation.
he immediately reached for a towel from the nightstand, and with a tenderness that made your heart ache, he cleaned you up. he wiped the cum from your stomach and the sticky evidence of your union from between your thighs. his touch was reverent and caring.
once you were clean, he pulled the duvet over you both and gathered you back into his arms, your back to his chest. yunho was the big spoon, his larger frame enveloping you completely — one arm was a tight band across your chest, his hand splayed over your heart. his lips were pressed to the back of your neck.
"i love you," he murmured into your skin, the words a familiar, sacred melody. "i love you so much it physically hurts sometimes."
you slowly placed your hand over his, lacing your fingers together. "i love you too, you pathetic mess."
you felt his smile against your neck. he held you tighter, if that was even possible.
"i mean it," he said, his voice soft but serious. "i'd do anything for you. anything. you own me, completely."
you knew he wasn't just talking about the sex. he was talking about his life, his heart, his soul.
and as you gradually drifted off to sleep, safe and cherished in the cage of yunho’s arms, you knew you felt exactly the same way.
unfortunate souls: ateez x ftm!reader
synopsis
before you dive in! nsfw headcanons, words boycunt/cunt, t-dick, dick, cock used interchangeably, facesitting, overstim, pussy slapping (light)
smth to keep yall occupied bc the ghostface!ateez is taking sm longer than expected lol
🥮 seonghwa
slow, languid laps into your heat; nose pressed into your cock, absolutely buried in you—moans along with you
fucks his tongue into you, holding you still with his arm draped across your midsection
if you'd allow it, he’d stay down there for as long as he wanted, till you were so worn out you couldn’t even shake from overstimulation
sucks on your t-dick like it’s fucking huge; bobbing his head for emphasis, swirling his tongue around it (understands if you must throw your head back at the sight of it)
never takes his eyes off you, refuses to—makes sure to watch every little reaction you have to everything he’s putting you through
makes sure you do the same, tone sweet yet commanding: “eyes on me, honey.” / “it’s okay, you can do it.”
hongjoong 🍢
genuinely could suffocate himself in you if he wanted—you pull him off you and he gasps like he was drowning; mumbling, panting, moaning into you as he goes on
like a fucking. piranha attack. like fucking jaws. eats you out like he’s a goddamn zombie trying to rip you to pieces
not super coordinated, might graze you with his teeth a little (who knows, you might be into that), but his passion makes up for any mistakes he will make
is trying to make you cry tbh. brings you there quickly and efficiently, will only slow down/stop if you ask
and if you do, he’s all smiles, cocky—”petting” you with light slaps on your boycunt; “was it too much for you?” / “you need a break, baby?” / “was it that good?”
if you push his head back down he’ll get right back to it, with more vigor (not before flashing you a dark look from beneath his lashes)
yunho 🍜
"you gonna eat that?" *pointing at your dick* *stomach rumbles*
doesn’t start off holding onto you, gradually snakes his hands into place when you start fidgeting a bit more frequently, trying to squirm away from his tongue
“relax,” he coos, craning down to capture your cock in his mouth, simultaneously working you open with his fingers
will only tap your cunt if you do the opposite of relax (lightly, not cruel)
do not. bring up the fact that his hips buck when he licks into you. do not do it.
“you like this?” / “yeah? how about this? do you like that?” (he says like he’s unsure, but he just wants to hear you confirm what he already knows)
licks you clean, your cum sitting on his tongue, and then crawls up to make out with you so you can share
🍘 yeosang
messy. so messy and you don’t even know if he realizes (and he doesn’t, until he pulls back, his mouth drenched in you and his own spit)
works you with his mouth and fingers, precise, controlled curling and thrusting
holds you in place with one arm, full concentration on your heat
will pull away to finger you as he attempts to shake his hair out of his face (will quietly thank you if you tuck it for him)
ends that sweet moment by sucking your wetness off his fingers before diving back in
not super talkative (too busy plunging his tongue as deep as it can go); “is right here good?” (he says while swirling around your t-dick, making sure you, also, cannot speak)
san 🥟
you are not moving—his arms are locked around your legs, grip firm but not bruising
short but wide tongue lapping at you like a popsicle—long strokes pronounced by kitten licks in between
closes his eyes when he concentrates, eyebrows furrowed like he’s trying to identify all the flavors on his tongue
plump lips suckling on your dick, encapsulating it in warmth, all while he peers up at you, seeking approval in your reactions
“like this?” / “am i doing good?” / and muttering a string of ‘i love you’s’ and whatever compliment his gradually melting brain can come up with
wants to make sure you know he’s strong enough for you to trap him between your thighs: “you won’t hurt me.” / “i can handle it, sweetie.”
mingi 🍣
slow, long, lazy strokes of his tongue; deliberately prolonged yet deep, pressing as he drags up to your cock, popping it into his mouth momentarily to make you squirm
decides to leave his rings on (cold metal latched onto your thighs as he presses in, leaving you open for him)
his moans rumble through you, encouraged by your hands gripping and petting at his hair
his fingers are a complete 180—hard, quick pumps into your heat, the jewelry tapping your lips in an almost painful experience
bruising grip, like he doesn’t realize his own strength—holding you in place, rings creating divots in your skin where he holds on for dear life
oh so encouraging; strings of “yeah?” whenever your moans pitch and you try arching away from him; “c’mon, do it for me. please.”
wooyoung 🍤
pinches at your clit, just to see what you’d do (laughs if you jump, short and high)
strokes your dick with his fingers while he laps into your cunt, making sure he’s buried deep enough that his nose is flush with you
lightly taps your cunt with his fingers, for good measure, in part to get a reaction and almost to say "good job"
talks you right along your orgasm; short, quick, repetitive, “mhm,” “yeah,” “there you go,”—“c’mon, pretty boy, you got it,” fingers aiding in the process
immediately pressing to see if you can do it again, yanking you back into his hot mouth
suggests you sit on his face next time (or now. for your third round)
jongho 🍥
makes sure you know he is not letting you go (hands on your thighs, holding you apart, keeping you in place)
quiet when he works, silently locking eyes with you to confirm he’s making you feel good
likes wrestling you into embarrassing positions (i.e. him sitting upright while still buried in your boycunt, your legs resting on his shoulders, back flush with his front, you nearly upside down, helpless)
furrows his eyebrows with effort as he presses as deep as he can go—diving in wholly, tongue flattening against you
has you sit on his face, once again locking you in place as he sucks on your hole like he’s trying to wring you dry
only speaks if you start begging / crying out his name; “hmm? what was that?” / “you can get a little louder. the others won’t mind.”
⌇warnings: lil plot, smut, explicit nsfw, hormonal mood swings, crying/sobbing, ovulation horny desperation, p in v, oral (f!receiving), discharge eating (he's a greedy boy in this!!), fingering, body worship, begging, dirty talk, light choking, creampie, overstimulation, clingy needy behavior, messy, slight bleeding post-sex, affectionate aftercare, comfort sex, teasing, soft dom/sub vibes, slow soft orgasm, casual humor, soft praise, san is so bf here
⌇tysm for all the love on my recent works, it means the world--so here's a sannie one for yall <33
The rain had been coming down for hours. You watched it trickle down the glass, grey sky split with flickers of pale lightning every so often, the house dim except for the kitchen light left on above the sink.
The sound of the storm had long since faded into background noise, white noise for the ache growing in your stomach.
It wasn’t the cramps that had started it, not really. It was the need.
You were ovulating. You knew your body like clockwork. Your skin was flushed, your nipples stiff under your shirt for no reason, and the ridiculous amount of slick between your thighs had you changing your underwear twice today already.
But that wasn’t the worst part; the worst part was how empty you felt.
Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since you last saw him. Since you’d last touched him. Since you’d heard that particular rasp in his voice when he pressed you into the mattress and told you how sweet you were when you cried.
Now he was finally coming home.
You curled your fingers around the warm mug in your hands and tried not to squirm on the couch. Tried not to think about how the crotch part of your sleep shorts was already damp. Tried not to think about how your body didn’t just miss him, it was screaming for him.
You wanted him, not just for the way he touched you, but because you needed the quiet comfort of having him near, his presence like a tether to hold you steady.
You didn’t hear the key turn, you only heard the door click open.
Then a warm voice, familiar, hoarse with exhaustion and soaked in affection.
“Baby, I’m home.”
The mug slipped from your fingers and clattered onto the coffee table, sloshing tea across the surface. You shot up from the couch without thinking, and the second your eyes met his across the living room, you ran.
San caught you mid-jump, arms wrapping around you like instinct. You crashed into him with a breathless laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.
God, he smelled like the rain, leather and laundry, and just a hint of sweat.
“I missed you,” you whispered into his shoulder. “I missed you so fucking much.”
“I missed you more,” he said, setting his bag down and squeezing you tighter. “Every day. Every city.”
You could feel it already, the tension pulling taut between you, like a bowstring straining under pressure.
He leaned back slightly to look at you. You must’ve looked a mess, skin flushed, lips bitten, your shirt rumpled and sleeves pulled down over your hands. His eyes softened.
“Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you lied. But the tremble in your voice gave it away.
He tilted his head. “Come here.”
You followed him quietly to the couch, legs shaky, throat tight. The moment he sat, he pulled you onto his lap, your knees straddling him as his hands cradled your waist.
“Tell me.”
You hesitated. “I’m… hormonal.”
His brows rose just a little.
“Not in a sad way. Just my body’s going nuts. And I’ve been alone and stressed and horny for like three days straight.”
San’s expression shifted fast. From concern to heat in a heartbeat.
“Oh,” he said, voice dipping lower.
You bit your lip. “It’s not even the sex part—I mean, okay, it is, but it’s also just how empty I feel. I keep crying at dumb things. I almost cried over a pothole earlier. A pothole, San.”
He grinned. “Baby…”
“It’s my fucking ovulation window. And it’s making me feel like a crazy person.”
He wrapped his arms tighter around you, chest rising and falling against yours. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to feel pressured after tour. You’re probably tired, and I’m just—” Your voice broke slightly. “I’m just really needy right now.”
San leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours.
“You think I wouldn’t want to take care of you?” he whispered.
You blinked at him. His eyes were darker than before, his hands sliding up and down your sides in slow, grounding motions.
“I know this body,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I know what you feel like when you’re ovulating. I can smell it on you, baby.”
You shivered, his voice was like molasses now, deep and slow.
“You’re flushed. Warm. You keep rocking your hips like you’re not even aware of it.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, humiliated by how true it was.
“Don’t be,” he said, brushing your hair back gently. “I think it’s hot.”
Your breath hitched.
“I want you exactly like this,” he said. “Soft. Needy. Out of your mind.”
He kissed your neck low, slow, and purposeful. His hand slid down between your thighs. Pressed softly.
You whimpered.
“You’re soaked,” he muttered, groaning. “Fuck. I’ve barely touched you.”
You couldn’t breathe.
“I’m gonna take care of you, baby,” he whispered. “Gonna give your body what it wants.”
You whimpered against his shoulder. The second his fingers pressed against the thin cotton of your shorts, your body shuddered.
San cupped you fully, his palm broad and heavy, and rubbed a slow circle. You felt how embarrassingly slick the fabric had gotten, and the groan that left his chest was hungry.
“You want me to take care of you, don’t you?” he murmured. “Let me make it better, sweetheart.”
You nodded.
“Need you to say it, baby.”
“Please,” you whispered. “Touch me. I can’t take it anymore.”
He laid you back gently on the couch, pulling the throw blanket under your hips to cushion you.
His lips kissed down your throat, your collarbones, your chest. Slow, slow, slower, until his fingers caught the waistband of your shorts and peeled them down.
Then there it was, the second your panties came off, San paused. His breath caught. You were dripping, inner thighs damp, the whole couch faintly scented with your arousal.
“Oh, baby…” he exhaled, sinking to his knees between your thighs. “You’re so ready for me.”
He spread your legs wide, running his thumbs through your slick, parting you open.
San dropped to his knees between your thighs like a man possessed.
He spread you open with both hands, thumbs gliding through the slick that coated your folds, wet and glossy, stringing between your inner lips and soaking the blanket beneath you.
He let out a guttural groan. “Fuck. You’re not just wet, baby… you’re creamy.”
You flushed hard, hips twitching. “I told you—ovulation makes me—”
“You think I’m complaining?” He slid one finger through your folds, slow, collecting the thick mess coating you. When he pulled it back, it glistened, cloudy, slippery, stretched like honey between his fingers.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he brought that finger to his mouth and sucked it clean.
Your stomach dropped. He moaned.
“Tastes like you need to be filled,” he growled. “Sweet. Warm. Fucking ripe.”
“San—” you gasped, breath catching as he went back for more. He dipped two fingers in this time slow, twisting, curling deep, and when he pulled them out coated and dripping, he held them out to you.
“Open,” he whispered.
You hesitated, cheeks blazing, but obeyed.
He slid his fingers into your mouth and you sucked them instinctively, tasting yourself thick on his skin.
Salty, slippery, overwhelming. San watched with blown pupils and a smirk so filthy it made your toes curl.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Taste what your body’s begging for. You feel it, don’t you? That emptiness. That ache?”
You whimpered, clenching down hard around nothing.
He licked another trail up your thigh and groaned again. “Fucking leaking for it. Dripping down your thighs like your pussy already knows what’s coming.”
Then his mouth was back on you, hot, hungry, greedy. Tongue plunging deep, lips sucking the slick straight from your entrance as if it was the first thing he’d eaten in days.
“You’re making so much of it,” he panted between licks. “You want me to fuck it all back into you, don’t you? Fill you so full it leaks out for hours?”
“Yes,” you choked, writhing. “Please—please, I need it.”
“You’ll get it, sweetheart,” he growled. “But not until I’ve tasted every drop this perfect body’s made for me.”
You broke. Your orgasm hit hard, your body seizing as you clenched around his fingers, thighs squeezing, a loud sob tearing from your throat. You could barely breathe.
The wave dragged on and on, slick pouring out of you, making your inner thighs stick to the blanket.
San kissed you through it. Soft, open-mouthed kisses across your stomach and chest as you came down. His fingers stayed inside you, slow and gentle.
“Hey, hey. I’m right here,” he murmured, tucking your head under his chin. “You don’t have to hold anything in.”
You melted into him again, boneless and trembling...
A tear slid down your cheek before you even noticed you were crying, and San brushed it away without a word.
Your body sagged forward into his chest like you’d been unstrung. Every part of you pulsing and soft, skin too tight for how much emotion buzzed underneath.
You clung to him, breathing him in. Clean sweat, worn cotton, a hint of his shampoo still clinging to the ends of his hair.
Your brain was already slipping into that hormone-drunk haze, the kind that made your ribs ache just from being held.
You barely registered when he started undressing. A shirt peeled over his head, jeans sliding low over his hips.
It was all just movement and warmth and comfort, the room spinning gently while you floated at the center of it.
By the time his clothes hit the floor, you were blinking up at him with glassy eyes, lips parted, thighs pressed together, pliant like your body had already decided what it needed from him before your mouth could ask.
But you did notice the way his cock brushed against your thigh, heavy, thick, already leaking.
You whined.
“Still want me?” he asked, sliding two fingers back into you, checking how open you were. “Still this needy, even after coming so hard?”
You nodded, voice wrecked. “Please, San. Please, I need it deep.”
He kissed your knee. “You tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You were about to promise when he pushed in. Slow, stretching, deep. You both groaned in tandem, your cunt clenching down like he belonged there. Which, truthfully, he did.
“Fuck,” he whispered, folding over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other on your hip. “You’re so tight.”
“I can’t help it,” you cried. “You feel too good. It’s too much.”
“I know, baby,” he cooed, starting to move—long, grinding thrusts that made your whole body jolt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
His pace quickened. You wrapped your legs around his waist. He fucked you deep, not hard yet, but the angle had your toes curling. Every time he bottomed out, your body tried to take more.
“You want me to ruin this pussy, don’t you?” he growled.
“Your hormones are driving you crazy. You’re clenching like you never want me to leave.”
He grabbed your throat lightly, pressing just enough to make you gasp.
“You want me to come inside you?” he rasped. “Want to feel me leak out of you for hours?”
“Yes, San—please—don’t pull out—”
That was it. His control snapped.
He fucked you harder now—loud, wet slaps of skin on skin, your moans broken and desperate. Your second orgasm hit without warning, your body convulsing, nails digging into his back, sobs escaping as he stuffed you full, over and over and over again.
He came right after, you felt it when he spilled.
Thick, hot, flooding you. His hips stuttered, voice cracking in your ear as he pressed as deep as he could and stayed there.
“Shit,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “So full. You took all of it, baby.”
You didn’t realize you were bleeding until after. Not much, just a faint smear on the inside of your thigh, red-pink and mixed with cum. San noticed it first.
He immediately slowed.
“Hey—hey, you okay?”
You nodded, you felt dazed and fuzzy, just sensitive everywhere.
“Hurts a little,” you whispered. “But in a good way.”
As he pulled out, the mess was immediate. His cum mixed with yours, leaking in thick strings down your thighs, soaking the blanket beneath you.
San paused, staring, chest heaving.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Look at that.”
You glanced down and your face flamed at the sight. The discharge from earlier, now laced with thick streaks of white, clung to your folds like your body was still trying to keep him inside.
He didn’t move for a second—then dipped back down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered. “It’s dripping out already.”
You squirmed, thighs twitching, too sensitive to do anything about it.
Then he licked it up.
One long, slow drag of his tongue from your hole to your clit, scooping up the mess like it was his reward.
You whimpered. “San—”
He moaned into your cunt. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean you up my way first.”
You hid your face in your hands, torn between embarrassment and the slow curl of heat returning to your gut.
“You’re obsessed,” you whispered.
He smirked, licking his lips. “Damn right I am. You think I could watch my cum dripping out of you and not taste it?”
He was already grabbing a warm towel, muttering apologies as he kissed your temple.
“But still, I should’ve slowed down sooner,” he said softly. “You’re so sensitive right now. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You were perfect,” you whispered.
He was careful with the cleanup. Gentle between your thighs. Talking to you the whole time.
“You did so good for me,” he murmured. “Such a pretty girl. Always so sweet when you’re all soft like this.”
You whimpered when the towel grazed your clit, and he immediately soothed you with a kiss to the cheek.
“I’ve got you, baby. Just a little more, and I’ll get you in the bath.”
Once he was done, he helped you into the bathroom, set you in a warm soak with Epsom salts, and sat beside the tub rubbing circles into your calf.
“You’re always like this when you’re ovulating, huh?” he said, smiling gently. “All needy and messy and desperate.”
“Shut up,” you muttered, flushing.
He leaned in and kissed your nose.
“I fucking love it.”
You splashed a bit of water at him with your toes, but your body was too wrecked to hold a proper pout. When he stood and started peeling off his shirt again, you blinked up at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting in. You think I’m letting you float around in here alone?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of the day and of him made the thought of being close again too tempting to resist.
He climbed in behind you, easing your back into his chest with a contented sigh. The water shifted around you both, warmer with his skin against yours.
The sound of his heartbeat against your back slowed, each thud syncing with your breathing.
His body stayed wrapped around you, chest flush to your spine, arm curved protectively over your middle like he was afraid you'd slip through his fingers.
San didn’t move right away, he just let you breathe. And you were so grateful because you didn’t have the words yet.
Your body was limp, trembling in the comedown, your thighs sticky with sweat and slick and the warm, wet mess he’d left inside you.
But your chest was tight too, overwhelmed. You blinked, and tears welled again. This time, not from overstimulation, not from pain.
Just from everything. It was too much and not enough, you missed him, needed him, you had him, and it still didn’t feel like enough.
He kissed your shoulder softly.
But eventually, the bath cooled and your skin started to prickle.
He helped you out first, wrapped you in one of his shirts, dried your legs with a towel so gentle it made your eyes sting again.
“Couch?” he murmured.
You nodded, lips too soft and sore to bother forming words. He led you there with a hand at the small of your back, settled down with you tucked between his legs again, a blanket thrown loosely over both of your bodies.
“Hey…” he murmured. “You okay?”
You nodded against the couch pillow, but your throat burned.
Then your voice cracked, so small. “I think I’m gonna cry again.”
“Oh, baby…”
He turned you gently, shifting so he could face you. One hand cupped your cheek, the other sliding up your side, grounding you.
You were blinking fast, tears falling for no reason you could name, and San just held you through it, no judgment, no questions.
“Come here,” he whispered, gathering you into his lap. “S’okay, let it out.”
You curled into him like it was instinct.
“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” you sniffled, nuzzling his neck.
“I just—everything feels so much. Like my body’s on fire, and I want you again, but I’m tired, and I love you, but I also want to scream, and—”
“I know,” he said instantly. “You don’t have to explain it. Hormones are insane. You’re feeling everything at once, and I’m just glad you’re telling me.”
You breathed shakily, nose pressed to his damp skin.
“You’re not mad?”
He chuckled, warm and breathy.
“Mad? Baby, I’m honored I get to hold you like this. I love this part—when it’s just us. After everything. When you’re all soft and sleepy and honest.”
You bit your lip, more tears spilling. “You’re too sweet to me.”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “You deserve all of this. I mean it.”
He kissed the top of your head, then your forehead, then your damp cheeks.
You curled tighter into him, arms around his neck. “Don’t leave again.”
He smiled against your temple. “You know I have to. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m here. All yours.”
You relaxed with a shaky exhale, and you felt it again.
A pulse low in your belly, a flutter of need, small but insistent.
You whimpered, shifting against his thigh. San froze, then pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed, lips parted.
“…you’re turned on again?”
You blinked, ashamed. “I can’t help it. I think my body’s just—”
He kissed you before you could finish, not hungry or desperate. Just slow, lazy, and familiar.
Then he smirked. “We don’t have to move.”
He slid one hand between your thighs, easily, your folds still soaked, slick still leaking from your entrance.
“Fuck, baby,” he muttered. “You’re dripping down your thighs. I think you really do want a second round.”
You whined, burying your face in his chest. “We can’t. I’m so sensitive—”
“Shh,” he whispered, stroking you gently. “No pressure. Just let me touch you. I’ll be soft this time. No thrusting, no roughness. Just slow circles… like this.”
He rubbed his fingers in slow motion against your clit, barely-there pressure, but enough to make your hips twitch. You squirmed in his lap, helpless, lips falling open.
Your voice was small. “That feels so nice…”
“I know, baby,” he whispered. “That’s all I wanna do. Just give you this. No more tears. Just good things.”
And he kept rubbing, gentle and warm and hypnotic. Your breathing grew heavier, head tipping back against his shoulder as he coaxed you into it.
No demands, no commands. Just yes, baby, good girl, let go for me again.
You came with a soft gasp, legs trembling, toes curling, arms still locked around his neck. This time it didn’t hurt, it just eased something. A calm orgasm, full of warmth and release.
After, he kissed your temple again. “There she is.”
You were silent for a moment—then you mumbled, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this emotionally insane and also completely at peace.”
San laughed quietly. “That’s love, baby.”
You huffed a teary, dazed laugh, then whispered against his collarbone:
“Next time you’re on tour and I’m ovulating, I might die.”
He held you tighter.
“Next time, I’m flying you out.”
You didn’t even register that you were crying until San thumbed another tear from your cheek.
“I got you,” he whispered. “That’s it. Let it all out.”
Every nerve felt raw and stretched thin under the weight of too much pleasure, too much closeness, too much him.
At some point, he cleaned you up again. Grabbed a warm cloth and murmured quiet little things like he always does.
You’re okay, I’m right here, just breathe for me, baby, as he wiped you down and slipped one of his shirts over your head. The soft cotton dragged over your hypersensitive skin like a second set of hands.
Just you in his arms, half-buzzed, cheek pressed to his collarbone as he settled the two of you into the cushions. The night air through the window was cool; his skin was warm against yours.
He curled behind you and draped a new throw blanket over your bodies, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.
“All clingy and messy and fucking desperate.”
You groaned, flushing. “Hush.”
He leaned in and kissed your nose. “My favorite love.”
His heartbeat thudded against your back, slow and steady. You let yourself sink into him, body heavy, brain soft. All of it, the wreckage of pleasure, the gentle care, the calm after, wrapped around you like a cocoon.
A few minutes passed before you mumbled, “…I didn’t even realize it was ovulation week at first.”
San tilted his head down. “You’ve been on the red zone of that app since Wednesday.”
You blinked. “You checked my period app?”
He huffed a laugh. “Babe. You made me download it so I’d stop offering you milkshakes when you’re cramping.”
“…Right.”
You reached for your phone and pulled up the app.
Sure enough: Cycle Day 17. Fertile Window.
A bubble popped up with a cutesy message: 🩷 “You may be extra sensitive, sensual, or emotionally intense today!”
You snorted. “They forgot ‘will sob uncontrollably while getting railed.’”
San peeked over your shoulder. “Oh, I’d swipe right on that.”
Another notification popped up, this time from your group chat.
woowoo:
bitch are you okay??
or just too full of dick to respond???
joongie:
at least confirm you’re ALIVE you were ghosting us mid-tour and now radio silence???
mingithingi:
when u coming back? imy
You started typing through a laugh.
you:
alive. sore. not sorry. imy2 also tell wooyoung i hope he steps on a lego
San took your phone, added:
san:
don’t worry. she’s hydrated, stretched, and fully taken care of. she doesn’t miss u mingi.
Then he tossed it back onto the coffee table and tucked his face against your neck, one hand sliding under your shirt to rest on the warm skin of your belly.
“You good?” he murmured.
You shook your head yes, “Just wrecked.”
“Wanna cry some more?”
“Dunno, maybe.”
“I got you.” He kissed your shoulder. “Always.”
The ovulation app chimed softly in the background, like it knew exactly what it had done.
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.
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