unscripted, the podcast that talks about everything sex, is the bane of wooyoung’s existence. he hates her snarky voice, her tips that he can guarantee are baseless, he hates that all of his friends are jumping on the fucking bandwagon when wooyoung can give them the same goddamn advice from experience. never in a million years would he guess that the person behind the voice, the girl in a sexless, boring, long-term relationship, is you.
there are three things that are irritating you lately: choi yeonjun, choi san, and the fantasies in your head that you can't for the life of you make reality.
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 2/? 7.5k words
🎤︎︎ 18+ reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, reader has a boyfriend who is choi yeonjun | smut minors dni, threesome, drinking, banter, explicit content i can't tag for shit
“ALSO, I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT: I’ve learned the ancient art of edging. Did anyone else know it was lowkey a religious-chastity thing in the Middle Ages? Or that it was mentioned in ancient, Hindu texts, the Kama Sutra, and Tantric scriptures? I was reading this essay about it, and they were even edging in the fucking Victorian era. We really haven’t come up with anything original, have we?”
“This might seem tame for someone like me to have just discovered, but I swear I’m seeing the world in a whole different light. Yes, walk ‘em like a dog, sisters, but holy shit, have we all heard the sound of a man whimpering? How about begging? Have you ever seen tears streaming down a grown man’s cheeks because you won’t let him cum? I’m seeing the light, guys.”
“I’ve never really given a fuck about a man’s pleasure before, I won’t lie. Their pleasure is guaranteed while we have to focus for ours, we really have to work for it, y’know? So why put that much effort into making a man finish, when he won’t do half as much for you? At least, if you asked me a week ago, that would’ve been my honest answer. Today, I still feel that way, but I’m a little more inclined to put in effort to make a man finish because a part of me is obsessed with seeing him suffer first.”
“And it’s not even just the edging. It's the persona, the character you’re letting yourself sink into before you even get started. I’ve been dominant in the bedroom before, and I know I was just telling you guys to not be afraid of it— but I think, maybe, the times I thought I was being dominant, I was just ensuring I got the same out of sex that my partner did. Now, today, I understand dominance. I understand the responsibility, the effort, the fact that someone is literally putting themself and their pleasure in your hands, and honestly, I don't understand why some men don’t solely get off on making their partner finish. What's hotter than that?”
“Having someone beg for you, wanting you so carnally, so shamelessly. Tears streaming down their fuckin’ cheeks, guys, it was serious, I’m still recovering, if you can’t tell. Hopefully next episode I’ll have an update with the reverse side of things, and we’ll see if I’m as excited about it. Right now I’m fucking geeked. I hope you all enjoyed this week's episode, and now you know a little more about toys, for your pleasure, for his pleasure, for their pleasure. I hope your partner goes out and buys one just to use on you tonight. Catch you guys next week, unscripted, as always.”
Damn, you hate hearing your voice recorded. You sound different than how your voice sounds in your head, somehow more nasally, annoying, even. You don’t understand why people listen to you, and continue to listen to you week after week, episode after episode. It’s not like you actually know what the fuck you’re talking about, even with the episode you uploaded last night, all of that information, stolen from a Reddit thread.
But yet, never once have you actually felt like a fraud. To you, you’re playing a character, an unscripted version of you, but in the way that someone else is playing the character of you. Or, actually, you’re playing the character of you in a different universe, with a different personality, different confidence level, different relationship status.
“What are you listening to, baby?” Yeonjun asks, climbing into his own bed behind you, stealing your headphone from your ear. Pressing his chest against your back, his head fits into the pocket between your neck and shoulder like it was meant to be.
You slide down on your screen, lower your brightness, pause the podcast, and turn off bluetooth. “Nothing,” you murmur, backing into him, letting your body mold to his. “What were you doing?”
“I went to the gym early,” he answers before planting a kiss on your cheek. “I have to study all day today, I have an exam on Friday.”
You turn, throwing your arms over his shoulders, pulling him down to kiss you. Pink, plump and soft, your boyfriend’s lips, his kiss was your favorite, it’s comforting, home. But you don’t want to feel like you’re home. You kick the sheets off of your lower half, hooking one leg over his hip, splitting his lips with your tongue. “I want you,” you whisper.
He kisses you again, shifting his hips between your legs, one hand trailing down your hip, your thigh, just to hold your knee still. “I have to study,” he reminds you. “I wasn’t kidding. That’s why I got up so early, I need the day, baby.”
“You can’t spare ten minutes?” you ask, but it comes out more like a whine. Your arms fall from his shoulders, landing on the sheets beneath you. “Skip the shower and fuck me instead. It won’t even take ten, Junie.”
“I already showered,” he gives you an apologetic look, and then you smell his body wash, bright and citrus like lemon, herby like sage, hints of aloe. He places your headphone in the center of your chest before crawling off you, “I’m sorry.”
You let out a sharp sigh, legs falling back down to the mattress, spread out like a shriveled fucking starfish. You stare at the ceiling while listening to him rummage around his bedroom, and after a minute or two, you sit up on your elbows, ready to argue.
“You do understand that we have sex, like, once a week, right?” you ask, bitterness in your tone, clipping every word.
At his desk, already sitting before his open laptop, he doesn’t even look at you as he responds, “I know, I look forward to it every week.”
Like it’s cheat day and you’re a fucking donut, as if he can only have you on the weekend or something. Anger bubbles up inside you, jaw locking, but instead of fighting for it, you climb off his bed.
Everything in Yeonjun’s room is pristine. Pictures on his dresser never have a spec of dust, the wood of his furniture always shining, his bed always made. Clothes are never strewn on the floor, always hung up, in his hamper, he doesn’t even keep water on his nightstand. He will get up at two in the morning to fill up a glass for himself, then flip it over when he clears it, and let it dry on the rack in his sink.
Even your clothes were folded up on the opposite nightstand, even if you know you threw them on the floor last night. Not that you had sex last night, but because you slept naked. He doesn’t even sleep naked. He must have folded them this morning, or maybe when he woke up at two for midnight hydration.
“Where are you going?” he asks from the desk, brows in his hairline. You refuse to look at his feline features, the dark hair that’s no doubt drying perfectly in place, or even at his desk that has two notebooks, different colors for different purposes, a textbook, and a set of multicolored pens perfectly in a line beside his laptop.
“Out,” you respond, tugging your jeans up your thighs. “Home, I don’t know. I’m leaving.”
“Baby,” he tries, and his voice is soft, pleading. “Don’t be mad, are you mad?”
“No,” you finally turn to him, your lips bent in a sad smile that takes every ounce of strength to force. “I’m not mad, I understand. I just want to give you space so you can study in a distraction-free environment.”
His lips spread in a smile, “Thank you, baby, you’re so thoughtful. C’mere.” He turns in his chair, holding out his arms for you. Standing in jeans and a bra, you cross his room, running your hands through his hair when you land between his knees. “I love you,” he whispers, then leans forward to press a kiss to your stomach. “You’re so good to me, don’t deserve you.”
It’s you who doesn’t deserve him. Your hands fall to his cheeks, lifting his head to look at you, and you bend down to kiss him. Just one, soft peck, a singular kiss that has no intention of asking for more. You weren’t in the mood to get rejected twice before ten.
You throw your headphones in your bag after pulling your shirt over your head, and make your way out to the living room, where Beomgyu and Soobin were surprisingly awake, at the kitchen counter eating breakfast.
“Hey,” you greet, eyes already on the food between them. “Feed me, I’m starved.” In more ways than one. Beomgyu’s always been sexy.
Beomgyu slides his plate over, “You’re leaving early.”
Shaggy brown hair shooting in every direction sits atop his head, a short laugh tumbles through your lips at his disheveled appearance. “You’re up early. Too early to brush your hair, I guess.”
“I have to put it back for class anyway,” Beomgyu shrugs. “I like to let it do what it wants before I put it in ponytail jail.”
“You should just cut it like the rest of us do,” Soobin says like he’s said it a million times before.
“I’m allowed to keep it long,” Beomgyu argues, like he’s also said it a million times before. “I just have to keep it neat, which it always is, hence why it looks like this at home.”
Chewing, your eyes bounce back and forth between them. “I seem to have hit a soft spot,” you interject.
“Just cut it, and I won’t have to slick it back for you anymore,” Soobin’s hands land on the edge of the counter, his height looming over where Beomgyu sat across from him.
Beomgyu leans back at the display of dominance, but his eyes thin, his shoulders squaring. “I slick it back myself. I asked you to do it one time, Soob.”
Grabbing a few more pieces of bacon from his plate, you slip away from the counter, leaving them to their own argument that you accidentally instigated. “I’ll be leaving with this. Have fun studying today, boys.”
Soobin turns his head away from Beomgyu, landing on you, already halfway across the room. “Studying?”
“Junie said you have an exam Friday,” your grip tightens on your bag, head nodding in the direction of Yeonjun’s bedroom. “So study up.”
Soobin’s brows furrow, lips parting to speak, but Beomgyu cuts him off. “Thanks, girl,” he’s grinning ear to ear, gnawing on a piece of bacon. “Will you be back later?”
You shrug. “If he wants me to. We’ll see.” You wave before slipping through their front door, letting a long breath you didn’t know you were holding loose.
Your chest hurts. No, maybe it’s your heart that aches, a tiny part of it still beating with underlying fear at the idea of feeling like this forever. It’s not even ten in the morning yet and you’ve felt enough emotion to last you three days. You don’t know why you didn’t listen to Wooyoung, you had yet another opportunity last night to… edge him, or whatever. You had the opportunity to bridge the gap, to fill in the blanks, to make your relationship feel whole again, and you didn’t take it.
Why not? Unscripted would have edged him until he was a whimpering, blabbering, crying mess. Why is she so different from you? You’re still asking yourself the same question you asked yourself a thousand times while laying in Yeonjun’s bed last night. Starting your walk back into campus again, you curse yourself for promising Wooyoung an update.
You curse yourself for asking Wooyoung’s advice in the first place. You don’t know what it is about him that’s so intriguing, that makes you feel so ambitious, maybe it’s because Unscripted is basically the girl version of him. Maybe a part of you is jealous, wants his confidence, his shamelessness, maybe part of you wants to be him entirely. You shake off the thoughts, you do not want to be Jung Wooyoung. He’s so careless that he caught an STD— and what about all the women he supposedly got pregnant?
You hate that he’s even on your fucking mind. It was mortifying having him catch you in his bedroom the night of his own goddamn party, and yet you went back to that very bedroom to ask him advice. You have to be losing your mind, or maybe you’re so fucking pent up you’d do just about anything to get your boyfriend to fuck you.
Coming to the crosswalk that would bridge you over to your complex, you huff, waiting for the hand to turn into a little stick figure. Not anything— you wouldn’t do anything, clearly, because if that was true, you would have gotten fucked the night Wooyoung gave you advice. You would have gotten fucked a thousand times since.
Instead of crossing over to your complex, you turn to the right, the crosswalk taking you to a strip mall that consists of a coffee shop, a hair salon, a nail salon, and the gym you work at. It was the perfect strip mall for college students, sitting just outside of campus, a quick walk no matter where you are. The coffee shop is bright; floor to ceiling windows, it somehow feels brighter than outside as you walk inside, bells over the glass doors chiming.
You have class in two hours, and you don’t feel like napping beforehand, so coffee it is. A small shop, a coffee bar and a set of three different tables, all already occupied with students wearing headphones, laptops open in front of them.
“Virgin!” Your head picks up to the register, and your eyes thin at the person standing behind it. Smiling, dimpled and muscled.
“Biceps,” you respond, laced with annoyance at the newfound nickname now two people use. “Don’t call me that.”
“Honestly, I don’t know your name,” he admits from behind the register. He wears an apron over his broad chest, a dark wine color against the black of his shirt, his name is printed on his right pec. San.
“Good,” your smile is nothing short of sarcastic as you look up at the menu. You hum, lips folding into your mouth before you decide, “Medium vanilla latte, please.”
“Got it,” he’s still smiling, dimples showing as he types on his screen. Turning to show you the total, he tilts his head as he looks you over, “I would have taken you for a black coffee kind of girl. You’re all hard and mad and serious and shit.”
Your brows furrow as you tap your phone against the reader. “You very clearly do not know me at all,” you mutter, shaking your head.
His palms find the counter, shoulders meeting his ears as he leans forward, smirk playing on his lips. “You should let me get to know you, then.”
“What?” It’s a natural reaction. “I— you were there— you know I have a boyfriend, Biceps.”
“You were about to vomit at the idea of marrying him at the Penny,” he counters, brows high. “I wouldn’t say it’s all sunshine and rainbows in your relationship, would you?”
Your top lip lifts in pure disgust, and you guess it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back because immediately you’re blurting, “What are you proposing, then? Cheating on him? Leaving him, since that’s what everyone else thinks I should fucking do?”
San doesn’t falter, everyone else means Wooyoung and you both know it. His smirk widens, a twinkle in his dark brown eyes, “No one said anything about cheating, Virgin. What are you thinking about, huh?”
“Are you going to make my fucking coffee or am I going to be stuck here all day waiting for it?” you snap, and not a single word comes out kind. He deserves it, for insinuating cheating on Yeonjun, insinuating that you thought about it first.
San eyes you, then keeps his eye on you as he saunters over to the bar, he only pulls his gaze away when he grabs the top plastic cup off the stack of thirty. You’re fuming, steam rising off your skin, fingertips clasped around your phone so hard you might crack the fucking screen.
You let it boil down to a simmer before your drink is ready, and San calls your name out, leaving you dumbfounded. You walk up to the pick-up section of the coffee bar with a quirk in your brow, “Thought you didn’t know my name?”
“I lied,” he answers simply, sliding your drink toward you. “We’re throwing tonight, come.”
“You throw a party every other night.” You grab a straw from the container beside you, plucking it into the hole of your lid. “I’m banning myself from your parties. And Wooyoung’s bedroom.”
That gets a laugh out of him. “You know how many women are banned from Wooyoung’s bedroom? I think you might be first to ban yourself,” there’s humor in his voice now, a different kind of humor from the flirty banter he tried earlier. “Come. Leave the boyfriend at home.”
Your lips tighten, uneasy. Curious, though, you ask, “Why should I leave him at home?”
Biceps just smiles like a Cheshire fucking cat. “Just leave him at home, Virgin.”
You can’t believe you’re back here.
You can believe it, because what the fuck else were you going to do, sit at home and sulk over Yeonjun not fucking you? Reread the last text he sent you that said not to come over because he’s still studying?
The text pissed you off, then you went through every stage of grief wondering if you were the problem. Do you not respect him enough as a med student? Are you a shitty girlfriend for not giving him the time he needs to study, so he can succeed in his future? Do you fucking suck because all you can think about is sex?
All signs seemed to point toward yes, and then that pissed you off, too. You’re no better than any of the frat guys inside the tall, two story house in front of you, all of which who will probably fuck the first person they lay eyes on tonight. That’s never been you. Serious boyfriend after serious boyfriend, since you were sixteen years old. Even in the short periods of time when you’ve single you didn’t do the casual sex thing, even though everyone around you seemed ecstatic to participate.
What if Yeonjun finds out you’re here? Will he be angry? Will he even care, or did it not matter because at least you weren’t bothering him?
The last question seemed to answer itself, so you stare at the devil’s mouth from the lawn in an outfit you put too much effort into, the beige door bleeding bass and techno music, reminding you that Biceps is inside, and he actually wants you here. You scratch at your arm that isn’t itchy, shifting your weight from foot to foot, watching as everyone else your age barrels through the front door like they owned the place.
Your feet want to move, but the thought of facing the horde of people inside alone, without a soul at your side, was starting to feel more mortifying than being caught trying to fuck your boyfriend–and failing–in someone else’s bedroom. You could have texted any of your friends to join you, but you didn’t want them to ask any questions, so you didn’t. You didn’t even tell your roommate you were going out, but Yunjin isn’t stupid. She took one look at your outfit and popped a brow, then asked if there was a change in the status of your relationship. You ignored the part of you that wanted to say yes, and told her it was for Yeonjun.
For Yeonjun.
Your feet start moving.
Last week, it was packed like sardines, there wasn’t room to do anything between sweaty bodies, and if you could move, you were slipping on the floor beneath you, the dark hardwood covered in a layer of beer, vodka and grime. This week, it was just as packed, the floor was just as slippery, but everyone seemed to be… tied up.
Is this some kind of sick joke? Did San ask you to come here, tonight, on purpose?
Every person inside the house was a couple, and each couple you saw had a black zip-tie holding their wrists together. Some were holding hands, others didn’t look too happy about who they were tied to, you even spotted a girl making out with someone else, while zip-tied to another who did his best to look the other way. Witnessing that made you smile, just a little, because the lead in your stomach gets heavier when you realize that if you don’t leave right fucking now, you’re going to get zip-tied to someone, too.
“Virgin!”
You haven’t even made it past the fucking living room. You don’t look up, because maybe there’s an actual virgin here, and Biceps wasn’t calling for you from the edge of the kitchen. A second of reprieve goes by before he’s calling out your name, so you curse under your breath, and follow the direction of his voice.
Shirtless. So shirtless. So… lacking clothes, but only clothes, clothes is the only department Biceps is lacking in. Maybe you should just call him Body instead of Biceps, because every single inch of his upper half is sculpted, golden, gleaming with sweat. He doesn’t deserve a body so perfect. He calls you Virgin.
“Like what you see?” He wiggles his brows, a smirk already playing on his swollen, cherry-red lips. “One night without the boyfriend and she’s ready to risk it all.”
The girl he’s zip-tied to smacks her teeth. You didn’t even notice he was tied to anyone. She leans into his side, a pout on her lips, whining, “Sannie, when can we go upstairs? I’m bored.”
“Yeah, Sannie,” you can’t help but tease. “Take the girl upstairs, I’m leaving before anyone else sees me here.”
“Why? What? Don’t go,” San takes a step forward, dragging the girl with him. He transfers his beer to his tied hand before clamping his free one on your forearm, “You didn’t even get tied to anyone yet.”
You shake his hand off your forearm, “I don’t want to be tied to anyone.”
He grabs onto your forearm again with a straight face and turns on his heel. Skipping over your own feet, alarm bells pound in your chest, “San! I don’t want to be tied to anyone, I don’t even want to be here! Let me go.”
“No,” San answers, and for a second you think there might be more. An explanation, at least. He pulls you toward the kitchen, your shoulder bumping the blonde beside you, the girl whose wrist is tied to his. You shoot her an apologetic look, but she doesn’t seem to forgive you for the intrusion.
“Here,” San announces as he comes to a stop, setting your forearm free when he places you across from an unnervingly tall guy with beige, blonde hair. “Virgin, this is Yunho, he brought beer. Where did the zip-ties go?”
Your lips go flat, an embarrassed flush kissing your cheeks. San is already off searching, leaving you alone with this… guy. Tall guy. Cute tall guy.
“Do you like Miller?” Yunho asks, holding up the twelve pack in his other hand. He has a comforting look about him, hair softly unstyled, other than the nineties-style headband pushing his bangs back. His body language is nowhere near as uptight as your rigid spine, bent and relaxed, like the house was his. The tee hanging from his shoulders is loose, but leaves a sliver of skin between the hem and his jeans, sneakers on his feet dirtied and scuffed.
“Um,” you blink, and then keep blinking, trying your hardest not to look at the pocket of skin between his shirt and jeans. You don’t know what to say. “No, but I shouldn’t be here, anyway. I should go–”
“I need a partner,” he offers. “We just have to finish the twelve-pack by midnight. And it’s,” he looks down at the invisible watch on his wrist, “probably really close to midnight. I already drank three, you drink five and I’ll drink four.”
San returns with a black zip-tie in hand, singing, “Wrists, ladies.”
The girl’s wrist is limp, her arm following San’s like she’s a puppet and he’s the puppeteer. You frown, “Biceps, I really don’t want to do this.”
“You’re gonna leave Yunho hanging?” San’s body suddenly straightens out, brows tied together in a pout. “He needs your help, Virgin, he has nine beers to finish on his own.”
When you look at Yunho, he’s nodding his agreement, looking at you like it would be the end of the world if you said no. You know you’re not going to get away with saying no, so you loose a defeated sigh, look away, and hold up your wrist for San to tie.
Yunho’s skin is soft against yours. His wrist is smaller than it seems, his arm smooth like he’s completely hairless. San ties the zip-tie just tight enough for you to be able to wiggle your wrist, like a bracelet that’s big enough to fit two wrists.
“The second issue is that I don’t drink beer,” you muse after San drops your wrists, yours hanging, Yunho’s arm bent ever so slightly. Damn he’s tall. “I’m a dirty martini kind of girl.”
Yunho laughs under his breath, “Are you thirty years old? Where the fuck are you going, drinking dirty martinis? Is that what you were drinking at the Penny?”
“You were at Lucky Penny that night?” you ask before the memory resurfaces. He was at the Penny, sitting to your left, he was the one who asked Wooyoung what he did to you. As if you’d ever sleep with– where is he, anyway?
“Watched your skin get some color back into it as soon as you were away from the guy who’s trying to tradwife you,” Yunho responds, a glimmer in his chocolate brown eyes, a sly smirk on his lips. Your cheeks burn. “Clearly, that’s going well, since you’re here.”
“I’m only here because San told me to come.”
Yunho laughs to himself, “That’s what they all say.”
“Shut up and hand me a beer,” you gruff, holding your free palm out. Wordlessly, he reaches into the box of cans, using both of his hands and yours to crack open the beer.
He hands it to you with a proud grin, “Only five more!”
“You said–” you stammer, “you said I only had to drink five!”
“I pre-gamed,” he shrugs without a glimpse of remorse. “The only way to get us untied is to finish all of them, so drink up, buttercup.”
At least it’s cold, you think as you bring the carbonated yeast up to your lips. It’s a mild beer, compared to something heavier with more taste, like a Guinness or a Yuengling. Those you certainly can’t get down, especially six of them, even if you were being forced to, like you were tonight.
Force is still up for debate. You could have put your foot down, and the sentiment sits with you as Yunho takes you for a lap around the frat. The last time you were here, you barely had the patience to look around, your agenda was to get Yeonjun inside the house, and then inside a random bedroom. You didn’t miss much, as it seems, an old paint job on the flag-covered walls, a clearly thrifted, hand-me-down couch in the living room, the speaker system might be the only expensive thing in the house.
“So, tell me,” Yunho finally says after showing you the dirty bathroom that was already out of toilet paper. He cracks open your second beer for you before asking, “Where is your husband tonight?”
“At home,” you admit, “he has to study. He’s pre-med.” It’s easier to get the drink down now, easy enough that you suck down a gulp of it. “All he does is study.”
Yunho sucks in a breath through his teeth, and you know what it means. He explains anyway, “School is his whole life now, then work will be his whole life when he’s in a hospital. If he goes that route.”
“Tell me about it,” you find yourself agreeing. “I can’t even get him to fuck me half the time.” You gasp after it leaves your lips, covering your mouth with your can instead of your palm. Wide-eyed, you look up at Yunho, “Don’t repeat that.”
Yunho laughs, “I don’t have anyone to repeat it to. Can I ask you a question that you don’t have to answer?” Your nod is delayed. “Why are you dating him? If there’s no sex, and the future freaks you out?”
“There’s sex,” you correct him, kicking a crushed beer can out of your way. “Just not as much of it as I want. And it’s not the future that freaks me out, it’s the speed of it all, the way he’s expediting our future, that freaks me out. He wants me to graduate and pop out a baby.”
Yunho’s body shivers. He shivers. For you. “That’s too soon.”
“Thank you,” you nod along, taking another long sip of your beer. “I know it’s too soon, and I’m scared to bring it up again. Wooyoung said he probably already has a ring.”
Yunho’s brows furrow, “You told Wooyoung?”
Your lips flatten, “It was a series of unfortunate events that led me to telling Wooyoung. Is he here, by the way?”
You finally get back to the kitchen, the lights bright, a layer of smoke in the air, dimming them ever so slightly. “He’s here,” Yunho looks over the crowd, and you’re sure at his height, he could see everything. “He’s not big on themed parties. Knowing him, he’s probably already upstairs.”
“I would have thought being tied to a woman would be right up his alley.”
Yunho leans in close to say, “How’s he supposed to fuck her if his wrist is tied to hers?” When you turn to him, clearly taken aback by the notion, he laughs. “I think he’d much rather have her wrists tied together, if you know what I mean.”
You do know what he means, and god, it’s gotta be the beer that’s making your body heat like a fucking furnace. You wish Yeonjun would do something half as kinky as that. That’s a good idea for Unscripted. You laugh anyway, and even if it’s forced, it sounds breathy and natural.
Yunho’s cool, probably the only normal one in the entire frat, if the other brothers are anything like Wooyoung or San. It’s nice, comfortable talking to him, he’s someone you aren’t scared to confide in, it’s easy to trust him, with his smooth words, playful demeanor, he seems like he’d be someone that everyone tells their secrets to because everyone knows he won’t share them. That’s your favorite kind of person.
“Have you ever shotgunned a beer before?”
Your neck snaps. “Do I look like a teenage boy?”
Yunho grins, ushering to the crowd around you, the people who seemed to have quieted. You think you just got engrossed in the conversation with Yunho. But as you take notice, there’s more and more people untied, drinking, moving freely.
“Oh shit, we’re late, aren’t we?” you ask, then turn to look up at him.
“We can shotgun the rest back to back,” Yunho offers, nodding like you’ll agree. You’re sure he wants to be free of you, to go find someone to warm his own bed tonight.
“I’ve never done it,” you admit. “But I can definitely try.”
Yunho grins from ear to ear, “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s go on the back porch.”
It’s a quick walk through the kitchen, the crowd seemed to part for Yunho, he’s so tall that maybe the mass of people really are his red sea. The back door is already open, the wooden half pressed against what you can only assume is the pantry door, he pushes open the screen door and sets the box of beers down on a full, messy, glass table.
Ash trays filled with squished cigarette butts, the filters of joints, even a few airplane bottles of liquor have made their way into the glass trays. There’s less people on the porch, smokers, a few couples looking for a quieter place to talk. Deep wood, old and stained by sun, cracks in the floorboards, you have to assume their house is old. Really old.
Yunho doesn’t seem bothered by it as he sets the box of beers down, then pulls out two. “I’m gonna poke a hole at the bottom,” he holds up a beer can, your wrist limply mimicking his as he explains. “You’re gonna crack the can and chug it down as fast as you can. Okay?”
You nod, too optimistic for the objective at hand, “Okay, I can do that, that’s easy. This is easy, right?”
“So easy,” he nods, clearly just as optimistic as you. You feel like he’s your coach right now, guiding you through gameplay or something. “Crack it, chug it, crush it.”
“Crack it, chug it, crush it,” you repeat under your breath as he grabs a set of keys from his back pocket. One silver and pointy, he uses it to poke a hole at the base of the beer can, then pushes it toward you.
You suck in a breath before taking the can from his hands, and holding the hole up to your mouth. Yunho’s hand follows yours as you crack the lid, and then you start chugging. The carbonation makes it hard, heavy in your stomach, it’s still cold enough that it kinda hurts going down. Your brows furrow, but you keep going, you can hear him cheering for you or something, too focused on actually getting the bubbles down to listen.
When you finish, you throw the can to the ground, and crush it with your foot. Yunho’s already clapping his (and your) hands, “You did it! You fucking did it!”
“Fuck, I have to do that three more times?” you ask, free hand flying to your stomach.
“You’re gonna burp,” Yunho’s lips tighten to the side in apology. “No judgment, I will too. But yeah, three more.”
You chug another, then Yunho shotguns his last two while you’re releasing all the fucking air in your gut, then you can finish chugging your last two. When the box is empty, he’s immediately racing you both into the kitchen, looking for whoever has the responsibility of carrying around scissors tonight.
You already know you’re fucking drunk.
Wooyoung thinks he might have become one of God’s favorites.
Threesomes were usually hard to come by, a few and far between godsent activity. To have two threesomes in the timespan of one week, with two different sets of women, was unheard of. Insane behavior. Even for him.
He thought himself clever, zip-tying his wrist to another woman’s, then zip-tying his other wrist to another woman’s. He spent all of thirty minutes letting them get to know each other while they took turns feeding him liquor until he was suggesting they go upstairs, instead.
He had a beautiful hour, a generous, orgasmic, sweat-filled hour of fucking until there were knocks at his door. Quick, hurried knocks, as if there were a fire outside and he needed to get the fuck out. Wooyoung quickly decided he would die there, with a redhead riding his face, and a pixie-cut bombshell between his legs, sucking the skin straight off his dick. The two women didn’t seem to share the sentiment, both of them stopping, going rigid as the door that was still being fucking knocked on.
“They’ll go away,” Wooyoung keeps his voice low, but assuring. His hands slide up the backs of the redhead’s thighs, squeezing her ass, he lands one encouraging smack before she lowers herself down again.
Bliss, pure fucking bliss. His eyes flutter closed, fingers sinking into her ass, moving her until she’s grinding against his tongue. He moans, but he’s not sure what he’s moaning at, the taste of the woman on his face or the woman who just took his cock down her throat until he reached the hilt.
“Hello?” is all he hears before there’s a pitched shriek sounding through the entire second floor of his home. “Oh my god!” He knows that voice. “Fuck, I can’t even get one and you get two? This is so unfair!”
Wooyoung genuinely can’t believe this is happening. The redhead jumps off his face, landing beside him, doing her best to cover herself up with his sheets. The girl between his legs pops her lips off his cock with a verbal noise, then turns her head toward the intruder.
You. Drunk, in his fucking bedroom. Wooyoung immediately barks out, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m sorry!” you squeal, palms already over your eyes, backing yourself up into his wall. When you bump into it, one of your hands flies to catch yourself, and you shimmy to the side, clearly searching for your escape.
Wooyoung sits up on his elbows, unphased, watching you. “To your right a little more.” You bump into his dresser. He snorts, “Oh shit, my bad. Your left, my right.”
You laugh a little, a tiny giggle that lets Wooyoung know how much you drank tonight. You turn around to face away from him in the doorway, complaining, “I have to pee, all the other bathrooms are out of toilet paper.”
“What are you even doing here?” he asks, and the girl between his legs smacks his thigh. He hisses, looking at her, and her face has fallen flat, as if to say get her the fuck out of here.
“Biceps invited me,” you respond, hands on your hips now, tone light like Wooyoung didn’t have two girls naked in his room right now. “Can I pee in your bathroom? I won’t look, you can continue.”
Wooyoung’s head tilts to the side. He notices your little skirt, short enough that it shows off the muscle in your legs, the tiny heels on your feet. The top you’re wearing doesn’t quite reach your skirt, your hair flowing across the dark fabric, a little messy and unkempt at the ends. If you weren’t drunk and your life wasn’t such a mess he might have asked you to join them.
“Are you checking her out?” the redhead accuses from behind him in a whisper-yell.
Wooyoung’s head snaps, “No, what are you talking about?” His voice is too high. He’s a better liar than that. The redhead smacks her lips together, clearly offended, then rolls off his bed.
Wooyoung, disappointed, tries to save face. “No, don’t go, you were close. She’s leaving.” He turns his head toward you, who’s stealing a glance over your shoulder. “You’re leaving.”
“But I have to pee,” you whine. Whine. You even tap your little fucking kitten heel against his floor.
Wooyoung’s back hits his mattress, both of his hands roughly rubbing at his face, pushing a muddled groan through his lips. “This can’t be happening to me right now.”
“I’m sorry!” you repeat, then scurry across his bedroom like a fucking rat in the subway. “I’ll be quick!” you yell, closing his bathroom door behind you.
The girl between his legs sits back on her calves and whispers, “Who the fuck is that?”
Wooyoung can’t believe she’s still here, he certainly would have left if he was her. He doesn’t even have an explanation. “She’s someone who needs serious fucking help.”
“And you’re helping her?” The girl asks, as if Wooyoung being the one to help was inconceivable.
Wooyoung sits on his elbows again, and frowns at his cock that’s already falling limp. He glances upward at the girl with just his eyes, “I guess.”
“Shame,” the girl says, crawling off the bed. Wooyoung doesn’t even have it in him to argue when she starts pulling her clothes on. “I could have gone all night.”
“You and me both,” he mumbles, watching her leave. At least she closes the door behind her.
When you finally come out of his bathroom, you’re still pulling your shirt down. Or fixing it, Wooyoung thinks, because you lean your back into the doorframe of his bathroom, using it as leverage as you slide your top over, centering it over your torso.
“Need help?” Wooyoung asks, and it’s genuine. You’re the last person he expected to see tonight, and to see you this drunk, stumbling across his bedroom? In no way could this be a good sign.
“No,” you mumble, chin tucked into your chest, still trying to slide your top over. Wooyoung watches you struggle with a flat, unimpressed face, the poster board for patience as your body slowly but surely starts sliding off the doorframe. At least you catch yourself with a, “Woah.”
When you finally get your top fixed, you look up at him, and there’s not a thought behind your eyes until you notice he’s still laying there butt-ass naked. “Wooyoung!” you screech, then turn around again, covering your eyes. “You had time to put some fucking clothes on.”
Good to know your personality is still intact. “It’s my bedroom,” his tone is dripping in nonchalance as he stretches on his sheets, sighing in delight. “You’re the one intruding.”
“I had to!” you shout, “there’s no toilet paper, I had no choice.”
Wooyoung decides to show you mercy by pulling the sheets over his lower half. “I’m covered, Virgin Mary,” he muses, sitting up until his back is pressed against the headboard. “You never updated me.”
“Oh!” you say as you turn around, all your features blown out, your voice high. “It went well, super well. It was a good idea, thank you–”
“You didn’t do it,” Wooyoung cuts you off.
Your face goes flat, “I didn’t do it.”
He smacks his teeth, “Why not, pussy? I gave you the step-by-step.”
You whine, walking around his bed, sitting at the foot like you did just a few days ago. “It’s hard,” your head tips back, “I don’t know how you do it, how you do all of this.”
“It’s just sex,” Wooyoung argues. “It’s not that hard.”
“You have enough sex for, like, fifty people,” you bite back. “Of course it’s not hard for you.”
“You’ve been dating him forever!” Wooyoung is amused now, because what the fuck is the point of a relationship if you aren’t trying new shit all the time? “You’re telling me you aren’t comfortable enough to suck his dick?”
Wooyoung can see the flush on your cheeks as you shyly mumble, “I am.”
“Why are you here, anyway? Other than San inviting you, there has to be another reason you’re here and not picking out wedding invitations or whatever the fuck.”
You whine again, a frustrated, dragged out annoying sound. “He told me not to come over because he’s studying.” Wooyoung thins his eyes. “I’m serious!” You sound defensive. “I even tried to have sex with him this morning and he rejected me. He has an exam on Friday.”
Wooyoung shakes his head, disappointed. “You’re gonna fuck the silicon off your dildo if you don’t get him inside you soon.”
You gasp, jaw on the floor as you whip your head around to look at him. “I don’t even own a dildo!”
“You need one,” Wooyoung quips. “Do you at least masturbate with your hand?”
“We should not be having this conversation,” you hiss. Quieter, almost under your breath, you answer, “Yes.”
“You should do that in front of him and see what happens,” Wooyoung is grinning now. “That shit is so sexy, if he doesn’t fuck you after that, then he plays for the other team.”
“Can’t he just be, like, not a super sexual guy?” you ask, shrugging. “Why is the immediate thought that he’s gay?”
“Because, objectively, you’re hot,” Wooyoung says, and judging by how your face contorts, he assumes that was the wrong thing to say. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Anyone who’s into women would jump at the chance to fuck you.”
Your brows raise. “Like San?”
Wooyoung’s brows furrow. “San? I mean, yeah, probably.”
“What about Yunho?” you try, head tilting. Curious.
“Virgin,” Wooyoung warns. “You’re drunk. Go home and go to bed.”
You smack your teeth, standing up from his bed to plant your hands on your hips. “Who are you, my father?”
“No, I’m a guy who wants his bed to not be empty anymore.” His arms fly outward, emphasizing his very empty queen-size bed. “You emptied it.”
“I had to pee!” you whine again, kitten heel tapping his floor again.
Wooyoung points to his bedroom door, “Go.”
“Fine,” you stomp all the way to his door. Opening it, you turn your head, “For the record–”
pairing﹢ateez x fem!reader
genre﹢smut, hurt with comfort, part 1 of 3. frat!au. friends to lovers (eventual smut focused on the main love interest san). kinda reverse harem. usage of alcohol, nicotine, and weed (not by reader). mutual flirting with dubious intent, [author note: while there is a bet involved, all physical interactions are initiated through mutual attraction. no sexual assault occurs.] suggestive dialogue, sexual tension, predator/prey dynamics, deceptive motives, kissing + making out, toxic masculinity/peer pressure, mild objectification, usage of pet names (princess, pretty, good girl, doll, darling, etc). biting/marking, body worship, unprotected sex, missionary, praise kink, mentions of multiple orgasms, aftercare.
synopsis﹢if there’s no label, it’s only fair for everyone to take a bite. you’re considered a prize in the predatory world of the frat house. when you show up to their party unannounced, you unknowingly become the center of a high-stakes bet. caught in a dizzying hunt between the charming frats, you’re forced to navigate a maze of lust and deception, all while wondering if the man you actually want will finally claim you before someone else wins the game.
word count﹢19.3k
✦ SERIES MASTERLIST ✦ PLAY THE VINYL RECORD
“you slept with him?”
giselle had already interrogated you for an hour, but the vibe shifted the second you accidentally let it slip that you’d been doing some rather questionable activities lately. the look on her face was pure gold, because you didn’t just sleep with anyone; you slept with SAN. the campus sweetheart, the man with the lethal dimples, and a key member of that infamous pack of pseudo-frat boys who seemed to live like there’s no tomorrow.
“i didn’t know what else to do! he had those big, sad eyes and that adorable pouty lip, and–”
“oh, sure, you were basically held at gunpoint,” yunjin chimed in, her voice dripping with the same judgment as she bit into her cookie. she looked like she wanted to gag just thinking about you breathing the same air as that group. “and where? please tell me it wasn’t on your bed, because i will literally light it on fire before i sit on it.”
it was no secret: your best friends hated men. usually, you were right there with them, but san was the glitch in the matrix; he wasn't like the others. while his seven friends thrived on cheap beer, clouds of weed smoke, and the constant hunt for female validation, he was... pure. he didn't drink or smoke, as he stayed sober and clean, while the rest of the house turned into a nat geo documentary about primal needs. he was an angel in the devil’s den, and you still hadn't figured out what he was still doing there.
“n-no! he’s never been here, i promise. the bed is clean,” you stammered, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “we did it in his...”
“in his what?”
“in his... car.”
“what?!”
the screech that left giselle’s throat was deafening. they wanted the when, why, and how immediately. to them, you were clearly gone for him, astronomically down bad, head over heels, despite your denials of the word 'love.' they found your delusion cute, even if they secretly wished you’d pull a simba and run away and never come back.
“look, it’s fine! we aren’t even dating,” you defended, waving a hand dismissively. “we’re keeping it casual. just hooking up, you know?”
“yeah, because just hooking up usually results in hickeys so massive that nasa could mistake them for a new galaxy.” yunjin threw her hands up, pointing at the purple marks blooming across your collarbone. you’d tried on the high-coverage foundation, but even the best formula couldn't hide the evidence of his animalistic hunger.
you went silent, your fingers drifting to the sensitive skin where san had staked his claim. the memory was barely twenty-four hours old and still vibrated behind your eyelids. it hadn't been the plan, not at all. you were supposed to be practicing your driving, a simple lesson getting used to switching gears and doing left and right turns. but one lingering look led to a touch, which led to a bruised lip, and before you knew it, the windows were fogged with steam, and the car was rocking on its suspension. your panties were probably still wedged under the back seat. some details were definitely too much for the girls to handle.
suddenly, your phone screen lit up, catching everyone’s eyes.
“oh, it’s san,” you murmured, reading the notification bar while your friends leaned in like they were filming an episode of gossip girl. for two people who wanted you nowhere near the frat house, they were incredibly nosy.
san: last night was amazing. you’re amazing. i’m so lucky to have you in my life. <3
your best friends didn’t like the hearts in your eyes, or how your cheeks started to gain rose-red color, a soft smile curling at the corners of your mouth. oh no, not on their watch. you were not going to be another victim of the frat-boy cycle.
“cut him off.” giselle didn’t even hesitate. “girl, ghost him and never talk to him again. and no, i don’t care how good that dick is!”
“but listen to me, he isn’t like them–”
“he is, and you know it. i’m sorry, but stop being delusional.” yunjin was there to prove the point even further, leaning forward with a look of genuine concern. “he probably only offered to help you drive so he could get you alone. make you one more body count on that list. he's part of that house, babe. they breathe weed smoke and toxic masculinity.”
you wanted to scream that they were wrong. that san was the one who made sure you were comfortable, the one who stayed stone-cold sober just to make sure everyone got home safe. sure, his friends were a chaotic mess of red flags and empty bottles, but he was the calm in their storm, their guardian angel at some point.
“he’s actually a good guy,” you whispered, though it felt like talking to a brick wall.
“maybe he is,” giselle sighed, rolling her eyes as she collapsed back onto her pillow. “but good guys don’t stay good when they’re surrounded by seven devils. the association alone is a crime.”
the room went quiet for a moment, the heavy 'man-hating' energy of the sleepover clashing when you looked back down at his text, your thumb hovering over the screen. you knew the risks, and you knew your friends were just trying to protect your heart, but they didn't see the way he pouted when he was sleepy or the way he’d patiently explained the brake-to-gas transition while his hand rested gently over yours.
“okay, enough!” giselle groaned, throwing a stuffed animal at your head to break your trance. “i am officially tired of the boy talk. my brain is rotting. if i hear the name san one more time tonight, i’m sleeping in the bathtub.”
“honestly, same,” yunjin laughed, grabbing a face mask from her bag. “no more men. pass me the snacks and put on a horror movie where the frat guy dies first.”
you giggled, finally tucking your phone under your pillow. the debate wasn't over, but for now, the girls were settling in, and despite their warnings, you knew exactly who you’d be dreaming about.
“so you fucked her?”
the question cut through the haziness of the room with WOOYOUNG sprawled out on his bed, one arm draped over his forehead while he held a joint in the other. a thin, grey ribbon of smoke curled toward the ceiling, carrying that familiar scent that clung to every corner in the house. san was next to him, as he didn't even blink. he just kept his eyes tracked on the plushie he was tossing upward: up, catch. up, catch.
“i wouldn’t use that term.”
“then what term should you use when you put your penis in her vagina?”
wooyoung was always the first to pry into his best friend’s business, because keeping a secret in this environment is like trying to hold onto sand — impossible and pointless. the frats had a reputation to uphold. they were the kings of the one-night stand, the legends of the blurred morning after. and while you were drop-dead gorgeous, no doubt about that, everyone knew you weren't exactly the type to fit into their world.
“look, i like her, okay?” san finally snapped, catching the plushie mid-air and hugging it tight to his chest. he turned his head on the pillow, looking at wooyoung who was staring blankly at the ceiling fans.
“i like her,” the stoner mimicked, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he took another puff. exhaling slowly, the smoke obscuring his features for a second. “man, you’re far gone. but c’mon, give me the details. did you finally get her out of those clothes? how many times did she cum? i bet she’s a screamer, isn’t she?”
san groaned, burying his face into the plushie. “wooyoung, shut up. it wasn’t like that. it was... it was actually really good.”
“it was really good,” wooyoung chuckled, his voice dropping into a filthy and playful tone. “that’s code for we tried every position in the book. did you have her against the window? i saw your car earlier... your windows had rather impressive hand prints for just giving someone a driving lesson.”
san felt the heat creep up his neck, the memory of your hands tangled in his hair making his heart do a clumsy skip. he didn’t want to tell wooyoung that he’d spent half the time just worshipping your skin, or that the way you looked at him made him want to burn the whole frat house down just to keep you safe from the chaos that occurred every second.
“we were in the backseat,” the man admitted quietly, his grip tightening on the toy.
“the classic,” wooyoung hummed, tapping ash into a tray on the nightstand. his eyes were red-rimmed and heavy, but his smirk was so smug. “just be careful, lover boy. the girls she hangs out with will have your head on a pike if you break her heart. and as for the guys here... they’re gonna give you hell for going soft.”
“i don’t care,” san said, and for the first time that night, he sounded completely sure of his decision. “let them talk. she’s worth the headache.”
“so, what position did you really have her in? did you do that thing where you–”
“wooyoung, seriously, stop,” san groaned, but his defensive stance was interrupted by the door swinging open so hard it hit the wall. YUNHO strolled in, looking way too energetic for someone who survived on nicotine and energy drinks. MINGI was dragging along behind him, looking like he’d just woken up from a three-hour nap after having his dick sucked.
“party tomorrow night,” yunho announced, clapping his hands together. “we need to finalize the invite list. we were thinking of some freshmen, so any suggestions?”
wooyoung took a slow drag of his joint and pointed a lazy finger at san. “how about san’s girlfriend? she’s pretty and smart, on top of her major, and gets a scholarship.”
“she is not my girlfriend,” san snapped, sitting up so fast the plushie tumbled to the floor.
“girlfriend?!” mingi yelled, his voice booming through the thin walls of the house.
within seconds, the hallway sounded like a stampede. the floorboards groaned under the weight of four other men racing toward the noise. SEONGHWA was the first to lean against the doorframe, followed by a skeptical-looking HONGJOONG, a judging JONGHO, and YEOSANG, who looked like he’d just been handed the best tea of the semester.
“what girlfriend?” hongjoong asked, crossing his arms. “san, really? the guy who spends his friday nights cleaning the kitchen while we’re out?”
it was a disaster. in this house, the word 'girlfriend' was a myth, a legend told to frighten the freshmen. they did hookups, situationships, friends with benefits, but they didn't do feelings. the mere mention of a committed title was enough to start a departmental investigation.
“none of your business,” san muttered, trying to look anywhere but at their smirking faces. “she’s no one important, just a girl in our university.”
“no one important doesn't get you out of the house to give her driving lessons,” wooyoung chirped from the bed, ruining san's life with a single sentence.
“bring her tomorrow,” jongho suggested, “if she’s just a girl, it shouldn’t matter if she attends the party.”
“no,” san said firmly. “she’s not coming here.”
he knew exactly what would happen. they’d tease and try to corrupt you, or worse, they’d make you realize that being associated with a frat boy, even a 'good' one, was a social death sentence. he wanted to keep you tucked away, a private piece of peace in his chaotic life. something for his eyes and hands only.
“he’s protecting her,” seonghwa noted, a smirk spreading across his face. “how romantic.”
“i’ll bet fifty bucks she’s here by midnight,” mingi whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“oh, so we are doing it like this, huh?” yunho grinned. “i bet a hundred that san caves and brings her just because he can't stand the thought of her being home alone while he’s here.”
san watched them start to shake hands and pull out their phones to type something in their note apps. he wanted to keep you as his little secret, but the vultures had picked up the scent, and they were hungry for a show. wooyoung laughed so hard he started coughing, leaning back, his head hitting the pillow as he let out a slow, haunting cloud of smoke. he looked through half-lidded eyes, his grin turning into something far more predatory because the innocent teasing was officially over.
“if she’s not your girlfriend, and she’s no one important...” his best friend’s voice dropped into a smooth purr that made the hair on the back of san’s neck stand up. “then you wouldn’t mind if i asked her out, right? i mean, sharing is caring after all.”
san’s body went rigid, eyes widened in pure shock. “don’t even think about it, woo.”
“why not?” mingi piped up, as he leaned against the dresser. “you know the rules. nothing is official until you make it. and if you’re too scared to claim her, it’s a fair game. she’s a pretty little thing. i wouldn’t mind seeing if she’s as good as you say she is.”
“i’ll bet i can get her number before the party even starts,” yunho added, his competitive streak flaring up. he wasn’t even high or tipsy, just fueled by the pure adrenaline of the hunt. “hell, i’ll bet i can get her in my bed by next weekend.”
to them, you were a prize, a challenge to be won. the good boy of the group had finally found something worth hiding, and that only made the rest of them want to tear the secret apart and see what the hype was about.
“stop it. all of you,” san hissed, his protective instincts were screaming. he knew these men; he knew they were charming, reckless, and could talk almost any girl into a bad decision with a single smile and a hit of whatever they were smoking.
“oh, he’s getting mad,” wooyoung cackled, pointing a shaking finger at san. “look at him! he’s actually catching feelings. but sannie, you know how this works. if she comes to the party tomorrow, she’s in our territory.”
seonghwa, who had been quiet until now, let out a chuckle. “the bet is on, then. fifty bucks to the first person who gets a kiss. a hundred for a make out, three hundred if you get her in bed, and… san, if you want to keep her, you better step up your game.”
looking around the room at his seven best friends, the people he called brothers, and for the first time, they looked like the monsters your best friends warned you about. they were laughing, throwing out names of positions and places they’d take you, treating your name like a coin in a poker game.
everything here is a gamble, and everyone has decided that they are playing to win and keep the streak, so will san do a call or fold?
the following morning, san slipped out of the house early, the scent of beer and lingering smoke clinging to the walls behind him. he needed air, time to think and process everything, as he wandered into the nearby park. the boys were ruthless once the bet was placed, like sharks in a feeding frenzy, and he knew he couldn't protect you if you set foot inside that place tonight.
pulling out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly as he dialed your number.
"hi, princess," he said the moment you picked up, forcing his voice to drop into that honey-sweet register he reserved only for you. "how are you? did you have fun with giselle and yunjin?"
“i’m good… still sleepy.” he could hear the sleepiness in your voice, that soft and raspy tone that usually made him melt. you told him about the movies, the gossip, and how you baked chocolate-chip cookies, and how the girls had just left thirty minutes ago to study, since fashion and music majors never truly rested.
"im glad you had fun," he said, offering a pained smile to the empty park. he took a shaky breath, the silence stretching a second too long.
"is everything okay?" you asked, noticing the weight in his exhale.
“so, listen to me,” san started, pacing back and forth in front of a wooden bench, his free hand shoved deep into his pocket. “there’s a party at the house tonight. it’s going to be a mess, okay? the guys are going to be drunk and high, the music is going to be way too loud, and honestly... it’s just not a good time for you to come over. i’ll come over to yours later if you want, we can go get food, just... stay home tonight, please?”
he held his breath, praying your protective friends had rubbed off on you enough to make you say no.
“actually sannie,” you said, your voice sounding confused but intrigued, “wooyoung texted me a few hours ago. he invited me to tonight's party, saying you were being shy about asking me and that i should definitely show up around eleven.”
san stopped dead in his tracks. the world seemed to freeze as his blood ran cold. oh god. fucking hell, wooyoung did the fuck not. that bastard actually did it. he remembered his best friend staring at his phone at 3 am, ignoring the beer pong game with mingi and yeosang, a wicked and rather too pleased grin on his face.
“he texted you?” san’s voice was full of betrayal. “what exactly did he say? and did you... did you answer him?”
“i told him i’d think about it,” you replied, completely oblivious to the fact that you were currently the stakes in a high-stakes poker game. “he seemed really nice, though. he told me he wanted to finally meet the girl who’s been keeping you so distracted.”
"please, (name)... don't go.”
"why? it's not like you are my boyfriend or anything."
the words hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. it was the truth, since he hadn't claimed you. he hadn't given you a reason to choose his word over an invitation from his best friend. the trap was set for its prey to fall into. wooyoung wasn't just being a wingman; he was moving the chess pieces to win the bet. if you showed up tonight, you’d be walking straight into a den of seven men who had turned your existence into a competition.
"look, i just have a bad feeling. i don’t want you near people who have vodka and jagermeister mixed into their dna. believe me, i’m doing this for your own good."
"and i have a good feeling and would like to go. what's the worst that can happen?"
the worst? san’s mind raced through the horrors. the predatory looks, the nasty comments masked as flirt. wooyoung trying to charm his way between your legs, mingi or yunho trying to see how much you could drink. the risk of someone slipping something into your cup, the cameras, and the total lack of respect for boundaries once the bass started thumping.
he opened his mouth to tell you that his friends had put a price on your head. he wanted to tell you about the fifty bucks for a kiss and the hundred more for a night in their bed.
but the words died in his throat. if he told you, he’d lose you because you’d see what kind of people he associated with. if he told you, he’d betray the only "brothers" he had. he was trapped between the angel on his shoulder and the devils in his house.
"just trust me," san pleaded, his voice cracking, "don't come."
“san, you’re acting weird. it’s just a party,” you laughed softly, and the sound of your innocence made his stomach flip. “it’s not like i’m going to go and fall in love with your friends. i just want to see you… so, i'll be there around eleven," you said softly before hanging up.
san stared at his phone, the screen reflecting his panicked face. what was he supposed to do now? maybe make sure you stick with him the whole time, or he can even pick you up from your place and try to convince you otherwise, but you sounded determined to attend the party.
tossing your phone onto your unmade bed, you let out a heavy sigh. san was sweet, he really was, but sometimes his protectiveness felt less like care and more like a cage. why was he so against this? half the campus was going to be there, not just his inner circle of friends. you’d been seeing each other for months: going on dates, sharing meals, and, yes, having the kind of sex that made your toes curl, but he still hadn't put a label on it. he hadn't asked you to be his girlfriend, and if he wasn't going to claim that title, he didn't really get to veto your saturday night plans.
you weren't talking to other men; your loyalty was firmly with him, but you were young and bored. the thought of sitting in your room while the rest of the university was dancing and drinking sounded miserable. a party was exactly what you needed to feel like you again, not just as san’s secret.
and you definitely weren't telling giselle and yunjin. if san’s reactions were this, theirs would be enough to destroy planet earth. they’d probably stage an intervention or lock you in your room to "save you from your own bad taste," but they didn't understand the pull san had on you, and they certainly didn't know how charming wooyoung could be over a simple text.
is it so wrong to just want to have fun? you thought, biting your lip, turning your attention to your closet, pulling hangers aside, because the worst that could happen in your mind was a hangover and maybe your hair smelling like cigarettes, but hardly the apocalypse san was painting. if he were so worried about you being around strangers, well, you’d just have to stay close to him, or wooyoung, or any of the other seven guys who seemed perfectly capable of being human for one night.
your biggest problem wasn't a bad feeling or some mysterious frat house drama. your biggest problem was deciding between the tiny black slip dress that showed off the faint, fading marks on your neck or some of your skirts and tops. but you reached for the dress. if san wanted to keep you a secret, he was going to have a very hard time doing it tonight. you were going to show up, have fun, and prove to him that you could handle the frats.
arriving just like cinderella, you texted your prince charming that you were outside, and less than thirty seconds later, the heavy door swung open. san stood there, looking slightly frazzled, his dark hair pushed back and a simple black t-shirt hugging his frame, alongside some cargo pants. but then he looked at you… you looked incredible. his gaze traveled from your heels up to that tiny black dress, lingering on the soft glow of your skin. he looked like a man who had just seen a ghost, or an angel, and that alone made him want to turn you right back around and walk you home.
"hi, san." you smiled as he stepped out onto the porch, closing the door slightly to muffle the bass-heavy music.
"you... you actually came," his hand instinctively reaching out to hover near your waist. "you look amazing. i mean, wow. but i thought... i thought we agreed–"
"we didn't agree on anything, sannie," you giggled, stepping closer to adjust his collar just to see him flush. "and thanks, you look good, too… but you look like you've seen a ghost. are you okay?"
"i'm just... nervous. so, stay close to me, okay?” he let out a ragged sigh, his thumb finally brushing the small of your back as he guided you inside. “it’s already getting rowdy in there."
it was 23:38 when you came, the party was in full swing, the pre-game long forgotten in favor of body-to-body dancing and the scent of expensive cologne and cheap tequila. you were an enigma walking through a sea of unfamiliar faces, a girl who didn't quite fit the frat-girl stereotype but was somehow the most captivating person in the room. as you moved through the crowd with san, conversations seemed to stall. heads turned, and the eyes of the other seven men in the house locked onto you like hunters ready to shoot the naive and innocent deer.
san was doing his best to keep his body blocked against yours, acting as a human shield, eyes darting around the room like a hawk. he was on high alert, and for good reason, until a hand landed firmly on his shoulder.
"there she is."
wooyoung appeared out of the haze like a fever dream. he was leaning against the wall with a cherry lollipop tucked into the corner of his smirk. his blonde hair was perfectly styled and straightened with a little black highlights, and he wore a pale pink sweater unzipped just low enough to show the lines of his collarbones and a glimpse of his chest, accompanied by black denim with a shiny belt. he looked like candy: sweet and completely addictive.
"(name), right? nice to finally meet you, pretty girl," stepping into your personal space, the scent of citrus perfume and a faint trail of weed swirling around him. he didn't wait for an answer before his eyes traveled down your body and back up, his expression one of unadulterated approval. "enjoying yourself, i hope?"
san’s grip on your waist tightened. "woo, not now."
"oh, don't be such a buzzkill, sannie." wooyoung was being cocky, and before san could react, the blond slipped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you away from your shielder. his touch was warm, his thumb brushing against your arm in a way that felt far too familiar for a stranger. "a girl this gorgeous shouldn't be tucked away in a corner all night. don't mind if i show her around, do you? she hasn't even seen the balcony view yet."
you looked at san, who looked like he was about to combust, and then back at wooyoung’s sparkling eyes. the thrill of the attention was too good to pass up. "sure," you giggled, leaning slightly into his side. "show me the way."
you started to walk away before san could even find his voice. just as you reached the edge of the hallway, wooyoung paused. he threw his head back, looking over his shoulder at san, taking the lollipop out of his mouth with a slow pop, licked his lips, and put it back in as he winked.
san stood frozen in the middle of the crowded room, completely disturbed. he watched his best friend’s hand slide a little lower on your back as you disappeared into the crowd. for the first time, he realized that "sharing is caring" wasn't just a joke to his friends; it was a warning that if you don’t care about something of yours, someone else would.
wooyoung led you through the house like a king walking through his own palace. every step on the staircase was occupied by someone smoking or making out, but the crowd seemed to part for him. he kept a hand on the small of your back, his touch light but possessive, guiding you through the sweaty mass of the living room.
"so, what do you think?" he asked, leaning in close so his lips brushed the shell of your ear, "do we live up to the rumors?"
you glanced at a guy passed out on a beanbag and then at the overflowing trash cans near the kitchen. "well, the house smells awful, and you definitely bought the cheapest alcohol available, so yeah, i’d say the rumors are true."
that made him chuckle, his eyes crinkling as he looked at you. "cheeky, aren't ya? i like that. usually, girls are too busy trying to impress me to notice the mess."
he steered you away from the noise, up to the second floor, sliding open the glass doors that led to the balcony he mentioned earlier. the air out here was crisp and cool, a contrast to the suffocating party inside. above you, the sky was a clear indigo, the moon hanging in a partial eclipse, and the view was really spectacular.
wooyoung leaned against the railing with his back, the pink of his sweater glowing under the moonlight. he reached into his pocket and put his lollipop inside a wrapper, only to pull out a small pouch, as his nimble fingers began to roll a joint. you leaned your elbows on the railing, side-eyeing the way he focused on the task, his tongue poking out just slightly as he licked the paper.
"you ever tried?" he asked, not looking up, though he could clearly feel your gaze.
"no," you admitted, shifting your weight. "not much into that kind of stuff."
"ah, i see." finally looking at you, as he lit his lighter, the flame illuminated the sharp features of his face for a second before he took a slow drag. he exhaled a thin plume of smoke toward the moon. "you live up to the good girl archetype, then."
you narrowed your eyes at him, the cool breeze fluttering the hem of your dress. "was that supposed to be a compliment?"
wooyoung stepped closer, the scent of citrus and sweet smoke swirling around you. he leaned down until he was level with your face, his gaze dropping to your lips before coming back to your eyes.
"of course, pretty," he whispered, charming his way out. "good girls are fun, but i’ve always wondered what it takes to make them break."
he held the joint out toward you, a silent invitation, his thumb grazing your knuckles as he waited. inside, you didn't know that san’s eyes were scanning the crowd frantically, looking for the girl he was so terrified of losing to the very man currently making your heart race.
you stared at the glowing tip of the joint, the rebellion bubbling up in your chest finally winning over anyone’s warnings. it’s just a party, you told yourself. you took it from his fingers, trying to look as cool as he did, but the thick smoke hit the back of your throat like a freight train. immediately, you were bent over, a hand clamped over your mouth as you let out a series of light and pathetic coughs.
wooyoung threw his head back, a melodic laugh spilling out of him. “aw, there, there. you’ve got those big and teary puppy eyes now,” he cooed, taking the joint back before you dropped it. “you’re worse than when san tried to take a puff for the first and last time.”
“shut up,” you wheezed, wiping a stray tear from the corner of your eye. “i haven’t smoked before, and this is… it’s strong.”
“only the best for this house.”
his free hand reaching out to steady you, his palms resting at your waist. the heat from his hand seeped through the thin fabric of your dress. the sexual tension was enough to choke on, heavier than the smoke between you. wooyoung leaned in, his face inches from yours, his eyes dropping to your mouth with a look that said he was about to win the bet right then and there, playing you like a fine instrument, melting your defenses with nothing but a look.
“you have a little bit of a smudge right here,” his voice so smooth as his thumb brushed the corner of your lip. he was closing the distance, his breath warm against your skin, and you were almost ready to let him, until the glass door slammed open with a violent thud.
“hey, woo! we need the keys to the suv, we gotta go get more alcho–”
yunho froze mid-sentence, his tall frame nearly blocking the entire doorway. mingi stumbled in right behind him, shirtless and draped in enough silver chains to sink a boat. he let out a low whistle, sliding his black sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to get a better look at you.
“woah, did we accidentally invite a k-drama lead?”
wooyoung didn't move his hand from your waist, but his jaw tightened with a flash of pure annoyance. he let out a frustrated exhale, rolling his eyes as he let go of you.
“that’s (name). san’s plus-one for the night.”
“san has a plus-one?” yunho grinned, stepping onto the balcony and effectively killing the intimate vibe wooyoung had spent twenty minutes building. he looked so handsome in his ripped jeans and unbuttoned white shirt, his black jacket swaying as he moved. “well, san is currently busy trying to find a mop because someone puked in the foyer. we’ll take over from here.”
mingi didn't even wait for a response. he stepped in close, the jewelry around his neck clinking. “you don’t wanna hang out with this boring stoner all night, do you? come on, me and yunho are going on a booze run. we need a woman’s touch to make sure we don't buy more battery acid.”
“yeah, come on. we’ve got a car waiting and the night is young. don't let woo bore you to death with his good girl talk.” yunho had gently taken your hand, his large palm engulfing yours, before wooyoung could protest, he gave them the car key. mingi stood on your other side like a literal wall of muscle. they began ushering you back toward the house, and you looked back at the blonde, giving him a small shrug as the two tall men practically swept you off the balcony.
the stoner stood alone, fuming inside like a volcano. putting the joint back in its place in his pocket, as he switched it with the lollipop, shoved it into his mouth, and bit down with an aggressive crack. he watched them lead you away, his eyes narrowed as he planned his next move. the game was just getting started, and the twin towers had just upped the ante.
walking between them felt like being caught between two skyscrapers. you had to tilt your head back just to meet their eyes, handsome jawlines that seemed to defy gravity. yunho kept the mood light, cracking jokes about the absolute state of the kitchen, while mingi was biting his lower lip every time his eyes raked over your curves.
"so, didn't know you were san's plus one. he never brings anyone here," mingi said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest as you followed them down the quiet upstairs hallway. you hadn't realized how massive this house was; every staircase and door seemed to lead to a place twice as big as the previous.
"mmm, i’m surprised he even invited someone at all," yunho hummed. he reached for a door handle and swung it open, revealing a room that caught you off guard. it was huge, centered by a king-sized bed and a massive gaming setup glowing with blue and purple led lights. posters of spiderman and vintage guns lined the walls, a strangely human touch in a house you thought only cared about booze and bodies.
"actually, wooyoung invited me," you admitted softly as both of them stopped dead in their tracks, turning their heads slowly to look at you with mirrored expressions of amusement and confusion.
"oh,” yunho asked, raising an eyebrow, because they expected you to be invited by san, not by someone else, but of course it was the cocky bastard. “did he really?"
before you could process the change in vibe, they moved. it was coordinated and effortless, like they’d done this a thousand times before. yunho stepped behind you, closing the bedroom door with a soft click, while mingi stepped into your personal space, forcing you to back up until your back hit yunho’s chest. bigger hands came up to rest on the tops of your shoulders, his thumbs tracing the line of your collarbone. mingi was right in front of you, looming over you with that toned chest, his heavy silver chains clinking as he leaned down.
"wooyoung has always been greedy," mingi whispered, his black sunglasses now on top of his head, so that you could see the hunger in his eyes. "but i think he's biting off more than he can chew."
can't blame the stoner, though. look at you, you’re smoking hot, and they can’t decide if they want to take you out for those drinks or just stay right here and see how loud you can get. would you scream, or are you more of the quiet ones? have you ever squirted before? do you want to know what the difference is between an average guy and two big guys when it came to size in pretty much every aspect of the human anatomy?
"we haven't even had a drink yet," yunho murmured against the shell of your ear, his breath hot, and you could smell the mint bubblegum he probably had, "we're perfectly sober and perfectly capable of taking care of you."
you felt a dizzying rush of adrenaline. your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. the attention was intoxicating: to be wanted by two men who looked like they’d been carved out of marble was every girl's secret fever dream.
"you’re trembling," mingi reached out, his large hand cupping your jaw, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. "is it because you’re nervous, or because you like having both of us this close?"
they were sweet-talking you, their compliments falling like honey by telling you how lethal you looked in that dress, how your scent was driving them insane... a part of you, the part that had been feeling neglected by san's refusal to put a label on things, absolutely thrived under the tension.
if there's no ring on the finger, i’m a free agent, you thought, but then, the good girl in you flinched. you thought of san's frantic plea for you to stay home and how sweet he was to you. your morals were a heavy weight, pulling at your conscience even as your body leaned into the warmth of the two men surrounding you.
"you’re thinking too much," yunho whispered, his hands sliding down your arms to catch your wrists. "we’re just talking, princess. unless... you want more?"
"i... i should probably find san," you stammered, the name a little too heavy on your tongue.
"san?" yunho chuckled, the vibration of his chest hitting your shoulder blades. "san is a good guy. a really good guy. but he’s not here right now, is he? and like you said... he didn't even invite you."
mingi reached out, his finger hooking under the thin strap of your dress, tugging it just a millimeter lower. "san doesn't have to know everything. and we’re very good at keeping secrets. and in this house, we don't like to see someone as beautiful as you going to waste.”
you looked from mingi’s gaze to the closed door behind yunho. the temptation was a chance to be the center of the universe for the two most popular guys on campus. but the thought of the guilt waiting for you in the morning, and the look on san’s face if he ever found out, made your heart stutter in a way that wasn't just excitement. but as yunho’s hand found your waist and mingi’s gaze dropped to the lace of your dress, the guilt felt miles away.
"just one ride," the taller whispered into your ear, his hands squeezing you. "we'll be real careful with you, i promise."
your head was spinning. maybe that one puff of weed had actually done something, or maybe it was just by being sandwiched between two giants. you’d never even considered a threesome before; the thought usually passed quickly. but here, with mingi’s thumb dragging across your bottom lip and yunho’s breath hitching against your neck, you were ready to experiment.
you were nervous, sure, but it was a delicious kind of fear. they were big, capable, and the way they looked at you made you feel like something precious they were about to carefully unwrap… or destroy.
mingi tilted his head as he began to close the final few centimeters between your mouths. your eyes fluttered shut, your heart performing a frantic drumroll against your ribs — knock, knock.
"hyung, you here?"
the door creaked open before anyone could react, the wood hitting yunho’s back with a light thud. the sudden movement sent a chain reaction: yunho bumped into you, and you were shoved forward right into mingi’s bare chest.
yunho whipped his head around, his face a mask of pure irritation, only to see jongho standing there. the youngest looked completely unfazed, his expression calm as he blinked at his hyungs. from his angle, you were completely hidden behind yunho’s broad frame; all he could see was mingi looking disheveled.
"am i interrupting something?" jongho asked, his voice steady and almost dry.
"jjong, we’re a little busy right now," yunho grunted, trying to block the doorway again.
but jongho didn't move. he stepped into the room, and everyone in the house knew who was the strongest — he could probably snap a baseball bat with his bare hands, and none of the older guys wanted to find out what happened if they actually crossed him. more than that, he was a spoiled and manipulative genius who always got his way.
"san-hyung is downstairs looking like he’s about to have a heart attack," the youngest said, his eyes finally landing on you as you peeked out from behind yunho. a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "and i think i’d like to talk to our guest myself in private."
"hey, wait a minute–" mingi started, but jongho just raised an eyebrow.
"mingi-hyung, didn't you say you were going on a drink run? the girls downstairs are complaining about the warm beer. so go." it wasn't a suggestion, more like an order wrapped in a flat tone.
the wolf and the dog exchanged a look of pure defeat. they knew when they’d been outplayed. with a frustrated sigh, mingi put his sunglasses back, and yunho stepped aside, both of them lingering for a second to catch one last glimpse of you before trudging out like two kids who’d just had their favorite toy confiscated.
jongho waited until the door clicked shut before he turned to you. he didn't loom like the others; he just stood there with an air of absolute authority that was arguably more intimidating. and he was kind of adorable, wearing dark indigo denim jacket that matched his denim jeans, layered over a white tee, paired with a backwards navy baseball cap.
"you should be more careful," he murmured, stepping closer and reaching out to straighten a stray strand of your hair. "those two don't know how to play fair. luckily for you, i'm much better at keeping secrets."
he offered you his arm, a grin spreading across his face as he prepared to lead you away, leaving his hyungs to pick up whatever leftovers were left of the party, meaning the plenty of girls waiting for their chance, while he took the prize for himself.
jongho didn’t actually have any intention of making a move on you. while the others were losing their minds over the bet, he was mostly just participating to watch the absolute absurdy of it all. despite being the youngest, he was the only one who seemed to have a fully functioning brain tonight. sure, he had his girls, mostly friends-with-benefits situations that were low-stress and high-reward, but he wasn't about to act like a starving bear.
he noticed how glazed your eyes were, the weight of the night finally catching up to you. "you okay?"
"yeah, i think so... sorry, what is your name?" you asked, leaning slightly against the wall for support.
"jongho," he replied shortly, though not unkindly.
he led you up to the third floor, where the bass from the party felt more like a distant hum than a physical assault. it was a quiet hallway, mostly unused, leading to a spare room that felt like a sanctuary. he pushed the door open to reveal a space stacked with extra furniture and a mini-fridge that was, surprisingly, fully stocked. he grabbed a cold soda and handed it to you.
"this is where i hide when the girls my hyungs bring home start getting too loud, since it gets annoying at some point," he gestured toward the couch that was buried under a mountain of sprawled blankets. "sit, make yourself comfortable."
you sighed in relief and plopped down onto the pile of blankets, only to jump nearly three feet into the air when a muffled “ow!” came from underneath you.
you scrambled back, teleporting behind jongho and gripping the back of his shirt. "do you murder people in this house? don't tell me you guys are ghostface wannabes and there’s a body under there…”
jongho sighed, looking more tired than scared. he reached down and pulled back a thick duvet, revealing a very disheveled, very annoyed-looking guy with blonde hair.
it was yeosang. he’d been hiding out here for hours because wooyoung had been trying to pressure him into doing body shots off some random girl's stomach in the kitchen. the sleeping beauty was a sweetheart, really, a bit of a clueless himbo at times who just wanted to be left alone. he was technically part of the bet, but only because he didn't want to listen to the others nag him. actually doing something behind san's back sounded like way too much effort and drama for his taste.
"hyung? what are you doing here?" jongho asked.
yeosang rubbed his eyes, blinking up at you with a look that was more confused puppy than sex maniac. he looked like an adorable maltese for some reason. "hiding from wooyoung."
he sat up, his blonde hair sticking out in every direction, before putting his white cap on, matching the backward style of jongho. he looked at you, then at the soda in your hand, then back at jongho. "is the party over? is san cleaning everything alone again?"
"no," the youngest replied, "but i think she would like some peace and quiet after spending time with yunho and mingi."
yeosang looked at you with sympathy, something you didn’t expect from someone of their status. "sounds exhausting. you can hide here, too, if you want. i have snacks in the drawer and i promise i won't do anything funny… too tired for that stuff."
the more you talked to yeosang and jongho, the more the "scary frat" facade crumbled. they were actually pretty chill, and for a second, you felt like you were back at a slumber party rather than whatever this was. you decided to take yeosang up on his offer to hide, even helping them pick out a movie on the tv. seriously, even the storage room had a flat-screen. you wondered just how much money these guys’ parents were funneling into this house.
you ended up sandwiched in the middle of the couch. yeosang was to your right, jongho to your left, both manspreading a little, their knees occasionally brushing yours. you and yeosang were shamelessly sharing a bag of popcorn while jongho sat with his arms crossed, pretending he wasn't invested in the plot.
"i didn't take you for the type of guys to watch disney movies," you commented, staring at the screen where lightning mcqueen was begrudgingly repaving the road in radiator springs.
"it's a classic, and i like the soundtrack," yeosang sounded very serious, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth.
watching the movie made you feel a weird pang of nostalgia. you missed being a kid, but mostly, you just wished you were doing this with san. wait... san? you checked your phone and realized it had been over an hour and a half since wooyoung swept you away, and the whole strange fiasco started from having guys hitting on you every second.
"hey, i'll be right back," you said, shifting to get up. "where's the bathroom on this floor? i don't want to go back downstairs into that war zone."
"end of the hall to the left," jongho said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "don't get lost. the hallways up here are like a maze."
"thanks," you giggled, sliding out from between them.
you slipped into the hallway, as you found the door easily enough, but just as you reached for the handle, it swung open, and you froze.
standing there with long, raven hair that looked like silk, eyes that were sharp yet somehow incredibly soft. he was dressed in a way that felt both elegant and effortlessly swaggy, like he’d just stepped off a runway. the man stopped when he saw you. a beautiful smile spreading across his face as he took in your dolled-up appearance. he’d been waiting for his turn all night, watching his friends fail one by one from the sidelines. but now, in this empty hallway with no wooyoung to interrupt and no twin towers to hover... he had you all to himself.
"well," his voice smooth as he stepped out, effectively blocking your path to the door. "i was wondering when the star of the show would make her way up to me."
“excuse me?” you were utterly confused, because… the star of the show? you just wanted to use the bathroom before your bladder decided to quit on you. “nevermind, can you please move so i could use the bathroom? it's kind of an emergency.”
seonghwa chuckled, a sound that felt way too sophisticated for a house that currently smelled like spilled tequila. he stepped aside with a graceful sweep of his arm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “of course. i wouldn’t want to be responsible for a tragedy.”
when you finished and stepped back out, you jumped a little to find him still standing there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. he looked like a vampire prince guarding his lover’s coffin.
“kind of creepy to wait, don’t you think?” you mumbled, though you weren't actually scared, as he had an aura that somehow felt strangely safe.
“maybe,” he admitted, pushing off the wall. “but guests aren't usually permitted on the third floor. what were you doing up here anyway?”
“i was with jongho,” you said quickly. you didn’t dare mention yeosang; if this guy was the type to report back to hq, you didn't want to get the blonde himbo in trouble for slacking off on his hosting duties.
“you were with jongho?” seonghwa repeated, his eyebrows shooting up.
“yeah?”
“okay,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as if that explained everything. “well, now you’re going to be with me.”
before you could think, seonghwa’s hand found yours. his grip was firm but surprisingly gentle, his fingers laced through your own. he led you back toward the stairs, and as you descended, the wild life hit you again. the house was in full tilt now — people were wasted, dancing on furniture, and the air needed spiritual cleansing.
but the man didn't loosen his grip for a second, using his free hand to navigate through the crowd, keeping his body between you and the more rowdy guests. he leaned in close, his raven hair brushing your temple. “we’re heading toward the dj booth, okay? it’s easier to breathe there.”
he scanned the room as you moved. to the left, it was wooyoung, still looking irritated as he shared a joint with yeonjun and soobin. no, not going back to the competition. then he looked to the right and saw san, who was a little miserable, currently arguing with some guy who was trying to juggle empty glass bottles. thank you, next, he whispered to himself. the backyard was an option, the pool area was usually the final boss of any frat party, but at least the air wouldn't be recycled carbon dioxide.
the second the sliding glass doors opened, the temperature dropped. the backyard was illuminated by strings of fairy lights and the glow of the pool, where a few couples were already skinny dipping, their laughter echoing off the water. it was colder now, and you immediately began to tremble as the wind hit your bare shoulders.
seonghwa noticed instantly. without a word or a second of hesitation, he slipped his jacket off, draping it over you, the warmth of his body still clinging to the lining. you looked up at him, feeling small in his oversized coat. it was honestly unfair. how could a man be this beautiful? he was a frat boy, for god's sake. he was supposed to be a red flag, but right now, he felt like the only person in the house who actually knew how to take care of you.
“better?” he asked, giving you a small and reassuring smile.
“yes, thank you…” you dragged out the last word, trailing off as you looked up at him. so many attractive strangers had crossed your path tonight that you felt like the lead in a k-drama with a plot that was getting way too complicated to follow.
“seonghwa,” he said, nodding his head slowly as if he could read the confusion in your eyes. “my name is seonghwa.”
even his name was pretty. you felt a little shy suddenly, the weight of his jacket on your shoulders acting as a warm reminder of his presence. “i’m (name),” you whispered, feeling like you had to introduce yourself properly, completely unaware that your name had been the only topic of conversation in that house since three in the morning.
you guys spent a few minutes just chit-chatting; he was flirting, you could tell, but he did it in such a... lovely way. it wasn't cocky like wooyoung or overwhelming like the twin towers. it was subtle, woven into his questions about whether you were actually having a good time, if the noise was too much, or if anyone had bothered you. he sounded like a true host, genuinely concerned with whether his beloved guest was satisfied, but his eyes told a different story. they lingered on your lips just a second too long every time you spoke.
he led you over to a deckchair that sat a bit like an outsider, tucked away in a shadowed corner far from the splashing of the pool. you sat down, the silence of the night wrapping around you, and for a second, you didn't know what to say, but he did.
“do you mind if i do this?” he asked softly, breaking the silence.
“do what?” you whispered back.
he didn't answer with words. instead, he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering there before gently caressing your cheek. his touch was cool and smooth, making your breath hitch. seonghwa leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you were paralyzed when he finally captured your lips with his. you let out a soft gasp, surprised by the boldness of it, but within seconds, you were melting. it wasn't the hungry kiss you might have expected from a frat boy; it was sweet and incredibly soft.
you found yourself moving in sync with him, your hands reaching up to grip the lapels of his jacket that still draped over your shoulders. seonghwa groaned softly into your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist to lift you as you ended up straddling his lap on the deckchair, the fabric of your dress riding up as you pressed closer to his warmth. his tongue swiped against yours, slow and possessive, as the make-out session felt more intense under the dim lights.
you were lost in him, your hands tangling in his raven hair, pulling him closer as you felt the solid muscle of his thighs beneath you. you didn't know about the bet, unaware that at this very moment, every guy in that house was technically down a hundred and fifty bucks. seonghwa had played the long game, waiting for the perfect moment to strike while the others played checkers.
as his hands traveled down your back, pulling you flush against him, you forgot all about the crowded house, the good girl persona, and the realization hit you like a bucket of ice water. the haze of the party, the weed, and the thrill of the chase evaporated the second you felt seonghwa’s hand slide up your thigh. you weren't supposed to be here, more so, you weren't supposed to be making out with a raven-haired stranger while san, the boy who actually cared about you, was inside worrying himself to death.
you pulled away abruptly, your chest heaving. seonghwa’s lips were swollen and red, a faint sheen of spit making them look even more inviting in the moonlight. he looked confused, his dark eyes searching yours for the reason behind the sudden pull.
"what’s wrong, darling?"
"i–... uh, i–"
you couldn't even find the words. your brain was a mess of strawberry soda and guilt. the faint taste of expensive wine on his tongue lingered in your mouth, and for some reason, the alcohol made you feel like you were parched.
"you are what?"
"i'm thirsty," you managed to choke out, making seonghwa chuckle. that made you feel like a child caught in a lie. he didn't push you, instead, he stood up from the deckchair. you were still perched in his lap, so you wrapped your legs around his waist for a split second as he rose, feeling the solid strength of his body before he gently set you down on your feet.
"come on, then," he said, taking your hand again. "let’s get you something to drink."
leading you back into the house, navigating you through the mess the kitchen had become, and pulled you toward the massive fridge. he knew you weren't a heavy drinker; he’d tasted the sweet, non-alcoholic soda on your lips during the make-out session. he bent down, his back turned to you as he scanned the bottom shelf.
"would fanta or cola do? or i think there’s some more of that strawberry stuff in the back..." he whispered to himself, reaching for a bottle. "wait, do you want ice with that or–"
he turned around, a can in each hand, and a question on his lips. the kitchen was empty. his expensive jacket was draped neatly over the marble counter, but you were gone. seonghwa’s eyes scanned the room, his jaw tightening as he realized he’d just been played. the gentleman of the house had lost his prize in the three seconds it took to pick a soda.
just who decided to be a thief this time?
the music in the living room suddenly shifted, the bass dropping into a remix that made the floorboards vibrate with a new kind of energy. and there, tucked into the shadows of the hallway leading to the dj booth, was the culprit — hongjoong.
he had his hand clamped firmly around your wrist, his whole vibe screaming "i’m doing you a favor". he didn't look like the others, well, at least the half, because the orange haired man had the same calming energy jongho and yeosang have. he looked like the captain of a sinking ship who was determined to be the last one standing.
"alright, sunshine. you've had enough for tonight," he muttered, pulling you into the darkness of the booth before seonghwa could even think to follow. "it's time you actually have fun."
what the fuck was even happening? you felt like a ragdoll being tossed between a pack of extremely attractive nutcrackers. one second, you were melting into the raven-haired prince of the backyard, and the next you were being yanked through a sweaty crowd by the guy in charge of the music. you weren’t even drunk, and you couldn't decide if that made the situation better or infinitely worse.
san was right. he was so, so right. you should have stayed in your pajamas, eating takeout and binge-watching some comfort show. but as the bass vibrated through the floorboards of the dj platform, rattling your very bones, any lingering anxiety was drowned out by the volume.
hongjoong was in his element. neon buttons glowed under his quick fingers as he tapped out rhythms, his headphones pushed back off one ear so he could hear the crowd’s roar. he was bumping his head to the beat, focused energy radiating off him. for a moment, you actually felt safe here, tucked away on this elevated platform where the ocean of people couldn't reach you.
looking down from this height, the scale of the party was terrifying. the house was a literal club, and you found yourself wondering again where the hell these guys got the money for a place with a professional-grade dj booth and tiered platforms. you scanned the crowd for a familiar face, but the others were gone. wooyoung was probably lost in a cloud of smoke somewhere; yunho, mingi, and seonghwa were likely still hunting for you; and jongho and yeosang were probably still hiding in their quiet sanctuary.
as for san... he was nowhere to be seen. you imagined him playing bouncer or frantically cleaning up a broken bottle in some corner of the house.
after a few more minutes of well-done and smooth transitions, hongjoong flipped a switch to play a pre-mixed set. slumping back into his chair, his chest heaving as he threw his head back and took a long, burning sip of what looked like whiskey. he finally turned his attention to you. he wasn't looking at you with the same hungry competition the others had. he was just... curious. taking in the tiny dress, the way you were trembling just slightly, and the fact that your lipstick was definitely smudged from your detour with seonghwa.
he’d seen the beginning of the night, and how wooyoung had practically snatched you out of san’s arms. then you’d vanished into the house, becoming a ghost until he happened to walk into the kitchen and saw you standing there like a deer in headlights.
"you're not what i expected," he muttered, the whiskey raspy in his throat. "i mean, you're really pretty, i get why they're all acting like idiots over you."
taking another sip, his gaze drifting back to the crowd. "but i see why san wanted you to stay away. you don't belong in a place like this. you're not exactly innocent, but this house... it's a meat grinder, sunshine. and tonight, you're the only thing on the menu."
he wasn't flirting; he was being honest, which was somehow more intimate than anything that had happened. reaching out, his thumb brushing a stray smudge of lipstick from the corner of your mouth, his touch surprisingly tender.
"you look like you're about to burst into tears or pass out," the dj noted, a small, lopsided smirk tugging at his lips. "so, do you want me to keep you up here where it's safe, or are you ready to go find your boy and get the hell out of this circus?"
the moment hongjoong mentioned san, the dam finally broke. your eyes welled up, the neon lights blurring into streaks of pink and blue. you felt small, overstimulated, and utterly exhausted by the relentless pursuit of these men who seemed to be playing a game you didn't have the rulebook for.
"i just want to find him," you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked at hongjoong. "this party is... it’s lit, i guess, but… you guys are exactly why i usually hate men. what is actually wrong with you people?"
"hate the game, not the players. it does things to the ego.” hongjoong didn't take offense, just looked at you with a knowing sort of pity, the whiskey glass clicking against his rings. “but if you're looking for san, he's probably in the gaming room, the one with the pool table and the arcade setups, or his actual bedroom. second floor, last door on the left at the very end of the hall. he usually retreats there when it gets too much to handle."
you blinked, wiping a stray tear with the back of your hand. "you have a gaming room too?” god, you are going to start stealing their jewelry and selling it on ebay, those guys are unnecessarily rich. you turned to leave, determined to bolt toward the stairs, but hongjoong’s hand snaked out and caught your wrist again. his grip wasn't aggressive, but it was firm.
“you sure you want to go alone?” he asked, glancing at the chaotic sea of people below. “i can walk you. honestly, i’m kind of worried about you. you look like you’re one bad interaction away from using those heels as a lethal weapon.”
you gulped, looking down at your sharp stilettos, well, he had a point. the house felt like a gauntlet now, and you didn't want to run into yunho or seonghwa again, or anyone else that was not san. it was not because they weren't attractive, but because your heart was already at its capacity. “you’ll actually help me find him?”
“i could use a break anyway,” he muttered, hopping down from the platform. “so, lets go.”
the walk through was like one of the rings in hell. hongjoong led the way like a captain cutting through a storm. you checked the gaming room first: a massive space filled with neon signs and the clinking of pool balls. you saw some familiar faces through the haze of smoke; hyunjin was leaning against a wall looking ethereal, while felix and jeongin were laughing over a game of air hockey. a few girls from your major were there too, looking far more composed than you felt. but san wasn't there.
“bedroom it is,” hongjoong said, pointing toward the dark hallway on the second floor. just then, his walkie-talkie buzzed, the crowd was getting restless without a dj. “crap. i gotta get back. you think you can make it the last five meters?”
“yeah,” you murmured, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “thank you, hongjoong.”
he gave you a polite nod and disappeared back into the crowd. finally, you were so close. you could see the door at the end of the hall, the one san had probably locked to keep the world out. you took a step, your heart leaping in anticipation, but before you could reach the handle, a hand shot out from the shadows.
your wrist was snatched, and before you could even scream, you were spun around. your back hit the wall with a muffled thud, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp puff. it was dim in this corner of the hallway, the only light coming from the flickering strobe lamps downstairs. you looked up, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribs.
“found you, dollface."
the voice purred. it was low, cocky, and dripped with that signature bratty confidence that could only belong to one person.
“wooyoung?” you breathed, your pulse skyrocketing.
he was leaning over you, his blonde hair glowing in the shadows, his face inches from yours. he looked devastatingly handsome, alluring if anything else, and a part of you wanted to push him away and run to san, but another part of you was currently being influenced by the magnetism of these men. he hadn't touched you anywhere but your wrist, and even that grip was loosening into a caress, but the way he looked at you made your knees weak. the stoner occupied the space around you, his arm braced against the wall by your head, trapping you so you don’t even think about escaping.
it felt like a twisted otome game, and you were currently stuck on the most difficult route. you were so close to the san ending, however, your choices led you back to the wooyoung ending. his eyes dropped to your lips, his smirk growing wider as he realized he finally had you alone, far away from any other distractions and disruptions.
"you've been a very busy girl tonight," he whispered, his thumb tracing the pulse point on your wrist. "i turn my back for one second and you're off with the twin towers, then making out with mister dracula in the garden. you're quite the little social butterfly, no?"
"i was just looking for san," you breathed, though the way wooyoung was looking at your neck made it hard to focus on your mission.
"san is boring," wooyoung countered, tilting his head. the lollipop stick poked out of the corner of his mouth as he gave you his signature cocky smirk. "he doesn't know what to do with a girl like you. he's too busy being a good guy to realize that you're starving for someone to actually take what they want."
he leaned in closer, the tip of his nose brushing yours. "i don't play by anyone’s rules, dollface. and i definitely don't like sharing my toys once i've picked them out."
your heart hammered against your ribs. you knew san was just behind that door at the end of the hall, but with the blond pressing into you and his eyes promising every kind of trouble, the door felt miles away.
for some fucked up reason, you didn't push him away. maybe the attention was a drug, and wooyoung was leaning in to deliver the highest dose yet.
"but i–... i'm with san," you tried to defend yourself, the words sounding weak even to your own ears.
"but you’re not," he countered instantly, "if you were his, you wouldn't be wandering my house looking like a frantic little stray. if you were his, i wouldn't even be allowed to look at you, let alone do... this."
he pulled the lollipop from his mouth with a wet pop and pressed the sticky, apple-flavored candy against your lips to hush you. you stared at him, eyes wide, as he watched you with a terrifying yet pleasant smile. you parted your lips just enough to take a small and tentative suck of the candy. it was sickly sweet, and the heat in wooyoung’s eyes flared. he was thinking about indirect kisses and if it count, about the fact that your mouth was now coated in his taste.
his hand, the one that had been caging you against the wall, moved. his fingers began to play with the ends of your hair, twirling a strand slowly before his palm grazed the shell of your ear. he was high, but the weed only seemed to sharpen his focus.
"look at you," he praised, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper as his other hand slid down to find the curve of your waist to hold you in place, "so obedient. such a pretty little thing. you have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you? you've got every man in this house ready to tear each other apart just for a glimpse of this."
he leaned in, his breath hot against your neck, cologne mixed with the alcohol. "seonghwa might think he won because he got a little taste in the garden, but he’s a gentleman, and i'm not. i don't want just a taste, princess. i want the whole thing."
his fingers hooking under your chin to tilt your head back. he pulled the lollipop from your mouth and carelessly flicked it onto the floor, as it clattered against the hardwood. wooyoung stepped even closer, shoving his leg firmly between your knees, forcing your stance open as he pinned you against the wall with his body. his mouth crashed against yours, and it wasn't like the polite kiss seonghwa had given you. this was rough, desperate, and tasted of sweet apple and smoke. his tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you with a hint of arrogance that made your head spin.
you were melting into him, your fingers clutching at the soft fabric of his sweater as his leg pressed higher, the movement making your breath hitch into the kiss. seonghwa might have secured his money, but wooyoung was determined to leave a mark on your soul that san would never be able to scrub off.
the darkness of the hallway felt like a heavy velvet curtain, swallowing the two of you whole and muffling the distant rhythm of the party downstairs. thank god it was dark, because the way you were falling apart under his touch was embarrassing. you were barely anyone in this social circle, noone special, just a girl with a soft spot for a guy who couldn't commit… but you weren't just a girl; you were san’s girl, and in this house, that made you the ultimate trophy. what’s not yours is always better. it's the oldest temptation in the world, the forbidden fruit that tastes twice as sweet because of the guilt, and wooyoung was a man who lived for the taste of things he wasn't supposed to have.
the frat was beyond caring about the bet or the money at this point; he was driven by the need to mark you as his own. his kisses turned angry and hungry, a desperate struggle for dominance as his tongue tangled with yours, deep and demanding.
"fuck," he groaned into your mouth, his hands finally losing their patience, leaving your haird to travel down, as his palm burned through the thin fabric of your dress until he reached the hem.
you let out a muffled moan into his mouth when you felt his cool rings graze the bare skin of your thigh. he didn't hesitate, his fingers hooking into the silk and dragging it upward, exposing you to the chilled air of the hallway just for a second before his warm hand replaced it. he was all over you, knowing exactly where to press, digging into the soft flesh of your hip as he hitched your leg higher over his own, pinning you so tightly against the wall that you could feel the frantic thrum of his heart against your own chest.
"you’re so intoxicating," he growled against your lips, his voice jagged with edge of lust. "san has no idea what he’s wasting. he treats you like you’re made of glass, but i know you want to be touched like this, don't you? you want someone to stop asking for permission."
his hand slid higher under the dress, as his teeth nipped at your bottom lip, then moved down to trail wet, biting marks along your jawline. he was messing with your brain, his scent and his heat overriding every moral code you’d walked in with. he was filthy, whispering praises and promises into the crook of your neck that made your toes curl inside your heels. his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your throat, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark so dark that it would tell everyone exactly whose hands had been on you.
the sexual tension rolling off him was suffocating, a tension that made the air feel like it was vibrating. he was a predator who had finally cornered his prey, and he was taking his time savouring the kill. every time you tried to catch your breath, he stole it back, his mouth relentless, his hands wandering into places that made you feel dangerously exposed.
wooyoung was making you his, piece by piece, right under san's nose, and the fucked up part was that you were leaning into it, your fingers tangling in his hair, begging for what san had never dared to give you. fuck the bet, fuck the already broken rules, fuck the hundred dollars… all he wanted was to fuck you, and you were seconds away from letting him do it right there against the wall.
but suddenly, the spark was gone.
the weight of wooyoung’s body was ripped away so violently that you stumbled forward, your hands grasping at empty air. a sickening sound echoed in the narrow hallway as the blonde was shoved aside, his back hitting the opposite wall with a force that made the framed pictures rattle.
you blinked, your vision blurry and your lips swollen, expecting to see anyone, but … san, whose chest was heaving, hair disheveled, and eyes blown wide with a mixture of disgust and pure devastation. he had been looking for you all night, searching every corner of that crowded and sweaty house, only to find you pinned under his best friend. the betrayal was written in the lines of his face. he looked hurt, like his heart had been physically cracked open, but he didn't give himself time to process the pain.
wooyoung stayed leaning against the wall, rubbing his arm where the shove had left a dull ache. he didn't look guilty; he just stared at san with a defiant look, his chest still pumping with the leftover adrenaline of the make-out session. your brows furrowed, your heart dropping into your stomach as you looked at wooyoung, your mouth opening to ask if he was okay, but before a single word could leave your lips, a hand clamped around yours.
"we are leaving," san’s grip was tight, not enough to bruise, but to show he wasn't letting you go for anything in the world.
he didn't look at wooyoung, didn't even look at you. he just turned and dragged you down the stairs, weaving through the drunken crowd like a man on a mission. the noise of the party was a dull roar in your ears, a background hum to the frantic beat of your own heart. you felt the cool night air hit your face as he yanked open the front door and slammed it shut behind you. the silence of the driveway was deafening. san was already rummaging through the pocket of his jeans, the metallic jingle of his car keys sharp in the quiet night as he headed for where he has parked.
you stood there, your dress wrinkled and your lipstick smeared, unable to even process what was happening. the transition from the filthy heat of wooyoung to the icy fury of san was too much. you were caught in the middle of a war you didn't even know was being fought.
san opened the door for you, and didn't say a word as you slid into the passenger seat, and he didn't wait for you to settle before he was around the other side, throwing himself into the driver's seat. he started the engine, the roar of the car filling the small space, but he didn't put it in gear.
instead, he sat there, taking a few deep breaths, the sound of his lungs struggling for air the only thing cutting through the tension. a disappointed sigh escaped him as he ran both hands down his face, dragging the skin tight before throwing his head back. his skull hitting the headrest sounded like a punctuation mark. finally, he turned his head to look at you, taking in your trembling frame and your confused, teary eyes.
"this is why i didn't want you here," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his anger. "or anywhere near them. because my fucking god, (name). i told you to listen to me and you didn't. you just do whatever you want because you’re so sure you can control it. you’re so sure you know them."
"san, i–"
"i was worried sick!" he shouted, his hands slamming against the steering wheel. "i turned around for five seconds and you were gone. i’ve been pacing this house, checking every room, thinking someone might have spiked your drink, drugged you... and then i find you in that hallway with him?"
you felt the sting of his words, the guilt of the make-out session with wooyoung still hot on your skin, but the confusion was winning.
"i didn't know things would go that way!" you shot back, your voice trembling as you fought to defend yourself. "i was just trying to have fun. i didn't know i’d be snatched up every thirty minutes by someone else. and i still don't understand why you’re so overprotective, it’s just a party, san. it’s normal for guys to flirt!"
san let out a dry and very bitter laugh, as he looked at you, his eyes full with a truth that was about to shatter everything.
"you think that was flirting? you think they just happened to find you attractive at the same time?" he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a deadly warning, "they fucking made a bet about you, (name). the second you walked through that door, you weren't a guest. you were another doll to be toyed with. they've been betting money and putting their goddamn egos on the line for your body. who could get a kiss, who could get you in bed... it was a bet."
the world felt like it stopped spinning. the air in your lungs turned to lead as the pieces of the night finally clicked into place — the way wooyoung snatched you, the way seonghwa waited by the bathroom, the way mingi and yunho hovered. it wasn't attraction, it was just for the thrill of the game.
"a bet?" you whispered, the word tasting like ash. "they... they were betting on me?"
san turned away, unable to look at the heartbreak on your face. "three hundred, that was the price for their best friend's girl."
suddenly, the guilt was gone, and you felt pathetic. you felt used, and most of all, you felt betrayed by the one person who was supposed to have your back.
"and you kept that away from me?" you demanded, your voice rising through choked out sob. "you knew they were treating me like a piece of meat for money and you didn't tell me? you just let me walk into that house like a lamb to the slaughter?"
"i was trying to protect you!"
"no, san!" you cried, a tear finally escaping and rolling down your cheek. "you weren't protecting me. you were protecting your pride. you let me look like a fool while your friends took turns seeing how much they could get away with. you let me stay in the dark while they were doing this behind your back. god, i feel so disgusting."
the car was vibrating with the force of your shared breathing, a heavy, suffocating silence following the revelation of the bet. the tears were coming fast now, hot and thick, blurring the dashboard lights as you curled into yourself. you felt like a prize in a game you never signed up for, and every touch you’d enjoyed, every smirk from wooyoung and every soft word from seonghwa, even being sandwiched between yunho and mingi, now felt like a stain. you have to realize that only three of them kept their hands off you, and you don’t even know if it was genuine or just for tonight.
"i was going to tell you…" san’s voice broke, his fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. "i swear, i tried, but you wouldn't listen! you were so determined to prove me wrong, that you didn't give me a single second to explain why i was actually terrified."
"you should have said it anyway!" you shouted back. "you let me go in there. you let me... i let them touch me, san. i let wooyoung–"
"don't," he snapped, as he threw the car into motion, the tires screeching against the asphalt as he tore out of the driveway. "don't talk about him. don't talk about any of them."
"where are we going?" you asked through a hiccup, your voice small and broken.
"i'm driving you home," he said. his eyes fixed forward, because he didn’t want to take a look back. he didn't want you near that house, or even remembering the address, and he damn sure didn't want you anywhere near his "brothers" ever again. "i'm taking you back to your apartment and i'm making sure you forget you ever set foot on that street."
he was driving with in silence, both of you too scared to say something that will dig an even deeper hole. san loved you so much and he knew he was at fault. he should have been firmer, should have told his brothers to go to hell the moment the bet was mentioned, but he’d tried to play the middle ground and lose you in the process.
"i'm sorry," he whispered after a few blocks, his voice thick with unshed tears. "i’m so sorry i didn't keep you safe, i just... i just wanted one thing in my life that they couldn't touch."
"you don't have me, san," you murmured, looking out the window as the city lights streaked by. "you never made us official, and they saw an opening."
san’s grip on the wheel tightened. he didn't say anything for the rest of the drive, because you were right.
when he finally pulled up to your building, and parked the car, before letting you out, he turned to you, his eyes burning with sorrow, because he didn't want to fight anymore.
"i'm not letting you go upstairs thinking you're just some bet."
before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was a world away from wooyoung’s filth or seonghwa’s grace. this was raw, and completely, utterly yours. it was the kind of kiss that demanded a label, a sweet treat he was never going to let anyone else take a bite again. you let out a broken sob into his mouth, your hands finding his chest, and as the kiss deepened, the anger began to melt into a desperate need to erase every other touch you'd felt.
but as you pulled away and weakly smiled at him, even stepping out of his car… you couldn’t forgive him that easily.
the walk from the car to your front door was agonizing, because he followed you like a kitten getting attached to the person who showed him kindness once. the second you stepped inside your apartment, you turned around, ready to unleash every bit of remaining rage, even if he kissed you to tone it down,
"you're a total psycho, you're an idiot for keeping that from me, and you're a–"
your words were cut off by the sudden, overwhelming force of his body crashing into yours. wrapping his arms around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to pull you into his very ribcage. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath shaky and hot against your skin.
"im sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry for shouting, for raising my voice, and for letting you go in there."
one of his hands moved to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair and stroking it tenderly. the good boy facade was completely gone, replaced by a man who was genuinely terrified of losing the only thing that made his life bearable.
"i thought i lost you tonight," he muffled into your shoulder. "i watched them circle you like some maniacs and i felt like i was stuck. they don't understand. they think everything is a joke... but you're the only part of my life that's real. i'm so tired, (name). i'm tired of being their goody two-shoes friend while they disrespect the one person i actually care about. i'd choose you a million times over them. i just want to be here… with you."
you felt your resolve crumble. pulling back slighlty to look at him, seeing the honesty in his glassy eyes. he wasn't the perfect and composed san right now. he was hurt, possessive, and deeply, deeply in love with you.
"don't ever keep something like that from me again," you breathed, your hands reaching up to cup his face.
"i'll spend the rest of my life making sure you know exactly what you're worth to me. and it's a hell of a lot more than a hundred dollars."
he leaned in then, his lips meeting yours in another kiss that was so emotional, and filled with a silent plea for forgiveness. as he backed you up toward the bedroom, his hands never leaving your skin, you knew the night was far from over. he was going to reclaim every inch of you, erasing the ghost of every other man's touch until there was nothing left but him.
"i will make you mine.”
"and how would you do that?"
"by showing you.”
he has never been here before but he knew where the bedroom was. living in a house as big as a mansion has its perks when it comes to orientation.
san didn’t wait for another word, leading you to the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight as he sat you down. he started with your shoes, kneeling on the floor like a devotee at an altar. sliding the heels off, his thumbs grazing the arches of your feet before he looked up at you. the eye contact was unyielding, because he wasn't just looking at you; he was looking into you, searching for the girl he’d almost lost to the devil.
"i’m going to wash every part of that house off you.”
he stood up and began to undress you, but it wasn't a rushed fumbling. it was pure body worship, as he worked the zipper of your dress down with steady fingers, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered: the slope of your shoulders, the dip of your collarbone, the delicate curve of your ribs. he lingered over the spots where you felt most vulnerable, his lips soft and warm, murmuring praises against your skin that made your heart swell.
"you’re so beautiful, (name). so perfect… i don't deserve to even look at you," he whispered against your stomach, his breath hitching as he felt you tremble.
he let you undress him then, your fingers shaking as you pulled his shirt over his head and fumbled with his pants. as his shirt hit the floor, you took in the sight of him: the broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his torso, his toned chest and stomach. you had seen him like this countless times before, but now he was entirely yours. his touch remained sacred as his lips found yours in a kiss that tasted like a regret for the sins he committed.
moving down your body, his jaw grazing your throat. he paused when he saw the faint, darkening mark on your neck, the one wooyoung had left. san wasn’t angry at you, but he had to reclaim what was his. his tongue swirling over the bruised skin before he began to suck and bite, replacing with a hickey that was deeper, and fueled by a love that wooyoung couldn't even comprehend.
you let out a broken moan, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. he moved lower, his mouth worshiping your breasts and then the soft skin of your stomach. you felt your eyes flutter shut, the pleasure and the overwhelmedness finally catching up to you, but san wouldn't let you hide.
"eyes on me, angel," he commanded softly, "i want you to see who’s holding you. i want you to know exactly who you belong to… so look at me."
you forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze while he positioned himself over you making you fully lay down, as he braced himself on his forearms, framing your face with his hands, since he wanted to see everything. every flush of your skin and every flutter of your eyelids. his cock was twitching against your thigh, heavy and wanting, but he waited until you nodded, until you pulled him down for one more lingering kiss.
san sank into you slowly, as he filled you, and didn't move right away, just stayed there, buried deep. you let out a shaky breath, your nails digging into his biceps.
"you feel so good," he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "so beautiful, you're the only thing that's ever felt right, baby.”
he began to move, and it was the most honest thing you had ever felt. his thrusts were slow and deliberate, reaching deep enough to make your toes blunt against the sheets. every time he pushed into you, he tilted his head to kiss you again and again, as if he was trying to breathe his own soul into you.
"that's it, look at me," he whispered, you forced your eyes open, meeting his blown-out pupils. "i've got you, yeah? i've got you, angel. no one else is ever going to touch you and see you like this.”
his fingers interlacing with yours and pinning your hands beside your head, keeping you open and vulnerable beneath him. he started to pick up the pace, but his gaze never wavered. watching the way your throat worked as you swallowed a sob, the way your chest heaved, and the way your skin flushed.
“s-san… ahh-” a truly blissful symphony of your moans and whines graced his ears.
"you're so beautiful," he praised, because it was so hard for him not to worship your divine being. "angel, you're so precious to me. i don't think you even understand. you're my everything, princess. i won’t let anything happen to you again."
the way he said it with this bleeding sincerity in his tone, was what finally broke you. the tears started to spill over, tracking down on your face. you were crying because you were overwhelmed by the weight of being loved this much. you were crying because, for the first time all night, you didn't feel like a prize or a paycheck. you felt so incredibly cherished and adored.
"i love you," you choked out, your voice breaking as you arched your back into him, seeking more of his warmth. "i love you so much, san."
his breath hitched, and for a second, he stopped moving entirely. san looked at you with such aching tenderness that it hurt to look away.
"i love you more," he promised, leaning to kiss the tears away from your cheeks. "more than anything."
his rhythm become a little desperate as he felt you tightening around him. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, as he praised you through every heavy breath. the eye contact afterward was relentless. every time he moved, he watched your reaction become a cocktail of pleasure and pain. he called you every sweet name he’d ever kept bottled up — his girl, his angel, his princess, his entire world.
the pace picking up as you realized then that san didn't just want your body; he wanted your peace, trust, and your heart.
"mine," he whispered against your lips, the word final and absolute. "forever mine."
he let out a choked sound, finding his rhythm, his movements becoming more urgent but never losing that slow and worshipping edge, even if he reached his peak, his body shaking with the force of it, his voice a broken whisper in your ear. san wasn't just making love to you… he was rewriting the night, scrubbing away every lingering shadow of the fratness.
you couldn't hold back anymore. your back arched off the mattress as your climax finally crashed over you, wave after wave of intense, toe-curling pleasure that felt like it would never end.your juices spilled out, coating him, the wet and slick sound that only fueled his own undoing. your pussy squeezed him, gripping him so hard he couldn't help but chuckle. san was so sensitive, that he came deep inside you as he emptied himself into you, wanting to feel every last contraction of your body as you held onto him like he was your only life support. this wasn't the first time tonight, and it wouldn't be the last.
you had lost count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time he’d made you come. his stamina was insane, fueled by very possessive energy that kept him going long after most men would have collapsed. yet, through every round, he remained careful. it was the most passionate vanilla sex you’d ever experienced.
"one more, angel, just one more," managing to somehow say it, tone teasing as he didn't stop, even as your body began to tremble with the aftershocks of your nth orgasm. he kept the pace steady, his large hands sliding under your hips to tilt you upward, deepening the connection between your bodies until the stars were dancing behind your closed eyelids.
"eyes on me, baby. don't go anywhere," his thumbs hooked into your hips, "look at how you take me. look at how perfect you are… you were made for me, (name). only for me."
the praise was a constant hum against your skin, interspersed with wet kisses that claimed your lips, your jaw, and the sensitive hollow of your shoulder. he was worshiping you with a filthiness that felt sacred — his words were dirty, his touch was demanding, but his eyes were overflowing with a devotion that made you feel like a real angel. every time you thought you reached your limit, he woud find a new angle, and murmur another good girl or that’s it, princess until you were spiraling all over again.
the final peak was a slow-motion collision. you felt the tension coil at the base of your spine, a spark that traveled through every nerve until you were arching your back, a silent scream caught in your throat. san felt it too; his movements became frantic, his breathing hitching into grunts and whines.
"my sweet angel," he groaned, his voice a broken prayer. "just like that, give it all to me."
as you shattered for the final time, san followed you as he filled you completely, his body shuddering with the force of his climax. he didn't pull back even an inch; instead, he pushed deeper, burying himself against your cervix as his spent muscles spasmed. he stayed there, making sure every last drop of his release stayed exactly where he wanted it.
finally, his strength gave out. san collapsed on top of you, his heavy and muscular frame pinning you into the mattress. he was a dead weight, chest heaving against yours, but you didn't mind the pressure. you needed to feel the crushing reality of him to convince yourself that the nightmare of the party was finally over. your own chest was rising and falling in frantic bursts, your lungs burning as you tried to catch your breath.
san tilted his head, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead as he found the strength to plant a shaky kiss on the side of your neck. "you did so good for me, baby," he whispered. "mm, you're safe. i'm right here."
you reached up, your fingers trembling as you stroked his hair, pulling him even closer if that was even possible. the tears were still there, leaking from the corners of your eyes. you loved him so much, a love that was messy and protective and finally, finally official.
san stayed there for a long time, just breathing you in, until he started to calm down and eventually, he shifted, groaning as he braced himself on his elbows. when he slowly pulled out, the sudden loss of him made you let out a soft, confused whimper.
"w-what?" you breathed, reaching out blindly for him, your mind still a hazy mess of dopamine and exhaustion.
"shhh, i'm not going anywhere, angel," he murmured, a sweet expression on his face that was a far cry from the possessive man who had just dismantled you. he looked almost shy, his bottom lip tucked slightly as he brushed a stray hair from your damp forehead. "i’m going to take care of you. also... where is your bathroom?"
you pointed wordlessly toward the door, watching him as he padded across the room. you had been with guys before, but aftercare had always been just a concept. usually, it was a quick reach for a phone or a clumsy apology before they fell asleep. nobody had ever looked at you with this much tenderness after the fact.
a few minutes later, he was back, gently coaxing you off the bed. you felt like jelly, your legs trembling so much you probably would have hit the floor if he hadn't caught you. he carried you to the bathroom. you didn't have a bathtub, just a standard shower, but san turned it into a sanctuary.
the man who had spent the last hour destroying your cervix and marking his territory was now behaving like a complete sweetheart. preparing the water at a perfect temperature, keeping you steady against his chest. he was so thorough and so gentle in helping you clean yourself. even started blowing bubbles at you until you were giggling despite your exhaustion. san was an adorable, muscular toddler who happened to be deeply in love with you.
once you were both clean and dry, you managed to dig out an oversized shirt for him. well, as oversized as a shirt could be for someone with his build. it clung to his biceps and chest in a way that made your heart skip, but he didn't complain. he looked comfortable, and entirely at peace in your space.
san insisted on changing your sheets, tossing the messy ones into the laundry basket while you sat on the edge of the bed in your robe. he wouldn't let you lift a finger. finally, he pulled the duvet up over both of you, cocooning you in a nest of warmth, smelling like your shampoo and body wash.
he spent the next hour just holding you, his fingers tracing the intricate lines of your palms as if he were trying to memorize your future. his lips were never far from your skin, pressing kisses here and there, telling you how he’d felt the very first time he saw you — how he’d known even then that you were trouble for his heart. he talked about the pain of watching you near his friends tonight, the suffocating fear that they would ruin the one beautiful thing he had.
you felt secure, tucked into him, your fingers tracing the hard lines of his biceps. you still couldn't quite believe he was all yours, that one of the frats had finally broken all the rules for you.
"san?" you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest.
"hm?" he hummed, his chest vibrating against your ear as he tightened his hold.
"what are you going to do about your friends?"
he didn't tense up this time, just pulled you closer, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as he spooned you, his strong arms acting as a literal shield against the rest of the world. he took a deep breath, the scent of your shampoo calming the last of his spiked up nerves.
"probably move out," he admitted, sounding a little unsure. "or at the very least, have a very serious talk about boundaries and what the word no actually means. i can't be in that environment anymore if it means they think they can treat you like that."
the quiet room was a contrast to the chaos you’d escaped, the only sound being san’s heartbeat beneath your ear. as the adrenaline finally ebbed away, a small seed of worry poked through the haze. you wondered about the shattered friendships, the tension in the house, and the weight he was carrying just to keep you safe.
"stop overthinking, baby." sensing your shift in mood, san tightened his grip, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. "don't worry about me. none of that matters right now."
he began to ramble again, a soft stream of consciousness designed to drown out your racing thoughts. he talked about the most mundane things such as how he wanted to take you to that cafe by the river next weekend, how he’d seen a sunset a few days ago that made him think about a picnic date, and how he couldn't wait to just wake up next to you without a single place to be.
you felt yourself beginning to drift, your limbs turning to lead as his voice acted as a tether to a world where everything was finally okay.
"you're my everything," he whispered into the crown of your head, "sweet dreams, my love."
with one final kiss on your hair, he let out a soft, contented sigh, closing his eyes, his body finally going slack against yours, his heart full with the simple joy of knowing that he had finally won the only game that ever mattered. for the first time in months, he was happy and whole now that he was finally resting beside his one and only.
by the time you woke up, it was already afternoon the very same day. you found san in the kitchen, still wearing the oversized shirt you’d given him, stretching tight across his back, the hem barely reaching his thighs, and it's now that you noticed the dolce & gabana boxers. he looked like a devoted husband, humming to himself as he tossed pasta in a pan, spending the last hour in your kitchen to prepare a simple meal for you.
"good morning, sunshine," he murmured, turning with a smile so bright it felt like he was fighting with the sun itself. "i wanted to make sure you ate something before i had to go."
you sat at the dining table, resting your head on your palm, as he served you a plate, and then giving you a kiss on your cheek.
"i just... i don't want you to go back there," you whispered, reaching out for the pepper, "yunjin is going to kill me when she finds out i let you sleep in my bed. she’ll probably burn the bed with both of us in it. "
he then watched you enjoy the pasta, sipping you water, giving you everything you need, and even washing the dishes afterwards. gosh, can’t he propose already? unfortunately, all good things come to an end, that resulted in him putting his clothes from yesterday and standing infront of your door.
"you know you can stay here.”
"as much as i’d love to hide out here forever and play house, i have to go back." pressing a quick peck on your lips, but his gaze turning serious as he pulled back and walked away to the elevator. "i'll call you the second i’m done. i promise, just let me handle this."
the frat house was silent when san stepped through the front door. which was strange, because he had expected the usual blaring music, and the smell of alcohol, and maybe mingi passed out on the couch. instead, and the smell of weed was replaced by a lemon floor cleaner. everything was spotless, even the shoes were lined up by the door.
the first person he saw was jongho. the youngest was in the kitchen, his muscles straining against a tight gym shirt as he shook his protein bottle.
"hey, hyung," jongho said, his voice neutral. he didn't look guilty, because he hadn't been part of the betting pool, but he looked exhausted by the tension. "good to see you're alive."
san didn't smile. "where are the others?"
"hongjoong-hyung and seonghwa-hyung are cleaning the backyard. wooyoung-hyung... he’s in his room, hasn't come out since he did his chores couple of hours ago," the youngest replied, taking a sip of his shake. "as for the others, i don’t know. they’re laying low. "
"then tell them to get in the living room."
one by one, the boys filtered in. hongjoong and seonghwa looked disheveled, their clothes damp from the cleaning. yeosang was zoning out, mingi and yunho hovered near the back, looking like kicked puppies, jongho was the only one who looked at him in the eye without flinching. the only one missing was woyooung.
san stood in the center of the room, his arms crossed ovee his chest. he didn't yell. he didn't throw a punch. he just looked at them with a cold, piercing disappointment that was far more terrifying than anger.
"i’ve known and trusted you guys for years," san began, his voice low and dangerous. "i didn't think i had to explain to my best friends what the words stop and no meant. or that my girlfriend wasn't some trophy or prize to snatch. i thought i knew who you were, but the second i turned my back, you turned a girl i care about into some twisted game, and for a more than a hundred bucks… that’s what her dignity was worth to you?"
"san, we–" mingi started, but san’s gaze snapped to him, silencing him instantly.
"no. i’m talking. you don't get to defend it. you put money on her body and used the trust i built with her to try to get a score."
he cut him off because they failed him. not as brothers, but as men.
"you all sat in a circle and talked about her like she was some property." you planned how to corner her. if i ever, and i mean ever, hear any of you mention something sickening or breathe in her direction without my permission, you're losing a tooth… i was going to move out today. the only reason i’m not is that i want to see if any of you are actually worth keeping as friends.” that resulted in shocked faces with widened eyes, “do i make myself clear?"
the room went radio silent. unusually, apologies came in stammers: sincere from some, awkward from others. but he didn't stay to listen to the justifications, as he turned his back on them and walked upstairs.
later as it became evening with the sun setting down, san was in his bedroom, the blue light of his computer screen reflecting in his eyes as he tried to lose himself in a game. the tension in his shoulders was still there, because he didn't forgive them, not yet. egos were bruised, both theirs and his, trust was lost, but that’s just how the frat world work, or rather the men’s world.
knock, knock. knock, knock. the rhythm was unmistakable, because it was a code. san didn't look away from the screen as the door creaked open. wooyoung slipped inside, his movements cat-like, checking before doing anything. he didn't say anything at first, just walked over and sat on the edge of san's bed. a cola-flavored lollipop was tucked into the corner of his mouth.
"whatcha doin'?" wooyoung cleared his throat, the candy clicking against his teeth.
san ignored him, his fingers clicking rapidly on the mouse.
"you still mad?" wooyoung tried again. "is it free-to-play? the game, i mean."
the good boy countied to ignore him by tapping on the keyboard.
"sannie? come on. talk to me."
"i'm busy, wooyoung."
"look, sannie," the blond sighed, his shoulders dropping. he reached up and pulled the lollipop from his mouth with a soft pop. "i’m sorry. i really am. i didn't mean to cross a line like that. i thought we were all just having fun, ‘ya know? i thought you’d be into the competition too. it was just a frat thing, we have done this before… well we, not you."
san paused the game. the silence in the room became absolute as he spun his gaming chair around to face his best friend. "she isn't a frat thing, woo. she’s my girlfriend. so if you ever touch her again like you did in that hallway, i don't care how long we’ve known each other. i’ll not tolerate shit like this."
"girlfriend, huh? moving fast, but okay. i get it, you are putting boundaries."
“she’s the person i love. do you get that?”
wooyoung stared at him, blinking from time to time, processing the information. "yeah, i get it. i’m sorry, man. won't happen again, i promise. she's all yours… so, we're good?"
san looked at him, searching for the lie, but wooyoung looked sincere enough. "we are… for now."
they talked for a few more minutes, a tentative peace offering made between two people who had been inseparable since high school. wooyoung stood up, popping the candy back into his mouth. "glad we’re cool. i’m gonna check on yeosang now. see ya at dinner."
"yeah. see you."
the frat walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. as soon as the wood clicked into the frame, the apologising mask fell. wooyoung stood in the hallway, biting down hard on the lollipop, the artificial cola flavor bursting across his tongue as the candy shattered into tiny shards.
his eyes darkened, fixed on nothing. he could still feel the phantom presence of your body against the wall, the way you had tasted of sweet apple and surrender. he had told san what he wanted to hear, but his heart was doing something entirely different.
he wasn't sorry, not at all. he told san he was feeling awful, that he was just doing his usual thing, and he promised his best friend that he’d back off. but as he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked back at the closed bedroom door, he knew he was a liar. the bet was over, sure. san had the title and the official status. but wooyoung had the memory of how easily you melted for a bad influence, and if he had to play the long game, to be supportive… he’d wait for the cracks or any opening if lady luck was on his side.
pulling out his phone, scrolling to a photo he’d snapped of you earlier that night when you didn't know he was looking.
"tsk, official my ass," wooyoung whispered to the empty hall, his thumb tracing the screen over your face. "we'll see how long that lasts, doll."
uneven thudding in his chest, a rhythm he hated, a weakness he hadn't planned for. it was a glitch in his system that occurred every time he closed his eyes and saw your pretty face.
san was the paradigm, the golden standard of a man who believed that love was a framework of protection and official labels. he lived by a set of rules that made him feel safe, as if the world was a map he could finally navigate on his own.
you were the enigma, the puzzle that didn't fit into the frat’s predatory architecture. a riddle wooyoung couldn't solve, and the paradox of your surrender in that hallway was driving him to the brink of insanity.
the house was filled with stigmas. the collective disapproval of a society that saw them as nothing but high-status predators, and wooyoung had always worn that reputation like a badge of honor.
he turned and walked away, this time as a man who was no longer playing for money, but for keeps. his thumb grazed his lower lip, still tasting the ghost of your sweetness, and his eyes were full with a hunger that would make san’s heart stop. his best friend could keep the title, wooyoung was going to take the girl… after all, he had never been a good loser.
reblog with tags, comment and show love to this fic, or i will unalive you in your sleep <33
⭑ bf!mingi x gf!reader x bestie!yunho
⭑ four days away at the beach, hiding your feelings from all of your friends while you’re all under the same roof, a week after yunho broke up with you and mingi. easy enough, right?
⭑ lots and lots of pinv, mxm, oral(m&f), edging, public play, bdsm dynamics (feel free to correct me on anything!! i tried to be accurate) praise, degradation, yunho being 3comp yunho. yes that's a warning in itself
⭑ part three of three / wc 36.5k
⭑ — holy shit i can't believe it's over. thank you to everyone who stuck with me through this, this series is my actual fucking baby. it brought so many eyes to my blog and led me to meeting so many wonderful amazing people, thank you so much if you're reading this, if you have read anything about my 3comp babies. no other series has taught me so much. nothing will ever mean as much as this.
⭑ — if you don't recognize my rortor or if haos confused you, pay my good friends a visit here <3 thank u @svgaplvm for letting my people hangout with yours <3
“You can’t seriously think this would ever work.”
You and Mingi haven’t moved an inch since he left for the bedroom. Now stood in front of you in cargo pants and the same dirty tee that was crumpled on your bed, it seems his anger hasn’t dissipated in the three minutes it took for him to get his things together. A bag thrown over his shoulder, jaw locked, eyes wide and wild like you’d just sentenced him to death, it seems very clear that Jeong Yunho wasn’t coming back here.
“I was honest with you guys from the start,” his voice keeps its edge, “I told you what I look for in a relationship, what I want. There’s none of that here.”
Your teeth grit together, eyebrows slanted, fingers squeezing beneath your arms folded over your chest. “You’re overreacting,” you manage, heart running a marathon in your chest, ignoring the fact that his words hurt as you mask your feelings with a show of anger.
“You two are together,” he points between you and your boyfriend with a finger. “I shouldn’t even be part of the equation. I let this go on too long, let it become too serious.”
“You think you’re the only one to blame?” Mingi surprises you with his words, the sharpness behind them, the glossiness in his eyes the only signal of sadness. “We thought we were already in a relationship, it’s all of our fault for not communicating.”
Yunho looks like he’s seen a ghost. “You– Are you serious?”
You nod, you thought it was obvious, “Yunho, we haven't been apart for more than twelve hours in weeks.”
He turns on his heel, “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”
Mingi stands, following Yunho as he crosses your living room, “You’re just going to leave? You aren’t gonna talk this out?”
You watch from the couch, breathing deep into your lungs, ignoring how your eyes watered. Yunho turns around sharply, “What is there to talk about? We were fucking, and now we’re not. That’s it.”
You gasp from the couch, Mingi shrinks where he stands. Taking a step back, shaking his head, his voice is shaky as he says, “You don’t mean that.”
“I told you,” Yunho slips his feet into his shoes. “I’ve been honest from the start. If you took it more seriously, that’s on you. I’m sorry.”
Mingi’s arms fall to his sides as Yunho leaves through your front door, the heavy oak slamming shut behind him. Your heart breaks as Mingi’s head hangs low, his shoulders shaking, and it’s the sniff you hear from the couch that gets you on your feet, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend.
“He’s just scared,” you whisper, tears lining your own eyes as Mingi racks a sob into your chest. “He’s just scared, Min. He’ll come around.”
His voice is wrecked, ragged and layered with grief, “I can’t believe he said all of that.”
“Me either,” you shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks as you run your fingers through his hair, your other hand rubbing circles into his back. “It’s Yunho, we know how he is, especially with relationships.”
“I thought we were different,” Mingi picks his head up, pulling away from you to wipe his eyes. “I thought he was getting over his dramatic relationship block because of us.” He sniffs, then speaks through another sob, his voice cracking, “I thought he loved us, too.”
“You love him?” Your eyes widen, hands landing on his shoulders, and he nods without hesitation. “Shit,” you mutter under your breath, eyes screwing shut in an attempt to get your mind to bypass the shock so you can think.
“Don’t you?” Mingi asks, his voice small, like if you said no he might crack entirely.
His laugh crossed your mind first. Eyes squeezed to crescents, grin spread wide, head tipping back as the most beautiful sound left his lips, you always got lost in him when he laughed. A hearty chuckle or a small giggle, when Yunho was emitting nothing but pure joy… Yeah, you loved him.
You loved how he walked closest to the street, how he already had your order memorized at the cafe around the corner. You loved how he touched you, soft and delicate, how he complimented you every time he saw you. You loved that he wasn’t afraid to say the hard things, like telling you that you snore, or that this time your boss was in the right. You loved that he kept small pieces of you close in the years of knowing you, how he revealed his knowledge of you in the past month, how he wasn’t afraid to show his passion.
You loved him, and you fucking knew he loved you back.
“Yeah,” your nod isn’t immediate. “I think I do.”
Mingi’s lip quivers, “We’re just gonna let him leave?”
“We’re adults,” your voice is shakier than you need it to be, forever the rock holding Mingi’s hurricane. “He’s an adult. If he wants us, this, he’ll come back.”
Mingi shakes his head profusely, taking a step back from you, “If we love him then we fight for him, I’m not waiting around while he thinks this is over.”
Your lips curve upward, the most Mingi thing he’s ever said, “We’ll be with him for four days at the beach. Let him sit in the hole he’s dug himself in, let him miss us for a few days.”
Mingi looks at you like you’re speaking another language, “He probably won’t even look at us while we’re at the beach if we wait until then.”
“If we love him,” you step closer to him. “Then chances are he loves us, too. Let him take the time he needs to realize it.”
Mingi takes a heavy breath, thinking about who Yunho is, how he handles situations. With poise, consideration, vigilance. He thinks of all outcomes, all strategies, Yunho thinks of everything with his mind, and not always his heart. Mingi nods, because he hopes that just this once, he’ll think with his heart, and figure out the rest later.
Yunho hasn’t called.
Not a text, not a word, not a breath.
But you were on your way to Haos– and from Wooyoung’s call this morning, asking what time to pick you up, you found out that he’d talked to Yunho just before he called you, and he was still coming to the beach. A shred of relief washed over you as the words left his mouth, it couldn’t be that bad if he was still coming to the beach, four days spent in proximity with you and your boyfriend. And your ten other friends. Right?
“Do you want to stop at the convenience store for anything? Water, coffee, a snack?” Wooyoung asks from the driver’s seat, black hair shagged over his ears, his forehead, curling at the nape of his neck.
Sana groans from the seat beside you, “Can we just go straight there? I’m itching to be on the beach with a drink in my hand.” Dressed in jeans and a strappy tank, heels on her feet, curled dark locks framing her cheekbones, she looked like she was going to the club rather than traveling for a vacation. Being eight in the morning, you looked like you just rolled out of bed.
Mainly because you did.
“I wasn’t just asking you, San,” Wooyoung cuts from the front of the black rental he drove. “We’ve been driving for an hour already.”
“Which means we should only have ten more minutes in the car if you just drive,” she bites back, rolling her eyes. She gives you a look, shaking her head as if Woo was asking the stupidest question in the world. She whispers to you, “He should have asked an hour ago.”
You smile at her instead of giving her an answer, redirecting your gaze to the top of Mingi’s head that peeks over the headrest of the passenger seat. After spending some time away from her, you thought you’d at least be a little excited to see her, but alas, she still drives you up a fucking wall. You could have gone longer.
You lean your head against the window for the last ten minutes, listening to soft rock music with your eyes glued to the intricate, tall houses along the coast, the small shops, the ice cream parlors, everything about this place screaming beach. Summer. Rich summer. You were still excited to come here, drama aside, spending time with your friends, cozying up in one of San’s queen-sized beds in one of his several bedrooms. You loved his house, the feeling it gave you, how badly you’d like to own something like it one day.
You didn’t mind four days of pretending it was yours, nor did you mind laying on the beach, a drink in your hand. Maybe you’d shove your feelings aside and stay glued to Sana all weekend.
Finally pulling up on a rocky driveway, you pull your eyes away from the beach just beside it, taking in the cream-colored fucking mansion before you. Ridiculous architecture, a two-car garage, a double main staircase, several balconies and a fenced rooftop, what always took your breath away was the windows. So much light poured into the house, salt scented air rushing through the space when the countless pairs of double doors opened, this house screamed happiness. It screamed carefree.
You let the feeling fill you, let it take a weight off your chest as you stretch your body upon leaving the backseat. Whatever happened this weekend, you’d accept. However you and Mingi returned home, with or without another boyfriend, you’d be okay. Both of you.
You took a look around the driveway as Wooyoung and Mingi went into the trunk to grab all of your luggage. You and Mingi shared one, but Sana… She had two for herself, she bragged about it as soon as you opened the car door.
Three other cars sat in the driveway. You recognized Yeosang’s, Jongho’s, Seonghwa’s, you assumed San and Jongin’s cars were in the garage. No sign of Yunho’s car.
Mingi carried your luggage in behind you, you didn’t knock as you walked through San’s front door, nor did you have time to appreciate the creams, whites and blues stretching across the inside, because the only other person in the living room when you walked inside was Yunho.
Your jaw clenched as your eyes slid over the back of him, faced away from you as he scrolled on his phone.
“Honey, I’m home!” Wooyoung yelled from behind you, and his voice echoed through the archways of the main floor, bouncing off each perfectly staged wall, the balcony above you.
Yunho snapped around, meeting your eye, and he immediately stiffened. With one of his infamous linen sets on, barefoot and his hair swept back, you had to stop yourself from muttering damn under your breath. You loved when he looked like summer, but you also loved when he looked like winter, when he needed the comfort of fleece to keep him warm. Maybe you loved Yunho in anything.
You looked away fast, turning to face Mingi who was already staring over your head, at his best friend who had undoubtedly become something more. Mingi stared at him with hope, with an unanswered question, with so much fucking love in his eyes you felt the cracking of your heart in your chest.
“Finally!” You heard San before you saw him, shirtless and in swim trunks, body tanned and golden and sculpted by God himself. He wore a wide grin, Jongin following behind him, his boyfriend just as gorgeous as he is, taller and handsome and damn, just as sculpted.
San pulls Wooyoung into a tight hug, “I missed you, man. It’s been too long.”
“It’s barely been a month,” Wooyoung chuckles. “But yeah, too long.”
Sana’s heels click against the pale hardwood as Jongin pulls her into a hug, the two men exchanging with the couple as you and Mingi attempt to ignore the elephant in the room only visible to the two of you.
Wooyoung pulls Yunho into a hug as you and Mingi share exchanges with San and Jongin, just as the others start piling into the living room.
“We’ve been waiting for you guys!” Tzuyu squeals as she enters your view, and you’re immediately pulled into all the women of the house, sharing hugs and kisses on the cheek.
“I can’t believe we’re the last ones here,” you’re smiling, warmth filling your chest as you bathe in everyone’s excitement.
Jihyo smirks, “Late because you were getting frisky?”
You roll your eyes, heat warming your cheeks, “You need to let go of that. Like, now.”
“Frisky?” Tzuyu pops a brow. “Fill me in.”
“I went over her and Mingi’s place and saw a vib—”
“Okay!” You speak over her, hands ready to clamp over her mouth, and she winks at Tzuyu in a silent promise to fill her in later. You prayed it didn’t include Yunho’s name.
“Who has which room?” Sana asks loudly, speaking over everyone in the midst of conversation.
“We were waiting for you to decide, princess,” Seonghwa replies, voice smooth, a snarky remark hidden behind a beautiful smile. Your lips curl upward when you see him, stood tall next to his boyfriend, Seonghwa’s open shirt matched Hongjoong’s shorts.
“Jongin and I have the master,” San says. “There’s five other bedrooms, one has a pull-out futon.”
“Assuming I’m on the futon,” Yunho immediately adds, his voice flat. “Since I’m the only single one here.”
Your eyes flicker between the two, heart thumping against your chest, stomach feeling sick at hearing him say he’s single.
“You would have been fucked if you brought a date,” San's smile is anything but sheepish. “But I’m sure no one will mind if you crash their room, maybe one of the girlies are out of commission for sexual activity and it won’t matter.”
Jongin smacks his chest with a disgusted look, but San giggles to himself. You look around the room and all the girls fall quiet, all the guys stay quiet, too used to San and his remarks to feed him a reaction.
“He can room with you and Mingi,” Jihyo nudges your shoulder from beside you,.“Duh. You guys are super close, anyways, just kick him out when you wanna fuck.”
“We aren’t twenty years old, Ji,” you muster. “We can go a few days without fucking.”
You look up at Mingi and you can tell he’s teetering on the edge of losing his shit. You turn to Yunho and he looks like that’s the last thing he wants. Seeing his face, the clear dislike of the idea, imagining the thoughts racing through his mind, all of it combined makes you slap a smile on your face, “Yeah, that’s fine. We’ll take him.”
“Hope you left the hitachi at home,” Jihyo whispers in your ear, winking. You nudge her back, forcing the smile to stay on your face— no one has any idea of what you’ve gone through the last few days. What happened. What started it in the first place.
“Perfect!” San claps his hands together. “That was easy. Go unpack your shit and then we can go to the beach.”
Mingi is at your side as soon as everyone takes a step toward the staircase, voice a low growl in your ear, “Why did you do that?”
You whisper back, “It’ll be fine.”
You didn’t know if it would be fine.
“Three bedrooms on the second floor, two on the top, master is on the main floor. You guys can figure out which rooms yourselves,” San says from the base of the steps as you all make your way up, your shoes hitting the hardwood in chorus, everyone dragging their belongings behind them.
Yunho stays close behind you and Mingi as you check each room in search of yours, taking in the detail of the hallways, where the bathrooms were. The paintings on the walls, tables with vases, starfish, framed pictures of small sayings of wordplays with the word beach, you made sure to take in everything, let it fill you with ease, you were on vacation.
You wouldn’t let Yunho ruin it.
On the third floor, Jihyo and Jongho peeled off into a room at the beginning of the hallway, a bathroom and two closets between you as yours lived at the end. A queen-sized bed, a couch along the wall that pulled out to a bed, the room was decently sized. Cozy, with its balcony attached, white covering the walls, the bedspread and couch a pale blue.
Mingi threw your suitcase onto the bed as Yunho threw his duffle bag onto the couch. The air was tense, heavy, you could hear conversation downstairs, Jihyo and Jongho unpacking just down the hall. There was no sound coming from your room other than zippers sliding and clothes being shuffled.
You stood opposite Mingi on either side of the bed as he sorted through the suitcase, zeroed in on his hands as he separated the clothes you were hanging from the ones going into drawers. With your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you stood focused, yet thinking of nothing as your ears rang, buzzing beneath the heaviness of silence.
What was he thinking right now?
Your eyes flickered to him as he pulled clothes out of his duffel bag, folding them along the couch, laying out the clothes he was hanging up, keeping his toiletries separate. Your gaze fell on his shoulders, broad and muscular beneath the linen he wore, the length of his legs stretching to the floor beneath him, bare feet pressed against hardwood, stepping to the side to fold another tee along the cushion.
You turn your attention back to Mingi, shaking off the discomfort as you grab the clothes to hang up, heading for the closet next to the couch. You lay the clothes over the armrest, hanging up tops, Mingi’s favorite pair of nice pants, the dress you brought to wear to the bar on Saturday. You think that’s the only time you were going out all weekend other than to small shops around the town.
The last shirt you had to hang, one of Mingi’s, you knew you grabbed it from the stack of clothes on the bed, but it wasn’t splayed out on the couch beside you. Brows furrowed, you turned on your heel to check the bed, just for Yunho to be stood at your side, holding the shirt out for you while he had his own stack of clothes folded over his forearm.
You swallowed, avoiding his eye, “Thanks.”
Grabbing the shirt from his hand, your fingers brushed against each other, the feeling of his skin on yours no matter how small immediately sent a jolt of electricity up your forearm, into your shoulder. You were quick to hang up the last shirt, moving out of his way, back to where Mingi was before the dresser.
While he laid folded clothes, pajamas, boxers and panties into separate drawers, you grabbed your bikinis, his swim shorts, cover-ups and the singular bra you brought to help him. The room still silent, suffocating with everything left unsaid, you began laying out your toiletries along the top of the dresser.
You could feel his eyes. Lifting your gaze, meeting his stare through the mirror, you shuffled to the side as he sauntered up next to you, throwing his own clothes into the rest of the empty drawers.
God, is this what the rest of the week was gonna be like? If so, fuck that, he can sleep on the couch. Downstairs. Far away from you and Mingi so you can enjoy this room and its balcony all to yourself.
“Hey!” Tzuyu gleamed, knocking on the doorframe at the same time as she spoke. You jumped a foot in the air, hand clasping your chest, a gasp escaping your chest. She giggles, long brown hair in a braid over one shoulder, bikini already on her body. “Yeosang and I are going to the liquor store before we head down to the beach, want anything?”
“Uh,” you glance up at Mingi, trying to find words. “Tequila, beer, some kind of seltzer to sip on. The usual shit.”
She nods, “Same beer as always, right?”
“Please,” Mingi nods back, giving her a smile that she would never know wasn’t real.
Your stomach fucking aches. You could push your pain aside, but when it comes to Mingi, seeing him hurt in real time, you could feel it as if he shared it with you. Your jaw locks, you could not go the whole week like this.
Tzuyu peeks her head back in, “You should get ready, we’ll be back in ten.”
“Got it,” you smile, and when she bounces out of your room again, it drops. You needed to do something. You rack your brain as you zip the suitcase closed, shoving it beneath the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
Yunho was pretending. He was forcing a mindset on himself, ignoring his feelings for you and Mingi, he was putting on a show that he didn’t mean. In his head, he was protecting himself, or maybe he was protecting you two from getting hurt, of what could go wrong in the future.
You glance up at Mingi who stood leaned up against the dresser, on his phone. You glance over at Yunho who sits on the couch, on his phone. Just because he was acting like he doesn’t love you, doesn’t mean that he believes it.
Your eyes land on Mingi again, holding them there. He looks up from his phone, meeting your stare.
Your lips curve upward. I’m gonna do something crazy.
He pops an eyebrow, lips crinkling. Oh no.
Your smile grows, eyes flashing something dangerous. You gotta trust me on this one.
Mingi nods, face still wary. I always trust you.
You push yourself up off the bed to the dresser, opening one of the drawers, pulling out one of your bikinis from the bottom. You should really thank Jihyo for even putting it in your mind that you should wear one of your college bikinis— so small and skimpy it could barely be considered anything other than string, you funneled confidence into your veins. You wouldn’t care about how you looked after a drink or two, anyways.
Your eyes meet Mingi’s through the mirror, bikini in your hands. Are you picking up what I’m putting down?
Mingi shoots you a silent laugh. You’re fucking nuts.
You stick your tongue out. You love it.
Mingi licks his lips. I love you, and that bikini.
You hold his eyes through the mirror. Remember what I said, trust me.
Letting your eyes dance over Yunho once more, you lay the bikini out over the dresser, and then pull your shirt over your head in one quick motion.
“Shiiit,” Mingi mutters under his breath, long and dragged out from the bed, purposely loud enough for Yunho to hear. His eyes pick up, seeing you through the mirror, eyes catching on you shimmying your shorts down your legs, then your panties.
You don’t let your gaze linger, pulling the bottoms up your legs, then tying the top around your back. “Min, can you tie me?”
He’s at your back in an instant, letting his hands dance along your waist before settling at the back of your neck, bikini strings between his fingers. You’re smiling at each other through the mirror and it’s then that you know he understands what’s going through your mind, the plan you cooked up just a minute ago.
His hands settle on your hips after he finishes tying your top, and both of your eyes slide to Yunho, catching him just as he looks back down at his phone, fingers pressed to his forehead. You smirk at Mingi through the mirror, wondering if maybe you pushed Yunho just a little harder, could you crack the shell of his facade?
Yunho’s never been a huge fan of the beach. He burns easily, sand gets between his toes, in places he simply can’t reach, he hates how his hair looks after being in the breezy, salty air for too long. He’s been excited to come to Haos despite it, to spend time with you and Mingi away from home, but he didn’t give it enough thought to really consider the logistics of it all.
To himself, he thought it easy: Around everyone else, you and Mingi would be your usual selves, madly in love for the world to see. At the end of the night, behind closed doors, where no one could hear you or see you, that’s when he’d have his way with you both. He’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t excited for that most of all.
Forcing you into submission, into silence in the dead of night, so the whole house couldn’t hear the whiney moans that leave Mingi’s mouth when Yunho takes him, or the shrill screams that Yunho pulls from your chest when he pushes you just a little too far. It’d be fun— that was fun to him, keeping the two of you hidden away, his two nasty little secrets. No one had to know.
Because if they did, if anyone knew anything, it’d break your perfect bubble. He’d be forced to admit that he hated the idea of not being able to touch you in public, not being able to kiss you, or even flirt with you. Either of you. Which opens another question, one Yunho wasn’t willing to answer, or give any more of his attention.
Luckily, it blew up in his face before he had the chance to worry about it too much, like it has a hundred times before with plenty of different partners. This was the routine— fuck for awhile, become a little more on accident, realize that this isn’t what he wants, leave. Leave, leave, leave. Yunho was good at leaving, at hiding, at not taking what he wants when it’s staring at him in the face.
It was too fucking vulnerable. He ached for love, for true routine, to wake up next to someone and go grocery shopping on Sunday mornings. He yearned for someone to know him down to his core, to love him for the silly things, not just how he fucked or how he guided. For how much he needed to take care of his partners, he never realized how much he needed to be taken care of, too.
This morning, how you stared at him with a locked jaw, a storm in your eyes, he knew he deserved it. He deserved your anger, your pain, he wishes he could take it from you and keep it for himself. How Mingi looked at him, with pain and love and hope, seeing Mingi’s feelings raw in his eyes terrified Yunho. Knowing Mingi hurt, that he was the cause of his ache but also knowing he’d take him back in a second, it sent a shiver down his spine, leaving a hole too deep, too cold in his gut.
He really fucked up this time. He really, seriously, absolutely fucked up. He's fallen asleep cuddled up to your side, he’s woken up beside you for weeks. He’s gone grocery shopping with you, he keeps a mental list of everything you have in your house. You made space for him in your home, for his body and his clothes, he has a toothbrush beside your sink, products in your shower, socks in the top drawer of Mingi’s dresser. He’s felt the rush of affection when Mingi finishes his sentence, he’s felt the pain sitting in the crease of your brow without it having anything to do with him.
He walked into what he was most afraid of, but what he’s yearned for without even realizing. Everything happened so fucking fast. That night with Mingi was the true beginning, he thinks, the catalyst that made him fall headfirst without casting a net. That night changed all of your boundaries, leaving everything in open field for the taking. Yunho took it with greedy hands, but then he destroyed it all the same.
He knows what you’re thinking. In that pretty little head of yours there’s millions of beautiful, strategic thoughts, plans, ways to get him back in your bed. Even though he fucked up. Even though he was the one that destroyed it all.
The curve of your chest in the mirror, a peek of the goldmine between your legs as you bent over, if this was a week ago he would have pinned your chest to the glass and fucked you until you were crying just for teasing him. Mingi’s hands trailing down your skin, his breath on the back of your neck, jealousy infested Yunho like a disease. He could feel the ghost of Mingi’s hands on his body, on his chest, his abdomen, his torso, he forced himself to tear his eyes away so he didn’t break.
Yunho was the one who fucked it all up, and here you two were, trying to get him to fix it. Naive and optimistic, two traits that you two shared that made Yunho feel like he was your missing piece. He wouldn’t break so easily, you two have to know that, you know him.
He watches you run across the sand, wet chest bouncing beneath golden sunrays with a can grasped in your palm. Mingi follows you from the water, trunks slick to his thighs, the inseam of his shorts shorter than any other pair he owned. Yunho sits with his jaw locked, his fingers curled around the armrests of the beach chair beneath the umbrella, watching as Mingi picks you up from behind, a grin on his lips as he presses them to your cheek.
You two didn’t do PDA. You haven’t since you were in your early twenties, when your relationship just began. Everyone in the group knows it, but no one notices, no one pays any mind to the clear show you were putting on just for him. Mingi’s arm is hooked around your torso, black hair clinging to his cheeks, his neck, the two of you dripping in saltwater and love. He keeps you there, hanging off his arm as he walks back up to where you set up, your giggles becoming clearer, reminding him of his favorite song the closer you get.
He could just get up and go back inside. The beach was San’s backyard, after all.
“Can you hand me another seltzer, please?” You ask sweetly as soon as Mingi puts your feet back on the ground. Yunho blinks beneath his shades before the question registers in his mind, it’s the first that you’ve spoken to him other than thanks in the bedroom.
He reaches into the cooler, making sure to hand you your favorite flavor, feeling bile rise up in his throat when Mingi opens it for you and plants a kiss on your lips before you take a sip. Maybe he had it all wrong— maybe you didn’t fucking care that Yunho was no longer apart of your relationship. Maybe, in some sick, twisted way, what happened just a few days ago made your relationship stronger. Seems about right for the two of you.
“Let’s play volleyball!” Wooyoung shouts over the hum of soft rock music and waves in his ear. He forces his eyes away from you two to glance at Wooyoung, holding a volleyball to his chest while beads of sweat drip down his bronzed, tanned skin.
“Hell no,” Sana responds from her towel, laying on her stomach with a bucket filled with God knows what kind of liquor in the sand just above her head. “We’re relaxing.”
“I meant the guys,” Wooyoung replies, the smile on his cheeks never faltering, ignoring his girlfriends’ tone completely. He wiggles his eyebrows at Yunho, “You up for it? A little friendly game?”
“I’m out,” Hongjoong responds from his chair, can of beer in his hand, head laid back along the headrest beneath the shade of the umbrella, “I just ate a gummy.”
“I’m out, too,” Yeosang lifts his head from his towel, Tzuyu at his side, the two of them cuddled up so close under the burning sun he wondered how they weren’t suffocating.
“I’m going to swim,” Jongin waves a hand, already turning his heel to walk down to the shore.
“I’m down,” Yunho says, needing a break from staring, standing from his chair.
“I’m down, too,” Mingi adds as if on command, pressing another kiss to your lips before walking towards where Wooyoung stood behind Yunho.
San, Jongho and Seonghwa make their way towards them, too, and Yunho quickly regrets his decision when Mingi stops directly at his side. He stiffens, eyes glancing down to where Mingi’s hand lingers inches beside his.
“Three versus three then?” San smirks as the six of them make their way towards the net across the beach. “I call Woo and Mingi on my team.”
Jongho breaks into a laugh as he leans on the pole beside the net, fingers sinking into the webbing, “So it’s me, Hwa and Yunho?”
“I think that’s fair,” San shrugs. “We share the towers.”
Yunho rolls his eyes, and Mingi’s smile is wide. Seonghwa dips under the net to the other side of the sandy court, “They’re both competitive, too. Think it’s best we share.”
“We can hear you, y’know,” Yunho follows, sliding into position flanking Jongho’s side, a grin crawling over his cheeks that was nothing short of competitive. “No need to fight over us.”
“First team to twenty,” Wooyoung juts out his chin from the other side of the net, “Best out of three?”
Yunho pushes out an accidental sigh, “Three games?”
Mingi, like he’d been waiting for that comment, snaps. “Why not?” He cocks his head to the side, smile dangerous. “Three games too much of a commitment for you?”
The blood from Yunho’s face drains, the amusement in his eyes gone. After Yunho’s face falls, Mingi giggles, and the rest of the guys seem completely unaware of the jab that just left Mingi’s mouth. Yunho glares at him, knowing now that the two of you are serious about getting under his skin, but he chooses to ignore the shred of pride he feels with your efforts.
The first game went by quickly— Mingi, San and Wooyoung were good. Yunho, Seonghwa and Jongho were good, too, but fell just short of their opponents. The second game went by just as fast, but instead this time it seemed Yunho’s team had a chip on their shoulder, a little too much pride to let their friends win twice. The third game, everyone was drenched in sweat, covered in sand from diving for the ball, forearms burning from bumping it, everyone’s patience was running thin. Curses were shouted, insults thrown from one side of the net to the other, they had gotten serious real quick.
Mingi and Yunho stood at either side of the net, eyes on the ball above their heads, the two of them jumping at the same time to either spike, or block. The ball fell on Mingi’s side and his eyes dropped for a millisecond to see Yunho, both hands up, palms flat out to block his spike.
Yunho, ambition living in the slant of his brows, tongue peeking between his lips, didn’t give Mingi an opening to push the ball through. So Mingi hit it to the side, just past Yunho’s hands before he could even think of sliding his arms over.
Yunho cursed, and Mingi’s arms went over his head in a cheer for winning them one more point towards victory. Mingi leaned in close to the net, a smirk on his lips, “Pay attention, Yun. You don’t want me thinking I’m distracting you, do you?”
Yunho’s jaw locks. Mingi was pushing it, he usually wasn’t the bratty one, that was your area of expertise.
“Careful,” is all he says, venom on his tongue as his chin tips upward, just to stare down at Mingi through lowered brows.
Mingi’s smirk grows, almost a full smile, fingers hooking into the net to lean closer. “Or what?”
Yunho licks his bottom lip, shaking his head as he turns around, back to where he stood, waiting for the ball to be served. Maybe he was stupid for considering you two didn’t care about him, especially after the bedroom, and now he had Mingi taunting him ten feet away?
The ball hits the sand beside his foot before he can process that it was served. Mingi, San and Wooyoung high five, cheering because they were one point away from winning, and Yunho’s teammates turn to him with a scowl.
“What are you doing?” Seonghwa stands with his arms out beside him, face warped into annoyance and confusion.
Jongho barks from beside him, “Lock the fuck in, we’re winning this.”
Yunho nods, shaking off his thoughts, “My bad.”
Then Mingi calls your name. Yunho’s head turns, watching as you turn your head from where you stood with a group of girls that weren’t a part of your group, staring as you jogged towards them when Mingi ushered you over.
That fucking bikini, all string, barely covering anything. His fists clenched when the house hooted and hollered for you, as Jihyo whistled when she saw you. It wasn’t for you. It wasn’t for Mingi. It was revenge.
His neck snaps back to the court before him when he hears San’s hand smack the ball, body moving before his brain can think, diving into the sand to bump it up. Jongho is quick to get under it, two hands setting the ball high in the air, but as Seonghwa jumps to smack it over the net, Mingi is already there.
Broad, sculpted abdomen, hard chest he’s rested his head on too many times, hipbones peeking from just above his waistband. Yunho watches Mingi’s arms flex as he blocks the ball, how his torso folds to send the ball into the sand, Yunho nearly shoves his face in the sand too when his three best friends jump for joy across the net.
Seonghwa and Jongho stand defeated, faces set toward the sun, chests heaving. Yunho gets up slowly, just to see you perched on Mingi, arms and legs hooked around his body, lips pressed to his. Mingi’s hands hold you up by your thighs, fingers making indents where they pressed into your skin, and it’s war for Yunho to peel his eyes away from the sight.
“Sorry,” Yunho runs a hand through his hair, keeping his eyes on the sand as he walks toward Seonghwa and Jongho.
Jongho clasps a hand on his shoulder, heavy but reassuring, “It’s just volleyball. We’ll beat ‘em tomorrow.”
Seonghwa nods his agreement, and at least one weight is lifted off his chest. He watches his friends duck under the net, and Yunho follows, ready to get berated by his three other friends, good sportsmanship be damned.
“This is my boyfriend,” he hears, and his eyes land on where you stood with Mingi, just beside the court with the two girls you were standing with before. One a grinning dirty blonde, the other a miserable-looking brunette, Yunho tried to listen as his friends spoke beside him, but jealousy pierced his soul that Mingi was the only one standing beside you, getting introduced as yours.
His feet moved before he could think about it, coming up to your side, and the blonde caught his eye, looking him up and down as he made his way over. You beamed, not showing a flash of surprise or confusion as Yunho stood beside you, you immediately gushed, “This is Yunho, he’s single, super tall, clearly.” You giggled, leaning into Yunho’s side, you were drunk. You whispered not quietly to the blonde, “I think you’d like him.”
Yunho’s eyebrows furrowed, weight hitting his gut with force, and the blonde before him blushed as her hands gripped the cocktail between fingers, her eyes dragging over him again.
The brunette, eyebrows low, stares at Mingi before her, “You look really familiar.”
Your hand clings to his, wrapping your fingers into your boyfriends, shoulders pushed back, no one would know you were standing your ground unless they knew you. Mingi laughs along, “Really? You kind of do, too.”
“Do you have any relatives that go to Nasara?” She cocks her head to the side, “We’re in ITZ, a sorority at Nasara University in Delo.”
Mingi shakes his head, then turns it to look at Yunho, “Do you?”
Yunho shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders, she does look familiar. Yunho asks, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Sitara Song?”
The brunette makes a tch noise, then grabs the blonde’s hand, voice dripping in irritation, “Come on, Ror, I’m sure Wooyoung is missing you.”
The blonde looks back at him twice as the brunette drags her away, and Yunho feels unsettled. Not only are you making a show with Mingi in front of his face, taunting him, but now you’re pimping him out to strangers?
Mingi’s eyebrows are knitted together as they walk away, “They have an Wooyoung, too?”
Yunho faces the two of you with his arms crossed, “What the fuck are you doing?”
You’re already smiling, mischief in your eyes, “What do you mean?”
If the three of you were at home…
“What was that?” He asks, a hand stretching in the direction of the two girls walking away.
You giggle, back pressing into Mingi’s abdomen, “Was I wrong? You are single, aren’t you?”
Yunho laughs a low, disbelieving chuckle. He turns on his heel, past the court, back to where you set up, sitting back in the chair he was sulking in before. He reaches into the cooler, pulling out a can of beer. If this was how the weekend was going to be, he might as well be drunk for it, too.
Clean and close to sober, your hair was still wet after your shower as you sat around the bonfire, sweats on your body, under a blanket on the sand. Even in Haos the beach was cold at night, a sharp breeze ruffling everyone’s hair, egging the fire to blaze higher.
Yunho barely looked at either of you during dinner. Lounged out on the back balcony after grilling, he laughed along with everyone, cracking jokes and engaging in banter, but he shut you and Mingi out. After his second beer it was as if he put a wall up, he was choosing to not let the two of you bother him, not that you had much to bother him with after the beach.
Fear lived in all your joints that you took everything too far as you sat cuddled up to Mingi, head on his shoulder. With Yunho on your other side, you tried not to let your eyes slide to him, despite his closeness. Even mad, even apart you still drifted together, you try to let the thought relieve you, but you’re too tightly wound to let anything but his hands steady your heart in your chest.
You missed the way Yunho doesn’t see your fear. Instead, all his tunnel vision allows is the way your arms lay over Mingi’s, the way you melt against your boyfriend, how comfortable Mingi looks with your body touching his. You don’t see his frustration, how his mind whirls a mile a minute in yearning to have any part of you two touching him, too.
“You guys must have needed a vacation,” Hongjoong declared from across the fire, the growing blaze making his orange hair burn brighter, white teeth still shining despite the warmth laying over all of you.
You smile, and Mingi agrees in a small noise from beside you. San perks up in a chuckle, “I haven’t seen you two act like that in years. There’s really never any trouble in paradise, huh?”
Mingi snorts, and you close your eyes with a smile on your lips. If only they knew what trouble was terrorizing your paradise right now.
Jihyo cracks a laugh, holding up a hand like she just remembered something hilarious, “No, can you guys remember the beginning? When they couldn’t keep their hands off each other?”
Your cheeks burn as the group laughs around the fire, a chorus of amusement and remembrance. Jihyo continues, laughter still erupting from her chest, breaking up her words, “I miss when we still had true house parties, I remember catching you guys in Yeosang’s garage.”
Mingi tips his head back with a groan at the memory, you remembered it like it was yesterday, he had you lifted on Yeosang’s father’s workbench, tools covering the space around you. Luckily, Jihyo didn’t see your legs spread for him, or his fingers hooked inside you. Your cheeks blaze hotter than the fire before you.
“That’s not the only time, either,” Jihyo’s leaning forward now, cocktail in her hands threatening to spill over the blanket on her lap.
San interjects, laughing himself, “I think we’ve all caught them once or twice throughout the years.”
Wooyoung frowns, “At least none of you have caught them in your own bedroom. That’s worse, trust me.”
Your hand covers your face, digging your forehead into Mingi’s shoulder as he laughs along, muttering Enough in a low voice. The reason you weren’t as open with your relationship anymore was being laughed about in a circle, filling your gut with embarrassment and shame, Mingi felt it.
You couldn’t see Yunho’s fists clenched at his sides, digging into the blanket above the sand. He tries to laugh along, he has a few stories he could tell himself, but he’s ruined them all with thoughts of what those memories would look like if he was included in them, too. He feels weird inside. Knowing it would always be you two, as it’s always been, but feeling so fucking frustrated that he isn’t included, as if two halves of him were fist fighting just beneath his skin.
“My bad, today just reminded me of back then,” San waves a hand, a warm smile on his lips, showing his dimples. “I’m happy to see it. I’ve missed when you were attached at the hip.”
“I was starting to get worried that you guys were chilling out too much,” Sana interrupts, her head tilted, a cheshire smile on her lips, “I assumed that’s why you didn’t have a ring on your finger yet, that your relationship wasn’t the same as it used to be.”
The circle quiets. A beat of silence lays over you, thick and heavy, her comment feels like a jab. Yunho doesn’t know why it fills his veins with ice cold rage. He bares his teeth, “Where’s the ring on your finger, Sana?”
Seonghwa gasps, Tzuyu’s eyes widen, Wooyoung cracks a smile. Everyone’s eyes dance between Yunho and Sana with fear at her awaiting rebuttal. She tips her cocktail back, takes a sip, then raises it up to Yunho with a sinister smile, “Hopefully we both see rings within the year.”
You blink in confusion and awe, sitting up straight, both of your heads turned toward the black hair sat beside you. He meets your gaze and his eyes feel warmer than they’ve been all day, since before the fight, even. The others redirect the conversation into something lighter, but the three of you stay locked in on each other, a bubble within the ash and smoke surrounding you.
You purse your lips. What was that for?
Yunho smiles. Couldn’t help myself, I guess.
Mingi lays a hand over your thigh. Sana will always be Sana, it’s not worth it.
Yunho leans into his hands stretched out behind him. I’m tired of her sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.
Your cheeks warm with a small smile. Thank you.
After all the cans had been thrown into the fire and San had smothered it with the lid, the whole group decided it was time for bed, your day tomorrow required a full night’s sleep. Beach, boardwalk, dinner, a repeat of today, but tomorrow you could really drink. You had half a mind to stay sober tomorrow, you think you had enough day-drinking already, your brain muddled and your limbs sluggish, you didn’t miss the feeling of a hangover.
The queen sized bed felt like a cloud beneath your thighs compared to the sand you were sitting on prior, the bottle of water Mingi handed you when he entered your bedroom healing you. In a hoodie and sweats, the house much too cold for a summer night, you sat up and chugged while Mingi got his toiletries ready for a shower.
Yunho didn’t enter the bedroom until Mingi had left, drying his hair with his towel, sweats hanging low on his hips, droplets of water still trickling down his abdomen. You kept your water in your lap, lips pursed, trying to think of something to say. Just earlier today you weren’t speaking at all, you teased him all day, and then he… Sticks up for you to Sana? It doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes sense.
Yunho pulls a tee shirt over his head, barely glancing at you sitting on the bed, then reaches into the closet to grab a blanket. Folded over his forearm, he tucks a pillow under his other arm, then without as much as a word he makes for the door.
“Hello?” You sit up a little taller, confusion in the knit of your brows. “Where are you going?”
He looks back at you over his shoulder, “I’m gonna sleep on the couch downstairs.”
“No,” you answer, shaking your head, staring at him like the idea is ridiculous, because it is.
He raises his brows, “No?”
“Stay,” you urge, heart picking up speed in your chest. “We need to talk at some point.”
He finally turns around, brows still raised as he shrugs, “Talk about what?”
Your lips part but nothing comes out. Jaw clenching, you sit dumbfounded and annoyed. Talk about the fight? Talk about today? Talk about how there’s still clearly something romantic between the three of you?
“How you toyed with me all day?” Yunho finishes your thoughts, taking a step towards your bed, “How the two of you drove me up a fucking wall? How I snapped at Sana to defend you because clearly I’ve lost the ability to control myself?”
You stare at him wide-eyed, speechless, excitement rippling beneath your skin because he took a step toward you.
“They were right, you know,” he tilts his head, taking another step forward, “You haven’t been all over each other like that in years. And I sat there, knowing it was all for me, and couldn’t do a damn thing.”
“Yes, you could have,” you finally counter, voice barely above a whisper.
“What would you have me do?” He says through a sharp chuckle, “Put you over my fucking knee in front of everyone? The whole beach? That's what started all of this, right?”
“I— What do you—?”
“This all started because of sex. You worked me up all day to have me at my wits’ end when we finally got back here at the end of the night. That was the plan, right?”
You blink at him, that was the plan. Partially. “I just wanted you back here so we could talk—”
He smiles as he cuts you off, “You don’t want to talk, not really. I know what you want.”
You sigh, frustration curling your fingers around the water bottle, ignoring the heat between your legs. He drops the blanket and the pillow on the floor as he takes another step forward, thighs just touching the mattress you sat on.
“I do want to talk,” you frown, heart pounding against your chest, scared those five words will stop him from doing everything he was about to do. Voice lowering, you whispered, “I want you.”
“It’s pointless,” he shakes his head, smile dropped,.“You can’t separate it.”
“Because it’s already blended together,” your voice is still low, teetering on the edge of shaky. “The lines were crossed a long time ago, Yun.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s right,” he meets your eye, and there’s nothing kind behind them. No emotion that makes you feel like there’s any possibility of salvaging what you had. You refuse to trust it, the mask he puts on, you cling to how he’s looked at you these past weeks, with love and trust in his eyes, the mask he wears now is to protect himself.
You give him a bitter chuckle, “Who are you to tell me what’s right? Do you not feel anything when you look at me?”
“When I look at you,” he keeps his face steady, emotionless. “I see Mingi’s girlfriend.”
“You’re a liar,” you spit, sitting up on your knees, crawling closer to him on the bed. He watches, unmoving, eyes not even flickering a change in feeling. “Why did you stick up for us to Sana then?”
“Because you’re my friends, and I’m tired of hearing her project her own insecurities onto you.”
“Why were you bothered when I told that Aurora girl you were single, then?” You stand on your knees atop the mattress, almost face to face with him. “You are single, aren’t you? You want to be single.”
“I don’t want to be single,” his voice cracks, exasperated, eyebrows shooting to his hairline, “but that doesn’t mean I can just join a relationship that’s been established for over five years!”
“Why are you making it sound like a decision that’s made on a whim? We just spent the last four weeks already in one, Yunho,” you raise your voice to match his, every ounce of emotion punctuating each syllable.
“We spent the past month fucking,” he lowers his voice, words sharp enough to cut. “That’s it.”
As if every single one of your emotions swim up to your waterline, your voice cracks as tears blur your vision, “You’re a bullshit fucking liar, Jeong Yunho.”
You keep your eyes on Yunho as Mingi enters the bedroom, catching the towel hanging from his waist out of your peripherals. Yunho breaks eye contact before you do, his eyes sliding to Mingi who stares dumbfounded in the doorway, then quickly closes the door behind him when his eyes land on you.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes are wide and concerned, one hand on his towel as he quickly makes his way across the room. The streak of sunshine in a hurricane, you can feel the hostility fizzle, his presence comfort enough to cool the fire in your veins.
“Nothing,” you shake your head, then wipe your eyes with one hand as you sit back down on the mattress, legs folded beneath you. Your sniff betrays you, as if Mingi didn’t already know you were crying, “I’m fine.”
Mingi stands beside Yunho, a knit in his brow as he turns to his best friend, “What did you say?”
“Nothing I haven’t said before,” Yunho bends down, picking up the blanket and pillow he was holding before. “I’m sleeping on the couch downstairs.”
“No you’re not,” Mingi chokes out a laugh in irritated disbelief, all of his features blown out as he faces him. “You’re not leaving again, you don’t get to walk out twice.”
Yunho’s chuckle mirrors Mingi’s, his voice louder and strained, “I don’t know what else you want me to say!”
“Say you don’t want us,” you answer from the bed, voice unsteady, terrified of his answer even if you’re certain you know it already. “Say you don’t want this, and we’ll let it go.”
Yunho’s eyes dance between the two of you, the cogs turning in his mind visible in his tight features. Mingi takes a step away, walking towards the dresser, pulling out a pair of briefs to sleep in as he mumbles, “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
You stare at Yunho as his lips open and close, racking his brain for something to say that isn’t that. He shakes his head, “Even if I want this, it doesn’t mean it’s right. What will everyone say?”
The slap of Mingi’s briefs against his hips sounds through the room, “Who gives a fuck what anyone has to say?” He faces Yunho, “If we’re happy, that’s all that matters.”
“It’s not that easy,” Yunho drops the blanket and pillow again, his shoulders pushed back in defense, trying to hold onto what’s left of his control as his hands wave with each word. “As much as I want to believe everything will be sunshine and rainbows, it’s you two. Your relationship is concrete, everyone’s expecting a wedding within the next few years and you want to fuck all of that up?!”
Your stomach drops with the validity of his fear, cheeks warming, ears burning hot. You and Mingi have never decided on marriage, not fully, the two of you semi-estranged from your families, not completely in a place financially to make that kind of commitment. A ring, a big party to show off your relationship was nowhere in the near future. A house came first. Stability came first.
Yunho knows that. He knows all of that, but his fear is still valid– because what happens when you are stable? You and Mingi never got that far, the rest was hopes and dreams that would maybe come true one day. You swallow, sniffing again, raising a hand to wipe what’s left of your lingering tears as understanding turns into a bloom of warmth in your chest.
“I understand this isn’t normal,” Mingi takes a step toward Yunho, confidence clear in his voice, it seems you’ve switched places since the last time you talked. Mingi looks over Yunho’s shoulder to meet your eye for a second before looking at Yunho again, “But this won’t fuck anything up, Yunho, our relationship has always been… What it is. This.”
“Your relationship,” Yunho reiterates, his voice quiet, body leaning towards Mingi. “What if that doesn’t stay the same with me in the picture? What if down the line, you decide you want to get married? Do you want kids? Where does that leave me?”
A rush of something you can’t describe swallows you whole. It was overwhelming enough having this conversation with Mingi, and you haven’t had the conversation again with Yunho in the picture, what that would look like for the three of you. Tears crawl their way back up, a tightness in your throat, heat in your cheeks. You didn’t have an answer to his question, fear leaves your stomach hollow, your limbs tingly.
“We’re not asking you to make a decision now,” Mingi’s hands curl around his waist. “Even if it seems like we are. All we know is that we want to be with you, we’re willing to figure all of the details out together, with you. We want you, Yunho, isn’t that enough to at least try?”
Yunho’s head dips down, his face hidden, sucking in a deep, grounding breath. You need to touch him, feel close to him, you need your skin on his, you need to feel like he still wants you. It feels like losing him– a sentiment you can’t bear to accept, you haul yourself off the bed and press yourself into his back.
“This is a lot,” his voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard it, weak, frail, strained with uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do, I- I want you too, but this is,” his voice breaks. “Terrifying.”
“I know,” you feel Mingi’s hands swimming along his sides as you keep your cheek pressed to his back, your fists balled into the cotton of his tee. Mingi continues, “You can do it, the commitment, the titles. It’s scary and vulnerable, but it’s us, we won’t hurt you.”
Another trembling breath leaves him as his forehead meets Mingi’s, his hands resting on your own, curled into his shirt. Your lip quivers, trying so hard to keep your own tears in to be the stability he needs, the rock you're used to being; seeing him hurting is like an arrow through your chest, it hurts the same way it does with Mingi.
“You don’t need to make a choice,” Mingi whispers. “But don’t shut us out. Don’t make us think we don’t mean anything to you.”
“I’m sorry,” Yunho whispers, sniffing, his body rigid between the two of you. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean any of it, I was scared. I am scared.”
You press your lips to his clothed spine, “It’s okay, Yunho.”
He squeezes your hands, palms over knuckle, his touch is grounding. Mingi’s hands glide from his waist over his chest up to the curvature of his shoulders, landing there for a moment as Yunho’s head perks up. Mingi leans in, lips grazing Yunho’s as his hands move to his neck, sliding up to cup his cheeks.
“Can I kiss you?” Soft, honest. Yunho barely gives him a nod before Mingi attaches their lips, Yunho’s hands darting to his waist. You keep your hands on him, body pressed into him, feeling Yunho’s body relax, shoulders drooping, back arching into Mingi’s touch.
Their lips move slowly, unhurried, a practice of searching for something in one another, finding it, reveling in it. The air changes around you, expanding, room opening, tension slipping through the balcony door and into the saltwater air, dissipating into the humidity. Yunho’s hands find Mingi’s cheeks and they move together, bodies arching into one another, getting lost in emotion and feeling and longing, you could feel all of it, it bled from both of them and into you, watching from behind.
Hands on Yunho’s waist, you guide him backward until your back hits the bed. You crawl onto it, never breaking your eyes from the pair, watching as Yunho uses one hand to support himself while Mingi lays him down onto the mattress.
“I missed you.”
You’ve never heard him sound like that before. Emotional– soft and whiney, honest, like he’d pulled the words from the deepest part of his consciousness, a box he kept tucked away. It has you moving, crawling over to them, inserting yourself into their bubble. Yunho’s hand reaches for your cheek as soon as you come into view, your eyes meeting, and for the first time you see him consumed by lust without the harsh blade of control in his eyes. Raw, open, free, there’s nothing but delicacy swirling in chocolate brown as he pulls you down into him, attaching his lips to yours like he’d been waiting to do it all day.
Hungrier than those with Mingi, his lips move quickly, tongue slotting between your lips to search your mouth for something true, as if you haven’t given him all of you since the start. “I want you,” you whisper, sharing his breath, a soft smile curving your lips before he swallows down your words with his mouth. You swing one leg over his hips and he sits up on an elbow, his other hand moving to your hip for leverage as he pushes himself up until he’s sitting, shifting you properly on his lap.
Mingi moves behind him, hands on his waist under his shirt, lips finding his neck with soft presses of his lips as your fingers reach for the hem of his tee. “Need this off,” you whisper into his mouth. “Want to feel you.”
Mingi’s the one who pulls the cotton tee over his head, lips finding Yunho’s shoulder as you kiss his lips again, tongue dancing with his, hands splayed on his pecs, letting the warmth of him seep into you. Yunho reaches beneath your hoodie, fingers cold as they dance along your skin, palms curled around your waist while his thumbs brush against your abdomen, his touch is soft, like he’d break you if he pressed too hard.
You break the kiss only to pull the hoodie over your head and Mingi steals Yunho’s lips, using two fingers to his chin to turn his face. You watch them for a moment before leaning in, lips following the curve of his jaw down to his throat, flattening your tongue down to the base of his neck, sucking into his skin just above his collarbone. He tastes clean, like his bodywash, him, your hands find the waistband of his sweats, tugging them downward.
Yunho gasps as you slip them from under him, hips moving easily for you, “I– Are you sure?”
You’re nodding on command, “Of course, I’m sure.”
He’s talking as you tug his briefs down to his thighs. “I said a lot of things.”
“You didn’t mean them,” Mingi answers as you settle yourself between his thighs, coaxing Yunho backward until his back is pressed to his chest.
His cock stands tall against his pelvis, pink-kissed and leaking, it makes your mouth water. Yunho’s hips twitch as your nails graze his thighs, making you smile, eyeing him through your brows. He looks… scared. Like this was unknown territory, his eyes wide, red splotched chest rapidly rising and falling, fingers curled into the sheets beside him.
It makes you want to take care of him in the same way he’s always taken care of you.
“Is this okay?” You ask softly, making him nod. Your head tilts, needing the words to continue, “Do you want this?”
“Yes– fuck,” his hips twitch again, brows raising like he’s surprising himself. “I want it, I want you. Please.”
There’s a pit in your gut as the plea leaves his lips and you’re wrapping your fingers around his length, making a show of the glob of spit dropping from your tongue and onto his length, using your fingers to spread it. He groans, head tipping back into Mingi’s chest as you start working his length with your hand, watching him carefully. So pretty, hair mussed about, chest splotchy and body twitching, you wonder if this is how you look beneath him. You dip your head down, tongue lolling out of your mouth to lick at his tip, salty, raw, Yunho– you wrap your lips around him and suck.
“Fuck,” he draws out the word, low and heavy, a hand reaching down to tangle into your hair. You let him ease you down his length, tongue flat against the underside of him, lips suctioned tight. “Missed that fuckin’ mouth.”
There he is. You smile, barely, lips stretched around the width of him, bobbing your head as your fist works the base of him, pumping, twisting, gripping him just right– the moan he releases is nothing but nasty, Mingi swallows it, stealing his lips again, you can hear their mouths as much as you can hear your mouth around his length, everything wet, sloppy. Mingi’s hands reach beneath his arms to his chest, thumbs flicking over his nipples and his hips buck into you, making you gag, a hand clawing into his thigh, eyes squeezing tight.
“Sorry– fuck,” he curses again, voice desperate, “feels so good, don’t stop.”
You take him down your throat, gagging yourself purposefully as your nose meets the tuft of black hair at his base, the hand that was curled around him reaching below, cupping his balls softly, tightening your throat around him as you squeeze your palm ever so lightly. The sound that leaves him is obscene, abdomen clenching, his hands finding Mingi’s thighs, nails digging into his skin. You bob your head, breathing through your nose to keep him deeply rooted in your throat, constricting around him just to hear that noise over and over.
“Oh my god,” his voice is strained, harsh, “I’m gonna cum– I want to fuck you, please, wait–”
His hand finds your hair but you don’t budge, keeping your rhythm on his cock, nose buried in his hair as your saliva drips from your lips and onto his pelvis, sliding down to where your hand lays below.
“Baby, baby–”
His moan is strangled, caught in his throat as his limbs lock, legs straightening while his grip tightens in your hair, hips bucking into your mouth once, twice before his release shoots down your throat. You swallow him down, keeping your mouth suctioned to him as you ride out his high until he’s shaking, slipping off of him with your tongue still flat to ensure you’ve gotten every last drop.
You break off of him with a pop, eyes glassy as you find him winded. Chest heaving, head lazily thrown on Mingi’s chest, your brown-haired boyfriend just smiled proudly from behind him.
“Mouth just as dangerous as your pussy,” Mingi says, hands still splayed across Yunho’s abdomen, fingers softly petting his skin.
“Only for you,” your smile is coy, of all things. Crawling up to where they sat, you lean down and press a kiss to Mingi’s lips, then one to Yunho’s. He still looks winded when you pull away, making you giggle, “You okay?”
He nods, “I just… I haven’t come since the last time, with you. Need a second.”
You snort, “A whole week, is that a new record or something?”
Yunho smiles, laughter in the exhale through his nose, “Don’t get smart with me, I haven’t forgotten about today.”
You lean down to press another kiss to his lips, keeping yourself close as you say, “Been waiting for the chance to do something about it, like you said?”
His eyes flicker up to yours. In that one sentence it’s as if you reminded him who he was, what he’s capable of. These eyes you know, deep and controlled, harsh in a way that tickles your spine. Your core clenches around nothing, tongue poking out to lick over your lips, anticipation heating your blood.
“Take off your pants, sit at the top of the bed.”
He barely gets the sentence out before you’re shimmying yourself out of your sweatpants, crawling up to your pillows. You’re vibrating as Yunho turns to Mingi, standing up on his knees, grabbing the younger man with one palm below his jaw to pull him upward. Mingi scrambles to his knees, brows already furrowed, lips still touching in the center as they part.
Yunho smashes his lips into Mingi’s, there’s nothing graceful about the way his other hand digs into the nape of Mingi’s neck, making him arch into the older man with a whimper pouring straight into his mouth as his hands find Yunho’s biceps for leverage. It’s messy, rough, Yunho picking him apart with nothing but his lips– it makes your knees tie together, adding pressure between your thighs.
“You,” Yunho starts, the word accusatory, giving Mingi another unforgiving press of his lips before he continues. “Teased me all day. Taunting me during volleyball, in front of our friends, do you have anything you want to say to me?”
“I’m sorry,” Mingi squeaks, fingers curling into Yunho’s biceps, the sound makes a smile spread across your cheeks, eyes flaring.
“Louder.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Better,” Yunho mumbles, reaching down to pull his shirt up and over his head. One hand reaches down to palm Mingi over his briefs, palm flat and fingers splayed over his length, and Mingi folds upon contact. Head dipping low, abdomen clenching, a groan spills from his lips as his hips buck into Yunho’s touch.
“Don’t tease,” Mingi whispers, voice a strangled moan.
Yunho huffs a laugh, “Like you teased me earlier? You can dish it out but you can’t take it?”
Mingi lifts his head up to look at Yunho just as he starts grinding his palm against his length, bare chest leaning into Mingi’s, using his height to his advantage to look down at him. Mingi sputters, “T-That’s different, Yun. We were trying–”
“Trying to what?” Yunho squeezes his length and Mingi whimpers. Yunho smiles, “Bait me into fucking you in front of everyone?”
“No–”
“Then what?”
“Wanted to feel like you still wanted us,” Mingi says it all in one strained breath, his voice rising in pitch as Yunho’s hand slips beneath his briefs, fingers wrapping around his length.
“I wanted you,” Yunho’s voice slips into something quieter, other hand reaching up around Mingi’s neck, thumb brushing over his bottom lip as before brings his face to Mingi’s, lips almost touching. “The whole time.”
“You left,” Mingi’s voice is barely above a whisper, shaky, a hiss leaving his lips when Yunho twists his wrist, palm closing over the tip of his cock. Yunho pushes Mingi’s briefs down his thighs, lowering Mingi down until his knees are spread, arms splayed behind him, cock jumping against his pelvis, red, angry and leaking like a fucking faucet.
“Do you want my mouth?” Yunho, between Mingi’s knees, asks before his eyes slide to you at the top of the bed. “Or do you want to be filled?”
Mingi’s brows raise. “I get a choice?”
Yunho shrugs. “My way of saying sorry.”
Both of their eyes slide to you and your eyes widen under their attention, back straightening against the pillows. They drink in your posture, knees pressed together, hands scrunched in the sheets as if that’s the only thing keeping you from slipping your hand between your legs.
“Come.”
Yunho’s voice is unyielding, it has you crawling across the mattress on all fours, landing on your knees before them. Mingi’s head tilts, “Thought I had a choice?”
Yunho snorts his amusement, “Like you’d choose anything other than my cock filling you up.” He plants a hand against your cheek, leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead, “You can kiss while I prep him, but don’t touch.”
You nod, eager as you settle yourself laid down in front of Mingi, your beautiful boyfriend who already looked so gone. Cheeks pink, chest heavy, his muscled biceps land on either side of your head against the mattress, your calves curling over his thighs with him above you. His cock lands against your lower tummy, heavy, sticky, the order not to touch has your heart picking up speed in your chest, a desire you can’t fulfill.
“Hi, baby,” Mingi’s smiling as he presses one, soft kiss to your lips. Your arms are bent up, hands on either side of your shoulders, palms faced up with your fingers loose and limp, hips fighting the urge to buck up into him.
You push out a sigh, “Need you,” your back arches instead, nipples pebbling beneath the breeze that drifts through the room. “Wanna feel full.”
He places another soft kiss on your lips, “Soon.” He deepens the kiss, tongue pushing into your mouth, you can taste him, taste Yunho, it makes you moan into him, fingers twitching because you want them on his face, in his hair, around his cock.
Yunho leaves the bed to cross the room, you hear him opening the closet, the zipper of the duffel he brought sliding open, but Mingi’s tongue is licking into your mouth, rendering you thoughtless, you don’t care to look over. “Wanna touch you,” you whisper, back arching more until your nipples press against his warm skin, whining at the contact.
“Patience, baby,” his lips find your jaw, elbows closing in around your head, tongue sliding down to your neck to lick a stripe back up to your jaw. You moan, legs tightening around his thighs, hips bucking against his length that tapped against your stomach with each movement. Torture, being naked beneath him, wanting so badly to touch, to feel.
You feel the dip of the bed when Yunho kneels behind him, you hear the cap snapping open on what you can only assume is a bottle of lube. It makes you smirk, knowing he brought it with him, that it was in his bag, waiting to be used. Yunho’s palms flatten over Mingi’s ass, and his head dips down into your shoulder at the contact, in anticipation of what comes next.
You watch over Mingi’s shoulder as Yunho squirts some into his hand, closing it before running two fingers down the space between, thumb circling his hole. Mingi’s whole body jerks, gasping into your neck, cock digging into your stomach.
“Open up for me,” Yunho says softly, “let me in.”
Mingi’s knees spread a little wider, lips meeting your shoulder, your neck, back arching lower, the position Yunho likes. Yunho keeps his eyes on you beneath him as he pushes a finger inside, his own brows furrowing together at the feeling of him, the tightness around his digit.
“Shit,” Mingi whimpers into your skin and one hand comes up to tangle in his hair, relaxing him into the stretch, all while keeping your eyes on Yunho.
“That’s it,” Yunho nods, voice just above a whisper, “there you go.”
Yunho bites his lip as he crooks his finger and Mingi fucks back, head lifting from your shoulder to push himself into the older man, moaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. You quickly turn your head to catch a glimpse, his slacked jaw, eyes softly shut, brows knitted together in pleasure, so fucking beautiful. The sight of him when you’re wrapped around his cock versus Yunho pushing into him, the sight of his pleasure was so different, so raw seeing him this way, so open and desperate.
“Yes,” you find yourself whispering, back arching at his pleasure, almost feeling it as if it were your own.
Yunho adds another finger, making Mingi moan, lifting himself up onto his palms, head craning to see Yunho behind him. “More, gimme your cock, I can take it.”
Yunho nods, ripping open a condom packet from beside him and slipping it on in one quick motion. Tapping his cock between Mingi’s cheeks, he looks over Mingi’s shoulder to you, “Go ahead.”
At the speed of fucking light you’re reaching between you, making Mingi gasp as your fingers wrap around his length, Yunho lining himself up behind him as you line him up at your center. You didn’t need the prep, the head of his cock slipping around as soon as you brought it to your slit, sliding through your wetness until it caught against your entrance, making you gasp out a moan.
“Fuck,” Mingi’s voice sounds strangled, strained, preparing himself to fuck you full while he gets fucked full– you’ve done it plenty, but each and every time it’s overwhelming for him, for you to be fucked by Yunho’s thrusts.
“Breathe,” Yunho says, and it’s both a warning and an order as he pushes inside, making Mingi’s breath catch in his throat until he forces it down into the base of his lungs. Yunho groans, head tipping back as he slowly pushes inward until he seats himself inside.
One of your hands cups his face, pressing your lips against his unmoving ones, “That feels good?”
“Full,” Mingi grits out as Yunho bottoms out, hands squeezing his ass, face contorted in pleasure.
You smile, pressing your lips into the corner of his mouth, “Ready?”
He nods, eyes screwed shut, mouth stuck open like he’d unhinged his jaw. You tighten your legs over his thighs, an elbow planted under you, lifting your hips up to press his tip inside, and with Yunho’s next thrust he’s pushing inside, all the way, all at once. Your eyes blow wide as a shrill sound escapes you, and Yunho’s head picks up over Mingi’s back.
“If you’re loud, I stop,” Yunho grits out. “We don’t need the whole house hearing us.”
Your other arm is clawing at Mingi’s shoulder, so fucking full and stretched out it’s dizzying, you barely process Yunho’s words as Mingi catches your lips with his own. The three of you readjust closer together now that you’re positioned, and with every thrust of Yunho’s hips against Mingi, Mingi fucks into you the same.
“So tight, Min,” Yunho gasps. “Missed this ass, fuck, craved this tight fuckin’ thing.”
He’s beautiful, hair soft and messy, brows quirked in focus as he watches himself drill into Mingi, how his cock disappears, how Mingi sucks him in with each thrust. You’re clinging to Mingi, one arm over his shoulder as your hips fuck back into him, his cock curving into you just right, making you moan into his lips as his tongue steals every sound from your throat, pouring another one right back into yours.
“Faster,” you whimper, eyes lifting. “Please, Yun. More.”
“Never satisfied,” Yunho spits out through his clenched teeth, two hands gripping Mingi’s hips as he fucks into him harder, faster, ricocheting into you, body slamming into the mattress with each thrust. You’re a crying, whimpering mess, clawing into Mingi’s skin as he cries into your mouth, lost in a bubble of pleasure, Mingi’s body locking up with each thrust of Yunho’s hips.
“I’m close,” Mingi whispers, straining. “Fuck, too good, so full, you’re so tight–”
“Cum,” you whisper, hips rolling into each thrust. “Fill me up, baby. Come on.”
Yunho’s hands slide up to his waist, nails biting into his sides, “Hold it.”
Your hips buck into him faster, a pit forming in your stomach as the pleasure builds, catching Mingi’s lips again. Yunho slaps his palm against Mingi’s ass as he feels Mingi buck into you, “Hold it.”
“Can’t!” Mingi cries, “I can’t, I cant, I’m cumming–”
You moan as his cock twitches inside you, still rolling your hips against him as he fills you up, warmth spreading through your lower half. Yunho hisses from behind, “You never fuckin’ listen.”
You smile, dazed and lazy as you stare up at him over Mingi’s back, “Happens every time.”
“Fuck,” Yunho huffs, “wanted to cum inside you, Min.”
You slow your hips as Mingi’s arms waver, shaking on either side of you. “’m sorry,” Mingi says, breathless. “Felt so fucking good.”
You pull your hips off of him as you let go of his shoulder, falling flat against the bed as he crumbles on top of you, Yunho pulling out behind him. Sated, he hums into your shoulder, left hand digging beneath your back, holding you close.
Yunho slips off the condom and pulls you toward him by your ankles, Mingi’s startled enough by the action to roll off of you and onto his back, head turned with eyes half open to watch as Yunho tugs you upward by your hips. Yunho sinks down to sit on his calves, pulling your thighs over his, not wasting a second as he runs his cock through your folds, spreading Mingi’s release. You hiss at the contact, hips bucking into him, digging your elbows beneath you to hold you up. “Kiss me,” you beg, “kiss me while you fuck me, please. Need it.”
His brows furrow, lips parting like you’d just taken your cock down his throat, your words hitting like a pang to his gut. He lines himself up, cock prodding at your entrance as he leans forward, grabbing you by your waist to pull you on top of him, using your thighs on his as leverage to sit yourself over his cock.
Lowering yourself onto him, you lay your hands over his shoulders to attach your lips to his, nothing about it structured or neat as he pushes inch after inch into your heat. You moan into him, whining as you reach the base of him, feeling the full length of him in your fucking guts.
“Big,” you mumble, a whiney whisper. “Wanna cum on your cock, Yunho.”
His fingers tighten around your waist, lifting you up on his cock before slamming you back down, making you cry out into his mouth. “Quiet,” he grunts, then places a kiss to the corner of your lips. “I know it feels good, baby.”
Your fingers claw into his shoulders, “So good, missed your cock, fills me up so fuckin’ perfect, so full.”
He guides you with two hands on your waist, lifting you, lowering you, shifting you into a dirty grind, “Take me so well,” he says before he kisses you again. “Pussy so tight, missed her, missed you.”
You catch his lips, words staggered by each slap of your hips against his, “Don’t fucking leave again.”
His fingers sear your waist, squeezing so hard you’re sure they’ll leave marks behind, making you moan. You grind yourself into him, rolling your hips until his cock reaches the sweet spot inside you, a high pitched noise escaping your lungs before you can stop it.
“Shit,” you cry out, panicking at the pleasure, lowering your voice. “Shit, shit, shit– good, right there, so good.”
Yunho meets you where you roll into him and your eyes drop to watch, his sculpted abdomen flexing under the movement, how you swallow his cock with each grind, it’s too much. Mingi’s behind you before you can process it, feeling his heat before his bare skin, his lips at your neck, teeth grazing your steaming skin, fingers toying at your chest, you fall into him as your hips move on their own.
“Min,” you moan out. “Yunho, fuck– wanna cum, wanna cum,” you’re repeating the words like a mantra, Yunho’s cock kissing your walls, the tip of him running over that spot inside you like it has nowhere else to go.
“Cum,” Mingi says into your skin. “Cum around his cock, let him feel it.”
You grind your teeth, a strangled sound escaping you, so close you could fucking taste it.
“Need more, baby?” Yunho asks, breathless, jaw clenched like he was holding himself back. “My girl, never satisfied, always needs more.”
“Insatiable,” Mingi’s tongue drags along your neck and you nearly fold, the pleasure overwhelming. One of his hands dips down between you, two fingers rubbing at your clit and your eyes blow wide, entire body jerking forward at the touch.
“There she goes,” Yunho smiles and your breath completely catches in your throat, hips stuttering in their grind, he quickly uses two hands on your hips to keep you moving in rhythm. You feel it building impossibly further, your orgasm right below the surface, your skin vibrating, your breath coming out in shallow bursts.
Mingi reaches up, one hard pinch to one of your nipples and you’re falling forward, head on Yunho’s shoulder as your limbs lock, pressure blowing, euphoria consuming every inch of your being. You hear Yunho mumble something haphazardly to Mingi before he’s pushing you backward, holding onto your hipbones as he drills into you, chasing his own high. It’s more than overwhelming, your orgasm never ending, prolonged with each thrust of his cock inside you.
“Mouth,” Yunho bites, and Mingi’s palm clasps over your lips on command. You don’t even realize what sounds are leaving you, that your lungs are even working properly, so consumed by euphoria.
You’re seizing around him, body twitching, core clenching with each thrust of his cock until his hips stutter, emptying himself inside you with consistent, punched strokes so you feel every inch of him, every drop of him as he fills you up.
Mingi releases your mouth when Yunho finally pauses, his hand shaky, chest heaving, cock half-hard again against his thigh. The only sound in the room is your breathing, distant waves crashing ashore, the sound of the breeze blowing through the room, making the curtains dance around the balcony doors.
“I could watch you two forever,” Mingi mumbles, more to himself than to you.
Yunho pulls out slowly, keeping a hand steady cupped over your center, so if you do drip it’s not on San’s comforter. Always thinking ahead, even after sex, when one would think his brain would turn at least a little fuzzy.
You swallow down nothing but air in your dry throat, reaching for the man beside you and the other across from you, “Lay with me.”
“You need to shower,” Yunho counters, running his other hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. “Or pee, at least. Get this out of you so we can sleep.”
You mumble your discontent, groaning, body spent and tired but so fucking elated at what just transpired. Yunho smiles up at you, “We aren’t at home, little lady, you need to go pee.”
“Little lady?” You and Mingi ask at the same time, mocking him, brows furrowed, smiles amused. You snort, “Try a different nickname.”
“Shut up and go to the bathroom,” Yunho huffs, standing up off the bed, pulling you by your ankles to the edge. Mumbling under his breath, he’s looking at the sheets, “Always something to say.”
“You love it,” you smirk, standing on shaky, tired legs. You wobble, he slides a grounding arm around your waist, you look up at him with smiling eyes, “If I wasn’t such a brat you wouldn’t have anything to punish me for.”
“A well-behaved submissive is a well-trained one,” he’s quick to respond.
You scowl, eyes pointed as you look at him, throwing an arm over his shoulder, “I’m not your submissive.”
“What are you, then?” He asks and you steal your arm back from over his shoulder, ignoring the leakage between your thighs, just to look up at him and see him smirking, face fully amused.
“Not funny,” you grumble. “Mingi will shower with me, you can wait outside.”
“No,” he half-whines the word, still fully amused, leaning into you before he bends at his knees, scooping you from beneath your legs into his arms bridal-style. “We’re all showering together, end of story. Say a prayer that Jihyo and Jongho are asleep.”
You’re giggling at him butt-ass naked in the dark hallway, it seemed Jihyo and Jongho were asleep with how easily you snuck into the bathroom without being caught, Mingi on your heel. Your shower was innocent, soft touches and bubbly soap, exhaustion dancing in the steam, the humor had dissipated and exposed what was left over. The three of you, together again. Whole.
Back in bed, you in the middle, Mingi on your left, Yunho on your right, you didn’t even bother with clothes. The only light came from the still open balcony doors, moonlight acting as a beacon, calming in how it coated the room in a soft pale hue.
“I really did miss you,” Mingi cuts through what felt like an hour of silence, just waves and breeze. “We missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” Yunho’s response is soft, fingers playing in Mingi’s hair above you, you cocooned in the middle of the two.
For the first time, those three little words sat on your tongue, begging to be said. Instead, you ask, “You know what you said? The submissive thing?”
His hand cups your cheek, “I was just kidding, baby.”
“No,” you shake your head. “It’s not that. I was wondering… What it’d be like.”
“To be my sub?” His brows raise, tipping your head up to look at him. “Like, for real?”
You smile, “Yes, for real. I’ve wondered since Woo’s going away party, what you’re like when you’re serious about it.”
“You don’t think I’m serious with you?”
“You know you let shit slide,” you narrow your eyes. “A lot slide. I want to experience a day, in public and stuff when you’re being you. In your element.”
Yunho’s eyes slide up to Mingi, “You too, baby?”
Mingi smiles, bashful but honest, nodding. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious, too.”
“You’re both untrained–”
“You’ve taught us a lot,” you cut him off. Rearranging yourself, head pressed into Mingi’s chest so you can see Yunho easier, you urge, “We can do it. Let us try tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yunho.”
“Fine,” his smile is soft, eyes so dreamy it’s hard to comprehend that a man like him could ever be mean. If you hadn’t experienced it, you wouldn’t believe it. You love him mean. You love him nice. You love how he looks at you. You keep the words inside.
“We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”
You didn’t say another word, other than goodnight. You could still hear the waves crashing onto the shore just outside the house, you could smell Yunho’s body wash everywhere, the moon shining down on your bedroom, for the first time in days, everything felt… Peaceful. Normal.
Your heartbeat hasn’t been this even since the day Yunho walked out of your apartment.
Feet twitching, a tickle on your leg, your nose scrunches as consciousness pulls your eyelids apart. You suck in a short breath when you feel warmth on your thigh, the heaviness of a hand, Yunho’s hand, it snaps you awake like someone poured cold water over your head.
“What are you doing?”
His other hand moves your panties to the side, his head already between your legs, which was enough to answer your sleep-induced question. Your thighs parted for him further, arms limp against the bed, you could hear the soft snores from Mingi still fast asleep beside you.
A moan passes softly through your lips as his tongue makes contact with your center, slipping between your folds, lips swirling around your clit. The fingers curling into your thigh tells you to shut up, and you listen by slotting your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes screwed shut.
Fuck, you’ve missed his hands on you, you’ve missed his mouth, you’ve missed the way he tells you what to do without saying a fucking word. You’ve missed everything about him.
He pulls away only to pull your panties down your thighs, throwing them somewhere on the floor before both hands push into the plush of your thighs, spreading them wider than before. The mewl that leaves your lips, the way your leg bumps into Mingi’s sleeping body has his eyes cracking open, confusion and sleepiness present in the way he blinks himself awake.
“Damn,” Mingi groans, stretching out his limbs as Yunho devours you all over again. “I’ve missed this.”
Mingi leans over, pressing his lips sleepily into your neck, tongue poking out to slide up onto your jaw, your mind clouded with a whirlwind of pleasure. Too long since you’ve had two bodies on you, focused on you, pleasuring you, days had felt like months.
Yunho’s hand left your thigh to grab onto Mingi’s ankle, pulling him downward, a cue to get off of you without him saying a word. Mingi shuffled himself down the bed until Yunho grabbed his already stiff length over his briefs, Mingi pushed them over his hips and down his thighs, eager to feel Yunho’s touch like it was the first time.
Yunho’s fingers slip through your folds to gather the wetness onto his hand just to use it in gliding his hand over Mingi’s length, which had both of you squirming in pleasure, light moans blending together. He spits on your center before sitting up on his knees, slipping two fingers inside you, the other hand still pumping Mingi’s length, he used the same rhythm on both of you, where you both stared up at him with parted lips, furrowed brows, glassy eyes, you think that maybe you were dreaming, or maybe you’d gone to heaven in your sleep.
“Missed me, huh?”
You and Mingi nod erratically, your hips jerking into his touch, he wore a cocky smirk and half-lidded eyes that told you he missed you just as much. Having the two of you splay out beneath him, victim to his hands, to his hold over you entirely, he had you exactly where he wanted you.
His fingers curled into you at the same time as his wrist twisted around Mingi’s length, movements he knew drove you close to the edge, you could feel the pit in your stomach forming just from how deep his fingers hit inside you. He knew you so well, too well, he could pull you to orgasm so fast, even at god knows what time in the morning. From the rising sun outside of your balcony, you knew it was early.
“You want to be with me for real?” Raised eyebrows, temptation in his voice, a depth to his eyes that only came out when he was in the mood to have you crying beneath him, the ghost of fear nipped at your spine. You nodded.
“You– fuck,” Mingi gasped, hips bucking into Yunho’s hand. “You know we do.”
“Then you’ll learn what it’s like to be with me,” staring down at you beneath his brows, his jawline sharp from where you looked up at him, you gulped at the sight of gravity in his eyes. Fingers hitting the spongy spot inside you repeatedly, it was hard to feel the fear through the pleasure, to understand the weight of his words as he pulled you so damn close to the finish line.
“Yes,” you whispered, back arching, eyes closing, your orgasm so close you could taste it.
Mingi wasn’t far behind, his fingers curling into the bedsheets, his legs trembling, small gasps and mewls falling from his lips one after another, it was ridiculous how easily he had the two of you rendered stupid before him.
Lifting yourself onto your elbows, your voice shaky, you cry, “I-I’m close.”
“Me too, don’t stop, Yunho,” Mingi moans from beside you, sounding weary, teetering on the edge.
Yunho smiles, a flicker of something in his eye that assured you the fear in your spine was right. His fingers scissor you open like he could make you cum with his eyes closed. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t give you permission, and you push a heavy breath through your lips like it’d help pause your impending orgasm while you wait for the green light.
“I’ve been too lenient with you,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “I did some thinking, too, and I think you two forgot who I am, why you asked me to share your bed in the first place.”
Your eyes blow wide, panic surging through you, “Yunho, I’m gonna cum–”
He slips his fingers out of you at the same time as he pulls his hand away from Mingi’s cock, your thighs snap together, a curse slipping from your lips. A too verbal cry leaves Mingi’s throat, his cock spurting ropes of white cum onto his hips, his stomach, his orgasm completely ruined.
“We’ll see if you still want me by the end of today,” Yunho is smiling while ignoring Mingi’s heaving chest and teary eyes, proud of himself, happy with what he had just done to the two of you. Your eyes are dancing between Yunho and your boyfriend that has tears slipping past his waterline, his jaw dropped in shock, in anguish of what had just been done to him. You wished you could have seen his raw reaction, the moment his orgasm was denied.
“I didn’t forget everything that happened yesterday, did you?” He asks, eyebrows raised, eyes flickering between you and Mingi. “Today will be different.”
Your body was on fucking fire– fear, arousal, the orgasm that was still on the brink beneath your hipbones, you didn’t know which emotion to pay attention to first. You tried to speak, some form of rebuttal, every string of words came out jumbled, completely incoherent. Yunho grinned. Mingi whimpered.
“Clean yourselves up and come to breakfast,” Yunho climbs off the bed, running a hand through his black locks as he makes for the door. “Don’t touch each other, don’t touch yourselves. I’ll know if you do.”
You swear the beach is hotter than it was yesterday.
All thirteen of you, after having breakfast out on the deck, packed up for another beach day that was thankfully right in San’s metaphorical backyard. No one was acting out of the ordinary, it seemed safe that no one heard the three of you getting edged by Yunho’s hands just a few hours ago, or getting split open by his cock last night, but you wondered if anyone could pick up how fucking frustrated you and your boyfriend were come this morning.
You obeyed Yunho, you didn’t touch each other after he left this morning, instead you kept your distance in your bedroom while you got ready for breakfast, as Mingi took a cold shower, letting ice fill his veins as he replayed his ruined orgasm in his mind.
Yunho was careful around you at breakfast, around your friends, only meeting your eye when he felt yours on him, while you were daydreaming, fantasizing, watching how his veiny hands picked up his utensils, how his pretty pink lips wrapped around the food he ate, how his body bent when he stood up from the kitchen table, the low rumble in his tired voice as he spoke to Hongjoong…
“This one.”
After escaping a calm breakfast, you were upstairs, getting ready for the impending beach day. Yunho had picked out a pair of swim shorts for Mingi, ones with a longer inseam, and had ruffled through all the bikinis you brought with you, choosing one less skimpy, but still as revealing as a bikini would be.
He handed you a black triangle bikini with small, white polka dots printed on the nylon, the bottoms were string-tied, the back ruched at the middle. Thrill danced in your blood at the thought of wearing something he chose for you, an invisible display of dominance to the people who would see you in it. He hasn’t done this yet. This was new.
“We’re playing today,” he sat back on the bed, you and Mingi standing before him, backs straight, heels touching, as per Yunho’s request. You were already buzzing with adrenaline, excitement, anticipation. “If it’s too much, you know what to say, but I’ll be expecting obedience, without question. Understood?”
You and Mingi nod furiously– he clicks his tongue.
“Yes, sir,” scrambles out of both of your mouths simultaneously. You’ve never spoken about or decided on a title formally, you’ve only said the word to Yunho playfully a few times, just for him to respond ‘be careful what you wish for.’
You were more than careful, it’s indescribable how the title makes you feel. Yunho has taken care of you both from the start, slipped into a role on his own when he started spending time with you, but today he’d officially take on the role fully, no shortcuts, no excuses.
There were times you’ve gone grocery shopping or went out to eat and he’s told you to not speak unless spoken to, to only walk on the right side of him, Mingi on his left. Something like this lit a fire in your belly, playing in front of your friends when you and Mingi knew Yunho didn’t want them to know anything about you three, you’d have to be discreet, yet still obey him completely, it made you nervous. Excited to comply, to appease him. Still excited, but nervous about what happens if you don't.
This was Yunho, unshielded, unapologetically himself, this was Yunho showing you who he is, what he wants. Your request had turned into a test, one you deeply wanted to pass; because in your mind, passing felt like the last obstacle. That if you passed, he’d have no reason to deny you any longer, no further reason to say no.
Because he didn’t answer you last night with a yes, in your mind, it was still a no.
Excitement flared in your eyes when he nodded, pleased, “Good.”
When he laid out the rules for today, they seemed simple.
You’re to sit with good posture on his left, Mingi on his right. Easy.
There shouldn’t ever be sand on his towel, if there is, you or Mingi clean it off when you see it. The thought of the two of you doting on him makes your heart skip a beat.
You’re both to make sure he is never without a drink, you get him another when he’s finished the one he has. He’s testing your ability to pay attention, to focus on him only. He should be at the forefront of your mind all day— as if he already doesn’t live there.
If you need anything, if you want anything, you ask permission first. Submission, structure.
No complaining about the sand, the heat, if you or Mingi are in distress, you tell him properly, without whining. He wants you polite, but neither you nor Mingi were one to complain about anything, anyhow.
You both are to stay within arm’s reach of him all day. You want to be by his side, anyways, but being expected to… you would pass his test with flying colors.
You didn’t ask what happens if you didn’t follow them, maybe you should’ve. It feels full circle from Wooyoung’s going away party all that time ago, when you were curious about the date he brought, why she acted the way she did. How a part of you craved it, when you didn’t even know what it was.
The sun scorched the sand, inescapable, a dry heat that was only eased by the salty breeze that snuck past your bodies every now and then, so sporadically you could barely call it relief. You had created a small village on the beach, multicolored towels laid out in a line, beach chairs, umbrellas, coolers with liquor, bags full of snacks, a large speaker that played nostalgic music over the sound of waves crashing on the shore. Looking at the scene made you laugh, you could remember coming to the beach with the same damn people with nothing but a towel and a handle of vodka.
A lifetime ago.
You sat with your knees bent in a pretzel, back straight, palms in your lap. A drink was buried in the sand next to you, something sour, Tzuyu mixed it, she claimed one was enough to keep you buzzed for a while. That was fine with you, sunglasses on your face, watching the waves fold onto the wet sand at the shoreline, head tilted, humming to a song you knew all too well while it danced with the breeze.
Yunho bent down beside you on the empty, clean baby blue towel, the corners still stiff and bent from how it was folded in San’s linen closet, the print on it still bright, likely new. Your chin perked up with his presence, sunglasses perched on his nose, black hair already damp with sweat and mussed on his forehead, sun-kissed and angelic. Your mouth watered before he uttered a word.
“You have sunscreen on?” Short, curt, filled with expectation. It wasn’t just the simple question forcing a rush of adrenaline to sweep through you, heart rate picking up, fingertips twitching against your skin, it was his tone; strong, composed, yet somehow condescending, as if you couldn’t remember to put your own sunscreen on.
You nodded, the need to appease him curling low in your gut, the desire to make him pleased. His tongue clicked, words. You sputtered, “Yes, I put some on before we left the house.”
“That was an hour and a half ago,” he sighed, running long, milky fingers through the damp black locks on his head. “I’ll get some.”
He used his palms braced on his thighs to stand again and your neck twisted to Mingi on the far towel, raising your brows.
Mingi gave you a small shrug, Here we go.
You glanced around the group, taking in everyone’s whereabouts. San and Jongin laid out on beach chairs beneath the sun, carved abdomens dipped in honey, shiny and slicked by sunscreen and sweat. Hongjoong and Seonghwa were down by the shore, mid-conversation, hats blanketing their hair, ankle-deep in the water. Tzuyu, Jihyo and Sana laid in a line to your left, gossiping, drinking, bodies a contrast to the towels beneath them.
Wooyoung had dragged Jongho and Yeosang into the sand off to your right, convincing the two men to bury him. You think Wooyoung started drinking when his eyes opened this morning.
You felt Yunho’s presence at your back like a shadow, a promise of unfinished business. He leaned in tight, next to your ear, “This drink is the only one you’ll have today.”
Your breath hitched in your throat, but you nodded. You didn’t ask permission before drinking it. His silence, his lack of movement, snapped you back into place, back straightening. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
Fuck. You could genuinely moan at his tone, the way he’s biting his words, silvery in what he expects of you, the power he holds in two small words. Maybe he wants you all fuzzy and moldable, like jelly, testing your ability to control yourself and keep your focus on him.
“Yes, sir,” it’s a mere mumble under your breath, head tucked down, just low enough for him to hear. You can feel Mingi’s eyes on you, you wonder if he heard, too, or if your cowering body is lost on him.
Yunho hums in satisfaction, “Sit on your knees, I’ll get your back.”
You don’t hesitate to tuck your knees under your body, ass pressed against your calves, the breeze on your now exposed tummy making you feel bare. Exposed in front of your friends. You can’t believe how it sends a deep pang of arousal through your entire fucking body. You hear the bottle open, lotion squirting into his hands, rubbing it together in his palms before he touches you.
It’s like lightning hit you, how your entire body jerks at his touch, how his palm pressed to your skin makes your thighs clench on command, excitement thrumming beneath your skin. You can blame it on this morning, how he left you tightly wound and needy, the rules swimming in your mind, but the truth was that any time his skin touches yours it’s electrifying, it reminds you of all the times he’s fucked you brainless, it makes you ache for more.
He rubs the lotion onto your back slowly, massaging it in, you couldn’t tell if his movements were erotic or if your brain had dropped to the gutter. Over your hips, the sides of your waist, the tops of your shoulders, the backs of your arms, each movement was controlled, slow in a way that let you feel each point of pressure, how he was studying you as he worked the lotion onto your skin. Your neck inevitably bends, head drooping, shoulders slouching, despite the lotion being cold, his hands on you were so warm. Your thighs untensed, knees breaking apart, lungs emptying themselves into the summer air, it felt so fucking good to have his hands on you.
One palm smoothes up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck, the other hand squeezing your hip over the waistband of your bottoms. “Up,” he bites, the singular word a nasty whisper. “Pathetic for you to lose your composure over sunscreen.”
You were grateful for your sunglasses– no one could see your eyes fluttering at his words. Your back straightens, knees kissing once more, hands folded in your lap. “Good girl,” his voice is still too low for anyone else to hear, if anyone was paying attention. It probably seemed like Yunho was just being friendly, helpful, putting sunscreen on your hard to reach places.
It didn’t look like that at all to Jongho and Yeosang, sunglasses shading their eyes as they scooped sand onto Wooyoung’s body, hands going motionless with each curve of Yunho’s fingers on your skin.
“Are you seeing this too?” Jongho asked the older man, eyebrows furrowed, his voice laced with confusion.
Yeosang nods, “And Mingi’s just watching. I’d lose my shit if you touched Tzuyu like that.”
“I’d fucking kill you if you looked at Jihyo like that,” Jongho agrees. Their eyes linger, watching how Yunho leans in close to your ear, how your back straightens, body locking all over again.
Wooyoung’s head peeks up from the sand, “What am I missing?”
“Do you think she’s cheating on Mingi?” Yeosang asks, sitting back on his heels.
“What?” Wooyoung sits up straight, the layer of wet sand on top of him cracking and falling in chunks onto his lap. The two other men groaned, knowing they were going to have to put it back on him in a moment's time.
Jongho shakes his head, “Mingi’s watching, no way she’d cheat, and no way Yunho would do that to him. Plus, he's never been territorial.”
Wooyoung’s neck stretches forward like he was squinting to see beneath his sunglasses. “Mingi doesn’t care if you flirt, I think giving her a back massage in front of the entire group is different.” His head tilts to the side. “But yeah, he really is just watching. Huh.”
“Interesting,” Yeosang’s lips scrunch, but he brings his head of red hair back to Wooyoung. “Lay down and let us restart, dumbass.”
After getting a slew of pictures of Wooyoung’s bronzed body buried beneath the sand, a mermaid tail packed over his legs, fake abs drawn onto his abdomen, the still-giggling men came back over to the group, covered in sand head to toe.
Wooyoung ran a hand through his hair, shooting back a mouthful from his can, “Anyone wanna go swimming?”
Jongho and Yeosang were behind him, sweaty and beautiful, sand on their exposed bodies like a second layer of skin. You blinked at them, silent, because you didn’t wanna swim, part of you was scared that if you stood, someone would notice the patch of wetness on your bikini bottoms, despite them being black. Your fear held no bounds, no logic, but it was enough for you not to move a muscle.
Mingi leaned into Yunho, whispering something in his ear.
“Can I go?” Too low for your ears to catch, Mingi gave Yunho puppy eyes from below his shades, his voice sweet as candy.
Yunho gave him a short nod, forgoing a rule for Mingi’s appropriate execution of another, your boyfriend hopped up, a smile on his face, following behind his friends down to the shore. His dimpled lower back above the green shorts, how they scrunched around his thighs, the muscles in his shoulders too defined as he jogged away, fuck. You felt like an animal. A perverted, sex-crazed freak with the way your bottom lip caught between your teeth at the sight of him, how your toes dug into the towel beneath you.
You laid on your back instead, trying to rid your mind of the thoughts, of the expectations over your head. Taking a deep breath to ground yourself, to stop being so fucking horny on the blazing beach with all your friends around you.
Yunho’s empty can pressed against your arm.
You turned your head to see his jaw in a steady line, his brows raised. Shit. You stood up, walking over to the cooler in three steps, grabbing him another drink. You opened it for him, he thanked you as you handed it to him, you smiled as you took the empty one.
Even doing something this small, this insignificant, had goosebumps raising on your body. Doing it for him.
Yunho was facing you when you got back to your towel, laying back again, hands laying at your sides. His voice was quiet, soft in a way that meant he was just checking in, “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” you answer in a smooth breath.
“Give me something better than that,” he frowns, voice lowering in volume, “I don’t want to ask you to throw a color all day, if I ask you how you’re feeling, give me words. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
You sit up on your elbows, sunglasses sliding down to the bridge of your nose. The first word that comes to mind, “Stimulated.” You smile, head tilting, “Hot, a little frustrated. Mostly eager.”
He smiles, “That’s good, right where I want you.” He leans back on his own elbows, his can buried in the sand beside him, between you. “Sometimes I think you were meant for this, y’know. You take structure well, you perform easily with it.”
“That’s because I enjoy it,” you respond, words coming easily, the alcohol making your lips loose. “More than I’m supposed to, I think. I like it the other way around too, sometimes.”
He quiets, watching Mingi out on the water. “You both switch. I wonder what I’ll do with you both sometimes.”
Your lip curls in gratitude as you lean your head towards him. “You’ve changed since spending time with us too, you know. Maybe you don’t need to do anything, maybe the three of us are fine how we are.”
He turns his head tight, but doesn’t say anything. You stare through your shades, holding your ground, hoping he feels what you said, and doesn’t cower in fear because what you have is real. He jerks his head to the towel next to him, voice unyielding once again, “Over here.”
You push yourself up without a word, cleaning off your towel before you grab your drink and move to Mingi’s towel, laying back down, all without question or hesitation. Yunho smiles, pride etched into the curve of his lips, “Good.”
The praise sets you ablaze all over again.
When Mingi returns, water dripping down his body, dark hair pushed back by his fingers, Yunho already had a towel in hand. Up by the umbrella, you watched with your head tilted back as Yunho ordered him over by just a nod of his head.
“Water feels so good,” he beamed, sandy feet walking between your towels, shedding droplets of water from his swim shorts as he walked past. He didn’t even notice you’d switched spots, or if he did, he didn’t say anything.
He reached a hand out to grab the towel from Yunho’s grip, but the older man shook his head, “I got it.”
Mingi stood dumbfounded for a moment, but turned around to face the three boys’ gaze who walked up from the water, also dripping saltwater, coated in sunshine. You were sure Mingi’s skin was burning as Yunho dried him off, slowly wiping the towel across his wet skin, on his hair. You bit your cheek. For someone who didn’t want anyone to know, he wasn’t exactly being discreet, but you supposed no one noticed Yunho at the going away party, either.
“They’re so weird,” Sana mumbled under her breath, on her stomach, elbows holding the weight of her upper body. She dipped her sunglasses down to the bridge of her nose, watching Mingi and Yunho across the sand.
Jihyo and Tzuyu turned over on their towels, looking at Sana to see where her eyes were locked, then focusing in on the scene before them.
Tzuyu smiled, “Yunho’s so sweet, it must be nice for them to be so close.”
Jihyo squinted. The way Yunho’s hands dragged up Mingi’s body, his fingers curled over Mingi’s shoulder, how he leaned in to say something in his ear. She had a feeling since that morning, catching Yunho in your apartment, but brushed it off because you wouldn’t lie about something like that. Especially not to her. She would never judge you for having a threesome.
But Mingi’s head dipped down, eyes on his own crotch, mumbling a few words in response, and Jihyo’s lip curled. There’s no fucking way. She turned her head, “I caught Yunho at their apartment, you know.”
Sana and Tzuyu’s heads snapped to Jihyo, eyebrows raised, silently saying continue. Jihyo sighed, “Yunho was shirtless, towel on his waist, he had just gotten out of the shower. In their living room. Mingi had on boxers, she looked just-fucked. They said he was only there to shower because he had no water.”
“Doesn’t he live right around the corner from Joong and Hwa?” Sana asked. “If he didn’t have any water, why didn’t he just go there for a quick shower instead of traveling across the damn country?”
“They’re close,” Tzuyu leaned in, forever devil's advocate. “Would you go to Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s for a shower if Ji was home?”
“First of all, girls are different,” Sana shook her head. “Also, yes. They have a waterfall shower, and those jets in the walls for your body, plus Seonghwa uses that really good body wash from—”
“Exactly!” Jihyo cuts in. “Literally exactly my point. There’s something going on there, right? I’m not crazy?”
“Definitely not crazy,” Sana shook her head again. “Remember how Yunho snapped at me last night, too? When has he ever done something like that?”
“Maybe he was tired,” Tzuyu’s voice was small, like she didn’t believe the words that were coming out of her own mouth. “I don’t know girls… They've been together forever. Do you really think Yunho would be involved with them… intimately?”
Jihyo shakes her head, lips scrunched, disappointed that you’d keep something so important from her. She even insinuated it, and you said no. “Who knows what goes on with them anymore. It’s not like we get any details.”
Yunho is more than pleased when Mingi cleans off the left side towel for Yunho, then the center one for himself, after Yunho nodded his head in silent direction, instruction in his body language only.
You were buzzing. You were both following instruction cleanly, discreetly, you were passing with flying fucking colors, you wondered if your ability to obey made him any more inclined to be your boyfriend. Your boyfriend’s boyfriend. You wish you could be inside his brain so desperately.
Yunho stood, brushing the sand off his multicolored, patterned shorts, throwing his sunglasses back on the towel. You sat up involuntarily, knowing if he moved, you moved with him.
He didn’t look back as he started for the shore. You stood, Mingi following, within arm’s reach as you flanked him down the beach, to the water. None of you knew you had eyes on you the entire time. Or that Wooyoung approached San the moment you walked away.
You minded your surroundings as you breached the shore, no sign of Hongjoong or Seonghwa, they must be on a walk, or back at the house. You’ve been so laser focused on Yunho and Mingi you almost forgot everyone else was there.
“Min said the water’s nice,” Yunho looked to you, then over to Mingi on his other side, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Wanna swim?”
You nodded, even if you didn’t have a choice. You wondered where the line stood with things like this, if you didn’t want to swim, if the urge to obey wasn’t so heavy. Would you be punished? For something measly like swimming?
Ice wraps around your ankles, your calves, your body shaking, hissing the deeper you went into the sea. Mingi and Yunho dove in, completely unaffected, fully submerged by the time you got up to your hips. “Fuck, it’s cold, fuck,” you had your arms tucked tight to your chest, slowly wading deeper into the water while they swam a few feet out, laying under the sun for hours would have made the warmest water freezing.
“How the hell are you guys so deep?” You yell across the waves that crashed against your abdomen, water reaching your belly button. “It’s fucking cold.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Mingi teased, grinning, hair melted around his face, flat against the curves of his cheekbones.
“And watch your mouth,” Yunho added, also teasing, smiling, on his back as he floated in the water. You scoffed, then faced the water before you, you’d have to rip the bandaid off if you were ever gonna be comfortable in the water.
“Just go underwater, baby,” Mingi called again. “You can do it. I believe in you.”
You scowled, eyes pointed, jaw locked. “It’s too fucking cold.”
Yunho’s smile widens, listening to your complaints, drinking them all in. You hissed again, dipping your fingers into the sea, up to your forearms, legs pushing against the moving water to get deeper. Up to your waist, below the tie of your bikini top, you finally said fuck it and sank beneath the surface.
Holding your nose, you gasped when you came back out to the salty air colder, ice consuming you head to toe. The two men just feet away cheered.
“Come here, baby, swim over,” Mingi called out, ushering you over with one hand. Breathless from the cold, you wiped the saltwater out of your eyes, blinking through the sting as you swam closer to them. Clinging onto your boyfriend’s front for life, he tucked one arm under your ass as you moved his hair out of his face. He smiled proudly, eyes bronzy beneath the sun, “It’s nice, right?”
You still shivered in his hold, but smiled playfully, he’s so handsome it hurts. “Fuck, fuck you.”
“Curse again,” Yunho taunts from a foot away, swimming closer, affection in his voice. His eyes go over your head, scanning the beach behind you, before they land back on you, just as icy as the water. “See what happens.”
“I’m sorry,” you whine, “it’s cold.”
“I’m in the water with you, quit whining,” he muses, coming closer. “I’ll give you something to whine about. Is that what you want?”
Arousal licks up your spine, you twitch in Mingi’s hold, but you shake your head. Yunho’s head tilts, “You sure, baby? You’ve been fidgeting all day, bet you’re feeling empty by now, aren’t you?”
You’ve been doing so good. Keeping up with his rules, being obedient, focused, you didn’t think your arousal was noticeable at all. You shake your head again even if Mingi could feel your thighs clench, “No. No, I’m fine.”
Yunho’s hands tug on your hips below the water, turning you until your back is pressed against Mingi’s chest, slotting himself between your floating legs. Mingi keeps his hands on your waist as your breath goes shaky, eyes widening, “Y-Yunho they can see—”
“Mingi is blocking us, they can’t see this far out,” Yunho cuts you off. “This body is mine. You don’t get to question me, you don’t get to worry. That’s my job.”
Even in the water, being held up by your boyfriend, he still feels so fucking big in front of you. You swallow, looking up at him through lashes coated in saltwater, voice as small as you felt, “O-okay.”
“You take what I give you, when I choose to give it,” he tilts his head, hands sliding down your thighs, thumbs curling into your plush skin, feeling so soft beneath the water. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” you nod, and he grins. Leaning in, he presses a soft kiss to your lips, hands sliding up your hips, up to your waist, over Mingi’s hands. He breaks away just to press a kiss to Mingi’s lips, too.
Your heart is racing in your chest. Intimidation, adrenaline, the press of cold surrounding you, concern about someone seeing you.
He leans back, keeping himself close. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Horny,” you blurt and he laughs. You shake your head, smile on your face, “Overwhelmed.”
His eyes look up to Mingi behind you, who responds, “Also horny. Stretched thin.”
“Color?”
“Green,” you and Mingi respond simultaneously without missing a beat.
“Don’t be scared,” Yunho shakes his head, grabbing your wrists lightly, sliding them onto his abdomen. “Do you trust me?”
You nod, “Yes, sir.”
His eyes jump to Mingi who didn’t realize Yunho was talking to him too, in a rush he responds, “Yes, sir.”
“Then make me cum.”
Mingi keeps a knee beneath you as his hands race to Yunho’s waistband, reaching in to feel Yunho’s cock that wasn’t even hard. Mingi looks up at Yunho who smiles, “The water’s real cold.”
At the shoreline, Hongjoong and Seonghwa had almost returned from their walk, fingers interlocked, legs moving at the same pace, mirroring each other’s movements. A mile down the beach, a mile back, the sun was warm, the water cooled them down, they loved everything about the beach. They’d get married on the beach, one day, soon.
Standing in the shallow water, arms stretched by how Seonghwa kicks about the waves and sand, Hongjoong stops him. “Baby, Hwa.” Seonghwa looks up, his attention grabbed, Hongjoong’s chin dips in the direction of the sea, a little ways out from where they stood, “Is that Yunho out there with them?”
Seonghwa puts a hand atop his eyes, shielding his vision, squinting beneath his glasses. “I think so. Maybe they stopped fighting.”
A theory the two had going from the time you’ve spent at San’s beach house so far, one they discussed before going to bed last night, a silly question from Hongjoong’s mouth that Seonghwa couldn’t believe he caught on to, too. From your reactions when choosing rooms to the bonfire yesterday to breakfast this morning, Hongjoong and Seonghwa have been keeping an eye on you three, reading your body language, your interactions.
“Oh shit,” Hongjoong’s jaw dropped when Yunho leaned in to kiss you. “Oh shit,” he smacked Seonghwa’s arm when Yunho kissed Mingi, too.
“What? What did you see?” Seonghwa is leaning in, bending forward, fidgeting where he stood, angling his head around to see.
“They kissed, Hwa,” Hongjoong is whispering, his voice coated in sheer disbelief, “they fucking kissed!”
“Who kissed?” Seonghwa raises himself on his tippy toes as if he wasn’t already taller than his boyfriend who could see clearly, “Joong! Who kissed?”
“Yunho kissed both of them,” Hongjoong’s hand moved to Seonghwa’s forearm, “Holy shit.”
“Holy shit,” Seonghwa whispers, a small mumble, his eyes widening beneath his sunglasses. “No- no, what are they doing now?”
Hongjoong breaks out in a wide grin, before a disbelieving laugh punches through his lips. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. In public? In ocean water? People pee in there. Fish pee in there.”
“I feel like we’re intruding,” Seonghwa shakes his head, turning away. “We’re definitely not supposed to see this. We shouldn’t watch. This is an invasion of privacy.”
“They’re hooking up on the beach! They’re lucky there’s no one else out here.”
“This section is private,” Seonghwa turns away fully. “San owns it, or something like that, I don’t know how it works. Plus, we can’t see what’s happening under the water, they could be—”
“You mean to tell me they aren’t jerking him off right now?” Hongjoong’s orange brows bend over the frame of his sunglasses, his smile completely amused.
Seonghwa cringes, but turns around again to meet Hongjoong’s grinning cheeks. He looks out in the water, studying, frowning, “I don’t know if she’s doing anything. It might just be Mingi and Yunho.”
“Okay, but still,” Hongjoong smacks his teeth. “They’re seconds away from fucking in the ocean. Am I wrong?”
Seonghwa’s lips flatten, “Don’t say anything. They didn’t seem okay yesterday and today they’re inseparable, so clearly they’re figuring something out, and keeping it private.”
Hongjoong pouts, “Boo.”
Seonghwa smiles, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his boyfriend’s lips, “Do the right thing, my love.”
“You’re right,” Hongjoong sighs, looking out in the water again. "That's so juicy, though. In the middle of the ocean for anyone to see is crazy.”
You feel dizzy on your walk back up. Frustration curls low in your gut, a pestering weed left alone for too long, growing at a rapid pace through your veins, into your limbs, your chest. You needed to get off. Your composure was running scarily thin.
“Can I go to the bathroom when we get back up?” You ask Yunho, fingers laced with Mingi’s, both walking behind him, you on his left side, Mingi on his right.
“Are you gonna touch yourself?” He looks over his shoulder, brows raised.
You shake your head, “No, sir. Just need to pee.”
He nods, small, but permission-granting.
You didn’t say anything to anyone as you walked past the group, up to the house, to the outhouse tucked into the side of the property. It was more like a shack, no roof, thin bamboo walls to separate the toilet from the shower, nothing was enclosed except for the main door which was latched shut.
You eased a breath as you put the black steel hook through the matching loop, running your hands through your hair, eyes squeezing shut while the throbbing between your thighs becomes too much to bear in the silence of the bathroom.
Just for cursing.
Just for complaining about the water being cold.
He’s mean. He’s so fucking mean. You asked for this, he reminded you three times, but the words that left his mouth, so degrading, so teasing, all while being passed between them like a fucking doll. All while neither of them touched you. That was almost worse than having your orgasm ripped from you this morning, watching, listening to them pleasure each other, while being on the sidelines but also right fucking between them, you don’t know if you can do it.
You don’t know if you can take him like this. Mean, arrogant, purposely denying you pleasure because you haven’t earned it yet. You’ve been good all day. You deserve it.
You sit on the toilet with furrowed brows, knees kissing, toes touching the wood beneath you. Your clit cries for attention, throbbing, buzzing, there’s a streak of wetness in your bikini bottoms that was too fucking slick to be washed away by the ocean. Your body feels tight, wound-up, aching for attention.
You could probably get away with it if you touched yourself. He’s not in the bathroom with you, he’s down at the shore with Mingi, with your friends, he’d never know. Your thighs clench at the thought, it wouldn’t even take long. You could probably get off in thirty seconds. Your jaw clenches, fingers curling to fists on top of your thighs. Don’t do it, your subconscious screamed at you. He’ll know.
You swallowed, taking a deep, grounding breath. Your need to obey, to please him, outweighed the ache. At least that’s what you told yourself while you wiped. You opened the latch after washing your hands to be met with Yunho standing outside the door. You jumped, a gasp leaving your lips, “Shit, you scared me.”
“Give me your hand.”
You stared at him dumbfounded before the instinct kicked in. He pulled your fingers to his nose as soon as you lifted your palm, sniffing deeply. Just his fucking touch made your thighs clench.
“You didn’t touch yourself,” he says it like he’s surprised.
Biting your lip, you shake your head. “No, sir.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, moving to push past you and you want to scream. He’s even denying you a kiss to your fucking lips?!
“I can’t do it anymore,” you whisper.
He leans back, brows furrowed. “Can’t do what?”
“I need you to touch me,” your voice cracks on touch. “I need you to kiss me, I need you to fix whatever is happening to me right now. I’m gonna freak the fuck out.”
His eyes thin, jaw settling and god you want to sit on his face. “You don’t need anything.”
“Yunho,” you fall forward, forehead pressing against his still-wet chest, hands landing on his hips, the soft skin just above his swim shorts. “I need you. I can’t take it anymore.”
His neck cranes side to side, a heavy sigh pushing through his lips, his hand landing on top of your hair, fingers massaging at your scalp. “I’m teaching you submission,” he says into your hair, his voice steady. “It’s what you asked for. This is what it would be like. You can say red if you want to stop.”
Red feels like giving up, failing the test. You’re frustrated, but not enough to say the three lettered word that would end it all. You’re wound tight, clit still throbbing for attention, but the need to impress him aches worse.
You stare at him blankly, saying nothing. His lips curve, standing back a step. “You have your answer then.”
“Wait,” you interject, pleading with your hands on his chest. “Why did Mingi get to cum, then? How is he any more well-behaved than I am?”
“You didn’t follow the rules,” he shrugs, answering plainly. “I don’t have to give you a reason, if I don’t want you to cum, then you don’t cum. Your body is mine to do as I see fit.”
“I can’t,” you whine, hands going into your roots, frustrated. You don’t even know what was going to follow the two words, what’s left to say after that.
“Stop whining,” he bites. “It’s ugly, and you’re not ugly.”
Your bottom lip quivers, leaning into him, hiding your frustrated face. “I’ve been good.”
“And that’s ending now, I guess.” “Yunho.”
“Are you acting like this because you want to get punished?” Two hands on your cheeks, he pulls you away from his chest, forcing you to look up at him. “Purposely whining to piss me off, even when I gave you clear, concise instructions for the day?”
You shake your head, ears tipping with heat. You can feel the heat everywhere. Shame, arousal, they blend together with the need to appease him, to impress him, you’re fighting against your own instincts.
“Then listen,” he snaps. “That’s the last time I’m going to say it.”
Jongin sees you as he leaves the house. He grabbed his keys from the rack in the kitchen after the group decided to go out for an early dinner, a place that served bar-food just down the street. You, standing with your head in Yunho’s chest, until he grabs you by your cheeks and tilts your head backward, talking to you… sternly? He stays pocketed behind the tall pampas grass, watching through leaves, his heart picking up in his chest. Is he catching something he isn’t supposed to?
Somehow, he moves far enough to where neither of you see him, and makes his way back down to the beach. He has to tell San, he has to tell Mingi– should he even get involved? Considering what Wooyoung told him and San earlier, there’s a chance Mingi is in on it, too.
“Got our keys,” he smiled briefly at San. “We should wait until they get back.”
San lifts a brow, “Did you see them? Any treachery?”
Jongin shakes his head quickly, not exactly sure why his gut tells him to lie. “I saw him inside, she was outside. No treachery to be seen.”
San’s lift lips in distaste. “Boring.”
Jongin feels bad lying to his boyfriend of three years, the man who changed everything about himself for Jongin, the yin to his yang. But this felt out of his control, a little too heavy for the friend group to be throwing around so easily, it's more than gossip. You, Mingi, you’ve been together for so long… longer than he’s known San. From what he’s learned, you’ve been together longer than any of the couples here.
Except for Hongjoong and Seonghwa. Maybe. He’d have to ask San for clarification on that one.
It wasn’t long until you and Yunho were bouncing back down the beach, wide grins on your faces and damn, his conscience feels heavy after lying. You bend down to press a kiss on Mingi’s lips and the way he grins with stars in his eyes tells Jongin enough. He’d keep his mouth closed for now. But if you and Yunho were any more obvious, if you take another risk— maybe someone else wouldn’t be as nice.
There’s bamboo everywhere. Sand under your feet, surf boards lining the baby blue, wooden walls, the roof coated in thatch, the tiki bar–cafe-restaraunt whatever the fuck was the pinnacle of everything Haos claims to be. An escape, another world, somewhere the wealthy pride themselves in vacationing, it reminded you to breathe. To enjoy everything around you, your friends’ laughter, how the sun just beginning to sink was now far less brutal, the way Mingi and Yunho both had a claiming hand on either one of your thighs under the long, wooden picnic table.
“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” with one hand on either of your shoulders, Yunho walked in the center of you and Mingi in the parking lot, one step behind you after you climbed out of Jongin’s Jeep.
You were still playing. Stomach still churning, body still wound tight, you wished you could force yourself to believe that you wouldn’t explode if someone didn’t touch you soon. Still embarrassed over your outburst earlier, not being able to handle what you asked of him, most of you was glad he didn’t give in– even if arousal kept your body temperature heated to a low-grade fever.
Mingi, free as a bird, was giggling to himself at something Wooyoung said across from you, his face sunkissed, his forehead, the tip of his nose, like the sun shone down on Mingi alone. Maybe it did, your irresistible boyfriend with a heart of gold, you wouldn’t be surprised if the sun woke up every morning hoping just to see him. The sound was music to your ears, you leaned your head on his shoulder, hands holding onto the small, laminated menu.
You flexed your thighs, I missed you guys.
The answering squeezes to your skin told you they missed you just as much.
“Today went by too fast,” San shook his head of messy black hair to the left of Mingi, it was a rare sight to see him unkempt. San was always dressed to the nines, hair gelled back, face chiseled, the face of masculinity. Seeing him with pink cheeks and an affectionate grin made your heart swarm with affection, you loved it most when the group left business behind and lived in the moment instead. “I need to have you guys here more often.”
“Invite us then,” Wooyoung teased back, still shirtless, sitting on the end of the table across from Yunho. Skin bronzed and glowing, he reminded you of some kind of Greek God, like him and summer had a contract. “We’ll come when you call.”
Jongho leaned forward, his flower-patterned shirt unbuttoned and dragging along the picnic table, his dark hair messily sprawled across his forehead, sunglasses still sitting over his eyes. “Says the one who lives three states away.”
Wooyoung laughs, leaning forward, looking to his right to see Jongho almost at the other end of the table, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“At the risk of being fired, I’m sure,” Hongjoong smirks, the only person to his right Seonghwa, who held the end of the table. The pair still had their matching hats on, sunglasses resting above the brim, the only two whose faces were unaffected by the sun’s rays. Maybe you should all invest in hats, the sun was inescapable in Haos.
Yunho leans in, eyes dancing between each speaker, “Are you gonna get fired?”
Wooyoung shakes his head with his face scrunched like his company wouldn’t dream of firing him. Sana’s dark eyebrows raised, glossed lips falling in a line like he wasn’t telling the whole truth, the sight made a snort fall from your nose. When Wooyoung noticed, he nudged her side, scoffing, “You know they won’t fire me, they need me. You’re supposed to be on my side, Sana.”
You lean back with a laugh, hand covering your mouth, so stupid it was funny. You missed him so much, and if the possibility of Wooyoung getting fired was any indication, you think he missed you guys just as much.
“We should take pictures after dinner, at sunset on the beach,” Tzuyu chimes in, sitting in her crochet cover up between Yeosang and Jongin at the end of the table on your side. “No dressing up, just in our bathing suits with some drinks, candid style.”
Jihyo and Sana agree, nodding, sitting next to each other like two peas in a pod. “We should get couples shots, too,” Jihyo adds, dark hair waved by saltwater covering her bikini top, “Jongho and I haven’t taken a proper picture together in so long.”
“Woo and I need pictures for our holiday cards,” Sana agrees, nodding, already leaning into Jihyo. Wooyoung, with his sunglasses pushing his hair off his face, silently groans from beside her. You giggle at his face, stealing Sana’s attention.
Before she could open her mouth, San leaned forward, talking across you and Mingi, “Yun, we need to get you a girlfriend so you can be involved, too.”
You stop laughing immediately like San had reached over and stolen the smile from your face. You blink as Yunho’s hand jumps from your thigh, your body stiffening, trying not to let your eyes widen, to show surprise or discomfort on your face while a sharp pang of something sour hits your chest.
“We could ask a random girl from the bar to pretend,” Wooyoung snickers, eyes locked with San’s.
Jongho laughs, a high-pitched, amused sound, “We’d have to pry him away from those two first.”
Yours and Mingi’s attention jumps to Jongho, who eyes you both, mischief in his eyes. Yeosang, with his elbow on the table, props his chin on his cheek, staring down at Yunho, asks, “What happened to that girl from Woo’s going away party?”
Yunho shakes his head of chocolate locks inflated by humidity. Voice clear like he wasn’t bothered at all, he answers, “Just didn’t work out.”
Your body is on fire. So badly you wanted to tell them all to stop speaking about the past, to not bring up a future that isn’t centered around yourself and Mingi. Yunho is yours.
“Are you okay?” You pick your head up to Jihyo who was eyeing you carefully, eyes pointed, jaw set. “You look sunburnt.”
You shake your head, forcing an easy smile on your face, “I’m fine, probably am sunburnt.”
“How? Yunho put sunscreen on you, like, four times,” San wore a slimy grin, the table erupting with laughter.
“It was once,” you counter, eyes narrowed, tone biting. “And I can’t reach my back.”
“You’re quiet, Mingi,” Wooyoung interrupts, and Mingi’s eyes pick up, wide and doe-like.
“What do you want me to say?” He asks, brows furrowing, head tilting like Wooyoung said something stupid. You smile. Yunho puts his hand back on your thigh.
Like a saving grace, the waiter finally approaches your table, breaking your conversation to ask for your order. Yunho orders for you, then for Mingi, exactly what both of you would have chosen if you’d ordered for yourself. You felt eyes on you as Yunho finished, but you didn’t dare meet a single person’s stare. You didn’t want to know what their eyes would tell you.
You didn’t have to guess, not when San spoke after the waiter left your table, his voice a blanket over one end of the table to the other. “Am I crazy? Is anyone else seeing this, or is it just me?”
The three of your heads pick up in a line. The table is quiet, the only thing you can hear is the reggae music, soft from the speakers, dissipating into the summer breeze. Low, far but close, it melts into the sound of waves, offsetting how thick the tension had become at the table.
San’s face bulges out, bewildered, “No one’s gonna say anything?” He turns to you three and your heart falls into your ass. “Are you three together?” You swallow the bile in your throat. “Are you fucking?”
“No,” Yunho’s answer comes before your lips could part. The word is rigid, a wall, a finality. You look at Mingi who’s already looking at Yunho, his eyes so big, so round, you can hear your heartbeat over the music, the breeze, the waves. No.
Yunho even laughs a little. “Come on, are you serious?”
You glance at Jihyo who’s already looking at you like she knows everything. Like your skin was transparent, and she could see your heart cracking beneath your ribs all over again.
“You’ve been joined at the hip all day,” Wooyoung’s grin is feline, like he wasn’t done prying for information. “Can’t blame our minds for going there, can you?”
You and Mingi don’t smile, don’t laugh. You can’t pretend. Yunho takes a sip of his drink, “They’ve been together for years, you know we’re close. It’s weird that your mind would go there.”
Weird. It’s weird. He’s not yours at all. You feel like ice under the summer sun, melting too quickly, soon you’ll be a puddle darkening the sand beneath you if you don’t remove yourself from the situation. You refuse to let any of them see you upset. You hate that a part of you doesn’t want them to know if Yunho doesn’t want them to know.
You look at Mingi, I’m going to the bathroom.
He nods once, eyes glossy, you wish you could bring him with you. Pushing yourself up with your palms on the table, you swing a leg over the bench and don’t look back, don’t listen to a single word as you nearly run to the bathroom. Your skin is on fire, there’s no air conditioning in the small two-stall bathroom with baby blue walls, it’s suffocating.
You stand at the sink, throwing cold water on your face, two hands hooked around the white ceramic to force yourself to calm the fuck down. What was last night for? What did you talk about all of that shit for? What did you fuck for? Now you feel fucking stupid for today, for thinking you’d pass a test he was never proctoring. It all felt redundant. Pointless.
The door swings open, you don’t move. “Are you okay?”
Jihyo, smiling softly, apologetically. Your lips tighten, you refuse to let tears fall. You refuse to repeat what happened last time. You should have expected this.
“All good,” you force a smile. “I think I got too much sun today.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” she leans in the middle of the two sinks, shoulder pressed to the wall between the mirrors, one manicured hand on your forearm. “Did he lie?”
You huff amusement, it lacks any semblance of warmth. “Yeah, he lied.”
“Fucking asshole,” she crosses her arms. “What’s with him and commitment? That day I came over, I knew it, I knew what he was there for.”
All you can do is shake your head, “I don’t know, Ji.”
“How long has it been?”
You hum before answering. “A month? Five weeks maybe?”
“Damn,” she shakes her head. “The way he looks at you… I don’t understand him. I don’t understand the denial.”
You give her another weak smile. “Don’t tell the others. Please.”
“I won’t,” she scrunches her lips to one side. “You still have Mingi, though. And Mingi has you.”
“Thank god for that, right?” Your smile is only half-fake now, moving away from the sink, pressing your back against one of the stalls. “Although I think he’ll be more upset than I am.”
“He was holding it together out there,” Jihyo shifts to lean her butt against the sink, head tilting. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth from the start?”
You shrug, lips flat. “It was instinctive, we hadn’t talked about it yet. After you left that day he freaked out, we fought, we only worked that situation out last night.”
“He said you’d tell people?”
You tilt your head, showing your bottom row of teeth, “Not exactly. More so that we’re more comfortable being in a gray area now, our feelings out on the table, working towards something. We weren’t expecting anyone to call us on it.”
“They’re such assholes for airing out your business,” she pushes herself off the sink, taking two steps toward you to throw her arms over your shoulders, tucking you into a hug. “I’m sorry, you guys will figure it out.”
You let your eyes close, sucking as much comfort as you can from the hug, “I hope so. Thanks, Ji.”
She pulls away to cup your cheeks, “You know you can talk to me, right? Let me in, I can be a shoulder to cry on.”
You nod, fingers wrapping around her wrists, “I will.”
The rest of dinner was damn near silent. Yunho was in your head with apologies, none you answered, you didn’t want to talk to him or hear him out. Mingi answered once or twice, short responses, it was clear the two of you were hurt and needed time to reset your feelings again. You didn’t want to argue, or settle your feelings in the bedroom again, you’d done that already. It clearly didn’t work. Pictures on the beach were swift, yours and Mingi’s were all fake smiles and silence, watching the live photos in your camera roll made your skin crawl. You don’t think you or Mingi said five words between dinner and bedtime, until it was the three of you in your bedroom again.
Yunho actually had the audacity to pull down the comforter. You stopped him with your palm splayed flat on the right side of the mattress, voice monotonous and bored, but your eyes shot daggers. “You can sleep downstairs.”
His brows raised, “Are you serious?”
You settled deeper beneath the comforter, Mingi still throwing on clothes after his shower. You hold his eye, “It’s weird that you’d try sleeping in our bed.”
His hands fall to his sides, all emotion wiped from his face. “I just said that so they would leave us alone.”
“You could have been honest,” you answer simply. “You could have laughed it off. You could have said anything other than it being weird, Yunho.”
His face softens, “It wasn’t my intention to–”
“You don’t seem to have any intentions,” you cut him off. “You can sleep downstairs, like you were planning to last night.”
Lips bending, a slow nod, without another word he turns around, grabs a pillow and a blanket, and leaves your bedroom. Mingi, watching from the dresser, finally crawls into bed after Yunho closes the door behind him.
You open your arms, welcoming him into your chest, fingers immediately scratching into his hair, pressing a kiss to his clean scalp that still smelled like seasalt, “You okay baby?”
“Tired,” he mumbles into your chest, voice deep and heavy. "Don't wanna do it anymore. Too confusing.”
“You wanna be done?” You pause, fingers stalling in his hair. He looks up at you, his eyes big and round, sad. You frown, one hand sliding down to graze his cheek. “We can be done.”
“I don’t want to,” his voice is so small, just barely above a whisper. “But I think it’s obvious we’ll end up being his secret forever. I don’t want to be a secret, I want him to be proud.”
“Me too,” you lean in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m proud you’re my boyfriend, y’know.”
He smiles, “And I’m proud you’re my girlfriend.”
“That’s all we need,” you kiss him again, parting your lips for him, sinking farther down the mattress until he can roll on top of you, elbows bracketing your head. Throwing your arms around his neck, your legs over his thighs, you break the kiss to say, “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he smiles into the kiss, body pressing into yours, and it’s the easy reminder that you’ll always have him, no matter what, that eases weight off your chest.
It’s easy to pretend everything is okay when you lean into the reminder that Mingi will be by your side forever. It’s stuck with you since seven in the morning, when San abruptly woke up the house cracking a wooden spoon against a pot, screaming activities day over and over. He popped into your room with a wide grin, asked where Yunho was, and left your room as confused as he entered it.
Jet skiing, mini-golf, a barbecue, ending the night at Rêve, a reputable bar in town. San insisted that your last day should be filled with the best things Haos has to offer. Of course he left out the part that jet skiing was at the yacht club he was a member of, and that he owned shares at Rêve, making him part-owner; never humble until he was supposed to be, you wished he told you to be on your best behavior today.
Not that your group would ever be on their best behavior. Wooyoung was already drinking by the time you went downstairs for breakfast, he made mimosas for everyone, you had two. The first you chugged after Yunho went upstairs immediately after you entered the kitchen, the second you chugged when he came back downstairs, shirtless, swim trunks painted onto his thighs. If you were going to be forced into activities with him all day, you should make it easier for yourself.
White buildings with terracotta roofing, there were too many buildings to count, a winding paved asphalt driveway up to the front where men in suits stood under a white awning, one approaching as San put his Bronco in park parallel to the main doors. It had valet.
The yacht club was beautiful, massive, every nook and cranny of the main building screamed prestigious. All patrons you encountered were dressed up, some in sports wear for the golf course you could only assume is somewhere on the grounds, in long summer dresses or business-style suits, everyone seemed important. Everyone looked proper. Part of you felt out of place, with your group half-dressed in bathing suits and cover-ups like you were headed to the beach, but it didn’t last long when you got outside to where everything was docked.
Your mouth didn’t close once from the time you walked inside the heavy red doors all the way out to where he kept his jet skis docked, next to his boat, The Kai. Not a far walk, you realized, you assumed meant he was also a very important person here, too, the size of his boat only aided in the confirmation.
He owned four jet skis, which meant four couples could ride at a time, leaving two couples and a Yunho out. Luckily he had a cooler fully stocked on his boat, one he and Jongin brought out to the dock while the first wave of people went out on the water. On the dock were Mingi, Jihyo, Jongho, and Yunho– of course, naturally. You sipped on a seltzer, sitting between Mingi and Jihyo, your feet dangling over the side, one arm behind you holding you up.
Yunho sat on the other side of Jongho at the end and as much as you were grateful after you and Mingi threw in your white towels last night, it hurt that he wasn’t even trying. He didn’t even look at you, not once today, you think. At least when you got out on the water you and Mingi were smiling and laughing, he let you drive the jet ski, which he quickly regretted when he realized the watercraft turned you into an adrenaline junkie.
Mini-golf was ten minutes from the yacht club, half of your group in San’s Bronco, the other half in Jongin’s Jeep. A standalone establishment that had a small course on the outside, an ice cream shop on the inside, and a small kitchen for bar-type food. The alcoholic bar itself was small, connected to the kitchen-half of the indoor space, but it didn’t stop your friend group from ordering a round of shots, cocktails, and beers for all. Even better, the tab at the bar plus admission for minigolf was all paid for by San. His treat, he said, and who were you to argue after seeing The Kai?
There were too many of you for one singular game, but the consensus amongst the group was that you wanted to play together. So instead of splitting your group in half to play two separate games, you played in pairs, and once again you and Mingi were thrown into a triplet, this one you didn’t agree to so easily. One shot down and a cocktail in your palm, no one could feel the tension between the three of you, the energy should be light at mini-golf. You mentally decide you’ll be civil. Maybe you’ll even try being friends.
Mingi and Yunho both had beers in their hands, neither jumping for joy at the blue club you chose, it wasn’t the longest, and the two men you shared with were a hell of a lot taller than you. You stifled a laugh as Mingi uncomfortably hunched over the club as he lined up his feet, awkwardly swinging the club to hit the blue ball.
“This game is fucked,” he stands up straight when the ball bounces off the back wall, missing the hole completely. The first hole is the easiest.
You snort a laugh where you stand, watching his face morph into frustration, his brows knitting and lips parting like he couldn’t believe he missed. “You’ll get it next time,” you encourage, taking a sip of your cocktail.
Hongjoong goes up next, he makes it in with one swing. Tzuyu goes next, she makes it in with one swing. Sana next, she makes it in with one swing.
“This is fucking rigged,” Mingi curses, taking another sip from his beer. Yunho laughs under his breath as your arm comes up to rub his back encouragingly.
“Don’t worry,” you coo. “Yunho and I will win for you.”
“I can play golf,” Mingi argues defensively. “The club is just short. Yunho won’t be able to do it, either.”
Jongho goes next, he makes it in with one swing. Mingi’s brows raise like he’s seconds away from losing his shit. Jongin next, he makes it in with one swing. Mingi’s fuck is loud enough for the children at hole thirteen to hear.
“Don’t get us kicked out of minigolf, Min,” Wooyoung is still laughing, a hand clutching his belly. “We know you’re competitive, it’s just a kid’s game.”
“I know it’s a kid’s game,” Mingi bites, all in one breath, barely looking at the younger man as he says it. Your face is full of amusement when Wooyoung turns to you, brows raised in surprise.
“Don’t ask me,” you shake your head. “I’m not his keeper. When it comes to games, he’s on his own.”
It’s your turn again, the blue ball alone on the green. You’ve played enough minigolf in your life for this to be muscle memory– childhood games at arcades, random birthday parties from school friends over the years. But it’s been a long, long time since you were a kid, too long since you’ve come close to a minigolf course. Your first swing, just a foot away from the hole, you miss. The group laughs and you roll your eyes, waving a hand, “I’m just warming up!”
“Oh, I’m sure!” Sana’s voice is dripping with sarcasm and your lips tighten. Feeling hotter now, you line up your feet, the club with the ball, and swing.
You fucking miss.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you huff. “Someone hand me my drink, I need to be drunker if I’m gonna suck.”
Yunho’s laughing as he hands you your cocktail and you suck down half of it before lining your feet up all over again. You hit the ball this time, but it’s fueled by your rage, it bounces off the brick siding and onto the green of hole four right next door to hole one. You straighten, hand covering your mouth, eyes widening as your ball hits someone else’s ball that was currently playing hole four.
“I’m sorry!” You call as the young kid, definitely not a day over the age of eight, throws the baby blue ball back onto the faded putting green. It’s as if it was in slow motion, how he threw the ball in a perfect arc for it to land flawlessly in the hole without as much as a singular bounce. You whip around to your friend group, eyes wide, “Does that count? Can that count? Jongin, count it.”
Your friend group sounds like a clan of hyenas, loud cackles, obnoxious laughter breaking out across twelve people because of how ridiculous that unfolded.
“Are all three of you competitive?” Seonghwa asks, genuine, voice light and kind.
You shrug as you walk off the green, “I’ve never really played sports, I don’t know.” Skipping over to Jongin who was keeping score, you brush up close to his sculpted arm, tone candy sweet, “So? Are we counting it or what?”
He makes a shh motion, one finger raised, smiling behind the purse of his lips. Your hand forms into a fist and you tuck it into your body with success, “Yes, hole in two, baby.”
Mingi and Yunho are snickering when you return to them, but it’s Yunho who mocks you, “Not competitive, my ass.”
“Hey,” you point a finger at him. “You can’t make fun of me, I’m pissed at you. I said I was gonna make up for Mingi’s shit swing.”
“Yours was even worse!” Mingi’s voice is high-pitched, still defensive. You’re all giggles when you lean into him, pressing a hand to his cheek to pull him down for a kiss. Beer and home, he tastes like half of you.
You feel Yunho’s eyes, but you don’t stop, you don’t do anything to make him think it’s for him. Even if there’s the evil part of you that hopes he wants to rip his skin off his body, that he’s so enraged he sees red, you hope he doesn’t act on it. You hope he doesn’t act on anything ever again.
At hole two, Yunho surprises you both with how efficiently he makes the ball into the hole with only one swing, yours and Mingi’s jaws falling to the concrete. Yunho exudes everything smug on his return.
Smirk on his lips, rolling his shoulders, he says, “What? Like it’s hard?”
Your laugh is verbal disbelief, Mingi immediately quips, “Do not quote Legally Blonde right now.”
Yunho’s giggle is proud, his grin wide, his shoulders doing a little shake in celebration. So fucking cute you could rip out all your hair, you dig your head into Mingi’s chest to smell him, to rid yourself of feelings towards Yunho. Your forehead meets your boyfriend’s skin with a groan, “I need another drink.”
The third hole goes by quickly, efficiently, Mingi excited he got a hole in one, deservedly so. At hole four, you’re up again after a cocktail and a half, at least you’re at the starting line this time. You stare at the blue ball sitting on the green, eyes squinted, whispering, “Do not embarrass me. Okay?”
“Are you talking to the ball?” San asks, humor laced in his tone. “I don’t think it’s gonna answer, girl.”
“I’m giving it a pep talk!” You snap your head to respond and then stare at the ball once more. You line up your feet, then the club with the ball, and swing.
Your fuck is louder than Mingi’s was when you miss. You wave apologetically to the family of four that shoots daggers at you from across the course.
“I can’t watch this,” Yeosang shakes his head as he approaches you. “You're legitimately killing me.”
Your face heats with embarrassment as he stalks up to you, determination in the crease of his brow. You pull all your hair to one side as he stands behind you, arms wrapping around you, hands dwarfing yours over the handle of the club. “Hold like this,” he explains, then kicks one foot between yours, spreading your legs farther, your knees bending. “Stand like that.”
Yunho, tensing beside Mingi, snaps his head to the side to get Mingi’s attention. “Hello?”
Mingi’s brows furrow when Yunho’s shoulder bumps him, his feet staggering. “What?”
“Look,” Yunho says, like it’s absurd Mingi just asked what. He can see the flex of Yeosang’s arms as he stretches them over your shoulders, the veins swimming along his forearms while his hands clasp over yours. It makes his jaw tick, his heartbeat quicken— you’re not Yeosang’s to touch.
“He’s showing her how to play,” Mingi says casually, taking another sip of his beer, leaning towards Yunho like he was watching a sitcom instead of his girlfriend getting felt up by another man.
Yunho’s head tilts, dumbfounded and semi-enraged that Mingi doesn’t feel a shred of the possession he does, his voice a harsh whisper, “Yeosang has had a thing for her since… since forever.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Mingi’s brows raise as he turns to his best friend, a disbelieving chuckle falling from his lips. “No he hasn’t. Tzuyu is right there.”
Yeosang kicks your feet apart and Yunho’s body jerks at the action. His foot inches forward, fingers grasping his beer a little harder like he was ready to pounce. Instead, he grits his teeth, “Have you ever watched Yeosang interact with her? Like ever? He’s basically told you to your face he thinks she’s sexy.”
“She is sexy,” Mingi shrugs, rolling his neck nonchalantly. “If I’m not pissed off then you shouldn’t be either. She’s not yours, she’s mine.”
Yunho’s neck snaps, meeting Mingi’s dead-serious stare. Stunned into silence, he shuts his mouth, drinks his beer, and lets it be. Just when Yunho thought they were getting somewhere, that maybe you wouldn’t be awkward all day, he’s surprised that Mingi’s the one who put him in his place. It’s worse when you return smiling, overflowing with excitement, asking Mingi if he saw your hole-in-one three times before throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him. He feels sick, palms sweating, you weren’t doing this to get a rise out of him, you were leaning on each other because he was the one who fucked up. Again.
The rest of mini-golf goes by in a blur. He doesn’t speak much, he doesn’t have anything to say, his mind is on a roll, trying to come up with any sort of plan to fix this. He needs to get you two alone, he needs to apologize, he needs to say something to get the two of you to stop looking at him like you don’t care about him because that in itself is so fucking terrifying he can feel his goddamn throat close another inch every time he notices.
The drive home is quiet, wind in Yunho’s ears, he can’t even hear the soft music playing through the speakers, he didn’t care to. Out of the corner of his eye he watches you sink into Mingi in San’s backseat with the sun laying over your lap like a blanket, your eyes closed beneath your sunglasses like you didn’t have a care in the world. Like nothing was bothering you at all.
He’s never let himself learn just how terrifying it could be to love someone who didn’t want him. Two people who didn’t fucking want him.
“Who’s ready to BBQ?” Wooyoung shouts from the passenger seat of Jongin’s Jeep, emphasizing the acronym, basically hanging halfway over the door while grinning wide enough to showcase each and every one of his bone-colored teeth. You’d just pulled into San’s driveway, finally back at home to barbecue, to fill your stomachs with a good, hearty meal before you were back on the streets for Haos’ nightlife.
Everyone piled out of the cars quickly, heading inside just for the men to immediately split off into the kitchen to start prepping the grill. You watch as they gather around the kitchen island, shouting orders and ideas about cooking of all things until Tzuyu bumps your hip with her own at the base of the staircase, stealing your attention.
Pulling her hair tie from her bun, she lets it fall behind her in loose waves, scratching her fingers through her roots, “I guess the man-grill thing is genetic. Or built-in, like a default setting.”
“There’s nine of them,” you whisper. “How many does it take to man a grill?”
“Nope, I’m out!” Hongjoong raises both his palms beside his head in defeat while he retreats from the kitchen. “You’re all insane, I’m showering and napping. Call me when dinner’s ready.”
“Eight,” you correct yourself, a grin growing on your cheeks, and Tzuyu laughs from beside you.
Jihyo, her bag over her shoulder, enters the living room with Sana at her side, the two approaching you and Tzuyu with grins on their faces. Sana does a little shake of her hips, grin reading excitement, “Who’s ready to fuck up the club?”
“It’s a bar, I think,” Jihyo laughs, “but it’ll be nice for us all to go out and let loose.”
“We’ve done nothing but let loose all weekend,” Tzuyu furrows her brows.
“No.” you shake your head once. “We have not.”
“I brought face masks,” Sana’s fingertips dance together mischievously. “We should pre-game getting ready while they grill and shit.”
Out on the deck, Mingi stood over the grill in front of the railing, a pair of tongs in his hand while he flipped pieces of meat and seafood on the black, steel grates. The speaker inside played music through the screen door, everyone mindlessly humming and singing along while they set the table, chatter and laughter flowing through the chilly summer breeze that ruffled his hair.
So many years these guys have been his friends, so many years Yunho has been his friend, he can’t believe it’s all gone to complete shit. This was his worst fear coming true, the lingering fear when all of this began, that he’d cross a line and lose Yunho. Yeah, they’d all still be friends, but his friendship with Yunho has always been different. Deeper. He can’t believe he’s losing it, right in front of his eyes.
He felt alive again that first night in Haos, back to normalcy, you three felt closer than before, just for it to be ruined all over again the next day. Each and every time he met Yunho’s eye today, he hated that those three words still sat in the hinge of his jaw, the back of his throat, begging to be spoken. He could tell it was the same for you, where your eyelids sat over your glazed pupils, a certain twinkle to them as you stared up at Yunho even if you tried to hide it. He knows what the words look like forming on your lips, how you tighten your smile to stop them from spilling out, he knows you like the back of his hand.
He can’t believe you both love him and you can’t have him.
“Almost done?” Mingi’s head snapped up to Yunho on his right side, his head peeking over Mingi’s shoulder, the heat of Yunho hotter than the grill. Speak of the devil.
Mingi nods, eyes sliding over his face. Big, brown eyes with clean cut brows giving them structure, cheekbones high and sculpted, lips a pretty, pale pink heart. He wishes there was no one else on the deck, he wants nothing more than to lean forward and press his lips to Yunho’s, he hates that his feelings still linger.
Yunho’s head tilts when Mingi lacks a response, amused by Mingi’s eyes locked in on his lips. “What’cha thinking about?”
“Nothing,” Mingi mumbles, bringing his eyes back to the grill.
Yunho sighs, “Mingi–”
“Don’t,” Mingi keeps his eyes locked on the burning fire beneath the grates. “I don’t want to hear it, it’s all bullshit.”
It feels like a blow to Yunho’s ribs. “None of what I want to say is bullshit, Mingi. You know me.”
“I thought I knew you,” Mingi mutters, purposely keeping his voice low. “I thought I knew how you felt about us, I thought we were getting somewhere, that even though you’re scared, you wouldn’t pretend you didn’t feel anything.”
Yunho frowns, his head dropping. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, Min.”
“But you did,” Mingi meets his eye. “And you knew you did in the moment. But you didn’t go back on what you said, you didn’t change your answer. You let me sit there looking stupid because I–”
Mingi cuts himself off and Yunho’s brows furrow for a second, “Because you what?”
“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” Yunho urges. “Everything you say matters.”
“Not to you,” Mingi turns sideways, his jaw locked, his brows flat. “Don’t apologize, don’t say whatever pretty words you think are gonna make it better. It was embarrassing, Yunho, sitting there while everyone laughed at the idea of us being together because you said it was weird.”
Yunho’s fingers rub at his eyes, exasperated, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it, it was word vomit, I got scared–”
“Yunho,” Mingi’s voice is so clear, so even Yunho stands a little straighter. “I know how you feel already. You’re twenty-eight years old, you’re old enough to know words have meaning. You know how we feel about you. We’re done here.”
Yunho’s throat is so tight he doesn’t think he could take a breath even if he tried. There’s no oxygen in the air, nothing to feed his lungs, Mingi’s words feel so concrete all he can do is turn around and walk away. Inside, toward the bathroom, he’s walking without vision, without a brain, he locks the door behind him and finally heaves a strained, verbal breath.
We’re done here.
You’re done with him. Mingi’s done with him. His back presses against the door, facing the ceiling, willing his tears to stay below the surface. He’s right. He’s grown enough to know that his fear is childish, that it’s time to settle down, he shouldn’t be afraid of what his friends think, what anyone thinks. He shouldn’t be afraid of commitment with you, he knows you won’t hurt him in his soul, he knows how you feel about him. He feels the same way toward you, if not deeper, he feels so fucking much toward you that it terrifies him.
He’s running out of time to get over it.
If this was a month ago he’d be seeing this situation as an out, he’d be thinking that this was for the best, but now his heart feels shriveled down to a husk in his chest. Hollow, like the best parts of him were gone, missing the people who made him feel whole, gave him purpose outside of sex. Outside of the role he gave himself.
When he goes back out onto the deck, the sun’s at its last moments of visibility over the horizon, the girls had made it back down, too. You sat next to Mingi at the corner, Jihyo and Jongho across from you, Tzuyu and Yeosang beside you. Yunho sits beside Hongjoong who’s next to Seonghwa, and the couple look at him with sad eyes.
Seonghwa leans across Hongjoong, his voice low. “What’d you do?”
Yunho sighs, lips flattening. He doesn’t question how Seonghwa read the situation. “You saw what I did. At dinner yesterday.”
Hongjoong makes a face, one that says you’re fucked. “That was a tough watch.”
“I know,” Yunho answers, tone flat. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t think we’re able to give you advice, this is out of our area of expertise,” Seonghwa looks apologetic, voice soft as he leans across Hongjoong to lay his palm flat over Yunho’s hand, encouraging. “You’ll figure it out if you love them as much as they love you.”
Yunho stares at him for a second and for the first time in thirty minutes he can’t actively hear his own heartbeat. He gives Seonghwa a soft, grateful smile, pulling his hands back in his lap, thinking.
You’ll figure it out if you love them as much as they love you.
He lets his eyes graze over the meal, a feast is what it was, far too much food for thirteen people to consume and feel good after digesting, but no one seemed to care. Music flowed from inside, loud yet calming, a backtrack to conversation, banter, laughter, not anything Yunho could hear over the sound of his pounding heart.
San made a toast to the last night in Haos, a small speech of how happy he was to maintain the friendships that were vital to him. Appreciation for all of you, gratitude for years of friendship, relationships he wouldn’t trade for the world, he even choked up talking about how close he holds everyone to his heart. Not often does he get emotional, but the way the table stood, clapped, clinked their glasses and took turns squeezing him tight, maybe he’ll be more inclined.
Maybe the three of you weren’t the only ones who are having an emotional weekend.
By the time dinner was over, all thirteen of you stuffed full, the impending night out seemed more like a chore than anything. Yunho’s stretched out on the couch half-asleep until he hears Wooyoung complain to San that the girls were getting ready in his room, perking his ears enough for him to wake the hell up and trudge up two flights of steps to his room, your room, to see Mingi passed out in the bed.
A white tee, briefs on his legs, he lays on his side, both hands pressed together beneath one cheek, lips parted as he snores softly. Yunho smiles to himself, staring from the doorway, leaned up against the wooden frame, he looks so peaceful. So pretty, Yunho wanted so badly to crawl onto the bed and press a kiss to his lips, he knows better. Instead he creeps across the hardwood, gathering his things for a shower and leaves.
The hot water gives him clarity. Maybe it’d be easier to confess tonight with a little liquid confidence, it’d give him an easier flow, he could say everything he needs to say without the stupid fucking wall that’s embedded in him biting his tongue. He loves you, he loves you both so much he feels incomplete, the world feels tilted off its axis without you two by his side. One week without you was hell, one day watching you with each other was like living in purgatory, the in-between, where he can look but can’t touch, he thinks that might be worse.
Mingi’s still asleep while he starts getting ready, he only wakes up when Yunho’s buttoning up his shirt. He sits up slowly, wiping at his eyes, “What time is it?”
“After nine, I think,” Yunho responds, staring at Mingi through the mirror. His hair looks untouched, eyes half-lidded, he licks his lips three times just to get moisture in his mouth again. Yunho can’t fight his smile.
“Fuck,” Mingi’s top lip lifts. “You’re dressing up?”
Yunho grins, “I’m only in a button-up and pants.”
“Yeah, but they’re your good pants,” Mingi argues, “the ones that make your ass look good.” His eyes widen after he says it, like his own words woke him up the rest of the way, but he doesn’t correct himself.
Yunho looks over his shoulder like he’ll be able to see his own ass. “You think my ass looks good in these?”
Mingi stretches, a verbal noise of tightness leaving his chest as his arms go over his head, his shirt lifting at the hem, Yunho’s eyes snap to the exposed bit of skin like a moth to a flame. Mingi lays flat on the bed, arms straight out beside him, legs spread. “You know it does, don’t play coy.”
Yunho laughs a little as he buttons the last one, leaving the top three undone, one silver cross pendant sitting on his chest. He turns slowly, hands planted on the dresser behind him, taking a breath to build confidence since there was zero liquor swimming in his blood, “I regret what I said at dinner yesterday.”
Mingi sits up on his elbows, sleep still evident in his glossy eyes, his tone remains flat, knowing. “Do you?”
Yunho nods, lips scrunching to one side. “I don’t like how we are right now.”
Mingi sits up all the way, “I don’t like it either.”
Yunho’s voice is breathy, a little shaky as he asks, “Can I fix it?”
“Last time we were fixing things it took one day for it to get fucked up again,” Mingi lifts himself off the bed, running a hand through his hair. He stops right before Yunho, facing him, “You’re the only one who needs to figure your shit out, Yunho.”
Yunho watches as Mingi heads for the door, calling behind him. “What if I figured it out already?”
Mingi holds his stare from the door. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Stuck in time, Yunho stares, his tongue caught between his teeth, his heart in his throat. Mingi laughs a little, disappointment clear as he shakes his head. Before heading to the bathroom, he mutters, “Thought so.”
Yunho curses under his breath when he hears the bathroom door close, the shower turning on. He doesn’t wait around for Mingi’s return, he goes back downstairs, most of the guys already showered, dressed, ready to go. He opens a beer with the same tightness in his jaw, frustrated that Mingi just gave him an opportunity to speak and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say a word.
There’s music playing from the TV in the living room, something pop from a decade ago, he doesn’t have it in him to listen, or to the conversation happening around the kitchen island. San, Jongin, Wooyoung, Jongho, it’s all muted mumbling in his ringing ears, he feels pathetic.
It’s worse when Mingi comes downstairs and doesn’t even look at him. He joins the conversation seamlessly, the laughter grows, they’re talking louder than the music, it makes Yunho feel not only on the outside of his relationship, but on the outside of everything. Isolated because he can’t speak up, he can’t say how he feels, he’s trapped within his own mind, trapped beneath his feelings. He cracks another beer.
He doesn’t think it can get any worse until you walk down the stairs. On the couch now, he gets a front-row view of the black dress painted onto your body, tied around your neck, stiletto heels with straps that twist up your calves like vines. Mingi meets you at the base, picking you up off the bottom stair with one arm hooked around your body, lips pressed to yours, when he sets you down carefully he says something in your ear that makes your head fall back with laughter.
Emotion feels like bile rising in his throat. He’s jealous, but it’s different now; what was once frustrating was now driving, the words sit heavy on his tongue. You two look like you’re matching, dark clothes, hair styled, jewelry silver and offsetting one another, he looks down at his outfit and it’s almost like fate that he’s matching, too.
He looks back up to meet your eye across the room, what was supposed to be a glance lingers.
Yunho gives you the smallest of smiles, You look beautiful.
Your chin tilts upwards ever so slightly, I know, Mingi just told me.
Ouch. He leans into the backrest, I can’t tell you, too?
The corner of your lips tug upward. Thanks.
He watches as Mingi’s hand slithers around your waist. I need to talk to you.
You sink into Mingi’s hold, your back pressed against his chest, What if I don’t want to hear it?
Yunho’s jaw clenches. You do.
Sana shrieks from the staircase as soon as she sees Mingi’s lips pressed to the skin below your ear, “Do not fuck in that dress, I just bought it!”
You pull your attention away from him and he feels like grieving. You don’t give it to him again until you’ve had tequila poured into your mouth from the bottle, all thirteen of you in the kitchen fully dressed, pouring liquor like it’s water and calling it a pre-game. Outside, splitting two Escalades, rides San ordered for your group to take to Rêve across town, Yunho opted to sit in the back with you and Mingi, you scowled as soon as it left his lips. He smiles, because at least you care enough to frown.
San was immediately greeted upon approaching the upscale bar, stepping out of the Escalade to be met with two men wearing suits like it was regular, casual. Inside it was red everything, from leather booths to velvet barstools to the curtain that hung closed upon the stage; walls full of vintage framed photography, the architecture a brown so deep it appeared burgundy, dimly lit shaded lamps on tables, some traded for candles, the bar was drenched in an amber hue. It was definitely moody, a brand created off of atmosphere, it felt cozy as much as it felt expensive.
It was calmly crowded, plenty of people filling up the tables in the center of the room, a crowd before the stage that had waiters with trays between them. You spotted martini glasses, short glasses of whiskey poured neat, women in daring dresses and doused in jewels, men in suits who blew clouds of swirling smoke in the air from their cigars. All thirteen of you looked appropriate, expensive– but not old money expensive like some of the patrons you observed. You wondered about the history of Haos, about San, how deep his pockets really ran.
You couldn’t wonder for long, though, with how the group was directed past the stage to a steel door at the back of the building that seemed… insignificant. Like it’d bring you outside or to a storage room, not to a long, dark hallway that hummed louder and louder with each step he took.
Bass thumped beneath your shoes, the group quietly following the man in black like this was normal, no one questioned anything only because San followed with confidence, chest puffed out, shoulders back. Surprise wasn’t the word for what was behind the twin steel door at the end of the hallway, it opened to flashes of blue and purple, music so loud it made you jump where you stood.
Women on platforms half-dressed, swaying their hips to the beat of the song, bottle girls with buckets of ice and handles of liquor atop their heads parting through the crowd like it was the Red Sea, patrons in clothing that matched yours exactly. The room was filled with people in your age group dancing to the music at the center of the backdoor club, the walls filled with enclosed sections you assumed were VIP, all by velvet roped attached to silver poles.
“So? Are you guys surprised?” San asks from the head of the group, his smirk turned to a wide, excited grin, which everyone replied with a monotonous, confused yes. San laughed, leaning into Jongin, “We wanted to surprise you, you guys looked so confused at the front, like we were gonna smoke cigars and watch Cabaret.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” Jongho shrugs, and most of the group nod their agreement, including you. You didn’t care where you ended up tonight as long as there was liquor for you to guzzle.
“This is better, no?” San raises his brows as he begins walking you toward the back wall, what you assume was your VIP section. “Music we know, people our age, it’s been a long time since we’ve all gone clubbing together.”
Tzuyu, in a red dress painted on her body, adds, “Because all the clubs at home suck.”
“Not the ones here,” San quips like he was waiting for that reply, entering the section backlit by blue lights cool enough to be white. “They love me here.”
“You own it,” Mingi snorts, “they have to love you.”
“I partially own it,” San raises a finger as he steps into the open booth, the table at the center already full of ice and champagne. “There’s a difference.”
Jongin starts pouring champagne into flutes, “Should we make another toast?”
“We don’t need to get all teary-eyed again,” Sana smiles, softly instead of the nasty smirk she usually wore with her rebuttals. This was appreciation. “We have our makeup done, Sannie made us emotional enough back at the house.”
“It’s not every day that you get to tell your friends how much you love them,” San holds the flute between his fingers, brows wiggling.
Yeosang laughs, “It could be, you just choose not to.”
You can feel the music in your blood, the dance floor calling to you, excitement in the bounce of your knee. You only spend fifteen minutes in your section, finishing a singular cocktail before Tzuyu’s pulling you out to the dance floor, after getting ready together in Sana’s room it was like all four of you had taken a breath of fresh air.
The dance floor was already swarming with sweaty bodies loosened up by liquor. Yours not quite there yet, you’re in a fit of giggles as the girls twirl you into the crowd, you stay on the outside of Jihyo and Sana who fall into rhythm, backs pressed to one another as they sway their hips, laughing as they twist around. You and Tzuyu are watching, smiling, giggling until the two pull you into their circle, forcing your hips into the same rhythm as theirs.
“I’m out of practice!” You yell over the music, and both Sana and Jihyo shake their heads, like they wouldn’t accept the excuse.
Jihyo slaps a hand on your shoulder, “You fuck, you know how to use your hips!”
Head tipping back with another laugh, you let her pull you into her, your hips so close they might as well be touching. You follow her rhythm, using a fuck-worthy roll of your hips as you do, bottom lip caught between your teeth while you focus.
“You’re thinking too much,” Sana’s behind you, hands on your hips. “You need another drink, damn.”
Your lips tighten in a line as you look up at Jihyo again, embarrassed. She laughs in response, “She means you’ll feel looser with a little liquor in you.”
Sana stops the bottle girl holding a tray of shots, her screech for help loud as she tries to balance four between her fingers, the three of you snatch them from her hands like candy. Shooting it back in one swallow, you push a breath through your lips like it’d rid the sting from your throat, your face scrunching up at the taste. Vodka– bitter, painful.
But it helps, it’s not long until your arms lay over Jihyo’s shoulders, your back pressed to Sana’s as she moves to the same rhythm as you, Tzuyu swaying her body in front of Sana. You can feel the music in your blood now, your body thumping with the bass, bones turning fluid with each shake of your hips. You’re unable to feel the warmth spreading through your skin, your senses already overwhelmed by the atmosphere, you’re too busy watching Jihyo’s half-clothed body grinding herself against you.
Eventually Tzuyu heads to the bar for more drinks, handing you another shot before a glass full of something and tequila, you don’t realize how quickly you’re sipping it while Tzuyu is bent over in front of you, her ass pressed to your crotch. You can hear your obnoxious laughter over the music when Sana lands a few smacks to her ass, Jihyo pulling out her phone to record it, the four of you erupting in a fit of drunken giggles and snorts, bodies light, brains somewhere else entirely, not once did you remember there’s an entire club of people around you.
It’s been so long. House parties, clubs, bars, your friend group used to be outside on a weekly basis, you missed it. You missed them, dancing with them, completely carefree, like you’re twenty-three again. It was nostalgic in a visceral way, like maybe you were twenty-three again, sharing platonic kisses with your friends on the dance floor, waiting for your boyfriend to come scoop you up and fuck you in the bathroom because neither of you could wait.
You don’t realize you’re drunk until Mingi joins you on the dance floor. When you see his face, structured and beautiful, strands of hair hanging over his glossy eyes, a smile on his plump lips, you feel the rush of warmth from your chest to your toes. His pants cling to his legs like they’re tailored to him, strong thighs filling out the fabric, his unbuttoned shirt is showing enough skin for you to lick down his chest. You want to, the urge sitting at the forefront of your mind, you lick your lips as he approaches.
“I was wondering where you went,” Mingi’s loud over the music, you could get drunk off the rasp to his voice alone. You throw your hands over his shoulders, swaying your hips to a rhythm he meets you at immediately, his hands on your waist.
“I’ve been here,” you tilt your head, dazed. “We were dancing, the girls are so funny.”
Mingi snorts, “You’re drunk.”
“Nooo,” you shake your head, the word exaggerated, playful. “Just tipsy. Did I tell you how handsome you look?” Mingi looks amused, brows raising, you don’t wait for his answer. “You look sofuckingsexy.” His belly laugh makes your smile grow. “I’m serious, Min. I want you, like now.”
He leans in to attach your lips, a quick peck, he fights your strength to keep him close. “Now? Like were twenty-three again? Don’t wanna wait until we get home so I can fuck you in our bed?”
A small noise slips through your lips at the thought. “Too far away, we just got here.”
“We got here over an hour ago,” his hands curl around your waist, gripping you harder. “You’ve been out here the whole time, baby.”
It feels like you’ve been dancing for ten minutes. “Whatever,” you whine, pressing your front against his. “Kiss me already.”
He obliges, smiling before he presses his lips to yours, hands sliding down to grip your hips, pulling your body flush to his. You gasp into his lips, he tastes like whiskey, bitter but sweet, addicting. Your fingers find his hair as his tongue parts your lips, tasting you, groaning into you, your hands fall from his neck to feel him.
“Baby,” he says with caution, you swallow the warning, tilting your head to kiss him harder. He squeezes your hips as your hands fall from his hair to his chest, palms splayed over his pecs down to his abdomen, tongue dancing with his.
“I just wanna kiss,” you mumble into his mouth, hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as you take his bottom lip between your teeth, biting softly. He groans, chasing your lips again, his hips pressing into you, he’s so easy it makes your core clench.
He parts your legs with one of his own, pressing into you, making you gasp a sound too lewd for where you are. Entirely bare beneath your dress, the pressure combined with the texture of his pants makes a breathy moan fall past your lips, one he drinks up with his own. Your fingers curl into his shirt tighter, hips bucking into him, one of his hands sliding up to the side of your neck.
“Can feel her on me,” his voice is deeper, almost a growl as he says the words into your mouth. “Knew you weren’t wearing panties.”
One of your heeled feet leaves the floor to grind against him at a better angle, head falling forward until your forehead lands against his, “Shit, feels good.”
He reaches behind you, fingers finding the hem of your dress, holding it taut over your ass. You moan again as your core drags over his thigh, forehead falling to his shoulder, the rest of the club melting away. He curses under his breath, “Baby, hold on, you gotta–”
You whimper into his shirt, eyes screwing shut, tequila and Mingi was a cocktail for impulsivity. Him, the smell of him in your nose, his body pressed to yours, he made you so fucking cockdrunk without even giving you an inch, without even touching you. The pleasure’s overwhelming, you needed more, pressure building steadily, you didn’t care where you were, who saw.
Yunho can’t believe what he’s seeing. Curiosity getting the better of him, he should have known not to follow Mingi out to the dance floor to find you. But he was growing antsy at the table, listening to the bullshit conversation everyone was having when all he wanted to do was kiss Mingi across the table. Sitting back against the couch with his knees spread, beer in his hand, lips wet and pink and plump, Yunho was stirring in impatience. He’s hungry, he wants to touch him, to kiss him, wants him on his knees between his legs, he wants to tell him how much he loves him with his lips wrapped around his cock. He stared with his chin in his palm, elbow pressed to his knee, his foot tapping against the floor, the liquor made him restless.
At least he waited a few seconds before following Mingi, just to find the two of you at the center of the dance floor, surrounded by bodies and eyes while you grinded your hips against his fucking thigh like you were the only people out here. Mingi’s holding your dress over your ass, your hands in his shirt, leg hooked around his body, he stared until he understood the rhythm you were moving at, watching how you twitched like you were about to fucking cum.
He was seeing red. In his mind you were both still his, and you were letting all of these random fucking people see you like this? Seeing what’s his? He was moving before he could think about it, pressing himself up against your back, hands on your waist to shield you from everyone who could be watching. His voice comes out rough, harsh, “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Your hips still like your blood was still victim to his command. Head tilting backward, you stare at him through wet lashes, lips parting, his name leaves your mouth in a soft gasp. Eyes hazy, glossed over, fuck, all his rage dissipates into the humidity of the club, just from one look at you. Disheveled, you didn’t have a frown on your face, your brows weren’t tied together, so fucking beautiful flushed with arousal he can feel it in his chest.
He looks at Mingi who’s equally as fucked out, cheeks red, eyes glossed over, he stares at Yunho like he wants to devour him, just like Yunho was staring at him in their section. His cock twitches in his pants, his heart twists, it’s been one fucking day and he misses you like he hasn’t had you in months.
He can’t take it anymore. He can’t do this anymore.
He isn’t thinking when he leans forward, sandwiching you between himself and Mingi as his fingers grab his cheeks, there’s no patience in the way Yunho kisses him, no softness, it’s all hunger and relief and driven by every single thought he’s had today. He says each one with each lick into Mingi’s mouth, he hopes he can feel it, the guilt, the fear, the ease he feels just by tasting the whiskey on his tongue.
“Oh my god,” he hears you whisper, it goes one ear and out the other as Mingi groans into his mouth, it goes straight to his cock. He feels you slip from between them as Mingi’s hands find his hair, his hands slide to Mingi’s neck, their chests pressed together like they couldn’t be close enough.
“I love you,” Yunho breaks the kiss only to say the three words into his mouth and he moans. Between kisses, he holds him close, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I fucking love you.”
“They’re watching,” you’re tugging on his arm, panic ebbed in your tone. “Yun, they’re watching you. They can see you.”
He pulls away from Mingi to turn to you, your eyes wide with fear, lips parted, eyes bouncing back and forth between Yunho and what he can only assume is all of your friends. He doesn’t care. There’s no shame, there’s no denial, there’s nothing inside him that could stop him from grabbing you by the waist, throwing the other in your hair, and pressing his lips to yours. He breaks it only to murmur, “Let them see.”
You’re stiff for just a second before melting into him, his kisses softer than those with Mingi, more controlled, like kissing Mingi took the edge off his impulse. “I love you,” he whispers into your mouth. “I don’t give a fuck if they see me kissing you, you’re mine.”
You hook your leg over his thigh, palms on his cheeks, relief flooding you. You tilt your head to the side, smirking, “You couldn’t have said that yesterday?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop speaking,” your fingers tighten in his hair. “Your mouth gets you in trouble. Take us home.”
Your friend group watches Yunho guide you both through the club with wide eyes and parted lips, you don’t spare them a glance as you and Mingi trail behind Yunho like dogs to their owner. The Escalades are still parked out front, a few words from Yunho to the driver and he’s opening the door to the backseat for you and Mingi, ushering you inside.
You stole Yunho’s mouth the entire drive, Mingi settling for his neck, the skin on his chest, more with every button he ripped apart. You didn’t speak, you didn’t need to, you’d said everything on the dance floor, specifics could come later. The only thing left was consummation, which was the only thing on your mind as you nearly sprinted through the front door, almost tripping on your feet on the climb upstairs.
“Careful,” Yunho said from behind you when you’d taken two steps at a time, but he couldn’t hold in his laughter, amused at your impatience. You ignored him, forgoing an answer to instead steal his lips once more when you reached the top of the steps.
His hands found your hips, tongue pushing through your lips, you felt Mingi’s palms a steady wait on top of Yunho’s as he backed you into your room, then closed the door behind you. You broke away to untie your dress behind your neck, just for Mingi to trade places with you, stealing Yunho’s mouth.
“Bed,” you said into the air, and watched as they tripped over each other, stepping in each other’s line of direction as they backed closer, closer, and closer to the bed. Mingi fell backwards, Yunho’s hands flying for his belt.
You kissed your boyfriend, who hummed when your lips met his. “Tequila.”
“Tastes good, right?” You smile into the kiss, dress riding up your thighs, body bent over completely to keep your mouth on his.
You can hear Mingi’s pants hit the floor, grabbing your attention. Yunho has his shirt off, Mingi’s briefs discarded. Yunho’s eyes, always cool and collected, are wide, crazed; sparkling with the moonlight that makes a puddle of white at the balcony door, casting the room in a hue of midnight.
Reality settles, and it’s heavy. Drunk you may be, but not drunk enough to not be wondering what’s going through his mind. “Hey,” you offer. His eyes meet yours, charcoal, swirling with moonlight, not quite steady. Your lips curve, “I love you.”
His bare shoulders settle, ease washing over him. He leans over Mingi’s legs, two hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you deeply, speaking into your mouth, “I love you, too.”
“Holy shit,” you mumble into his mouth, making him giggle right back. He giggled.
He loves you. He fucking loves you.
Mingi reaches for your legs, pulling one over his chest, you’re absent-minded as Yunho keeps his tongue tangled with yours. He pushes your dress up over your hips, holding it up over your waist, and pulls you down to meet his awaiting tongue.
You gasp out a moan as Mingi groans, bare hips bucking against Yunho who was still leaning over him. Yunho leans back, eyes darkening as he takes in the sight, your hips already rolling against Mingi’s tongue.
“Fuck,” Yunho sighs, grabbing his length through his pants, his grip tight like he was pacing his own pleasure. Like seeing you with Mingi might’ve very well brought him closer than he should have been.
Mingi’s arms hook around your thighs, tongue poking out to let your hips rock against it, allowing you to set your own pace, to use him however you want. You waste no time setting a brutal pace, whimpering as his flexed tongue rolls over your clit, as your hips rock back onto his nose. Fingers curling into your skin, searing where they held you, no doubt leaving oval shapes behind, the sting only makes you grind against him harder.
Yunho’s fingers find his button, his zipper, his eyes zeroed in on the sight before him like he couldn’t rip his eyes away if he tried. Indents of strain dimple the space above his brows, just a slight furrow, his hand finds his length again over his briefs, running his flat palm over his hard cock, a moan tumbling off his tongue.
Your eyes flare. “G’na cum just like that? Watching?”
Yunho’s lips part. “Could, if I wanted to.”
You find the hem of your dress at your waist, pulling the thin fabric over your head in one quick motion. Still rocking your hips, abdomen flexed, breasts falling at your chest, Yunho groans.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. You hiss when Mingi’s nose catches on your entrance. Yunho’s eyes sink down to where Mingi’s tongue swallows your folds, how it blankets over your core, swiping through, spit sliding down the sides of his mouth. His hand picks up speed over his briefs, hips bucking into his own hand, chest rising and falling heavily, “I might.”
You lean forward, holding Yunho’s eye, moaning as Mingi’s tongue curls inside you. You take Mingi’s length in one hand, the other pressed on his chest, and Mingi’s hips jerk into your hand immediately, a sharp grunt vibrating your thighs.
Mingi’s knees spread, hips bucking off the bed, feet finding the edge of the bed, legs lifting just to spread wider. You keep your eyes on Yunho, voice a husky whisper, “Join.”
As if you were a siren, his body pulls him forward, his hand leaving his cotton-covered cock just to wrap around Mingi’s, his hand fitting perfectly right above yours. Mingi’s palms wrapped around your thighs keep your hips moving as you and Yunho pump his length, one-handed, your eyes never once leaving each other.
“Fuck him,” you nearly whisper, your voice still husky, coated in arousal. “Push his legs up to his chest and fuck him. I have his mouth.”
Yunho gasps, and it would have been silent if you weren’t so close. His face twinges, a jerk of a reaction, like he wasn’t used to someone giving him orders. But his hands find Mingi’s knees, the underside of them, pushing them upward. He leans toward you, taking your lips in his, and as his tongue pushes into your mouth you know it’s claiming. Steadying. Reminding you who he is, who he is to you.
Yunho’s hand disappears between Mingi’s legs, earning a shattered moan spat into your core, you smile through the sound that rips from your chest. Rocking your hips again, sitting up straight once more, Mingi’s fingers singe your thighs, each fingertip like iron soaked in fire.
Mingi’s heels find the bed, cock twitching against his abdomen, leaking all over the stretch of skin beneath his belly button. The skin of your thighs gathers between his fingers, but you rock yourself through it, the pain mixed with the pleasure better than any cocktail you’ve had tonight.
Your head tips back as Yunho preps him, listening to Mingi curse into your folds, whining and whimpering but giving your clit the most attention of all. “S’good, Mingi,” you moan out, reaching behind you to run your fingers through his hair, sounding utterly dazed. “Mm, I love you.”
You barely hear him say it back, his voice lagged, muffled by a mouth full of you, head no doubt fuzzy from Yunho knuckle deep in his ass. You bring your eyes back to the older man who’s focused, taking his time opening him up, prepping him for his cock that neither of you can ever really be prepped for.
“Makin’ a mess, Min,” Yunho comments, finally noticing the painting the younger man made on his own skin. Droplets of pre, ropes that dripped down his sides, Mingi moaned in response. Yunho pushes his legs up, you catch them, palms splayed over his knees, holding him spread.
Beautiful, watching Mingi suck in every single inch. Beautiful, watching Yunho fight every fucking instinct to cum as soon as he bottomed out. It ignited the fire in your gut like you were the one Yunho was splitting open; a harsh moan pushing past your lips, clit throbbing against Mingi’s unmoving tongue. At least he stuck it out, you thought as your hips bucked against him, grinding harshly against the muscle he wanted you to use for your own pleasure.
When Yunho started moving, when Mingi started moaning like nothing has ever felt this good in his life, you could feel it like a phantom limb; brows furrowing, moans growing in pitch, watching your boyfriend fuck your other boyfriend brought you right to the edge.
“Shit… shit,” you moaned, your fingers finding your nipples, pinching, twisting. Hips bucking rapidly, watching Yunho’s abdomen flex as his hips rolled into Mingi’s ass, you neared so close you could taste it. “Gonna cum, Yun, gonna c-cum–”
“Wait,” he ground out, his voice ragged and harsh like he was nearing the brink himself. It made your eyes dart to him, he always lasted, he’s never cum this quickly. Ever. His grin is lazy, his head tipped backward, sweat kissing his moonlight-kissed skin, he utters, “Been waiting– for this, t-to tell you how I feel.” His chin dips, eyes squeezing shut, “Fuck.”
You understood then, that his release was so much more.
“Let me cum,” you urged. “Let me, want to watch you.”
Yunho’s eyes met yours, and agreement shone in the subtle spark of white dancing in charcoal. He leaned forward, wrapping his fingers around your neck, tugging you toward him to crash your lips onto his, shoving his tongue into your mouth, tasting the orgasm that washed over you as soon as you met.
Mingi’s grip rocked you through it, a sob leaving your throat, lips unmoving against Yunho’s. Whispering into your mouth, he uttered, “I love you.”
You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t do anything but roll off Mingi’s face, the younger man gasping for a breath, reaching his arms upward for Yunho. Yunho’s hips didn’t falter as he leaned down, as he pushed Mingi up the bed, crawling onto it himself. Head in the pillows, utterly dazed, lovesick and spent, you watched Yunho take Mingi for everything he’s worth.
Mingi sobbed, hands in Yunho’s hair, muttering I love you over and over again like he couldn’t believe he could say it. Yunho’s hips snapped against his, responding every fucking time Mingi said it, not missing a single time it passed through his lips.
And it occurred to you then, that they were yours. Both of them, finally, for real this time, they were completely yours. So beautiful together, their bodies molding perfectly, lips touching, speaking, not kissing; Mingi’s hands in Yunho’s hair, Yunho cradling Mingi’s cheeks.
You didn’t feel the tears on your cheeks until Mingi spilled onto his stomach, blurry eyes darting to where it dribbled down his side. They didn’t notice until after Yunho emptied himself inside Mingi, when the smack of hips became a sound of slick movement, and their heads turned to yours.
Mingi’s face, fucked-out turned to concerned. Brows bent, lips pouting, he scrounged to sit up on his elbows, “What’s wrong?”
You shook your head, wiping under your eyes. “I just love you, both of you. That’s all.”
Yunho crawled over to you, a warm smile on his lips as he split your knees, placing a cupped palm on your cheek before he pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Wiping your tears, he murmured, “I’m sorry for all the shit I put you through this weekend.”
You sniffed, “I’m just… still a little drunk, you don’t need to console me. I know you’re sorry.”
After cleaning himself up quickly, Mingi curled up to your other side, pressing his lips into your bicep. The two of them watched you like hawks, taking in every micro-expression on your face.
“I’m fine,” you reiterated with a small laugh. “I swear, I’m just emotional. It was an emotional weekend.”
Yunho’s face drooped with guilt. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get my shit together. I didn’t mean anything I said to you–”
Your palms found his cheeks, guiding him down, cutting him off by pressing your lips against his. “I know,” you whispered, eyes opening to look into his. “I know how you feel, I knew the whole time. I’m proud of you.”
His lips quivered. Your smile grows, “Now why are you getting emotional?”
“Because I’ve been searching for this for so fucking long,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Searching for you, both of you,” his eyes find Mingi, “in everyone.”
“Search is over,” Mingi rolls on his back, eyes playful, lips pinned up on one side. He looks at Yunho with barely a turn of his head, “Should we throw a party?”
Yunho snorts, pressing another kiss to your lips before throwing your leg over his body, collapsing on your other side. After a moment, he adds, “I’ve never felt more like myself than when I’m with you.”
Both yours and Mingi’s heads turn to him, listening. Yunho’s head angles toward you, but he doesn’t look as he continues, “I think it’s why I’ve never settled down. Nothing ever felt right, not until that first night with you both. I mean, after that, I never really left.”
“You tried,” you add with a grin.
Yunho looks at you just to roll his eyes. “It’s scary knowing the best thing that could ever happen to you is happening to you. I fucked it up before I even had the chance to fuck it up.”
“No you didn’t,” Mingi counters with a shake of his head. “You’re here, we’re here. Everything happened the way it was supposed to.”
Yunho’s quiet for a moment. “Thank you for letting me figure it out. For not abandoning me when I gave you every reason to.”
Before tears have the chance to fill your waterline again, you wrap yourself around him, literally climbing on top of him to attach yourself to him. Whispering into his neck, you say, “That’s what you do when you love someone.”
“And we love you very, very much,” Mingi adds, already cuddled up to Yunho’s side.
Yunho presses his lips to yours, a short, sweet kiss. Then turns to Mingi, pressing another short, sweet kiss to his lips. “And I love you both very, very much, too.”
⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART TWO [FINAL] 14.2k
⪼ this is the second half of my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! genuinely so happy and grateful to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, i've met so many wonderful mooties & friends through this whole process, and im so glad to be beside them in such a banger ass collab!!! be sure to check out everyone else's bangers fr
⪼ smut minors dni 18+ | p in v, fingering, dirty talk, you and mingi are both sluts, wooyoung lore, LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. if you made it this far thank you so, so much for reading, sorry i had to split it lol, this fic is genuinely my baby and everything i could ever want in my life. i hope you enjoy xoxo
When was the last time you cried? Like seriously, actually bent over and cried real tears into your palms? When was the last time it was at the hands of a man? Did you even have something to cry over?
It was too confusing, you didn’t have the energy to pick it apart while heaved sobs rip from your throat. Was this a release? Too much emotion built up inside, with nowhere to go? The tears began after picking an argument with a still-drunk Yeosang in the car, pointless, yet you still left him to fend for himself while you ran up the steps to your apartment, still fighting to keep the sobs inside.
Alone in your living room, sitting hunched over on the couch, face in your palms, you cried.
And cried, and cried, and cried.
Your phone lights up, sitting face-up on the coffee table, multiple notifications from the square, pink icon that’s been draining your battery all fucking day. You can only imagine what they say, what vile fucking things are waiting for you, all from real accounts, real people who hate you because of Song Mingi.
Maybe it’s masochism, or maybe you need to keep the release flowing, a devil on your shoulder tells you to unlock your phone and read. You make it through three before your shoulders shake all over again, your phone falling to the floor, you have half a mind to smash the screen so you can’t look even if you wanted to. Curling up onto the couch, you let yourself cry, you sink into the feeling, into the emotion; if you let your brain wander enough, you can still feel his covered palm on your skin, his lips on yours, you can still see his eyes, how he looked at you. So fond, affectionate, so fucking different from any man who has ever looked at you, ever.
There’s a knock at your door, rendering you quiet, sniffing up snot that dared to fall.
“Hello?” You call out, sounding so unlike yourself you cringe.
Three presses of someone’s knuckles at your door again, you whimper as you push yourself up off the couch to open it. Hand on the knob, you close your eyes, sucking in a deep, grounding breath. You hope you don’t look insane.
Just as another knock sounds, you open it. Standing with his fist out, he wears a blank face, one that warps into confusion then concern as he looks you up and down. “Are you okay?”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Wooyoung?”
“I came to get my hoodie,” he shakes his head like that was beside the point. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”
“Have you gotten your eyes checked recently?” You sniff again, wiping at your nose with your bare wrist. It’s clear you’ve been crying, are crying, sounding nasally on top of your appearance, you can’t be bothered to care. “What do you want, for real? I know you’re not here for your fuckass hoodie.”
“I broke up with Winter,” he admits easily, too fucking easily.
There’s no feeling in your gut, no excitement, no disappointment, there’s nothing. Your face reflects it, shoulders shrugging, free arm flying to say okay? You feed him an irritated laugh, “Congratulations?”
“I broke up with her because I miss you,” he tries again, “she isn’t you.”
His hair is messy, undone. Clothes dark, hanging off him, like he rolled out of bed to come here. You study his face, his mismatched eyes, the dot of espresso that sits on the apple of his cheek. There’s nothing unclear about the way he’s looking at you– there’s the hinge in his jaw, his dilated pupils, his slouched shoulders, deflated. Like he didn’t want to admit it, but here he is.
“No shit,” you sniff again. “What was the plan? You come here, confess your bullshit to me, I take you back, and we live happily ever after?”
“I’m not going to give you a bullshit speech,” his gaze averts to the floor, “I know you have a boyfriend. I just wanted you to know, I needed to get it off my chest.”
You laugh again, and it’s accompanied by disbelief and shock, but what rings truest is understanding. You lean into your door, still wide open, “You don’t have to lie. She found out, didn’t she?”
He glances up, “You’re the only one who gets it.”
“I’m the only one who put up with it,” you correct him, “those days are over.”
“Why are you crying?” He asks, straightening again. “What happened?”
“Nothing you give a fuck about.”
He takes a step forward, hands reaching out, but he doesn’t touch you. “I care about everything that involves you. What happened?”
You hold his stare, your jaw locking. Familiarity, routine. Pattern.
“If I asked you,” your voice comes out shaky, you clear your throat, “to fuck me, would you do it?”
“You have a boyfriend–”
“Would you fucking do it?”
His hand wraps around your jaw, searing your skin, lips smashing onto yours like he was fucking waiting for it. It’s blinding, dizzying how he pushes you backward, kicking the door shut behind him, lips rough and tongue taking, your mind shuts off in a second’s time. Muscle memory kicks in, Mingi’s jersey on the floor, mini skirt hiked up to your waist, panties pushed to the side, this is it. This is everything.
This is all you’ll ever get, and you’ve made peace with it.
“Are you coming tomorrow?”
Inside, at the very edge of the tunnel, tucked off to the side to avoid lingering eyes, Mingi’s vibrating with excitement, he can’t believe Winter is here and wearing his fucking jersey. He was already excited because they won their game; even if he knew they’d win and it was no surprise to him, Mingi played such a perfect game he was high off adrenaline, off arrogance, like absolutely nothing could go wrong.
“Of course,” her back is against the wall, her head tucked right under Mingi’s outstretched arm. She wears a cute, dainty smile, almost innocent, it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He has to fight his instinct to not tell her about the life he’s imagined for them. “I broke up with Wooyoung, by the way.”
This might be the best day of his fucking life.
“I’m… sorry?” He eases a smile, one that turns into a full-fledged grin when he sees how Winter smiles back.
She giggles, “Don’t be sorry. That night at the bar, she was right.” Winter bites her lip and Mingi wishes he could bite it for her. “Will she be there?” She asks, “Your girlfriend?”
“Huh?” Mingi’s brows furrow, then he remembers the bar, and then a picture of you in his passenger seat rushes through his mind. “Oh. I don’t know, I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“I saw her in your jersey,” she tilts her head to the side, a manicured nail between her teeth, “unfair, she gets the real one, and I’m stuck wearing this.”
“Not for long,” it rushes out of his mouth before he can think about it. He chuckles, nervously, “I mean, like, things aren’t really that great between us right now.”
“Oh, really?” Her brows lift in soft surprise, “She seemed kinda… mad, when she saw me in this. I told her I’m a huge fan, but she didn’t seem to like that answer. Does she get jealous often?”
Mingi’s brows furrow, head cocking to the side. Jealous? Mad?
“What do you mean?”
She giggles, a hand covering her mouth, “I don’t want to paint her in a bad light, or make you guys argue or something.”
“We won’t,” he pulls his arm back to his side, sounding assured, “tell me.”
“She asked me why I was wearing your jersey,” she looks down at her shoes, then back up to him, “she looked really mad, Mingi, like she was seconds away from ripping it off of me or something. I was kinda scared.”
“Huh,” he looks away, he isn’t sure where. You were already acting off when you came down to the field, he could feel it, he could see it on you. How you forced a smile on your face, faked laughter, looked like Lucifer had come to pull you back down to Hell before he kissed you.
For some reason in his stupid fucking mind, he thought kissing you would make it better. That you’d laugh, call him an asshole, brush it off like it was nothing– selfishly, he wanted it to make it better, he wanted to be the reason why. He wanted to see your smile, the real one, not that fake shit you were putting on so no one would shoot you a second glance.
You looked like he hurt you instead. He supposes it’s time to break up anyways, if the conversation he’s currently having is any indication, there’s no real reason for you to be together anymore if everything had already worked out. But fear lingered, in the way you looked at him, in how you jumped away from him like he burnt you, it stuck heavy in his mind, scared that you wouldn’t be friends after this. He’s afraid you’ll never speak again. He’s terrified you’re the first real friend he’s ever made.
“I’m okay, though,” she brushes a hand on his chest and he doesn’t like how it feels. “She left me alone after that, that’s why I waited until she left to come see you.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he’s speaking, not thinking. “And no, she doesn’t do that often, I don’t think she’s feeling well today.”
Should he not have kissed you? Did that make everything worse? Did he cross a line, for real?
“I hope she feels better,” Winter smiles, showing off the pearly white teeth hidden behind her glossy lips, “are you doing anything tonight?”
“Yeah, I– um,” he looks around again, moving backward so her hand falls from his chest. Are you mad at him? Should he apologize? “The team is going out to celebrate tonight, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, you deserve the celebration for how well you played. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” it’s mindless, absent.
He walks back to the locker room with furrowed brows and tunnel vision. Opening his locker, pulling out his phone, he doesn’t even take his jersey off before texting you.
mingi: were having a party tomorrow at the house to celebrate
mingi: if u wanted to come
mingi: and im sorry for kissing u
mingi: idk if i shoulda done that
mingi: im sorry
mingi: if u want we can break up tomorrow at the party
mingi: a lot of people will be there
You stare at the pictures Yeosang sent you. Minutes go by, maybe an hour, you aren’t sure, but you’ve zoomed in on every inch of each picture, and the looming cloud of dread won’t dissipate for shit. You weren’t imagining how he looked at you, how he held you, it was eternalized in pixels on your screen.
The more you stared, the more you hated it.
“What’s that?”
You lock your phone, throwing it on the nightstand beside you. “Can you get the fuck out already?”
He smacks his teeth, “We haven’t had a sleepover in so long, why so mean?”
“I don’t like you,” you finally turn your head to see him. Eyes low with sleep, dark hair frizzy and sticking out in every which way, shirtless, littered with marks you’ve never been allowed to give him before. “I don’t want you here.”
“Then why’d you let me stay?”
“Because you did me a favor,” you run your hands over your face, rubbing at your swollen eyes, “but I have to prepare to break up with my boyfriend tonight, so unless you’re helping me come up with a plan, go.”
“Just tell him you cheated,” he shrugs, and when you look at him he’s wearing the nastiest of smirks. “Worked for me.”
“You didn’t even tell me, you fucking asshole,” reaching over, you smack him dead in his chest. “Get out of my apartment.”
He laughs, slowly sitting up, giving you a pretty view of his spine, the tattoo that sits at the top, the muscles in his shoulders. You hum, head tilting as you stare, he really is pretty. You missed the sight. He turns his head halfway, “Have a smoke with me before I go.”
You keep your eyes glued to him for a moment, his eyes peeking over his shoulder, he’s still shamelessly naked in your bed. So many things, Jung Wooyoung is, but most of all a complexity you don’t think you’ll ever fully understand.
You sigh, soft, pleasant, almost. “Okay.”
On the balcony, you’re in Mingi’s jersey you picked up from your living room floor, the first thing you saw when you realized you needed something on your body to go outside. He’s across from you, boxers on his hips, shirtless, comfortable. Always comfortable with you.
He turns around to face you while your lips wrap around his cigarette, a Marlboro Red, he takes a second to watch you. His eyes don’t follow the smoke as it leaves your lips, they stay on you, analyzing, thinking.
“What’s up with you?” He finally asks. “Don’t bullshit me.”
Face going unchanged, you respond, “I think I like him for real.”
He stares a second before breaking out in laughter. Hand clutching his stomach, his brows furrow, “So you slept with me because you like your boyfriend?”
“I slept with you because you’re the opposite of him,” you reach out your arm, two fingers sliding the tobacco into his, “he freaked me out. He kissed— kisses me like he cares about me.”
“I don’t kiss you like I care about you?”
“You kiss me like you’re saving the nice shit for her,” you huff, craning your neck, stretching your aching muscles. You really went too long without getting laid.
Wooyoung’s brows wiggle, shoulders shrugging as he brings the cigarette up to his lips like he couldn’t argue with you even if he tried. “You don’t make sense.”
You sigh, turning to face the balcony, the neighborhood below. So quiet, it was busier closer to campus; here, it was nothing but peace. Warm, not quite humid yet, a clarity in the air you haven’t felt in so long, you let the sunshine beat on your skin, the kelly-green polyester covering it.
“You don’t need to understand,” you reach out your fingers, he places the cigarette between them. “Being with him is too much exposure, too many eyes on me. You should see my Instagram DMs.”
“Bad?”
“Worse than bad.” Tilting your head, blowing smoke from your lips, you ask, “Wanna come with me tonight?”
“To watch you break his heart?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m game,” he takes a step toward you, leaning over the balcony, shoulder touching yours. “Did you know Winter has a thing for him?”
“Yes,” you laugh a little, “you’re late to figuring that one out.”
He stayed until the cigarette burnt down to the filter, shoving it in the ashtray you bought and kept on the small table in the corner, solely for him. You stayed on the balcony for what felt like forever after he showed himself out— sitting with yourself and your thoughts, flooded with Mingi, the inevitable end a part of you had begun to think might not actually come.
FIFTH OUTING: THE BREAK UP, FOOTBALL HOUSE. 10:21 PM
Mingi has always been grateful for his height. It’s helped him tremendously, helping his mother much smaller than him, in football, with women. He remembers being a kid and being giddy about holding the caboose of his class’s line because he was the biggest.
He thinks he’s never been more grateful than he is right now, facing Seungmin, looking over his brown head of hair clearly, effortlessly— you, in his living room, dancing like you didn’t give a fuck. Hair let loose behind you, your top clinging to your body like it was painted on, jeans hugging your swaying hips in a way that made him jealous of black denim.
You greeted him like you weren’t here to break up with him, a soft hey rolling off your tongue, cheeks already flushed with liquor, shoulders already slouched. Mingi put his beer down on a table littered with empty bottles and hasn't once thought about picking it back up.
You told him he looked good, apologized for his jersey smelling like cigarettes, which made him quirk a brow in confusion, but he forgave you in the same breath with a little laugh as you stumbled over your feet.
Drunk. Cute.
You didn’t mention the kiss, didn’t mention breaking up, you didn’t mention anything that happened in the last twenty-four hours. Mingi wasn’t going to remind you, not when you’re blissfully boneless, a smile permanently etched onto your cheeks, there wasn’t a line in your face to be seen. No worries, no stress, no anger, unaware like it was purposeful. You seemed like you needed it.
“Hello? Mingi?”
He blinks into focus, eyes back on Seungmin before him who wore furrowed brows and tilted jaw, staring at him expectantly.
“Sorry,” he laughs a little, jutting his chin in the direction of you, making Seungmin turn his head. “Look at her.”
“You’re sick,” Seungmin looks only for a second before turning back to Mingi whose eyes are glazed over, the younger man’s face rendered flat. “Obsessed.”
Mingi giggles like he’s proud of it. No denial, no rebuttal, he thinks he might be, just a little, maybe infatuated was the better word. Especially since you’re not mad at him. The nerves he’s felt from last night leading up to when you walked through the door of the football house were full-bodied, eating at every vein below his skin, every organ felt like it wasn’t working right.
You answered his texts, which should have eased him at least a fraction.
princess: i kissed you back did i not
princess: moron
princess: ill be there
princess: and im breaking up with you btw
He couldn’t figure out a response, mostly because a huge part of him wanted to stall breaking up, but he couldn’t figure out why. Or he wouldn’t let himself, he should say, because the answer was staring at him in the fucking face: he likes you. He knows he does, Yeosang’s show confirmed it, forced it to the front of his mind, a life-altering observation— he’s so fucked.
This is an arrangement. An even exchange, he gets Winter, you get whatever the fuck your plan with Wooyoung is. It dawns on him that he’s never even asked, there are so many things he wants to ask, so many things he wants to say, he doesn’t have enough time to say them. You made it clear yesterday that you wanted to break up.
“Go get her,” Seungmin huffs, “I know you want to.”
“I don’t dance,” Mingi looks at Seungmin like he’s crazy.
“Why else did you ask Woozi to DJ then?”
“Fair.”
Seungmin turns on his heel, toward the kitchen, maybe. Mingi takes one step before he stops in his tracks, eyes blowing wide, body running ice-cold.
Like a shadow, he was at your back, hands on your hips, smiling like he was supposed to be there. Like you were allowing it. You clearly were, head tilted backward, smile wide as a laugh he couldn’t hear rolled off your lips. God, Mingi can’t even say his name— he’s a roach, a fucking rat that’s lingering around Mingi, waiting for the opportunity to give him diseases or something.
He finds his feet moving, not aware of himself body slamming people who were minding their own damn business, certainly not aware of the anger that hung in the hinge of his jaw, in his clenched fists. He pulls you by the wrist, your name on his tongue, you barely notice. Hazy eyes finally landing on him, your smile widens, sparkles in your eyes shining brighter, your fingers tighten in the fabric hanging off his shoulders. “Mingi!”
He eyes Wooyoung over your head, face flat, unimpressed, pissed off. Wooyoung’s smirk is cynical, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, what’s happening. Mingi feels left out and he doesn’t fucking like it.
“Where have you been?” You’re whining, head tilted to the side, lips pouty even if your body sinks into him more than it ever has before. You’re drunk.
Mingi eyes dance over to Riyo and Jia, two of your friends, he thinks those are their names. One red-haired and wide-eyed, body rigid with fear as she meets Mingi’s gaze, the other dark-haired and panicked like she was already searching for a distraction, a way to get you out of this situation.
Wooyoung speaks up before Mingi can get a word out, “Did you two break up yet?”
Yet. His jaw clenches. Riyo and Jia turn confused.
“We’re not breaking up,” Mingi responds, “fuck are you talking about?”
“I need another drink,” you turn around, back leaning into his chest, laying your whole weight on him as your arms reach down to his thighs, palms splayed flat over denim for purchase. “Can we go find cutie Kai? He’ll get me one.”
He can’t even focus on your hands on him, how mindless you are, he’s so fucking irritated. He ignores you, asking Wooyoung again, “The fuck are you talking about?”
Wooyoung’s brows raise, smirk growing like he was about to drop a bomb. “Interesting, that’s what she told me this morning,” he takes a step closer to you, “right, baby?”
“Huh?” You ask, body swaying, Mingi uses two hands on your waist to keep you steady.
“You’re breaking up with Mingi,” Wooyoung repeats, “that’s why we had sex last night. Right?”
Sorry if your jersey smells like cigarettes.
He pushes you forward like you fucking burned him, just enough for you to fall into Wooyoung’s chest instead. Jia and Riyo are side-by-side, watching everything unfold like it was a train wreck they couldn’t look away from.
“Wait,” hands braced on Wooyoung’s chest, you turn around, eyes wide and lips trembling. “Hold on a second.”
Wooyoung pulls you into him, arms slithering around your torso like he knows every inch of your body. It makes Mingi sick, or it would if he could feel anything, his body’s numb like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
“You fucked him?” His voice is pitched like he didn’t believe it. “He cheated on you,” Mingi feels like the three of you are alone, like this isn’t a party full of one hundred something people. “Twice.”
“I know—”
“Then what, you don’t give a fuck?” His voice is raised, he doesn’t care. “What the fuck was the point then, huh? What the fuck was the point if you were just gonna go back to him?”
Wooyoung cocks his head, “The point of what?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Mingi blurts, “I’m not talking to you.”
“Mingi,” your jaw drops, “I don’t—”
“You couldn’t wait?” Mingi asks, “Couldn’t at least have the decency to break up with me first before running right back to him?”
“I’m sorry!”
The apology off your lips makes him stand straighter. It’s pleading, like you’re just asking him to be quiet, to stop, but it seems to screw his head back on his body, his consciousness forcing itself back into his six-foot build with vengeance.
You call after him as he turns around, walking away as quick as he can, fingers tapping at his sides just to remind himself he has them. This can’t be real, he’s gotta be dreaming, there’s no way in hell that just happened to him.
Is he just gonna leave you with Wooyoung? Drunk as you are? Is that why you’re so fucking hammered in the first place? You seemed so comfortable in his hold, Mingi wonders if that was you or the alcohol, he could see it in your eyes, the fear of being caught. The confusion, like you didn't understand why Mingi was so angry.
You probably didn’t. You probably thought he wouldn’t find out, because why would he? You were supposed to break up tonight, be done with each other. A chapter closed. Mingi feels like turning on his heel and pulling you away from him, just to ask you every fucking question he’ll never have the chance to.
He feels like apologizing.
He feels like confessing.
But he’s so fucking pissed he bullies into the kitchen instead, eyes on alert, searching for something he can’t place, anything that will rid him of this dirty fucking feeling.
It’s full circle, he thinks, as his eyes land on Winter. Sitting on the counter, two guys in front of her, clearly chatting her up.
Nah.
Forcing a smile when he gets close enough, his voice carries a warning to the two unnamed, no-faced men. “Hey, beautiful.” They scatter.
“Should you be calling me that?” She teases, hands gripping the edge of the counter, leaned forward, feet kicking where they hung. Hair pulled up, tiny top, little shorts, she looked bare-faced, natural. Pretty. Good enough.
“I can’t be honest?” A cocky smirk, a character he hates playing. Approaching her pinned knees, they open, letting him step between them, he takes the silent offer.
“You can be honest,” she nods, batting her lashes. “But I would rather you be mine.”
He has to force the twinge of disgust out of the back of his throat, tasting like coke-drip and disappointment. He didn't feel this way talking to her last night, Mingi blinks at her before a slow chuckle rolls off his lips. “Smooth.”
“Vodka makes me bold,” she shrugs, winking. “Problem?”
This could work. He could make this work. He has to make this work, actually. “I’m supposed to be the bold one,” he hums, palms landing on her bare knees, so soft beneath his burning skin. Her eyes drop to where their skin meets, but she makes no move to stop him.
“I didn’t think you were available enough to be,” her eyes flicker upward, “do you have good news for me?”
He nods, “You won’t believe it, actually.”
Her brows furrow, smile faltering a little. “What?”
“Don’t worry about it, nevermind,” Mingi shakes his head, “we don’t have to talk about her, we can talk about us now, finally.”
They talked. And talked, and talked and fucking talked, Mingi heard every other word, something about her classes and school-air fucking up her makeup. Something about Wooyoung, he thinks, he tuned out after he heard that godforsaken name. Mingi didn’t really care, he wanted to kiss her, to fuck her, he hoped you’d find out and feel as shitty as he did right now.
The tips of Winter’s sandals toyed with his pants, his hands planted on the counter, on either side of her thighs. He was so close to scoring he could taste it, this was the right outcome, the whole purpose. This is what he should have been focused on the entire time.
“Bro,” Jaemin snaps him into focus, a pest at his side, a hand on his shoulder. “Your girlfriend’s on a table.”
“Not my girlfriend,” Mingi shoves his hand off, but then the words sink in. He cranes his neck, “A table?”
“She’s dancing on a fucking table,” Jaemin confirms, laughing like it’s funny. Like you aren’t piss-drunk and surrounded by people who don’t care about you.
Mingi doesn’t even look at Winter again before he’s moving. Rushing past bodies, physically moving them out of his way as he follows the sound of cheering into the dining room, he can see you over everyone’s heads. No, this is full-circle, he thinks for just a moment at the entryway, here you are, in his dining room where the plotting truly began, where Mingi first lost his mind over the girl he could give two fucks about right now.
Dancing, swaying your hips to whatever song is playing, something pop with heavy bass from the early two-thousands, it’s deaf on his ears. Arms above your head, smile absent, eyes absent, you aren’t even in your fucking body and everyone surrounding you is cheering you on. Mingi’s sick and he can feel every tapered edge of it.
Bodies are glued together, phones out, he smacks two out of the air as he forces his way past. He spots Jongho and Yeosang, the only two trying to get you down, arms reaching out in caution, faces stressed beyond what they should be at a party.
Mingi meets the edge of the table and he catches Wooyoung out of the corner of his eye, standing up against the wall, watching, smirking. Like he was loving every second of this. Like you wouldn’t want to rip your fucking hair out when you wake up tomorrow. Somehow it pisses him off worse that he’s watching you like this was reality TV, as if you’re not a real person, someone he slept with last night. He shivers. Rage runs deep.
“Mingi!” Jongho yells across the table, “Thank god you’re here, please get her down.”
Bare feet— where the fuck did your shoes go? Hair stuck to you, shirt splotched with wetness, probably liquor, maybe worse. There’s bottles on the table, grinders open and full of weed, puddles of water, beer, solo cups from a game of pong. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, panic, like he was responsible for you, for this.
“Get down,” his voice stands out amongst the music, the cheers. Louder, heavy with direction, order. Like he’s on the field.
Your head spins in every direction like you weren’t sure where the sound came from. Even now, irritated and shocked beyond belief, he softens at the sight of you. “Please, baby, get down,” his voice is layered with worry as you finally meet his gaze, eyes glossed over, smile lazy and gone. Holy shit.
“You’re mad at me,” you drop down to your knees, pouting, fuck this table big enough to seat half the goddamn team, stopping him from pulling you away from each and every pair of eyes.
“No I’m not,” he shakes his head, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “I’m not mad at you, I just want you to come to me.”
On all fours, you start crawling across the fucking table, a lazy grin taking over like you didn’t have any eyes on you, so unaware that Mingi’s anxious. Head tilting, a split of consciousness entering your vision, you ask, “You want me?”
He swallows, nodding, a palm reaching out for you, “Yeah, I do.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a shadow of black leaving the room. He doesn’t look, keeping his eyes on you, each agonizing second of your arms and knees pushing you forward, not a semblance of haste to your movements.
You reach out your arm when he’s close enough to grab your hand and he pulls you the rest of the way, hearing the slick sound of black denim sliding against shiny oak, he isn’t fucking thinking as he bends at his knees and throws you over his shoulder. You yelp, body deadweight over his back before your legs bend up in front of him, bare feet covered in a layer of grime, wet and sprinkled with god knows what. He sighs.
“Put me down!” You yell, your tiny hands flat against his back, pushing yourself up.
He turns, one arm holding your legs down, hauling you out of that room faster than he’s ever sprinted down a field. He spots Kai across the living room, a head of blonde hair standing tall over the crowd, the only face easy to spot at his full height.
“Huening!” He shouts. Kai’s brows furrow when he sees him, bending into bewilderment when he sees you over his shoulder. “Get me my keys.”
“You drink?”
“Get me my keys, Kai.”
He feels you smacking his back, yelling something unintelligible as he hauls you through the living room, through the front door, the air outside no fucking relief to the sweat forming at the base of his spine. Down the lawn, to his car that’s parked at the edge of the street, he puts you down on the hood with a muddled grunt from the back of his throat.
You lay back as soon as your ass meets steel. Eyes closed, head turned to the side, your arms straight out on either side of you, you heave a breath and mumble, “I’m s’fucking drunk.”
Mingi didn’t realize he was out of breath until he leaned into the side of the car, elbows resting on the roof plate. He laughs, a small one, full of disbelief and utter shock. “No shit.”
“You called me baby again,” your eyes peek open to point at him with a weak, bent arm, “you were nervous.”
Mingi feels seen. He squints, “You were gonna fall off the table, I had to get you down, of course I was nervous.”
“You like me,” you sing, arm falling back down to the steel with a smack, dopey grin on your cheeks. “You like me for realsies.”
Mingi snorts, pulling his arms off the roof of his car to step to the side, palms landing on the hood to lean forward. Your hand sways through thick air before your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist, “I like you too, even though you’re kind of rude.”
He wills his heartbeat calm. “You think I’m rude?”
“You’re so rude,” the words slur together, his lips tighten at the sound. You open your eyes again, “Wanna fuck on the car?”
Mingi cracks a laugh, a belly laugh he couldn’t hold back, “What the fuck?”
You laugh with him, loud and obnoxious, the arch of your back lifting off the car, head turning to the opposite side before it snaps back to look at him. “Just a question,” you sing again, “jus’wonderin’.”
“Can I ask you a question?” He waits for your slurred mhm. “Did you really fuck Wooyoung?”
You suddenly frown, “Yeah, he caught me at a real vulnerable time. Do y’know what vulnerable means?”
He shakes his head, “Yes.”
“Means exposed. He caught me crying ‘cus you kissed me and you were nice and your Instagram army was calling me crazy shit.” Your eyes open all the way, “They’re wild on there, did you know that?”
“People are messaging you about me?”
You choke on a laugh, “So many people.”
“Let me see–”
You scoff, “Fuck no.”
“Song!”
He hears Kai shout from the tip of the lawn, Mingi turns and Kai throws his keys across the green, landing perfectly in Mingi’s palm like he aimed for it. “Thanks,” he yells back up, and Kai nods once before turning back inside.
“Can you get up on your own or am I putting you in the car?” He receives nothing but a groan in response, a turn of your head in the opposite direction. He sighs. “Come on, you can’t even sit up?”
You turn your head back to him, “Why’d you kiss me?”
“Because I wanted to,” he says it like it’s obvious.
“They’re gonna kill me for it,” you grumble, “they’re gonna kill me and it will be your fault.”
“No one’s killing you–”
“Did you like it?” You’re blinking at him, knees opening and closing like you needed to move to remind yourself you’re conscious, "Kissing me?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow when you’re so–”
“Tell me now.”
Mingi sighs, taking his eyes off you to look at the trees across from the football house. Tall, shadows filling space between them, calm. The music inside is muffled, bass still vibrating the ground beneath his feet. The confession sits heavy on his tongue. Fuck it.
“Yeah I did,” he says it in one breath before he looks down at you again. Your brows are upturned, a pout on your lips, watching him until you hear what he says, then you smile.
“Yay,” the word is light, cute. Then you look as if reality snapped back into you, “Damn, I probably shouldn’t have fucked him, huh?”
Mingi snorts as he walks around the front of his car, grabbing you by your wrists one after another, pulling you upward. “No,” he says, shaking his head, but his smile stays, “you shouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, then bring your hand up to your forehead, groaning. “Fuck, ‘m dizzy.”
“I’m taking you home.” He scoops you off his hood, an arm curled under your knees and another holding your back until he’s got you next to the passenger door, letting your feet touch the grass beside the curb. Opening the door, one hand still on your waist, he says, “Get in.”
Your body is a mess of tucked angles as you quite literally fall into his passenger seat, Mingi has to fasten your seatbelt for you when he finally gets in the driver’s seat. You smell like liquor, cigarettes, sweat– he rolls the windows down and you stick your head out like a dog.
Twenty minutes to your apartment, no music, just Mingi and his thoughts. He thinks about her, his first girlfriend after he started becoming known, how the long-term relationship ended so soon after going public. Comments, DMs on every platform, it didn’t matter what revisions she made to her social media, the words still made it to her eyes, her ears. Nasty, disgusting, vile words and not one of them was true, Mingi hasn’t spoken to her since they broke up. She hates him, down to his core because of something he had no control over. It’s what put his wall up in the first place, made of brick, of steel, a wall so thick it didn’t let any emotion in, only desire.
He can’t imagine what’s sitting in your phone. Terror lives in his grip on the steering wheel, white-knuckled, bottom lip tight between his teeth, brows furrowed in thought, in remorse. He didn’t think you’d be affected by his status since your relationship was fake, an oversight, one he regrets already.
“You awake?” He parks just outside of your apartment, but your head doesn’t move off the window frame.
“No.”
He reaches over, unbuckling your seatbelt, “Come on, drunkie.”
You moan something belligerent, picking your head up slowly, the seatbelt going over your head, stuck around your arm. Mingi can’t help but laugh as he rolls the window up, turning off the car, he expects to have to haul your ass inside. You let him, deadweight in his hold, your bare feet crossing over one another with each step, all the way up to the second floor. Thank god your building has an elevator.
“Key?” He asks. You point to the mat on the floor, eyes half open. He flattens his lips. “Yeah, we’re gonna have to change that.”
You stand on your own long enough for him to get the door open, and he’s on alert this time, taking in his surroundings. The last time he was here he didn’t walk past the threshold, but now that he’s in, he can smell you everywhere. A large mirror next to the TV surrounded by plants, a tall lamp in the corner, a cozy couch set cream-colored. A coffee table filled with books, an unlit candle and his jersey thrown over it, your apartment screamed comfort, peaceful.
His eyes squint at the Lego sets under your TV. An open shelved media console, a polaroid camera, a record player with flowers, a starry night painting, all Legos, it’s all he could pick out until you start moaning and groaning again.
“Uh-uh,” he grabs you by the wrist when you start making for the couch, “your ass is taking a shower. Where is it?”
You gasp, staring down at your feet, wrist limp in his palm. Your toes wiggle as you ask, “Where are my shoes?” You look back up at him wide-eyed, “I had shoes on, didn’t I?”
“I’ll find them at the house tomorrow,” he pulls you closer by the wrist, “come on, drunkie. Shower time.”
“I don’t like that nickname,” your top lip lifts, “you have better ones. Why are you here?”
“To get you into bed,” he starts leading you toward the entryway to his right, a small walkway he can only pray holds a bathroom at the end. “You smell like a brewery.”
You smile, following behind him like this was his apartment and not yours. There’s movie posters, framed paintings, decor on your walls he stores for later as more questions come to mind. He notes how clean and sophisticated you decorated, minus the closet door left open with clothes strewn about like you tore it apart before going out tonight. The bathroom tucked in the back corner is worse, makeup scattered across the vanity, pairs of shorts and underwear littered the white tile, you didn’t seem to mind as you walked in right behind him.
“Do I have to?” You sit on the closed toilet, back bending over the tank, head hitting the wall with a thump.
He opens the shower curtain, turning it on, heating it up instead of answering. You giggle, more of a single sound of amusement, legs spread out in front of you, body molded to the shape of the toilet.
“Fine,” your grumble is somehow still amused, and Mingi swears it takes five whole minutes for you to stand up, toying with your skinny studded belt as your feet stumble over tile, fingers missing the prongs like you couldn’t get a grip.
He sighs again, sitting down on the toilet instead, “C’mere.”
Your hands find his shoulders for purchase, standing between his legs, body still swaying. He steadies you with two hands on your thighs and you lean into him, his touch, voice filled with pleased confusion, “You’re being nice to me.”
“I want to be nice to you,” he glances up at you, face flushed, eyes low, hair a mess. So vulnerable, a new word in his dictionary, to see you like this, for you to act this way in front of him. He wonders how much of it has to do with the messages in your phone.
“Nice is scary,” you whisper as he starts undoing your belt, pushing the prongs out of leather, your grip stays tight on his shoulders. “You scared me when you kissed me.”
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he pulls leather through the loops of denim, throwing it on the floor. “Button?”
You nod, body swaying again, he holds you upright with his fingers tucked in the hem of your jeans. “No one has ever kissed me like that before,” you’re still whispering like you’re telling him a secret. He looks up after getting your zipper down, seeing your glassy eyes, your dilated pupils. Pretty.
“I think that’s how you should be kissed,” the answer comes quickly, easily. Honest.
Your hands find the hem of your top, pulling it over your head, throwing it to the floor beside you. He fights to keep his eyes on yours. Your forearms sit on his shoulders this time, finding them like magnets as you flip your hair over your shoulder, out of your face. He swallows, breath catching in his throat, “You should get in the shower, don’t waste water.”
“You didn’t like me when you met me.” It’s not a question, but an observation. A memory.
He counters, “You didn’t like me either.”
“You were an asshole.”
“You’re sober enough to get in the shower–”
“What changed?” You ask, words sounding fragile, like you were scared of the answer.
“Everything,” he smiles halfway, leaning back an inch. The room feels hotter, steam taking up space, the sound of the shower hitting the tub a small hum, his ears ring with the quiet. “Most of all, me, I think.”
You’re looking at him differently, like you’re trying to figure something out. You reach up to his hair, pushing it out of his face, your touch featherlight, so delicate a shiver shoots through him like a firework. Your fingers glide over his temple, his cheek, you press your palm flat against his cheekbone, he leans some of his weight onto it, he lets you toy with him like he’s yours to do as you please. There’s a part of him that thinks he is, even if it’s fucked up, even if the two of you are still somewhere in purgatory.
“Pretty,” you mumble, a mindless word. “I can understand why they hate me.”
His bottom lip curls, “I’m so sorry–”
“No,” you shake your head. “Not your fault.”
His lungs twist hard enough to steal his breath. His hands find your hips, pulling you forward until his forehead meets the heat of your abdomen; so soft under him, fragile in his hold, you have no idea how long he’s waited to hear those words, no idea the weight they hold. No idea the guilt that lives glued to his spine.
Your hands find his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp, holding him against you like it’s where you wanted him, where he’s supposed to be. He thinks it’s where he’s supposed to be, too. He picks his head up only to place a kiss against your skin, a soft press of his lips over your stomach, it holds everything he can’t say to you right now. He hopes you can feel it.
Your knees buckle a little, fingers stalling in his hair, he hears the breath you suck in, feels how you bend into him. “I’m drunk, don’t make me horny, I’ll jump you.”
He snorts, your words pulling a laugh straight from his gut, he leans back to look up at you, your fingers still in his hair. You’re smiling, lazy and stupid, but then you break away from him, thumbs tucked into your jeans like you’re about to shove them down.
“Hold on, damn.” He stands on weak knees, quickly skipping out of the bathroom, he peeks his head back in just before closing the door. “Be careful. Shout if you need anything.”
“You’ll stay?” Your face is round with supplication.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Hey.”
Your nose twitches.
“Wake up, it’s after twelve.”
Your top lip curls.
“Wake up, I’m getting bored.”
You peek an eye open as your whole face tightens up, hands finding your cheeks, rubbing your eyes awake. Your stomach hurts, your knees feel sore, you grumble out a curse as your body stretches itself into consciousness.
“She’s alive.”
You pause, peeking over your fingertips to Mingi sitting on the edge of your bed. Dark hair messy on his head, shirtless, a pair of your shorts painted onto his thighs. You’re too confused to laugh at the sight.
“What the fuck?” You ask, voice laced with sleep, face scrunched up beyond recognition. “The fuck are you doing here?”
“Come on,” he frowns, “you didn’t even throw up, there’s no way you blacked out. Think, smart girl.”
You blink at him, letting the memories come back one after another. Wooyoung, shots, shots, shots, table, car, bathroom, bed. Mingi’s head on your stomach. Mingi’s lips on your skin.
“Oh, shit.” You sit up on your elbows, eyes on your bedspread, still blinking crust out of your vision, “Oh, shit.”
Mingi huffs a noise of amusement through his nose, “Still confused?”
You shake your head, heart picking up speed in your chest. Your head feels heavy, stomach nauseous, limbs tingly with leftover alcohol in your blood. You look up at him, “Why are you still here?”
“You asked me to stay,” he shrugs, like that was the most normal thing in the world. Like he’s stayed over a thousand times before.
“So you stayed?” Your brows stay knitted together, confused, confused confused confused.
“So I stayed,” he nods, “how do you feel?”
“Like dog shit.”
“Sounds about right,” he’s smiling but he’s trying to hide it. It makes your lips twitch upward. “You remember dancing on my dining room table?”
Your eyes close, lips flat, brows raised. “Yup,” you nod, “unfortunately, I do.”
“Remember asking to fuck on my car?”
Your eyes shoot open, tone full of disbelief, “No.”
“You’re funny,” he chuckles, laying flat on his back at the edge of your bed. “You’re always funny, but you’re an especially funny drunk. It was cute when I wasn’t terrified you were gonna die.”
“The scaries are gonna haunt me for weeks,” you push yourself up, forehead meeting your palms. “Fuck.”
“I was hoping we could talk,” he sounds coy all of the sudden, nervous. Shy.
You nod, “Let me shower again, eat something, drink a bottle of water. I feel like a fucking zombie.”
After cursing yourself out under your breath upon entering your messy bathroom, half your shower was spent with your forehead pressed to the wall, somehow cooling down your body temperature while steaming water soaked away all your shame. You ran through the events last night over and over, a little fuzzy at the edges, but each and every damning moment was crystal clear. You dried yourself off, completed your routine all with the same thought in mind: What the hell does he want to talk about?
It’s not like he likes you for real. You’d never work– your past is too messy, your current state is too messy, actually. He needs someone with a clean record, a nice, pretty girl who dresses in dainty clothes, someone who says please and thank you– that’s his goddamn destiny, a girl like Winter. Reserved, bashful, composed, you wonder if she’s ever said a curse word out loud, she’s nothing like you. She’s someone the internet would love, his coaches would love, his family would probably love, not that you know anything about his family.
You’re getting ahead of yourself— you’re spiraling. The only outcome of this conversation is that tension ran high, he was kind enough to take care of you when you were drunk, you’d go back to normalcy in an hour. Maybe Wooyoung’s free later tonight, he’d make a snide comment about you dancing on the table, you’d laugh like it was intentional. Like there weren’t videos of you on people’s phones that’d haunt you at two in the morning for weeks to come.
“What’s all this?” You asked upon walking into the living room, Mingi stood beside your small kitchen table, rummaging through one of two plastic bags.
“I ordered food,” he says, pulling out containers from the bag. Setting them down on the table neatly, one on top of another, neat.
Your brows furrow, walking into the kitchen hesitantly, “Food?”
“I can’t cook,” he looks up at you with a half-smile, “no idea how. But you need to eat, I also got juice for you, and I found ibuprofen in your cabinet–”
“Mingi,” you shake your head, trying to gather your bearings, “what are you doing?”
He holds up a hand, flat palm facing you, features straight and unimpressed. “Don’t start with me, sit down and eat. We’ll talk after there’s food in your stomach.”
You must still be drunk. Limbs feeling heavy, you trudge into the wooden seat, the one with the broken bar that supports the legs. Breakfast food, so much breakfast food, your stomach hurts at the sight of oil and grease, but you need it, you need the juice, too– you sucked that down in record time.
Silence, other than the sound of chewing and plastic ruffling, it was comfortable. Maybe a little awkward, unless that was your nerves talking which was absolutely plausible, you still sat in fucking confusion. Feeding you, catering to you, taking care of you like he did last night– and he still only had on your shorts. Your powder blue waffle shorts that fit you loose but clung to his muscled, golden, tan-lined thighs like they’d rip at the seams if he moved the wrong way.
You hate that it’s nice having him here. You hate that you’re letting it happen.
Pills swallowed, enough food in your stomach to take an hour to digest, the awkwardness grew after cleaning up the table. Both aimlessly pacing the kitchen, pretending to still have something to do, avoiding the conversation that needs to happen. Might as well get it over with.
“Mingi–”
“Can I start?”
You sigh, pointing a finger in the direction of the living room. “Couch.”
Your stomach feels uneasy like you’d throw up every bite as you sit across from him, both taking edges of the couch like you’re scared to get close. You sit on a leg like it’d give you an easy escape if you needed it, despite it being your apartment.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, voice small. Your brows furrow, ready to ask what the hell he’s sorry for, but his lips part instead. “I’m so sorry you were sent messages about me, this has happened before, my ex-girlfriend broke up with me because of them, because people didn’t leave her alone about me.”
“Mingi, it’s not your fault–”
He looks up at you and his glassy eyes kill the words on your tongue. His voice is small, layered with struggle, “We were together for a year. When I posted her, us, she broke up with me within two weeks. We never spoke again.”
Your jaw drops, “Two weeks?”
He nods, “I don’t even think we made it to the fourteenth day, I can’t believe I didn’t think that would happen to you. I guess I thought because our relationship was fake it wouldn’t, but no one knows it was fake, I just didn’t think, again. I let it happen again. I’m sorry.”
Ah, and now everything makes sense. “You didn’t need to do all of this because you feel bad. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself, I also know when things are out of your hands, and the messages are one-hundred-percent out of your hands.”
His brows furrow after a second, “I didn’t take care of you because of the messages, or because I feel bad. I took care of you because I care about you, I like you.”
“No,” you shake your head, “no you don’t. You might think you do, but you don’t.”
“Huh?” His eyes thin, top lip lifting, “Who are you to tell me what I feel?”
“I just know, I’ve seen your type, and it’s not me. Which is fine, I don’t–”
“You told me you liked me last night,” he argues.
Your lips flatten. “I was drunk.”
“Drunk words are sober thoughts.”
“What are you? Sixteen years old?” Your face twists, “I’m being realistic and logical, you’re acting on emotion.”
“Well I haven’t felt this much emotion since she broke up with me!” His hands fly up on either side of him, voice strained. “And I’ve missed it, I missed feeling this way. I want to keep feeling this way, about you.”
Your blinks are stuttered, slow. Your lips purse, he might have shocked you into silence. He runs a hand through his hair, face torn up into exasperation, he sighs, one deep and grounding. Looking at you again, he asks, “Do you really not want me? There’s not one bone in your body that wishes everything we’ve done the last few weeks was real?”
Your chest is tight. Your lips won’t move, your mind is blank.
“You don’t think you deserve it,” his voice switches to something calm, understanding. “Someone to like you, or care about you, I know. You’re used to guys like him, guys who use your feelings as ammunition. I won’t do that to you.”
You feel like stone. Stuck, still, eyes wide, unblinking. Fear simmers.
He shifts himself closer, eyes pleading. “I was sick when I found out you slept with Wooyoung, I’ve never acted like that before in my life, so jealous and angry, like he was taking you from me. I felt like you were mine, and he was trying to steal you–”
“I asked him to,” you finally speak, rushed and panicked. There’s nothing else left to argue with other than this. “I basically begged him.”
“You were upset,” Mingi shakes his head, “you told me. You said you were upset because of the messages and because I kissed you, you didn’t want to–”
“I needed to,” you try to swallow, throat squeezed tight, “I needed him to. He isn’t kind, he isn’t genuine, he doesn’t hold me like I’m breakable, he wouldn’t do all the shit you did for me last night. He isn’t you, and I needed the reminder. That’s what I deserve, not you.”
“Do you even know what you’ve done for me in the weeks we’ve known each other?” Mingi’s voice is pitched now, layered with raw emotion. “You’ve reminded me what freedom is like. That I can do whatever I want, I’m not a machine, or a puppet for someone else to use. You gave me back myself, is it so ridiculous that I don’t want to let you fucking go?”
“I’m scared,” you blurt it out, two words pulled from so deep in your psyche you can’t believe you said them out loud. “I’m scared to let myself feel anything towards you.”
“You already feel something towards me,” he argues, “a lot of something. You wouldn’t have slept with him if you didn’t.”
Stunned into silence again, your lips purse. He continues, “I’m not stupid. My vocabulary might not be as big as yours but I’m not stupid, I know you have feelings for me. You can’t hide that no matter how much you want to, how much you try to get it fucked out of you.” He shifts closer. “I’ll show you. Let me kiss you again.”
“Fuck no,” your brows furrow.
He deadpans, “Let me fuckin’ kiss you.”
“Did you even brush your teeth?”
“Shut up,” he stands up on his knees, too big in front of you, chiseled body on display, your heart drops to your stomach. “Stop deflecting. I see through you now.”
“Mingi–”
His hands find the armrest behind you as you uncurl your leg from beneath you, trying to accumulate space, space you’re quickly losing as he leans closer. “You don’t have to be scared with me.”
Your breath is shallow and shaky, heart in your throat, eyes halfway out of your head. He keeps his face close, forehead a millimeter from yours, you feel his heat first. He’s so big, he swallows your figure, he’s too big for the fucking couch, it’s dizzying.
“I’m gonna kiss you.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
He smiles before pressing his lips to yours, soft, so fucking delicate it takes you a moment to ease into it, to process that it’s even a kiss. Softer than it was on the field– his lips barely graze yours at first, as if he was testing the waters, like he wanted to feel your breath on his skin, wanted to feel your body say yes before your mouth said the word. Your lips part for him, soft and steady, molding to his, letting him guide, lead.
He asks for entrance with his tongue, swiping along your bottom lip with a certain courtesy like even though you were following him, letting him show you, you still held the reins. Your insides feel molten, fingers grabbing onto your shirt like you didn’t know where else to put them, mind in a constant battle to pick every detail apart or shut off completely. It’s different– it might be everything, laying here and kissing him softly, lazily, like nothing else exists except for him, his weight, his mouth. He tastes like something new, something blue, a memory you’d come back to for a long, long time.
He parts from you, lips swollen and red like he’d bitten them, he stares. Chocolate eyes big and round, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed a pretty rose, he looks at you like he’s just discovered you. Like even though he kissed you to prove something to you, it’s proven something deeper to himself.
He doesn’t smile, still calculating, but in a quiet voice he asks, “Do you feel it too?”
Your fists are still tight in your shirt, you search his eyes, the way they fall to your lips, you don’t answer— you kiss him again, harder this time, faster, tongue passing through his lips like his mouth belonged to you, like you were running out of time. You shift down on the couch, pillow falling to the floor, his elbows bracket your head as your calves hook over his thighs, moving in unison like your bodies were acting without either of you thinking about it.
Your hands find his hair when you wrap your arms around his neck, lifting yourself into him, pressing yourself against him, feeling the strength of him, it makes a tight noise leave your lips, one needy and begging. He rolls his hips into you on instinct and you moan into his mouth like you need him to do it harder.
“Fuck,” he curses into your mouth, lifting himself up on his palms, “wait— wait.”
“What?” You follow on your elbows, bug-eyed, “Why? What happened?”
He swallows, panting, running a hand through his hair as he sits back on his calves, your legs still thrown lazily over his thighs. The print of his length sits heavy and prominent with his legs spread in your cotton shorts, your eyes flicker back and forth to his face, mouth watering, patience already scarily thin.
“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he shakes his head, chest splotchy, tummy expanding with each aborted breath he takes. “I want this, I want you, I want to do it right.”
Your heart flutters in your chest, it’s at war with your dampening panties, your thighs that twitch as the words leave his mouth. His eyes drop to your figure, the big tee you wore hiked up to your stomach, tiny shorts clinging to your dampened core, he squeezes his eyes shut like it’d erase the sight from his memory.
“You want to stop because you want to take me out on a date?” You ask, brows raised. “We’ve been on, like, two already. Maybe three or four if you squint.”
He opens his eyes to narrow them, “You’re such a smartass.”
You smile at that, head tilting, cocky, “Clearly you like it, since you wanna date my smart-ass.”
His hands fall to your hips, tugging them towards him until your back is flat against the couch again, “I wanna do more than that.”
“Then do it,” you huff, hips bucking into him, arms lifting to reach for him, “you’re the one who stopped.”
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” He asks, leaning forward enough to let you wrap your arms around his shoulders, he uses his hands at your waist to lift you up onto his lap.
You gasp at the movement, at the fucking ease in which he maneuvers you, your knees land beside his hips before you answer. “If you want me to shut the fuck up then give me a reason to.”
“I lied, don’t want you quiet,” he’s looking up at you from this angle and the sight of him steals your breath, makes everything feel a little more real. He’s so beautiful and he wants you and fuck you want him, too.
“Make up your mind,” you press yourself to his chest, keeping your faces close. “Y’know, you talked big game that night at the LAX house, been wondering if you could back it up.”
His hands tuck beneath your tee, fingers warm against your skin as they drag up your sides, palms landing heavy on your waist, it makes you shiver. He smirks, “Now you’re baiting me into fucking you?”
“Maybe,” your faces are so close your lips graze, “is it working?”
He kisses you again, more feverish than the last, hands squeezing your waist before they drop down to your hips, grinding you against him. You keep your arms folded around his neck, tongue slotting between his lips messily, teeth clashing together as you grind your core against his clothed length, roughly, purposely, letting him feel the arousal that’s bottled up inside. You part to empty strangled noises into each other’s mouths, eyes screwed tight, your hips move steadily in a rhythm guided by his hands. So hard, long and thick beneath you, you could feel him through your shorts, his shorts, there was no stopping. There was no pausing.
His hands find the hem of your tee, you help him pull it over your head, his lips find your neck, your chest, your head tilts back to give him access, for small, pitched breaths to leave your lips, a song for him to hear. He groans when your hips slow into a nasty grind, his tongue pokes out to drag down your chest, over your heart where he places an open-mouthed kiss. He looks up at you to say, “This is mine now.”
Your heartbeat picks up, he smiles like he can feel it. Brows knitted together, face bent with intoxicated arousal, you respond, “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“We’re technically still dating,” his teeth catch onto the hem of the lace bralette you wore, tugging on it before placing a kiss right above, at the center of the valley between your breasts, “and we’re not breaking up.”
“Are you trying to gaslight me?” You ask, hips still moving against him, fingers knotting in his hair when your clothed clit rolls over the ledge of his tip, “ah– I think we had a very public breakup last night.”
One of his hands slithers over the curve of your hip, down between your thighs, two fingers adding pressure where you needed it. You choke on a moan, back arching, hips digging into the pressure as he grins wide, “I forgave you already. This is make-up sex.”
“More,” your fingers tighten in his hair, eyes squeezing shut, “Mingi.”
“Oh, I like that,” he circles his fingers twice over your clit, smirking, “beg a lil’ more, put that mouth to good use.”
Your eyes open wanting to scowl but your brows are knitted too deeply in pleasure, lips parted and glossy with his spit, you can’t force yourself to as his fingers circle over your clit again. “P-please,” you stutter over the word, hips rolling into his touch, “wanna feel you.”
His face contorts in pleasure like you were the one touching him, he catches your lips again, tongue slotting into your mouth as his fingers dive beneath your shorts. He groans into your mouth as he slips between your folds, feeling the wetness that seeped through your damp shorts, “So wet for me, princess.”
Your hips buck into his hand, body twitching at how thick his fingers feel at your center combined with that fucking word on his tongue. “Feels s’good, more, Mingi, inside.”
“Say please,” the words are muffled, lips still pressed to yours.
You whisper, “Please.”
“Good girl,” he mutters, feeling you clenching around nothing as his fingers prod at your entrance. His eyes flicker upward, “You liked that? Being called my good girl?”
You nod shamelessly, hips rolling into his fingers, beckoning him to put them inside. Slowly he inches forward and you gasp, breath catching in your throat, fingers tightening in his hair, he curves them with each inch he gives you, adding pressure on that spot as soon as he reaches it, you’re choking on your own pleasure as your hips grind to fuck yourself on his fingers.
“So greedy,” he whispers, completely in awe, “look at you, baby, fucking yourself on my fingers. You gonna be good for me and cum on ‘em?”
“Holy shit,” you whisper, hips stuttering, his words going straight to the pit in your belly. You’ve never had someone pay this much attention to you or your pleasure, never had someone even insinuate making you cum before they’ve taken their pants off. He crooks his fingers and you whine, “You don’t h-have to, ‘hmygod.”
“Yes I do,” his fingertips massage that spot, fucking into you in small, stuttered thrusts so he can keep pressure, “need you to cum around my fingers, then around my cock, gonna do that for me?”
“Yeah,” you roll your hips faster, harder, meeting the thrusts of his fingers, his movement trapped within your shorts, the edge of his palm kissing your clit. It’s fucking dirty, nasty the way you’re moving, so shameless, if you weren’t so consumed by pleasure you’d be mortified at how easily he cracked your composure.
“Yeah? You wanna cum around my cock?” He asks, tone arrogant because he knows the answer, “Gonna make a mess on me with this wet lil’ pussy?”
“Mingi,” you whine, “stop.”
“You like it, I can feel you clenching,” he grins, you open your eyes just enough to see it. Cocky, but he’s backing it up and fuck you might die if he stops. “So good for me, bet you’d take anything I give you, bet you’d ask for more.”
The pit of pleasure builds steadily in your gut and you bite your lip to try to keep your mewls inside. It’s futile when he kisses you, drinking up every wrecked moan you spill into his mouth, keeping his fingers moving at the same pace, the same pressure. The rough edge of his palm hitting your clit with each movement and it’s so fucking obvious he knows exactly what he’s doing, how to pull you to the finish line with ease.
“Mingi,” you gasp out, limbs locking as you climb, “I’m close.”
“I know,” he presses his lips to your chin, under your jaw, “give it to me– cum for me, baby.”
Your hips stutter first before your orgasm crashes over you heavily, body twitching, rolling into him, he moves with you, keeping his hand steady as you ride out your orgasm, chanting praises into the space between you, encouragement that extends your pleasure, the feeling of euphoria that rocks through you never-ending. You keel after you finish, forehead meeting his, body deflating like he took everything out of you, he kisses your unmoving mouth, smiling into you when you don’t respond.
“Did so good for me,” he pulls his fingers out of your shorts, bringing them up between your faces, slipping them between his lips. He moans in pleasure, “Mm, can’t wait to eat her. You’ll let me, right? You’ll ride my face if I tell you to?”
The pit in your stomach twists all over again, core clenching around nothing, he’s filthy. You love it. “Need you inside,” you mutter, voice tight with arousal but winded, “need to feel you, Min.”
His smile returns, “Can you handle it, big girl? Look at you after just two fingers.” You whine and he laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen, “I can’t believe you’re so easy. You’ve got such a fuckin’ attitude and now you’re whining and crying for my cock.”
“You asked me if I ever shut the fuck up,” you grind yourself against him, bleeding impatience, “do you?”
He makes a sound he keeps lodged in his throat, it makes you smirk. He answers, “Not if it makes you this wet. You soaked through your shorts, princess.”
“Stop calling me that,” you huff, “fuck me already, ‘m tired of hearing you run your mouth.”
His hands find your thighs, holding onto them tight as he lifts himself up, you fall backwards fast with a loud yelp, back hitting the cushions of the couch. He’s predatory as he leans over you, “This mouth can make you cum faster than my fingers did,” his fingers find the hem of your shorts, “wanna find out?”
“I want you to fuck me,” you lift your hips for him and he tugs them down to your ankles, “save your filthy fuckin’ mouth for another time.”
“There she is,” he stands on his knees, tugging at the baby blue shorts on his hips, “knew the brat was in there somewhere.”
“It only comes out when you’re a cocky motherfuck–” he tugs his shorts down and the word dies on your tongue. Bigger than he felt beneath you, thick, red, leaking, your mouth waters, back arching off the couch at the sight, “Damn.”
He’s smirking and you hate that his cockiness is starting to become sexy. “Gonna take it all like a big girl?”
You’re nodding, not even looking at him, you can’t take your eyes off his cock. Bigger than Wooyoung, than Hyunjin, he might even be bigger than Mingyu and that’s a feat. All you can muster is, “Hurry.”
He settles between your legs, your knees spread under his heavy palms, he licks his lips when he gets eyes on your center. “She’s so pretty, baby. Why didn’t you tell me? Woulda been fucking you weeks ago.”
“God, Mingi, shut up,” you buck your hips toward him, “get inside me already.”
“She’s soaked,” he wraps his fist around his cock, sliding it through your folds, rubbing circles over your clit that make you shiver, “so pretty, gonna ruin her. Can I? So you can’t fuck anyone but me?”
Impatience is a band that snaps hard, “Is that why you talk so much? You have a big dick that you don’t even know how to use–”
He wastes no time slipping back down to your entrance and pushing inside, just his tip has your body locking up, head tipping back, a tight, wilted noise slipping out of you involuntarily, it tells him everything you can’t say. He’s smirking even if he’s fighting to keep his own pleasure at bay, “Yeah? I don’t know how to use it? Say that again.”
He’s curved, carving into you like he’d make you take it even if you couldn’t, your walls suck him in like you were made for it, clenching around the width of him, mushroom tip kissing your cervix just enough that it’s pleasurable– you shake your head, biting your fucking tongue, nails clawing at the couch cushions because no one’s ever felt this good just sitting inside you.
“Exactly,” he pulls out slowly, filling you back up just as slowly, letting you adjust to his length, his thickness, the perfection your mind couldn’t comprehend. “Lay there and take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”
“Fuck, Mingi,” it’s high-pitched, filled with anticipation and slight disbelief. You watch as his abdomen flexes, how his tummy fills with air and deflates, his jaw that goes slack with each thrust, he’s so sexy it hurts. “Faster.”
He picks up speed on command, palms finding your shins, pushing them back into your chest as his cock starts bullying into you, “Like that?”
You can barely choke out a yes, hands flying to his biceps, nails marking crescents into his skin, half-curses fly from your lips drowned out by tight moans, pitched noises when his tip drags over that spot inside you, repeating, “Mingi, Mingi,” like it’s the only word you know.
“I’m here,” he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your knee, “I got you, know it’s big, baby, you can take it.”
You curse again as he fucks into you harder, back trying to arch but he has you pinned so deep you can’t move, “Mingi!”
He smiles, eyes half-lidded, “That all you can say? Fucked out already? Just started.”
You whimper, legs shaking beneath his palms, he lets go of your shins so he can lean down and kiss you, trading speed for a pace so deep and heavy you can’t kiss back. Moaning straight into his mouth, arms around his neck, you keep him close, legs hooked around his back, “Mingi.”
“Doing so good,” he kisses your cheek, your jaw, down your neck, “pussy so tight, baby, so perfect, gonna have to fuck you every day.”
You sound hypnotized, you might be. “Yes, yes, every day.”
“You know why?” He doesn’t wait for your answer. “‘Cause you’re mine.”
“Uh-huh,” you nod, and when he picks his face back up to kiss you, you kiss him back. It’s a mess of teeth and spit, too distracted and moving to be considered a kiss, but you’re lucid enough to tangle your fingers in his hair, for your hips to start fucking back.
“Say it,” he whispers in your mouth, edged like a blade. It makes you moan.
He groans, hips picking up speed all over again, he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, lips mindlessly pressing against your skin, tongue poking out just to taste the sweat that's formed. He slips an arm between your bodies to press two fingers against your clit and you twitch, a sharp moan escaping you, bucking into him at a pace unsteady and uncontrolled as the pressure builds fast.
“Mingi!” It’s loud and pitched, “Too much, too much.”
“No ‘ts not,” his words are muffled, lips pressed against your skin, “Take it, cum around my cock. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you cum f’me, baby.”
Strangled noises escape you one after another, his fingers circling your clit with practiced movements like he already knew your body inside and out. He’s still talking as pleasure climbs, your fingernails clawing shapes into his back, his rhythm doesn’t change or falter for a second. His words feel mindless, babbles of praise, “C’mon, baby, cum for me. Need to feel you clenching around my cock, say my name, say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, Mingi,” you don’t sound any more composed than he does, “Mingi, ‘hmygod I’m gonna cum, just for you, all for you.”
He moans as your pleasure hits its peak, seizing beneath him, legs locking around his body, fingers raking at his back hard enough to leave marks, you’re a mess of moans and cries and whimpers, but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t let up even a little. He’s cursing, hips jerking into you at that same fucking damning pace like his life depended on it, like he refused to give you anything but the entirety of your orgasm.
You’re still shaking when he pushes himself up, body red and splotchy, veins swollen and prominent and everywhere. “Gonna flip you,” you think he might be saying it to himself more than to you with the way he moves you fully on his own, your front meets the couch with a squeak, body spent, head fuzzy.
You’re flat against the couch, his legs straddle yours just below your ass, he spreads you to lean down and spit before he’s pushing inside once more. You curse sharply into the pillow, eyes rolling back, hands swatting behind you as he fills you up in one fell swoop.
He shushes you, two hands grabbing your swatting arms by your wrists, pinning them at the base of your spine, “You can take it. Breathe, princess.” When he moves, you feel like you might never recover. Your wails are muffled by the cushion you buried your face in, the pleasure was different, more, deeper, the way his cock grinds against that spot inside you and you can’t get away– you feel the pressure build like it never stopped, steady, heavy, so euphoric you might not be in your body at all anymore.
“You’re perfect, oh my god,” you hear him behind you, “gonna let me fill you up? Let me mark what’s mine? Fuck, baby, need to fill this perfect pussy up, need to cum inside.”
You dig your fingernails into your palms, kicking at the armrest on the other side of the couch, grinding your teeth, you turn your head just to cry, “Yes, fill me up, inside,” your voice cracks, “please.”
“Clenching around me s’fuckin’ hard,” his voice is rough, “y’gonna cum again?”
You let out a noncommittal sound and he changes the angle ever so slightly, your vision blurs, breath taut in your chest, his cock drilling against that spot like he was aiming for it, you don’t know if the damp spot under your head was from tears or drool. Keeping the angle, the pace, he lets your arms go before leaning over, pressing a sloppy kiss to your shoulderblade, breath hot in your ear, “So fucking perfect, let go f’me, baby.”
The sound you let out in response was from the deepest part of your lungs, a sob, a prayer, you’re so close you can fucking taste it. He presses another kiss to the tip of your spine, leaning over your shoulder again, mouth opening, teeth grazing your skin– when you feel him clamp down in a bite you lose it, trembling, sobbing, fisting the couch cushions with his name on your tongue, “Mingi!”
“Yes,” in awe again, his hips stutter, “there you go, fuuck– fuck, gonna fill you up, gonna make you mine.” You’re spasming around his length, hips bucking, trying to escape the unending pleasure as his thrusts only get heavier, sloppier, quicker. He keeps himself close, “My perfect girl, y’gonna take every drop? Fuck– fuck, gonna cum, baby, you want it?”
“Yes, Min,” you’re grabbing for him again, nails clawing at his thighs behind you, “fill me up, make me yours. Need you inside.”
One hand snakes under your jaw, turning your head he kisses you sloppily as his hips stutter, groaning a curse into your mouth as he twitches inside you, then he slows, warmth filling you up, ropes of his release heavy, hot, nasty. His breath is short, winded, exhausted, you don’t think yours is any more even.
“Mingi,” it comes out like a whimper, you feel him twitch inside you, he lets go of your face. A lazy grin takes over your cheeks, eyes closing, “You weren’t lying.”
He laughs, a small, easy thing, lifting himself up. “Why would I lie?”
“Dunno,” you answer absent-mindedly, “make yourself sound better.”
“Baby,” his hands smooth over the skin of your back, he leans down to press a soft kiss in the middle of your spine. Mumbling into your skin like he was too shy to say it with his chest, “I don’t need to do that.”
You hum, “Of course, how could I forget, you’re the entire package.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or if you’re fucking with me.”
“Good.”
He smacks his teeth, “I’m gonna pull out, ‘kay?”
You pop a brow at the warning, but as he starts to slip out inch by inch, you’re grateful for his thighs keeping you locked in place because the full-body twitch it gives you is lethal. You whine a little as his spent cock lays still-heavy on your ass, “How do you keep that thing hidden?”
He snorts, “Like in my pants?”
“That’s a weapon,” you’re still twitching beneath him, “and you just used it on me.”
He’s giggling as he shifts himself to be able to carefully flip you over, another movement he does with ease as if you’re some kind of toy. It still makes your stomach curl with warmth, body flushing hot as he lays himself down next to you, sliding an arm under your body, holding you close. “Smells like sex in here.”
You curl into his side, cheek pressed to his bare chest, eyes closing again. “Don’t care.”
“I really like you, you know,” his voice is low but steady, honest, “and I want to be your boyfriend.”
You pick your head up to look at him, his eyes big and round, glossed over like he was nervous to say the words. You reach a hand up, running your fingers through his chocolate locks once before cupping his cheek, guiding him down to press your lips softly against his. “You already are my boyfriend, moron.”
“I mean seriously–”
“And I mean seriously, you’re already my boyfriend,” you raise your brows in expectation, “so no more ogling girls at parties, no more calling me stupid names and no more Winter.”
“I thought you said you’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend before,” there’s a stupid smile on his face, “seems like you got the gist, princess.”
“What did I literally just say–”
“What about the messages?” His question is a little sturdier.
Your brows furrow, “What about them? I already turned my requests off.”
His brows match yours, “That’s it? It doesn’t turn you off from being with me?”
“I fucked Wooyoung like, two days ago, Mingi,” you smile when he makes a face of disgust, “if you can mentally handle that, I can mentally handle being in the spotlight, as long as its smaller than yours. But if I can’t, I’ll tell you, and we’ll figure it out. Wait, what about your coaches?”
“That is such a non-issue,” he rolls his eyes, “who gives a fuck?”
You make a face of surprised agreement, bottom lip bending over, brows raising, “Sure. Who gives a fuck?”
He smiles, “Cool, I think that’s everything.”
“Cool,” you nuzzle yourself back into his chest, pressing a short kiss to his skin, “by the way, how long until we can fuck again? I’ve been waiting three weeks for this too, y’know.”
masterlist 🏈 part one
this is my soul project. ive never loved another mingi as much as i love this one. if you read all of this, genuinely thank you from the bottom of my fucking heart. i could write about him endlessly, my muse fr. i hope you enjoyed and pls dont hesitate to tell me all your thoughts 🩷
⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART ONE ~28k
⪼ you can’t fucking stand jung wooyoung, mingi really really wants kim minjeong. when wooyoung and winter end up together, you and mingi have no choice but to figure out how to win winter’s favor, to stab wooyoung in the back. mingi needs a favor, and you want revenge... do you dare?
⪼ fake dating au, college au, slow burn, lowk enemies to lovers, this is my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! so happy to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, be sure to check out the masterlist for other banger college fics :)
⪼ eventual smut minors dni 18+ | LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. i hope u enjoy this is my pride and joy in a fic i would eat this mingi as my last meal
“Fuck you.”
Jung Wooyoung has never promised you anything. In your four months of doing whatever the fuck this was, he’s never once lead you believe you’d be anything more than his bed warmer. At least not verbally, and honestly, you had to hand it to him, he’d repeat the same monologue over and over like it was his personal gospel: We’re too young to be in a serious relationship, don’t you think? We should be enjoying our youth, our freedom, doing whatever we want…
If you ever hear the words serious relationship, youth, or freedom ever again, you might actually fucking vomit. In the beginning, it was easy to believe him; you rarely spoke to him outside of the bedroom, yours, his, that one supply closet on campus, the bathroom of that stupid fucking dive bar he loves so much. When he began sleeping over, kissing you awake, leaving with promises of later just to do it all over again, you started feeling blasphemous. Questioning gospel, his words of wisdom, you started to think there was more than just sweat and saliva to your relationship– maybe he enjoyed spending time with you. Maybe he even likes you.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” leaning against the wall of his foyer, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle over the other, you didn’t even make it inside his apartment. The bare, beige walls seemed to laugh at you even if there were no pictures on them, no paintings, no decor.
Too good to be true, of course, since you caught him hand-in-hand with her, Kim Minjeong, Winter, that pretty little thing you’re positive you shared a class with at some point in your three years at ATZU. Your immediate reaction was defense, denial, naturally, because why on Earth would he need anyone but you? He’s told you plenty of times you’re not like anyone he’s met before, that your personality was unique, that you’re the best he’s ever had.
“You’re sorry?!” Your arms were flying around the space, you voice loud, harsh, angry. You didn’t care if his roommate was home, maybe you’d apologize to San if you saw him on campus somewhere. Maybe. Right now, your anger was behind the wheel, driving you to insanity, “Who’s next, Summer? Spring? Fall? You gonna fuck all four seasons, you asshole?”
He shakes his head, black hair falling around his face, the poster board for nonchalance. You wonder how many times he’s had this conversation, how many girls he’s done this to. Maybe you were the problem for thinking you were different, that he’d alter his Ten Commandments for you. He uncurls his arms, straightens out his legs, and motions for the door, voice frustratingly monotonous, “I think you should go.”
“Yeah, I should,” you bite, already turning towards the dark brown, wooden door, “I hope I never fucking see you again.”
“Should be easy,” he says through a much too casual breath, reaching around you to grab the worn, brassy knob, forcing you to step sideways so he can open it. You take a step through the threshold and he leans his lanky body into the frame, “Make sure you return the Chrome Hearts hoodie I left at your place, though, doll. Paid good money for it.”
Face morphing into sheer disbelief, the audacity, only your head turns to look at him, eye legitimately twitching, “You’ll be lucky if I don’t fucking burn it.”
A corner of his lips tug upward in a smile, “Now that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”
“Just like the last four months?” Your brows raise, a faux smile creeping onto your lips, “Don’t text me ever again. Hope she fucks you like I do.”
He doesn’t answer– just stares as you stand there, waiting for an argument, for a rebuttal. Your jaw clenches when you realize you aren’t getting one. Turning on your heel, you stomp down his hallway, down the three fucking flights of steps you’ve climbed every other day for the past four months.
Fuck him. Fuck him.
Humiliation sinks in as you leave his building, anger crumbling into something small, something sad, pathetic. You should have seen this coming, you aren’t stupid, you’re definitely not naïve. You could blame his pretty smile, his cheekbones so sharp they could be considered blades, his beautiful bronzy skin you’d miss tasting, the way he filled you up so perfectly you wondered how you fucked anyone else. You could blame his touch, the grace he used with your body, how he cared for you after he split you open.
The only person to blame here is you. And you know it, deep in your gut, in the ache in your back from carrying the entire relationship you made up in your head, you know it’s your fucking fault you’re hurt. Your friends would tell you soon, too, that they knew this was coming, that they told you he’d do this, they advised you to not get involved with him.
Sighing, looking up at the sky, you squint at the overcast, the blue sky that was now a deep, sad grey. Great, even the fucking sun didn’t want you.
Song Mingi didn’t care about much outside of football. He didn’t have time to.
Almost every day, his schedule was the same: wake up at six, eat his breakfast that was the same every single morning: egg white omelet, two slices of whole-wheat toast, a cup of fresh fruit, sometimes he’ll have cranberry juice diluted by water, usually just plain water.
He’s at the gym by seven, following his training program, by nine he’s in the meeting room in the same building as the gym, he meets his team, his coach, going over the practice schedule, reviewing any changes made for the day or the week. By ten, he’s showered and on his way to class, where he fights to keep his brain turned on until two.
By three, he’s getting taped, at three-thirty he’s out on the field, practicing. By six, he’s back in the gym, then he’s eating dinner until seven, when he showers, fighting to stay awake for the academics squad that arrives specifically for the football team, helping them with homework, plain old studying, any projects they might be involved in.
He’s lucky if he’s finished by eight thirty, where he can finally go back home, to the house the entire fucking team lives in. In the beginning of the season, it’s usually quiet by nine, everyone so exhausted by the day they don’t have the energy to be rowdy– but that never lasts long, once everyone is comfortable in their routines, Mingi’s convinced they have endless pits of energy. Music, laughter, conversation, video games, it’s so fucking loud Mingi has to put on noise-cancelling headphones when he reaches his bedroom.
He doesn’t have the energy for anything outside of his schedule. His days are grid-locked, no room to pencil anything in, no time for partying, for socializing, for anything that would damage his D1-starting-quarterback reputation. He thinks he’s the only person in this whole fucking university that has a reputation, everywhere he goes, people watch. Everyone he speaks to, people listen. When he raises his hand in class, the whole fucking room turns their heads. It doesn’t help that he gets escorted to class. It’s unfortunate that his treatment comes with the gig.
It’s nauseating, the pressure of football was enough, there’s so much added bullshit that comes with it. On his good days, when his adrenaline is pumping, when he feels restless, when he’s really fucking tired of being Mr. Perfect, he makes time. He goes to the party the LAX house is throwing, he takes shots with his teammates, he even dances a little if Woozi’s mixing– if it’s Vernon DJing, he’s probably standing on the side, bobbing his head to whatever funky shit is playing while the nth girl of the night is in his ear.
The girls, the girls, that’s a whole other issue he tackles daily. Nightly. Literally. The cheerleading team, the dance team, the girls on campus he makes eyes at that quite literally fold. Well, he folds them, on the nights he doesn’t feel like releasing his pent up energy at a party, or when he needs to release his frustrations after an especially bad practice. There’s always girls, there’s an endless supply on a college campus, even more in his DMs, he’d assume half of his forty-three-thousand Instagram followers are women, at least that’s what it seems when he clicks his requests folder.
Mingi hasn’t really ever been denied in his life, not with women, not with his college applications, he was getting scouted by university after university in high school. Which is why he can’t wrap his mind around what happened to him last week, a typical crazy night at the LAX house, who throws weekly in their off-season, celebrating absolutely nothing but partying like it was everyone’s birthday.
Mingi was in his favorite outfit, short, dark hair slicked back, jewelry on his neck, his wrists, his fingers, he felt good. He felt lucky, even, when he eyed up the dark-haired beauty across the kitchen, standing alone, staring at her phone like she was waiting to be approached by him. He put on his pretty boy smile and crossed the room, running a hand through his hair, and approached her with every ounce of swagger he could conjure.
Winter. Such a pretty name for such a beautiful girl, Mingi was nearly drooling, her voice sweet like honey, her outfit screamed danger, he needed her. She didn’t smile when she looked at him, didn’t ask for his name, he didn’t think twice, Mingi just assumed she didn’t need to ask, everyone on campus knew his name.
“Do you know when Wooyoung will get here?”
He thinks his heart might have flatlined.
Mingi isn’t like his bitchless teammates, who jump at every opportunity to fuck just because they can. Mingi fucks, but it’s with purpose, every woman he approaches, every woman he hits on, it’s because they fit the criteria.
He coughed a little, brows furrowed, head tilted in confusion. He knew that name, he knew Wooyoung, he’s roommates with San who’s friends with Jongho, one of his teammates, on the starting offensive line.
“Wooyoung?” He found himself asking, choking on a laugh. “Like, the guy who got some girl pregnant last semester?”
She rolled her eyes, “That was a rumour, he didn’t get anyone pregnant.”
Then her phone lit up, and so did her entire fucking face. That smile, Mingi nearly groaned, she’s perfect, she’d look so good on his arm, flaunting her to the entire campus, to his teammates, his coach. He watched as she walked away, taking all of his hopes and dreams with her. His future, the mother of his unborn children, gone in a flash, off to find that leather-jacket-wearing fucking asshole that didn’t even have a career. Is she kidding? Mingi was on the brink of getting drafted to the fucking NFL, and she wanted Wooyoung? What did he fucking have that Mingi didn’t?
He stood there for at least another two minutes, stunned into silence, fingers slowly gripping his solo cup harder until he could hear the crackling of hard plastic bending in his palm. Then and there, Mingi decided she wasn’t worth it. How could she be worth his time, when she wants him? It showed a lot about her.
Mingi spent the night burying himself into whatever girl he could find that looked closest to her. For the week that followed, his mind was clouded by a dark vignette, the picture of her at the center. Winter. He didn’t even fucking like snow, that’s why he went to school somewhere warm.
Slowly, day after day, the rejection began to eat away at him, making him look inward, a practice he doesn’t have much experience in. What does Wooyoung have that he doesn’t? He came to the conclusion that there’s nothing. In every which way possible, Mingi’s better than Wooyoung, so why the fuck did she want him so bad when Mingi was standing right in front of her, in his favorite black party shirt, rings on his fingers, Aquaphor freshly applied on his lips?
She wouldn’t leave his mind. He replayed the rejection so many times, involuntarily and voluntarily, Mingi found himself attracted to the bored stare she gave him. Eyebrows straight, lips wet from liquor, shoulders slouched, not even a hint of a smile. She’s beautiful. She doesn’t care about him. She’s perfect for him.
He has to do something, has to commit some kind of crime, or somehow get Wooyoung kicked out of the school. He sat his teammates down in the dining room days later, the whiteboard they kept for discussing gameplay filled with scribbles and lines in red at the head of the table, in the center was a circled photo of her. His teammates called him crazy, down bad, but Mingi considers himself the next Albert fuckin’ Einstein.
All he has to do is prove to Winter that he’s better than Wooyoung. Easy.
“...I’m sorry you feel that way?” Your eyes, so wide they took over the entire upper half of your face as you all but screeched, “doll?!”
Yeosang and Jongho eyed each other from across the table, then redirected their gaze back onto you. The three of you at the most popular coffee shop on campus, Lucent, you didn’t even care to have this conversation somewhere private, all the ears who might listen should take it as a warning. You considered it a service to the ATZU campus.
Yeosang, green hair messily waved over his cheekbones, sighed, “I can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I know,” you bit back, eyes pointed, already prepared for that response. “But can you wait before saying I told you so and comfort me first?”
“Thank you,” you grumbled, “it’s just stupid. She’s not even prettier than me.”
Yeosang and Jongho shared another look, but it’s Jongho who spoke up this time, “I bet she’s not, probably just easy.”
“Exactly!” You screeched again, eyes wide, jumping out of your seat a little. After receiving looks from around the semi-crowded shop, you shrank in your seat again, cheeks heating up. In a quieter, but still sharp voice, you continued, “Because that’s what Wooyoung likes. He’s a no-good piece of shit who just wants to get his dick wet, it doesn’t matter who wets it.”
“I wish someone would have told you that before you jumped in bed with him,” quips Yeosang, a small grin playing on his lips. When you cursed him out with nothing but your eyes, his smile disappeared.
“Why are we blaming me?” Your fingers curled onto the table as your eyes danced between your two best friends, probably looking insane, but you didn’t care. “I’m the victim here. He played me.”
Jongho runs a hand through his hair, still half-damp from his training this morning, or maybe he actually showered after the gym this time. He sits back in the booth, eyeing you with a bored look, “Wooyoung plays everything. All he does is play, that’s who he is.”
“Well, forgive a girl for wanting to be different.”
Yeosang snorts, and the way your eyes pierce his soul makes his laugh die on his tongue. “What are you laughing at?” You scoff, “You can’t even look your girl in the eye publicly.”
Yeosang gasps, “Do not bring up my situation because you’re pissed about your own.”
“Well?” Your head shakes, arms flailing about in front of you to say What the fuck is the difference?
“Okay!” Jongho intervenes, his arm literally laying over the black table between you to cut the two of you off. “I’m sorry you’re upset, and I’m sorry he hurt you. But he seriously isn’t worth a shred of emotion, you aren’t losing anything by cutting him off.”
You bury your face in your palms, elbows holding you up. Muffled from the edges of your hands over your mouth, you mutter, “He’s so hot, and he’s so good at sex.”
Jongho chuckles, his head shaking, you could see it even with your hands over your eyes. “Is that why all the girls on campus flock to him? Because he’s a good fuck?”
You split four fingers down the middle to peek an eye out, “Yes. And he has this, like, magnetizing aura about him, I don’t know. He’s good at talking, at making you feel special, like wanting him was your idea all along.”
“Hm,” Yeosang’s head tilts, plopping back into the booth, arms crossed. “So he’s just… a manipulator?”
You whine, faking an annoying, high-pitched crying noise. “Yes, he’s really good at it.”
“Damn,” Jongho mutters under his breath, “he’s giving the whole campus problems. How long until he runs through everybody, you think?”
“Not long,” you grumble, “who else is he giving problems?”
“Mingi,” Jongho’s lips scrunch to one side, and a shiver runs down your spine. Mingi. “He wanted to bag this one girl and she dubbed him for Wooyoung. He’s torn up about it.”
“He should be torn up,” you snatch Yeosang’s coffee cup from in front of him and take a long sip. He makes a face like he’s disgusted you’re drinking from his cup, so you make the same one back, mocking him.
Yeosang turns to Jongho, “Mingi never gets dubbed. What is Wooyoung, like a sex god?”
“He’s the bad boy trope in every shitty coming-of-age movie you’ve ever seen,” you sip again until you hear the rattle of the last bits of liquid between ice cubes. Yeosang makes the same face when you slide the coffee cup back to him.
“Mingi is genuinely losing his fucking mind,” Jongho laughs a little, shaking his head like he didn’t even believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I don’t think the man has ever been told no in his life.”
“I wouldn’t tell him no, that’s for sure,” you say with the smallest laugh, and Jongho gives you a long stare, like he’s putting puzzle pieces together. You look on either side of you, then down at your shirt, then back up to him, “Do I have something on my face?”
Jongho shakes his head, eyes widening like he was about to shout eureka, “This could work.”
“What could work?” You ask, and within four seconds of him not responding, you ask again, “Ho, what could work?”
“Stop calling me Ho,” Jongho’s lip lifts in distaste, “Mingi’s trying to figure out a way to get revenge on Wooyoung, or prove that he’s better than Wooyoung, I guess, so he can steal the girl from him.”
“Just tell him to wait a month and she’ll be free again,” you shrug, “he doesn’t need an elaborate plan.”
Yeosang’s brows raise, bottom lip flipped over, shoulders slightly shrugging as if to say Yeah, true.
Jongho holds a finger up between you, “What if I set you up with Mingi?”
Your jaw drops, a disgusting sound leaving your lips that you’d die if anyone else heard. “Me? And Mingi? Are you stupid?”
“No, no, no,” he shakes his finger back and forth, “hear me out. Wouldn’t Wooyoung be pissed off if you bounced back with the star QB mere days after he cut you off?”
You, still sitting in anxious disbelief, plant your palms against the black table, shaking your head rapidly. “Even if he is–”
“Hear me out,” Jongho says a little stronger, and your lips smack back together. “Wooyoung will be so enraged that he cuts the girl off and gets back with you, maybe he’ll even be so mad he realizes his feelings for you were stronger than he thought–”
Yeosang cuts him off, “Hold on a second–”
“–Mingi gets the girl, and then you can break Wooyoung’s heart to get back at him.”
You sit back in the booth, arms crossing, face scrunching together in thought because it actually doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Jongho is grinning like he’d just solved one of the seven wonders of the world, and Yeosang is looking back and forth between you like he’s never heard anything so fucking stupid.
“There’s no way in hell you’re actually considering this,” Yeosang’s voice is shaky, drenched in disbelief, “have you ever watched To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before?”
“This is different,” you’re quick to answer, “I’m not Lara Jean, there are no letters, there’s just an Wooyoung who needs to learn what it feels like to be on the opposite end of the knife.”
“And Mingi won’t shut up until he sinks his claws into that girl, I think it’s a pretty even exchange,” Jongho adds, both of you two peas in an optimistic pod while Yeosang just stares, dumbfounded.
He blinks once, twice, before his lips part to speak, sucking in a breath. They close, and his face twists in confusion, “Let me get this straight, you’re suggesting fake dating Song Mingi, like, football player Song Mingi. And you think he’ll agree?”
You turn to Jongho who just shrugs. “Why not?”
“I don’t know how to say this without insulting you, girl,” Yeosang’s bottom lip is tugged down to expose his bottom row of teeth, a nervous but apologetic look. “But his taste is… refined. Of snotty girls and like, barbie dolls. Plus, you’re opposites.”
“Fuck you Yeosang, I’m hot!” You immediately bark out, then turn to Jongho, “I’m hot, aren’t I?”
“Yeah Yeo, she’s hot,” Jongho nodded, saying Yeosang’s name like it was an insult, then immediately cringing because those words feel gross on his tongue, “Mingi will be into it, trust me. And if he’s not, I’ll just remind him of the bigger picture, it’s not like he has to kiss her or anything.”
You make a face that is nowhere near pleased, lips thinning, brows flattening. “You guys have known me too long, you’re too comfortable insulting me to my face.”
Yeosang barely gives you a glance, “She doesn’t party anymore, she doesn’t socialize with anyone outside her study group and us. They’re opposites, even if she’s–” he cringes, “–hot.”
“Her study group goes out!” Jongho argues, also not sparing you a glance, “Jia and Riyo are always at the LAX house, she can just tag along with them or with Mingi or whatever. I don’t know, once I get him to agree, it’s out of our hands.”
Your jaw drops again. “Out of your hands? Hello? I’m right here, first of all, second, this is your idea, Ho.”
The flex in Jongho’s jaw is his way of saying stop it with the fucking nickname. Deadpanning, he responds, “It’s just an idea, you and Mingi can figure out the details.”
“Stop acting like he said yes already,” Yeosang argues, amusement in his voice now, “you’ll get her hopes up of fucking a football guy.”
You can’t react to the response, because fucking Song Mingi would be a dream— not that the football part has anything to do with it. Your face reflects the thought.
“He’ll say yes,” Jongho nods, “trust me.”
“Fuck no. Are you stupid?”
Maybe Jongho should have waited until they got to the gym, or at least until after Mingi had consumed four bites of his breakfast. Maybe waking him up a minute before his alarm went off at a mere six in the morning wasn’t the best idea, but his anxiety wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Come on,” Jongho whines, legitimately whines, because if Mingi didn’t say yes he’d have to hear about it for weeks to come, and he can’t bear to hear another complaint from the older man’s mouth. “She said yes already, it’s the perfect plan. Girls are jealous like that, they want what they can’t have.”
Dark hair, a little oily and piecey on his head, shooting out in every which way, he was shirtless under the navy blue comforter, sheets crumpled at the foot of his bed. Jongho can’t remember the last time Mingi used the washing machine in the basement of the football house.
Mingi sits up a little, yawning, before looking up to Jongho with an uninterested look, “Is she hot?”
Jongho can’t help the face he makes. Head craning back and forth, almost touching each shoulder as a high pitched, unconvincing, “Yeah,” slides from his lips.
Mingi smacks his lips, laying back in his bed and turning away, pulling the comforter over his shoulders as he utters, “Waking me up before my alarm for some bullshit, Jongho.”
Jongho tries defending himself, “I’ve known her since she was fourteen, she’s like a sister. If you’re talking about, like, conventionally attractive then I guess, yes—”
“I don’t even know what conventionally means,” Mingi huffs, “get out of my room.”
“Mingi, Wooyoung just broke her heart, she wants revenge, and you want the girl. It's an even exchange, no strings. You have nothing to lose.”
Mingi’s grumble slowly grows in volume as he turns back over, eyes still closed. “What about my pride? Making some elaborate scheme just to get a girl who I shouldn’t even care about.”
Jongho’s lips thin— not the pity party, again. He can’t listen to it another time or else he might explode. They’ve already hidden the whiteboard.
He bends at the knees, arms folding over the empty space at the edge of Mingi’s mattress, “Listen, bro, it’ll stay between me, you and her—” and Yeosang, “—it’s the perfect plan. You don’t even have to learn her last name, just stand next to her for a little while until your dream girl’s interest is piqued. Easy peasy.”
One of Mingi’s eyes opened, “It’ll work?”
Jongho nods.
“And she’s hot?”
Jongho’s lips thin again, but he nods.
“Fine,” Mingi huffs, “tell her to come over or something so I can get a good look before I agree to this.”
If it was any other circumstance, your fingertips would be buzzing at your sides, heart pounding in your chest with having a man so beautiful in front of you. Plump lips, dark hair still a little damp laying over his sculpted cheekbones, strong shoulders on display in his sleeveless tank. He sat sunken into the couch, one leg folded over the other with his ankle kissing his knee, arms crossed over his chest. Gorgeous. His skin looks so soft you want to touch it— maybe lick it.
But he did not look pleased. On top of ruining the fantasy, you’re disappointed that men like him still exist.
Standing before him across the living room, a hip popped with your arms crossed, the only thing Jongho said to you before walking inside the football house was that Mingi wanted to meet you. Not that you’d be put on display for him to judge your appearance before he agreed to being your fake fucking boyfriend.
“This is misogynistic in ways my mind can’t even comprehend right now,” you huffed the words to Jongho, your best friend of nearly a decade, not even looking at Mingi. As far as you’re concerned, he’s not in the room anymore. He no longer fucking exists.
There was an apology in his deep brown eyes, his features softened, lips tightened. But he didn’t answer. Mingi’s thick eyebrows were furrowed, top lip curled, but his eyes didn’t read distaste even if his body language portrayed it. With the rage simmering within you right now, he should thank whatever god he prayed to that you weren’t at the boiling point yet.
“I don’t know what that means,” Mingi shakes his head a little, voice lazy, “this will do, though. I guess.”
“You guess?” Your entire face jerks forward, “You fucking guess? I’m a human, you know. Standing right in front of you.”
“No shit,” Mingi sighs, head leaning back into the couch cushion, chin tipped up, face reading utter boredom. “You’ll get me the girl, though? You’re sure she’ll want me if I pretend I’m… dating you?”
He said the words like you casted a fucking curse on him.
Your eye twitched as you glance at Jongho. Meeting his apprehensive stare you uncurled your arms from your chest, legs moving for the front door, “Fuck no, I’m not doing this. Absolutely not, plan is cancelled.”
“Wait!” Jongho stands, eyes wide, palms pressing into your shoulders to stop you from walking straight out the front door. “He’s tired, we had a hard practice today. He’s not usually this bad, I swear, I swear.”
“What do you mean?” Mingi sits up a little, turning halfway to see the two of you, “What do you mean ‘this bad’? I’m being normal.”
“See?” Your arm flies in his direction, “he’s being normal. You never told me he’s a fucking asshole, Ho.”
“An asshole!?” Mingi stands up straight, arms at his side, jaw dropped. “I have to tell every single person in my life I’m dating you, and I’m an asshole for wanting to make sure it’s fitting?”
“What are you so worried about?” You raise your voice, “you’re twenty-one years old, it’s college, it’s not like you have a reputation to uphold, no one cares. You play football, big fuckin’ deal.”
Mingi gasps, insulted, “Big deal? Big deal? It’s my entire future, thank you very much.”
“You won’t have a future if you treat women like they’re your little playthings,” you snap, voice bitter, “is the NFL gonna draft a misogynist?” You smack your lips, eyes meeting the floor, regretting the words as soon as you said them. The NFL would in fact draft a misogynist. Plenty of them, actually.
“Why do you even care? We just have to show face a few times,” Mingi responds, voice bored yet again, “you don’t have to like me, I don’t have to like you. I just want her.”
Rage bubbles up inside you again as Wooyoung crosses your mind. It would feel really, really good to hurt him after he hurt you. And Mingi’s right, you guess, you don’t have to get to know him, or speak to him ever again after this. You could look past the flaws you were sure ran deep if it was just temporary. Situational.
You look up, brows flat, mumbling the reiteration, “A few times.”
Jongho is nodding, smile growing as his eyes bounce between you, whispering, “Yes, friendly, this is good, this is good.”
You face Mingi from across the couch, holding up a flat hand, curling a finger into your palm with each rule, “We don’t speak to each other outside of pre-scheduled meetings, we only act like a couple when there’s people watching, and do not fucking touch me.”
“Don’t touch you?” Mingi pops a brow, “people won’t believe we’re a couple. How am I gonna prove to her I’m boyfriend-worthy if I can’t show off my boyfriend skills?”
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, looking away, “you’re right. Wooyoung won’t be jealous if you don’t make him jealous.”
“Exactly,” Mingi’s brows raise, pleased, dimples out to play as his lips thin in a tight smile. “I don’t want to touch you as much as you don’t want to touch me, trust.”
Your head snaps up to shoot him another pointed stare, grumbling under your breath, “Asshole.”
Mingi’s smile morphs into a nasty little smirk, “Your asshole now, baby.” You give him an unimpressed, blank stare and his smirk falters as what he said sinks in. Sheepishly, he mumbles, “Sounded better in my head.”
“Like you actually think before you speak,” you snap, rolling your eyes, bringing your attention back to Jongho who looks like if he breathes wrong his entire plan will go in the shitter. “I’ll figure out where Woo will be next, you can tell Mingi and plan out when we’re meeting and where, whatever. Keeping this very much so in your hands, Ho.”
“Good,” you nod, then glance back at Mingi, “don’t embarrass me by saying stupid shit around people, ‘kay?”
Mingi cocks his head to the side wearing the biggest smile, “Don’t embarrass me by wearing that outfit in public again, ‘kay?”
FIRST OUTING: SOFT LAUNCH, THE LAX HOUSE. 11:20 PM.
“How the hell did you get Song Mingi to be your boyfriend?” Riyo is on your hip, bright red hair in a single braid down her back, denim booty-shorts hugging her hips, a cropped, tight bandeau top covering her chest. You suppose for where you went to school that was the uniform, something you quickly realized weeks into your freshman year, clothes were optional here.
You scoff, walking in-step with her, grass from the lawn of the LAX house sneaking around the edges of your flip-flop covered feet. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”
She giggles, a step ahead of you as she walks up the front stairs, “It’s weird, you have no correlation to the football team. Where did you even meet him?”
“On campus,” your voice is high-pitched, certainly not convincing. You clear your throat, “I mean, I applied to be a part of the football team’s academics unit, I just got in, like, a month ago.”
Riyo pauses at the door, a hand on her hip, eyebrows furrowed, “The fuck? And you just didn’t tell me that you,” she counts on her fingers, “applied, got accepted, and started?”
“It’s not a big deal,” you shrug, nervously laughing to cover up the so fucking obvious lie, “I’m just helping them study, Mingi and I.. clicked.”
God, the words feel sour. So unconvincing you could vomit– and he’s inside, waiting for you, you could really fucking empty your guts on the LAX house’s porch. It’s already cluttered with lacrosse sticks, solo cups, backpacks, containers of white balls you can only assume are used in the game, your vomit would probably go unnoticed. Or washed away by beer, maybe your tears by the end of the night.
You don’t know why you agreed to this, it was a moment of weakness. Of rage. Wanting revenge. Because behind the stained, scratched white door, was the entire lacrosse team, the entire football team, God knows who the fuck else if Riyo’s here. You could hear the music bleeding through the walls, something with heavy bass, something rap, something you might know if you opened the door.
Jongho texted you yesterday that Mingi asked for you to make your first appearance here, he said it was the perfect spot, that Wooyoung and Winter might even be here. As much as you were regretting your decision, you hoped he was here. You want to see the look on his face when he spots you at Mingi’s side, when word spreads that you’re dating him, you want to watch his face morph into confusion, into regret, hopefully something lustful that you could use to your advantage.
“That’s gotta go in, like, the top five most insane things to ever happen on this campus,” Riyo wears a supportive smile, yet her head still shakes in disbelief, “I’m happy for you, though. Actually, I think you kinda suit each other.”
You fight the cringe, that was an insult. You smile instead, already hating the words about to come out of your mouth, “Let’s go inside, I wanna see him.”
You’ve been here before, you frequented the LAX house plenty freshman year, a lot less sophomore year after your fling with Kim Mingyu, you haven’t been here once yet this year. It hasn’t changed, medium-sized house, open floor plan, giant kitchen, silver appliances. The furniture was dull, broken in, old, thrifted. It’s nostalgic, being here, these people, you barely see the lacrosse team on campus, you know a few of them from your times here as a freshman, mornings escaping after a night with Mingyu, you don’t know anyone well enough to be considered a friend.
Riyo is immediately squealing upon walking inside, hugging girls you only know the first names of, you smile in greeting from behind her. Jia, another girl from your study group that you’re close with, approaches with the same squeal Riyo had unleashed on the room, her dark hair styled in waves behind her back, deep, golden-olive skin glowing beneath the barely-there lights in the room.
Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees you, “Hello? Shut the fuck up?”
“Hey baby,” your tongue sneaks out between your teeth and she squeals again, throwing her arms over your shoulders in a tight hug. Swaying you side to side, she’s a giggling mess, sandal-covered feet tapping against the floor.
“I haven’t seen you here since last year!” She yells, grin spread wide, showing her dazzling white teeth you couldn’t believe shone so bright in a room this dark.
You shrug, smiling, “I have good reason.”
“She’s seeing her boyfriend,” Riyo teases, nudging you with her shoulder, smiling like a fucking crazy person. Leaning in close to Jia, her voice is still loud, even if she was trying to be secretive, “Song Mingi.”
Jia looks like nothing in the world makes sense, and she’s been transported to another dimension. “I saw you two nights ago, babe, and there was not one mention of a boyfriend, most certainly not a word about Song Mingi.”
“We’re not being, like, super public about it,” you shake your head, cheeks burning, “it’s chill guys, seriously, don’t make a huge deal about it, he’s not a celebrity.”
“Closest we’ll ever get to one, plus, last I heard you were still fucking Wooyoung,” the look on Jia’s face hasn’t left, and God you wish you thought out a better plan with Mingi before you left the football house the other day, you’re scrambling for a story.
“Ew, why are you talking about him?”
Speak of the fucking devil– a shiver racks down your now rigid spine, you fix your eyes that involuntarily widened. Jia and Riyo watch with dropped jaws as Mingi slides an arm over your shoulder, an easygoing smile on his face, looking at you so fucking fondly it makes your heart skip a beat. Fuck him for being so damn beautiful.
Dark shirt clinging to his torso, showing off every fucking muscle that was etched into his skin beneath it, his hair was styled, purposely messy how it hung over the sides of his head where it was shorter, faded into his skin. Baggy jeans on his legs, low enough to show the Calvins under them, he wore a skinny, silver chain around his neck, one to match on his wrist, with pretty, bulky rings on his fingers.
This is so fucking unfortunate– he’s beautiful and he sucks, you hate him, his personality, the misogyny he so easily wields as a weapon, it makes you sick. He doesn’t deserve a perfect face and an even more perfect body. Fuck him.
“We were talking about you,” you force a smile on your lips, turning back to Jia and Riyo as your stiff body leans into Mingi’s huge one, so stiff and broad and muscled you tried to not pay too much attention to it. “Of course you missed it.”
“Start again,” his smile is cheesy, so fucking cheesy you want to slap it off his face. “I wanna hear all the cute things my baby said about me.”
Spit lodges in your throat that constricts around nothing, you choke. Coughing, you pull away from his grip, turning around, smacking your chest with a fist, eyes tearing– he did not just call you baby unironically.
He leans in close, feigning concern, “Are you okay?”
Your other hand flies up, back still facing him, “Fine– fuck.”
Gathering yourself, you turn back around, plastering a smile onto your face. Bidding a wave to the two girls, through gritted teeth, you ask him in a false, sweet voice, “Don’t you have people to introduce me to?”
He quirks a brow, but nods, slinging his arm over your shoulder again as he guides you away from your group of friends. Voice low, keeping himself tight to your ear, he asks, “What the fuck was that?”
“Do not ever call me baby again,” you keep your smile, but your voice is venomous, “that was fucking disgusting.”
“You think I enjoyed it?” He whispers back, voice pitched sharply, “It’s kinda part of boyfriendism, no? Pet names and shit?”
You’re wading through the crowd, Mingi shooting smiles and dapping up tens of people you don’t know, mainly men, all beefy and drunk and eyes dilated like they just railed lines in the kitchen. You shift your shoulders under his heavy ass arm, “Jesus, Mingi, I’m not a fucking ledge for you to put your whole weight on, big ass.”
He grins as he looks down at you, wiggling his brows, “You think my ass is big?”
You roll your eyes, “I don’t think I’m gonna survive you.”
“You won’t believe how many times I’ve heard that line,” his grin is proud, he’s not even looking at you as he says it, eyes focused on the people in front of him, in the hallway where a large table is set up, holding a messy game of beer pong. Water beneath the table, a shallow film on top of the painted surface, swirls of brown covering your school’s logo shittily lined in black, gross.
You don’t have time to scoff– you know these guys, Jeno, Chris, Kai, Haechan, Soobin, Changbin. All on the football team, all huge, you’re already vibrating, body stiffening under Mingi’s arm that’s so casually thrown over your shoulders, heavy and thick. Suffocating.
You wish you could be meeting them under different circumstances. You’re tainted now, if they even cared about boy-code, which they might not usually, but you wondered if Mingi pulled rank with them, or if girlfriends were off limits compared to casual lays. Your answer is quickly delivered to you on a silver platter as Jeno eyes you from across the table, hip to hip with Chris who does the same, eyes sliding down your body and back up like they were sizing you up, waiting to pounce.
Your posture changes, subtle, but your arms uncurl from in front of you, back arching slightly, eyes drooping into that pretty, low stare that did Wooyoung in when you first met him. A small smile on your lips, you tilt your head away from Mingi while he introduces you– as his girlfriend. Right. You lock back in, blinking into focus, smiling and nodding to each man that introduces himself like you didn’t already know all of their names and their positions.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Changbin has one palm planted on the painted table, clearly he didn’t care about the murky water, one of his hands palms a can of beer close to his chest, “you were crying over what’s-her-face two minutes ago.”
Mingi makes a face, head nodding towards you with his eyebrows raised like he was silently telling Changbin to shut the fuck up, like you weren’t supposed to hear that, as if you didn’t know already. He’s playing it up, smart.
“Nice to meet you,” Chris grins from the other side of the table, his voice warm, smile pretty, it makes you feel fuzzy inside. You can’t wait to fake-break-up with Mingi. “Your boyfriend didn’t get you a drink yet?”
“Was waiting for one of you to do it for me,” Mingi juts his chin out in Kai’s direction and he nods, eyes wide as he receives the order, and he scrambles. Like, literally scrambles. Nonchalantly you nudge your elbow into Mingi’s ribs, silently telling him to stop being an asshole.
Hiding his hiss in a forced laugh, he steals his arm back from around your shoulders, hiding his formerly exposed ribs, “You should have one hand-delivered to you, ba– sweetheart.”
God, you can feel the bile churning in your gut. You fix your face before it morphs into full disgust.
“How did you two meet?” Haechan asks, his voice whiney– you were not expecting that from his bulky build, broad and toned, so hot. His cherry-red hair is a mess of curls atop his head, skin bronzy under the far light dimming the hallway, allowing them to see the game, you presume.
“The library.”
“On campus.”
You and Mingi respond at the same time, then look at each other, eyes panic-stricken at the fumble. You couldn’t repeat your lie from earlier, they would know you aren't a part of their study team, all you could think was on campus, a generic answer.
You stutter, “The– The library.”
“The one that’s on campus,” Mingi nods, assured.
“Why the fuck were you at the library?” Soobin asks, leaned up against the wall of the hallway, dark brows furrowed, two hands around his can of beer. Valid question, your heart picks up speed in your chest, you weren’t expecting them to pry.
“Studying,” Mingi responds nonchalantly, his voice high, shoulders shrugging.
“Extra tutoring,” you add, “on top of what you guys have, yeah. One of the girls on your academics team told me Mingi needed extra help and volunteered me because our schedules lined up.”
“Exactly,” Mingi nods, lips pursed in an attempt to be more convincing, “love at first sight type shit.”
You tuck your lips between your teeth to hide your smile, smothering the snort that fights to climb to the surface, redirecting your gaze to the floor beneath you. You can’t wait to make fun of him for that line later.
“Right,” Changbin’s brows are tied together, dark hair sprawled across his forehead, almost hiding his skepticism. He redirects his attention to Jeno, the silver-haired hunk of a man beside him, Chris splitting the three. Tilting his chin up, he asks, “Keep playing?”
Mingi’s lips tighten, turning to you again, “Should we go find where Kai is?”
“Sure,” you sigh, flipping your hair off your now slightly sticky shoulders, “I could use a drink.” One of his hands slides to your lower back, guiding you away, and you realize then that he doesn’t have a drink– moving in-step towards the kitchen, you ask, “You’re not drinking?”
“No, not tonight,” his voice is monotonous, he doesn’t look down, keeps his eyes ahead. “Need a clear mind if I’m gonna lie to a hundred people.”
“It’s hot in here,” you complain, face crunching to cringe, it’s humid for November, even for where you live.
“I can tell, you’re sweating all over me, bro,” he responds, voice dripping in boredom, pressing his hand to your back a little harder instead of removing it from your body altogether. “Gross.”
“Then take your hand off me, bro,” you huff, turning the corner, the kitchen coming into view. Surprising high ceilings, white cabinets, silver appliances, marble countertops, probably the nicest room in the whole house, you wondered if there was still a hole in the back door from that one night Hoshi got a little too drunk. You sneer, “You probably smell like a wet dog after practice.”
You spot a few members of the lacrosse team in the corner, standing in front of the back door, a black mesh screen severing the house from the backyard, letting cool air from outside in. Joshua, Wonwoo, Seungkwan, a joint lit in Seungkwan’s mouth, the youngest of the three, a sophomore. Guess they really chilled out during their off-season, no worries about a drug test in their future. Good for them.
“I smell like a beautiful woman after practice,” Mingi scoffs, guiding you in front of him with his palm, hands gliding up to sit on your shoulders, pushing you through people that parted at the sight of him. You keep a tight-lipped smile on your face, giving a small nod each time you make eye contact with someone new. He leans down into your ear, “You’d probably like it, you’re the gross one. Pheremone-lover.”
“Keep your androstenone away from me,” you answer with disgust in your voice, without changing your face an inch, “you probably don’t even know what that is.”
“Guilty as charged, smart girl,” he catches Kai’s head of blonde hair over the crowd, the two men probably the tallest in the entire kitchen. “Huening!” Mingi yells, stealing Kai’s attention, he wears a wide, excited grin, holding two cans of beer over his head like he’d discovered the One Piece.
“I got beer!” He yells across the kitchen, immediately wading through people to get to you and Mingi. A freshman, you think, also on the offensive line, Jongho’s told you about him– a smart kid with great instincts for football, uses his build to his advantage. Innocent, ignorant like a child, a little stupid, he’s cute. Chubby cheeks, a kind smile, your already heated skin rises in temperature as he approaches, opening your can for you.
You introduce yourself properly, thanking him for the beer, “How’s your first year on the team?”
Mingi’s head snaps down to look at you, brows tied together in surprise.
Kai grins, blushing immediately, running a hand through his blonde hair, “Great, thanks for asking, the guys are really cool, Coach is terrifying lowkey, but he’s cool, too.”
You giggle, head tilting, “I’ve heard that, he’s famous though, right? Coach Suh?”
“Yeah, he’s like, renowned in the football world,” Kai babbles on, the two of you erupting into easy conversation, all while Mingi’s head bobs back and forth, watching, listening, his confusion growing with each new word that falls from your lips.
He can’t help but interject, “Since when do you know so much about the team?”
Your giggle slows to a stop, smile faltering, “What do you mean? I’ve always known, this is a D1 school, silly.”
Silly is synonymous with stupid fuck, he can feel it in how your pointed eyes stare into him.
“She couldn’t be your girlfriend if she didn’t know football, Song,” Kai adds, so innocent, so easygoing, oh my God you love him.
Mingi nods like he was the one who reminded himself you were his girlfriend, not Kai, forcing a laugh out, more punched and nervous than anything. “Right, yeah, yeah.”
Your blood runs cold as you catch a head of recognizable black hair around Kai’s ridiculously huge bicep, bronzy skin, a cloud of smoke surrounding him like it was his brand, his aura. Your eyes widen, head swerving around Kai’s arm to get a better look, taking in his leather jacket, the rings on his fingers, the cigarette dangling between his teeth as he smiles, Corona in one of his hands.
“Nice meeting you, Kai,” you don’t even look at the boy, grabbing onto Mingi’s arm, dragging him sideways, away from Kai’s earshot. “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.”
“Who? Who?”
“Who do you think, dumbass?” You spit, chin pointing in Wooyoung’s direction, “The only man who’s more of an asshole than you.”
“Oh my God, she’s with him,” a hand comes up to cover Mingi’s mouth, his brown eyes wide, excitement gleaming in chocolate, drawing them hazel. Beside Wooyoung is Winter, long, dark hair pinned up halfway, a short, black skirt on her hips, halter top tugging her upper half just right. He lowers his voice, “Fuck, she’s so hot.”
“Pause,” you turn to him as the realization sinks in– he wants Winter? Winter is the girl you’re helping him get? Kim Minjeong? “You want Winter?!”
“Yes,” he groans out, head tilting back, a whine to his voice like he was four years old and you just took away his favorite toy. “She’s perfect, dude. Like, perfection in a human, I love her, I think.”
“What the fuck?” Completely baffled, you shake your head in disbelief at how perfect this is lined up. You don’t know how you didn’t put it together sooner, you didn’t once think about who Mingi wants, who the girl might be. You didn’t really care. “This is good, this works in our favor, this is perfect, actually,” you’re rambling as you turn around, watching Wooyoung and Winter across the room, how Wooyoung introduces her to the lacrosse trio at the backdoor, how he pulls his cigarette from his lips to press them to her cheek in a short kiss.
“Ew, he’s touching her, that’s my wife,” Mingi props his forearm on your shoulder, you immediately shake yourself out of his grip, eyes never leaving them, laser-focused. He whines, “Comfort me, I’m heartbroken. He’s touching her, bro.”
“They’re together, what do you expect?” You whisper-yell, twisting around to get him out of your personal space. “How can we get their attention? We need them to see us together, being coupled up and shit.”
“I’m boys with Shua and Wonwoo, we can go over there,” Mingi suggests, finally looking at you, and the excited gleam in his eye was now dulled down to desperation, a sadness only caused by yearning. If he wasn’t such an asshole, you might feel bad for him.
You nod, “Good idea, let’s do it. Let’s go, come on, football boy.”
With his hands on your shoulders again, you guzzle the beer in your hands as you cross the kitchen, eyes screwing shut as the spicy carbonation burns your throat. Beer is so fucking gross, at least it’s cold, it gets the job done– you burp before you approach them, a closed fist covering your mouth in an attempt to hide the noise.
“Ew!” Mingi gasps from behind you, “Did you just burp? You’re disgusting, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Shut up,” you spit, “I couldn’t help it, and they’ll hear you, go back to boyfriendism and make it believable.”
“You want me to put on a show?” You can hear the amusement in his voice, the wiggle of his stupid thick brows.
“I do, actually,” you answer with a defeated sigh, “do your worst.”
Approaching the lacrosse trio, Wooyoung and Winter, Mingi throws his arms fully around your front, tucking your back into his chest, his chin sitting on the top of your head. In an obnoxious yell, he makes his presence known, “Hey guys, how we doin’ tonight?”
Ew. One of your hands wraps around his forearm glued to your chest, a wide grin on your cheeks, your head leaned up against one of his biceps that boxes you into his hold, “Hey guys.”
“Song!” Joshua yells, smile widening, lighting up his whole face, “I was hoping you’d show tonight.”
Wooyoung’s smile drops when he sees you, you meet his eyes immediately, your fake grin turning real. Yes, be mad, be so angry you flip the fuck out.
“Of course I’d show,” there’s so much confidence in Mingi’s voice it’s nauseating, “had to introduce my girl to all my people, do you guys know her?”
With a coy smile, you introduce yourself as Mingi’s girlfriend, head leaning into his chest impossibly further, forcing a stupid, lovestruck look on your face, you prayed it was believable.
Joshua nods, as does Wonwoo, both recognizing you from all the times you’ve been here, probably also your fling with Mingyu. The two lacrosse boys greet you kindly, where Seungkwan introduces himself, newer to the team, to those who party in their house.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Wonwoo’s brows furrowed, “the campus isn’t burned down, I’m confused.”
You and Mingi both laugh, but Mingi says, “I don’t think word has spread yet, don’t worry, expect the heat soon.”
“It’s hot enough,” you add, rolling your eyes, “your fangirls will be just fine, there won’t be a fire.”
“You have no idea,” Joshua snorts, “I remember one girl having to deactivate her Instagram account because word got out you were sleeping with her, remember that, Min?”
“Let’s not talk about the past in front of my girlfriend,” Mingi’s voice slips into something strict, “it’s disrespectful, Shua.”
You stiffen in his arms, that’s oddly kind, it makes your situation more believable. You briefly wonder how Mingi is with his girlfriends, if there’s any form of chivalry in his cold, chauvinist heart.
Joshua snorts, shaking his head, “‘m sorry, you’re right, my bad.” His pretty brown eyes fall to meet yours and you melt into Mingi all over again, “Blame the weed, sweetheart, my social awareness has depleted to zero.”
“It’s okay,” you smile softly, liking the word as it falls from Joshua’s plump, wet lips, eyes wandering back over to Wooyoung who’s still staring, lips slightly parted, the cherry on his cigarette so long it’d fall soon. You avert your eyes to it, cocky amusement in your tone, “Planning to start the fire yourself?”
His eyes find his cigarette and he jumps into action, twisting around to flick it in the ashtray behind him, sitting full on the corner of the kitchen island. Your eyes find Winter who’s eyes are staring up at Mingi, looking at him the same way Wooyoung was looking at you.
Your smile turns devious– it’s fucking working. You knew it would, but it’s still surprising, how stupid could these two be? Maybe they deserve each other. You remind yourself that Mingi’s stupid, too– maybe they could explore polyamory together.
“Preseason start yet?” Mingi asks, either unaware of Winter’s eyes or he’s playing his cards right, the three lacrosse boys erupt into conversation, complaining about their coach, their training, the program they go through in the fall season to ensure they’re in shape come Spring.
Wooyoung leans into Winter, a hand around her waist, pulling her into him to whisper something in her ear. It’s like she’s forced back into reality, how her hand lays over his chest, giggling at whatever he said. Gross. You could probably bet money on what nasty shit he just whispered in her ear, dirty talk so smooth it used to make you go weak in the knees, clinging to him like a moth to a flame, how she arched into him you assumed he probably asked to pull her into the bathroom. A move you’d fallen victim to plenty of times yourself.
Jealousy stems in your gut, anger pushing blood through your veins, you look up to Mingi, batting your lashes. You could do it, too. His eyes meet yours and blink into focus, into realization, you watch as his brows ever so slightly knit together, so slight it could go unnoticed, you’re sure you wouldn’t have if you weren’t so close.
A smirk creeps onto his cheeks, voice velvety and smooth, “I know what you want.” Thank God. “Excuse us,” Mingi winks at the lacrosse boys who start snickering upon the words leaving his mouth, “what the princess wants, she gets.”
You catch Wooyoung’s eye, his head whipping around Winter’s, a flicker of surprise. Winter turns too, eyes on Mingi’s biceps around your head, sinking down his build, you hope she’s thinking about fucking him. You hope Wooyoung’s thinking about all the things you’re about to fake-do to Mingi.
You wave as Mingi turns you around, voice light, “Nice to meet you, Seungkwan.”
A few steps away, his biceps flex around your head to get your attention, “Nice move, smart girl.”
You giggle to yourself in victory, bringing your beer up to your lips, “I do have to pee, though, we have to actually go to the bathroom.”
“There’s one at the end of the hallway,” he pulls his arms from around your head to sink down to your hips, his fingers curling through the loops of your denim shorts, guiding you where to go like you’ve never been here before.
Does he think you’re a LAX house newb? You run a hand through your hair, “And there’s two upstairs, one connected to Mingyu and Cheol’s room, another between Dino and Hoshi’s rooms.”
“Look at you, flexing how many bathrooms you’ve gotten laid in.”
“Only the one connected to Mingyu’s room, he’s huge, you can’t blame me.”
“Disrespectful,” he snickers, smacking his teeth, winking at his teammates he passes by in the hallway, you give them all a feigned, bashful smile. “Telling your boyfriend who you’ve slept with.”
“You don’t want to know who I’ve slept with,” you stop in front of the bathroom door, twisting the knob carefully, and thankfully, it opens. You rush inside and Mingi follows, closing the door behind him, locking it. You stare at him with furrowed brows, “What the hell are you doing?”
“We’re supposed to be fucking, remember?” His brows raise, hands landing on his hips, his face falling into the usual disgust. You didn’t have to pretend in here.
You groan, head tipping back, “I have to pee.”
“Then pee!” A hand flies out from his side, five fingers pointing to the toilet, “I’m not stopping you, there’s a toilet right there.”
“What are you gonna do, watch?”
“Are you offering?”
“Fuck you, you’re disgusting,” you spit, a revolted chill making you shiver, he laughs like it’s funny. The weight in your bladder is clear, you whine, shoving your beer into his chest, “I can’t pee if you’re in here, I’m pee-shy.”
“Do you want me to sing? Do a little dance for you?”
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, “Actually, yeah.”
His amused smile drops, “Deadass?”
“You offered,” you shrug, “turn around, do a lil’ dance for me, football boy.”
His face morphs into regret, but he turns around, facing the shower, he takes a sip of your beer before he clears his throat, spreading his legs for comfort, his other hand finding his front pocket.
“...Seventeen-thirty-eight… Ay… I’m like hey, whatsup, hello…”
You burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth, the weight in your bladder growing excruciatingly heavy, “Fuck, I’m gonna piss my pants.”
Flipping the lid, you shove your shorts down, squatting over the gross toilet, Mingi keeps fucking singing. You’re laughing as you pee, snorting, holding onto the bathroom counter for dear life until tears cloud your vision, he’s purposely singing badly, sounding insane, he has no shame. You suppose neither do you, peeing in the same room as Song Mingi, for a second you forget who he is.
Starting quarterback for your university’s football team, he’s a known figure, important. The face of sports for your school, everyone knows his name, everyone wants him– and he’s with you, singing fucking Trap Queen in the LAX house bathroom so you can successfully empty your bladder.
Wiping, flushing, he turns around as you finish buttoning your shorts again, his voice filled with amusement. “How was that? Should I switch careers, or what?”
“Stick to football,” you mutter, then snort again as you side-step to the sink, turning the water on to wash your hands. “Also, love at first sight? We need to work on your lying skills, and your vocabulary.”
“I thought it was cute!” He defends himself, setting your beer down beside you on the countertop, “People ask too many questions, I wasn’t expecting to make up a full-fledged story every time I opened my mouth tonight.”
“You forget who you are,” you eye him through the mirror, “I wasn’t prepared, either. But enough people know now, word will spread on its own. When can we stop? Like, break up?”
“Damn, one night with me and you already want to break up?” He clutches his heart in hurt, then grins, the tip of his back leaning up against the wall, hips blocking the pole that holds the hand-towels. “Soon, though. Did you see how she was looking at me?”
You turn around, shaking your hands out on either side of you to air-dry since he’s unknowingly hiding the damn towels, clutching the countertop to haul your ass onto it, beside the sink. “Of course I saw, I also saw how you didn’t even spare her a glance.”
He smirks, wiggling his brows, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever the fuck.”
Your face morphs into confusion, “I don’t think you can use that saying here.”
“Whatever,” he scoffs, “you know what I mean. Jongho told me girls want what they can’t have, so I’m trying to make myself look very unavailable. It seemed to be working, right?”
“Yeah, she seemed into it,” you shrug, “you think Wooyoung looked pissed?”
“I don’t think he puffed that disgusting cigarette once,” Mingi gives you an impressed look, “his jaw was too busy mopping the floor.”
You giggle at that, legs swaying back and forth where they hung off the counter. Tilting your head, you wonder out loud, “I think three-ish weeks max should be enough, what do you think? If they’re showing interest now, it shouldn’t take much longer.”
He groans, “I have to endure you for three more weeks?”
“Don’t act like you aren’t having fun,” you bite back, “I’m the one who has to endure you.”
“You weren’t complaining when I was holding onto you, smushing your cheeks with my arms, girls would fight to be in your position. Your back was probably getting my shirt wet, you know, sweaty ass.”
Your jaw drops, offended, “It’s fucking hot!” Throwing yourself off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a smack, your hand flies for the doorknob, “I’ve had enough of you, actually. We’ve done plenty of damage for one night, the rest should fall in place.”
“I got it,” he turns off the bathroom light, closing the door behind him, his hand immediately going for your lower back.
“There’s no one in the hallway,” you reach back to shove his hand off you, “don’t touch me, pervert.”
“I just fucked you, and now I can’t put my hand on your sweaty ass back?”
“You didn’t even make me cum, so no.”
He laughs, a genuine belly laugh, straight from his gut, “Don’t talk shit when you have no fucking idea the things I can do.”
Under other circumstances, in another life, if he wasn’t Song Mingi, you’d love to find out. You don’t answer, cheeks flaming, ears tipping with heat, you’re forgetting yourself, a few days without consistent sex and now your stomach is dropping from words said by him? Out of all people?
You walk a little faster, aiming for your escape. At the end of the hallway, you turn your head halfway, “I’m leaving.”
He pauses in the archway, brows furrowed, voice clearly disappointed, “So soon?”
Swallowing, you nod, “I have class early tomorrow, I’ll let Jongho know what the next outing is, kay?”
SECOND OUTING: LUCENT, TWO DAYS LATER. 12:24 PM
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come to lucent
xxx-xxx-xxxx: they’re here
you: the fuck
you: who is this
xxx-xxx-xxxx: arent u the smart one bro
xxx-xxx-xxxx: its mingi
you: lose my number
xxx-xxx-xxxx: bruh
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wooyoung and winter are here can u come
you: oh
you: i get out of class in 15
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i cant be here long
xxx-xxx-xxxx: theyll start to ask questions
you: mad ominous. who is they
you: ill leave early tho
The air is thick, humidity wrapping around your body like a blanket, so hot you tug your sweatshirt off your body upon leaving the lecture hall, leaving you in a thin-strapped tank, shorts on your legs, backpack slung over one shoulder. Headphones in your ears, the trek to Lucent is quick even if by the time you make it to the glass double-doors you’re sweating like a whore in church.
It’s air-conditioned, at least, battling the floor to ceiling windows that begged to let the heat inside, bright, white light invading the room, a perpetrator. It helped you find Mingi easy enough, not that you had to search, eight men squished into one booth had you snorting at the entrance.
Approaching the table, you put on your best girlfriend-smile before you even spotted Mingi. At the edge of the booth, dressed casually, much like how he looked the day you met him, he wore sweatpants and a cut-off tee, dark hair messy and sprawled across his face like he didn’t bother styling it. Heaving a breath from rushing over, you tucked your hair behind your ear, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”
He looked you up and down before meeting your eye, a smile spreading across his cheeks, “Hey, princess.”
Your nostrils flared, lips tightening in a fight to not morph into disgust, you guess that was the nickname that stuck. Searching the rest of the table, you find seven men smiling back at you, Jaemin, Taehyun, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Seungmin, Beomgyu and… Jongho. Your eyes widen, smile dropping, hands falling to your sides, words rushing from your lips, “I didn’t know you were here.”
The others turn to Jongho, who looks scared, eyes wide and lips pursed like he didn’t know what the fuck to do. He forces a smile, a nervous chuckle, “I didn’t know I’d be coming here.” His eyes cross the room, leading you to the back corner of the establishment, where Wooyoung sat on one of the comfy chairs, legs stretched out to rest on the small table in front of him, Winter perched on his lap.
You swallow, ice prickling at your scalp. You never went anywhere public with him, even at fucking Eonian, his favorite stupid dive bar, the only time you interacted was either in the bathroom, or if he was drunk enough to address you in front of other people. Your jaw clenches for a split second, fists forming at your sides before you remember where you are, who’s watching.
“Do you want anything to drink?” It’s Mingi who pulls you back up to earth, half your body already in the depths of hell from what you were mentally planning to do to Jung Wooyoung.
Plastering that same, stupid fake-smile back on your lips, you realize you’re still standing, and the booth is clearly full. The boys are nearly on top of each other, large bodies pressed together by their shoulders and thighs, you refuse his question, instead asking, “Should I pull up a chair?”
Mingi’s lips warp into a small smirk as he leans back in the booth, two hands sliding down his thighs before he slaps them twice, “Here’s your chair.”
Your smile tightens, lips flat, eyes scrunched to hide the twitch. “Of course,” there’s nothing but sarcasm in your tone, enough for Mingi to notice, more than enough for Jongho to notice, but hopefully not the others.
Pulling your backpack from your shoulder, you set it on the floor beside the booth, resting your headphones and hoodie on top. Carefully, slowly, hesitantly, you slide a leg between Mingi’s body and the table splitting the seats, trying not to cringe as you sit on the edge of his thigh. In the back of his throat he makes a strained, tight noise, one low enough for only you to hear, it makes your head snap to look at him, eyes pointed and lips thinned.
He’s just smiling, fully amused by your reaction. You wish you could speak telepathically, call him a fucking asshole for pretending you’re heavy when he lifts six days a fucking week.
His arms wrap around you, settling on your thighs, you’re too aware of the silence at the table as he shifts you farther back, in a more comfortable position– if a comfortable position actually exists on Song Mingi’s lap.
“Are you guys between classes?” You turn to the table, smile back on your cheeks, hands in your lap, “I never see you here.”
“Why are we here?” Taehyun leaned forward, dark brows that matched his hair furrowed, plump lips scrunched in question. He’s a DB, if your memory serves, on the smaller side but fucking strong.
Heeseung, from across the table, replies simply, “Mingi wanted to come.”
The table’s eyes lead to the six-foot moron behind you. You can feel him shrug, voice casual like he didn’t care that this is clearly weird, “Was feeling coffee.”
“We’ve never been here before,” Jaemin comments, or argues, you think. He sips his water bottle, no coffee on the table before him, lean build with a wide upper body, he’s fucking gorgeous. He catches your eye, flashing you a smile held in his eyes, you have to look down at the table to stop yourself from asking for his number.
“We come here all the time,” Jongho adds, your head picks up to see something playful in his eyes, lips upcurved slightly, “probably wanted to see your girlfriend’s hangout spot, right, Min?”
It’s then that you realize Jongho arranged this, Jongho knew Wooyoung was here, but why wasn’t Jongho the one to text you? Your eye twitches remembering Mingi now has your number.
He’s having too much fun chuckling from behind you, knees bouncing, making your whole body shift. His voice is coated in rock-hard candy, “Of course I wanted to see the coffee shop my girlfriend loves so much.”
Your lips tighten again, embarrassed. You’re embarrassed. He’s embarrassing you right now, and it’s on purpose.
“You’re so sweet,” you turn your head halfway, shoulders lifted into your cheeks, forcing a cheeriness to your voice that makes Jongho snort from across the table, “I’m so lucky.”
It renders Mingi’s face flat, unimpressed, he reaches forward and grabs the half-filled plastic cup filled with what looks like watered down shit, bringing it up to take a sip. Your brow pops, “Are you drinking espresso water?”
The table erupts in laughter and your head turns, brows fully furrowing at the commotion, “What?”
“Have you ever heard of an americano, du–” Mingi stops himself mid-insult, lips snapping shut.
Your top lip curls, but instead of reacting your head turns to the table again, seven fucking football players staring at you like you’re an alien, “What the fuck is an americano?”
They all laugh again, slapping each other’s chests like it was the funniest thing they’ve ever heard and unfortunately it makes you laugh with them, a nervous-confused combination of a breathy giggle, their laughter too contagious for you to not join.
Mingi holds the cup up to your mouth, making you flinch as the straw approaches your lips. He smacks his teeth, “It’s espresso diluted by water, try it, it’s good.”
Your eyes flicker up to his, and he’s not laughing, not smiling. His brows are lifted with the offer, lips slightly pouted, he looks genuine. Reluctantly you lean forward, lips wrapping around the straw, taking a sip– and it tastes exactly how it looks.
Face scrunching up in disgust, you shake your head twice, “This is why god created cream and sugar.”
That makes him laugh, a smile curving his lips, he takes another sip right after you. An indirect kiss, the immature part of your brain realizes, you wonder how many women on your campus would kill to have exactly that with Song Mingi. How many women would die to sit exactly where you sat; to feel the sheer strength of his thighs beneath them, arms brushing his chest with each movement, his biceps stretched out on either side of them.
The thought is fleeting as you hear the table laugh again, this time it startles you, jumping slightly on Mingi’s lap out of surprise. His other arm wraps around you a little tighter, your movement startling him, you quickly mumble, “My bad.”
“You’re funny,” Seungmin notes from across the booth, as you look at him you realize he’s talking to you. He’s cute, mousy face, maybe more like a hamster, or a puppy– his eyes are soft and his smile is kind, it takes the edge off his attention on you. His eyes slide to Mingi behind you, “How did you guys meet again?”
“We met here,” Mingi responds casually and your lips tighten again, the lie spins once more. He keeps going, completely theatric, “She bought me coffee because she tripped me outside the cafe.”
You gasp, brows furrowing, head twisting behind you to scold him, “That did not happen!”
His eyes are playful, smile menacing, “Oh, yes it did, we cannot have this argument again, princess.”
Your tongue pokes your cheek, following now. Fine, let’s play. Straightening your back, you respond, “It’s not my fault you tripped over your feet, I just happened to be there. You blamed it on me and threatened to call campus security if I didn’t buy you a coffee.”
Mingi shrugs, “It got me a free coffee and a girlfriend, didn’t it? Well-played, if you ask me.”
Your smile grows, shaking your head in disbelief, at the story he created, how smooth he’s playing it. Fuck him. “You’re such an asshole,” you mutter with a small laugh, “I guess it did.”
Turning to the table, they all seem so locked in you almost forget you told five or six of his other teammates a completely different story. You suppose D1 football players won’t be gossiping about where you and Mingi met.
Catching Jongho’s eye in your scan, he looks surprised, almost. Maybe disbelief, how he was blinking at the two of you, his jaw dropped, lips slightly curved. You thin your eyes at him, “You know this story Ho, don’t look so surprised.”
His face quickly morphs to irritation as the table sings a chorus of laughter once more, all six of them adding the nickname to their arsenals upon it gracing their ears. You smile, proud of the work you’ve done, Jongho can do nothing but scowl.
“If any of you call me Ho I’m putting dog shit in the vents of your bedrooms,” he looks around the table, voice threatening, eyes cold.
The laughter dies down but humor dances in the air, Beomgyu is the only one still verbally giggling with his whole chest, “I don’t even care, that is so fucking funny, I’m calling you that forever.”
Jongho redirects his scowl to you, exasperated, “Look at what you did.”
“And I’d do it again,” you’re giggling too, cocky, feeling big-dicked that Jongho’s teammates find you so funny.
The feeling of being watched strikes alarm bells in your head, you turn your head to scan the room, landing on where Wooyoung sits, his lap now empty. He eyes you from across the room and you can’t read his expression, mostly boredom, but the more you look, the more the clench in jaw is visible. Elbow on the armrest, forearm bent upward, fist clenching and unclenching, he’s analyzing.
You sink further into Mingi which he accepts easily, hand lazily thrown over your thigh, you looked like a real, proper couple getting coffee between classes. The smell of cedar beckons your attention, warm and woodsy, a little spicy, it makes it easier to forget who’s beneath you, who’s body you’re so easily and openly and publicly attached to.
Two taps to your thigh grabs your attention, you pull your gaze back to the table, to the dark-headed fuck behind you, “Hm?”
“Park asked you a question, princess,” Mingi tips his chin in Sunghoon’s direction, his voice light but direct, it has your head turning to follow his motion in an instant.
“Is this your first time dating a D1 athlete?” He asks the question with innocence, expression curious, “It has to be different than dating someone who isn’t an athlete.”
You resist the urge to say first time dating, because you’ve certainly slept with a few. Instead you nod politely, humming your answer, “Definitely my first time dating someone as high-profile as Mingi.”
Sunghoon snorts, body leaning back in the booth, his build leaner than the others, strong all the same. Pretty face, structured, timeless features, you briefly wonder what he’s doing on the football team and not on a stage somewhere.
“Not gonna lie, we never thought Song would date,” Heeseung leans forward again, eyeing you from the other side of the booth, a smile playing on his lips, but there’s more truth to his words than humor.
“Not again,” Taehyun quips, “we always assumed he was too focused on his diet and his training program to actually put effort into another human.”
Mingi stiffens beneath you– a slight movement, one you can feel too easily while perched on his lap. There’s still laughter in the air, the comments read light-hearted, but you wonder if it feels that way to Mingi.
Jaemin cackles, “What the hell do you guys mean? He’s never alone.”
“Did you have him tested before you fucked him?” Seungmin wears a smirk, brows raised in your direction, “Because if you haven’t, I think you both probably should at this point.”
Mingi’s chest leans into your back, his chin popping over your shoulder, “Alright, enough.”
You can feel every single muscle pressed to your back, the plush of his broad pecs against your shoulderblades, his fucking washboard of an abdomen against your spine, you can’t even register the tension consuming the table, how everyone quiets down on Mingi’s command, holy shit. You need to get laid.
Your eyes find Wooyoung, too aware of his presence, his eyes that are still fucking on you. Dark clothes, boots crossed over one another, he held up his caseless phone like he wanted you to check yours. Blinking into focus, you reach between you and Mingi to your back pocket, pulling out your phone, clicking it on to look at your home screen.
wooyo: can we talk
wooyo: outside
You pick your head up to look at Jongho, heart picking up speed in your chest, drowning out the sounds of the men around you in another conversation. He meets your eye, furrowing his brows for a split second and fuck you wish you could speak out loud.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” you say quietly to Mingi, barely turning your head to see his face.
His hand lifts from your thigh, “I have to leave soon.”
“That’s fine,” your voice is low, “wait until I get back so I can say goodbye.”
Don’t catch me outside talking to Wooyoung with half of your team in tow.
The restrooms are beside the exit, your escape is easy. On the far side of the building, you ignore how foul your heart feels in your chest, the pounding bass feeling like nerves instead of excitement.
It’s still putrid, hot, humid, disgusting outside, it only adds to the feeling of wrongness. It feels like an eternity before you hear the scrape of his boots against concrete, the smell of cigarette smoke circling where you stood.
“Hey,” his voice is low, casual, rough around the edges like that was his umpteenth cigarette of the day. His black tee is fitted, jeans baggy, one of his pantlegs tucked into a boot. He looked like danger personified but his skin still gleamed summer, bronzy and sparkling, pink dusting his cheeks.
“Why did you want to talk?” Your voice is sharp, no room for it to be taken any other way than rude.
Wooyoung chuckles a little, lips scrunching to blow smoke up into the air, above your bodies. He leaves room between you, enough for you to feel comfortable, but you’re sure there was a purpose. With him, there’s always a purpose.
He flicks the butt, ashing on the concrete below, eyes trained on his own movements before they slowly trail up your body to meet your gaze, making a show of checking you out, it makes you sick. Kind of.
“You’re really dating him?” It’s between a statement and a question, two of his fingers bringing the cigarette back up to his lips.
Your brows furrow, arms crossing tighter over your chest, “Yes?”
“We broke up a week ago, baby,” he chuckles, smoke escaping his mouth with each burst of breath, “that’s a little quick, don’t you think?”
“You’re one to talk,” your jaw clenches, standing straighter, “where’s your arm candy? Or did you cheat on her already?”
“She’s in there,” his voice is too light, so unbothered it genuinely pisses you off how fast your heart is beating. You wished you had a fraction of his nonchalance. “And I didn’t cheat on you, doll, we were never together in the first place.”
“Right,” you blow disbelief through your nose, rolling your eyes, body turning away from him, facing the parking lot that looked deserted even if it was packed with college kids inside. Turning your head only, you ask, “Why are you out here, Wooyoung? What do you want?”
“I still haven’t gotten my hoodie back,” his eyes are low, catching a honey bronze color in the sunlight, you hate how they steal your attention.
You crack a nasty grin, “I burned that ugly fucking hoodie.”
Inside the cafe, Mingi has caught on easily. He watched Wooyoung stand about forty-five seconds after you left for the bathroom, he doesn’t need to look to understand what’s going on, where you are. For such a shitty plan, he can’t believe it’s working so well, it’s as if Wooyoung and Winter were falling into Mingi’s palms without him having to lift a finger.
He doesn’t mind having you around, it doesn’t feel like work. You’re funny, quick-witted and smart, so smart he wonders what your major is. He wonders a lot about you, your relationship with Jongho, what you do in your free time, what the hell you were doing sleeping with Wooyoung, of all people. In the small amount of time he’s spent with you, he already knows you deserve better than a fucking asshole like him, you deserve someone who will meet you on your level.
Mingi wonders if there’s anyone on the team he can set you up with after the two of you break up. Looking around the table, there doesn’t seem to be any winners, maybe Seungmin could keep up with your banter, but Mingi thinks you might destroy him. Jaemin’s funny, but he’s stupid, he can't keep up with your smarts, he thinks Jaemin will irritate you before he entertains you. Maybe Chris, he’s smart, he’s a lot like Mingi, but he’s not one to date.
You don’t need another fuckboy asshole taking advantage of you.
It doesn’t matter, anyhow, maybe after your talk with Wooyoung the scheme will be cut short and everything will go back to normal. He won’t have to see you ever again, he’ll have Winter at his side and he can forget this ever happened, forget about you fully. Training, academics, practice, games. Playoffs are coming up– he hopes he’ll have Winter by then, cheering for him in the stands, wearing his jersey.
“Hi.”
Eyes flickering upward to a voice he recognizes, he sits a little straighter when he sees the dark-haired beauty standing at the head of the table, holding two coffee cups, wearing the prettiest, shy smile.
Winter. He could see his future like it was his past.
“Hey,” Mingi keeps his voice steady, only letting his lips curve ever so slightly. “You need something?”
She shakes her head, pink kissing her round cheeks, she looks down at her shoes, toes knocking together. “Just wanted to wish you luck with playoffs. I know your conference game is next weekend, you must be stressed.”
Mingi swallows down his giddiness, she knows who he is? She’s standing here, at the table, in front of a quarter of his team, talking to him? Wishing him luck?
“Thanks,” Mingi nods, smile growing, “no stress, we’ve got it in the bag. You’ll be there?”
She nods, “Definitely, wouldn’t miss it.” Finally looking at the rest of the table, her eyes land on each one of his teammates, and he’s loving the way each man looks like they want to devour her. Little do they know, she’s his. Her voice coy and soft, she says, “Good luck to you guys, too.”
She made it clear she was only here for Mingi.
He’d kiss her right now if he could.
She winks at Mingi as she walks away, long lashes fluttering as she makes her way back toward where she was sitting with Wooyoung before, setting the plastic coffee cups down on the table. Straight posture, dainty fingers, hair shiny and long, cascading down her back, fuck, she’s perfect.
“Your luck is crazy, Mingi,” Jaemin comments when she’s out of ear-shot, “Winter approaching when your girl goes to the bathroom? You’re one of God’s favorites.”
“Huh?” Mingi pops a brow before you pop into his mind again. “Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I really lucked out.”
“What are you gonna do?” Taehyun asks, “She wants you.”
Mingi scrunches his lips to one side, catching Jongho’s eye from across the table. Playing with the coffee cup on the table, spinning it in a circle between his fingers, he’s reminded who you are to Jongho. He can’t be openly disrespectful.
Mingi answers plainly, “Nothing, I have a girlfriend.”
They all snort, table erupting in laughter like that was the most stupid thing that could have left his mouth. And Mingi guesses it is, Jongho knows who he is, that this is all a plan, a ploy, for the sole purpose of Mingi dating Winter. It doesn’t matter how it all unfolds.
You startle him by barreling back to the table, barely sparing Mingi a glance as you grab your hoodie, your backpack, your headphones. Your eyes find Jongho across the table, flaring something panicked before looking back at Mingi, “I have to go.”
You don’t sound happy. Your jaw is clenched, your chest is flushed, your eyes seem glossy, Mingi finds himself concerned, internally questioning what the fuck happened outside.
“You okay?” He asks, body turning sideways, knees poking out from below the table.
Wooyoung walks by behind you, not even looking as he leisurely strolls past, the smell of cigarette smoke following him like he was purposely leaving a trail behind.
“I’m fine,” you mumble, chest rising and falling in quick succession, “but I gotta go.”
Mingi, apparently out of his fucking mind, stands abruptly, stepping toward you with furrowed brows, “I’ll come.”
“No,” you answer harshly, then lick your lips, mouth tightening like you wished you could reel the word back in. “I’m sorry, I– I’ll text you, ‘kay?”
Your eyes find the table behind Mingi, everyone staring up at you, some with furrowed brows, some acting like they didn’t hear anything at all. You reach up to put your hands on Mingi’s shoulders, standing on your tippy toes to plant a small kiss on his cheek, then whisper, “Bye.”
Mingi’s dumbfounded as you haul ass out of Lucent. Backpack bouncing behind you, you rip the door open and leave the place like an intruder had just told everyone to put their hands up. His fingers find his cheek, though, confused as he is, he turns back to the table, all of his boys already staring up at him.
“You’re fucked,” Seungmin says plainly, “she definitely saw Winter at the table, she’s pissed.”
Mingi sits back in the booth, eyes sliding to where Winter sits, meeting Wooyoung’s already-there stare. He’s smirking, eyes trained on Mingi while Winter is speaking to him, a hand on his shoulder, it makes Mingi’s top lip lift in distaste, he’s such a fucking asshole it makes him sick.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: next sunday
xxx-xxx-xxxx: four highest ranked teams get a first round bye for playoffs
you: so youre planning to be top 4 i assume
xxx-xxx-xxxx: im planning to be top 1 fym
you: hmmmm
xxx-xxx-xxxx: idk how much time ill have between now and then tho
xxx-xxx-xxxx: we might not be able to flex our fake relationship as hard
you: absence makes the heart grow fonder
you: winter will be at the game tho
you: think shell kiss you if you win???
xxx-xxx-xxxx: stop dont make me delusional bro
xxx-xxx-xxxx: and dont steal my line
you: acting like you made it up is crazy
you: saying been around for decades and here you go
you: claiming it as your own
You’re smiling at your phone, not realizing you’re giggling while Jongho and Yeosang stare at you with pointed eyes from across the living room, the two sitting comfortably on Yeosang’s couch, laptops on their laps. You came over to catch up on schoolwork after Jongho left practice, not wanting to do it at your own apartment, plus, you had to catch them up on the newest development in the Wooyoung saga.
Since you ended things, you haven’t really had time to process what happened. Quickly shoved into the fake dating scheme, you were focused on something shiny and new, you forgot to pay attention to the small part inside you that ached. Four months is a solid chunk of time, especially when most of it was over the summer where most of the campus wasn’t in attendance, the only thing on your agenda was your part-time job and Wooyoung.
Despite having something shiny and new to focus on, the loss of him still hurts. Sleeping alone, not having anyone to touch, to kiss, to tell your work drama and have them fuck it better, despite being an avoidant asshole, Wooyoung filled a gap for you the entire four months you were ‘together’.
He spoke to you the other day like you meant nothing to him. Which you knew, but to have further confirmation in such a setting, standing outside your favorite coffee shop where the other woman sat just inside, it hurt. By the end of the conversation all your pent-up, repressed feelings rose to the surface, you needed to get the fuck out of there before you sobbed all over Mingi’s americano.
Mingi. Fuck him, his pretty hair and strong body, fuck him for looking at you like he cared about your feelings. It’s all bullshit and it’s not what you need right now, you should be focused on doubling your pain and passing it straight back to Wooyoung. School should really be top priority, your weekly study group, your shifts on the weekend, your top priority should be your degree and making sure you’re stable. You didn’t think this plan would come with so much added shit.
“Who are you texting?” Yeosang asks, green and black hair straight, tucked behind his ears, showing his piercings. He wore a dark sweater, ripped at the collar bone, jeans painted onto his legs, his pink bunny socks tucked beneath his body completely ruining the bad boy vibe.
Yeosang’s never been a bad boy, he doesn’t have it in him. A soft lover boy, one that cares, one that sees what others don’t see, that’s who Yeosang is.
Mindlessly, eyes still glued to your screen, you mumble, “Mingi.”
Jongho and Yeosang share a look. Jongho, face flat, looks over his laptop screen to you, “I still can’t get over seeing you two together.”
You look up, popping a brow, “Why?”
“You look too comfortable,” a very physical shiver runs through Jongho, ruffling his fitted white tee, gray sweats a contrast to the black couch, “it’s weird.”
“Are they friendly?” Yeosang asks Jongho, the two once again acting like you’re not in the room. You roll your eyes.
“Very,” Jongho nods, then turns to look at you, “what’d I miss at that party?”
“What do you mean?” Your face morphs into confusion, small shakes of your head enforcing your bewilderment, “It’s weird because we aren’t ripping each other’s faces off? Can’t really do that in front of people who think we’re dating.”
Jongho’s face stays flat, eyes knowing, “How about the fake ass story of where you met? That was bullshit, you were bickering like you’ve known him as long as you’ve known us.”
You giggle again upon remembering, “Wait, that was funny because half his team thinks we met at the library, it’s like an ongoing bit–”
Jongho cuts you off, looking at Yeosang, “Do you see what I mean?”
Yeosang narrows his eyes, “Are you into him?”
“Do you think I’m a moron?”
“Yes,” they answer simultaneously.
You scoff, “I don’t know why I hang out with you just to get verbally degraded.”
Looking down at your phone, you notice three more messages from the number you still refuse to save.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: shut up who even are u
xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u coming to the game? if shes there wooyoung will be too
xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill give u my jersey to wear lmfao
“Do football players do this?” You ask, brows furrowing, showing Jongho and Yeosang your phone screen. Holding it over the coffee table splitting where you sat on the floor and the couch they occupied, you sat up on your knees as they bent over their laptop screens, squinting to read.
“Give their jerseys out?” Jongho asks, still mid-read.
You snatch your phone away when he starts to scroll, “Yes, fucker, is that normal?”
“Girl,” Yeosang makes a disappointed face, sitting back on the couch, “that’s standard.”
Your repulsion is physical, “Do you think he washes it?”
“It gets washed for him,” Jongho responds, “I’m surprised the staff doesn’t do all his laundry for him. If it weren’t for them, it wouldn’t get washed.”
“Do the staff really do that much?”
“He doesn’t really have to think,” Jongho continues, “he’s the star, the prized possession, vital to the football team, to the school’s popularity and income. They’d do anything he asked.”
“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, processing each word out of his mouth, “there’s really a whole world out there I don’t know shit about.”
The two men laugh, Jongo harder than Yeosang, the younger man’s giggles high-pitched and shameless, “Have you not paid attention my entire football career?”
“No,” your answer is short, plain, “why would I?”
“Because there was a time we both played football and you were glued to us,” Yeosang answers, “there are some things you should probably know already.”
“Neither of you have had a girlfriend during the season!” Your voice is high-pitched, defensive, you bring your attention back to your phone. “You’re riding me for what right now, all of this will be over in like, two weeks, anyway.”
you: whatever football boy
you: ya im coming
xxx-xxx-xxxx: cool
xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u actually gonna wear my jersey
you: do i have to
xxx-xxx-xxxx: kinda
you: man
you: whatever
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wow
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i can feel ur excitement through the phone
“Are you bringing him to my gig?” You look up from your phone to see Yeosang already looking at you, “It’s at Eonian, so Wooyoung will definitely be there.”
You groan, throwing your phone to the side, stretching your body out as you lay down on the rug, whining. “Your shows are our time, Yeo.”
Bass player for his band, Yeosang playing shows on and off campus was a frequent event. Always somewhere lowkey, somewhere fun, you always went with Jongho, Jia or Riyo. Bringing a man, especially Mingi, would debase the entire meaning of Yeosang’s shows. You go to support him, not to keep tabs on Wooyoung all night or feel uncomfortable with Mingi attached to your hip.
“All that shit just happened with Wooyoung, though,” Jongho says matter-of-factly, “it’s smart to show up with Mingi on your arm. Where Wooyoung goes, Winter follows.”
You pick only your head up, squinting at him over the table, “Yeosang’s shows are off limits. I need to be able to scream my excitement freely, Mingi’s presence will hinder my enjoyment.”
“Whatever,” Yeosang sings, “it’s just one show, but okay.”
You whine, head banging against the floor beneath the rug as you lay it back down, “He’s busy, anyways. He just told me he won’t have time to hang before the conference game.”
“Yet here I am,” Jongho argues, “and at that show, I will be.”
You mumble a curse, “Whatever.”
Picking up your phone again, a notification from Instagram sticks out on your home screen, a message request.
blondenbeautiful: Heard you’re dating Song Mingi?
blondenbeautiful: Biggest joke i’ve ever heard LMFAO
blondenbeautiful: Lying for attention is pathetic, I hope he sues you for defamation
You sit up abruptly, eyes wide as you stare at the screen, “What the fuck?!”
Seeing the fear in your eyes, hearing the shock in your voice, Jongho and Yeosang hop up from their spots, throwing their laptops to the side, racing around the coffee table to look at your phone screen.
“Ew,” Yeosang huffs, “no way this is happening already.”
“What do you mean already?” You look at your green haired friend, shocked and confused.
“Turn off your DM requests,” Jongho adds, “fuck that, dude, fuck no.”
“I’m not turning them off,” you scoff, “that’s pussy shit. Her username is blonde n’ beautiful, Ho.”
You click on her profile, scroll through her feed, watch her story, she lives across the fucking country. You think this is what Yeosang meant when he said Mingi had refined taste; barbie dolls, rich bitch attitude, this was his typical.
“Who cares about pussy shit?” Jongho’s brows are tied together, his eyes pleading, “That’s not the point. He has a fanbase of Warrior Barbies, have you even looked at his Instagram?”
Scrolling out of your requests and opening up the search bar, your eyes widen upon seeing his profile. You followed him already, probably from your freshman year, but he definitely didn’t have near fifty thousand followers back then, or so many posts professionally photographed.
For some reason it’s this that opens your eyes, a chill racking down your spine. You knew how detrimental he was to the university, his level of popularity, but you didn’t think it was outside of your campus, too. He was popular, known, and it spread wider than you ever thought was possible for a guy who sings Trap Queen in sports house bathrooms.
Voice shaky, you whisper, “I feel like I’m in a who the fuck did I marry subreddit.”
Yeosang can’t help the laugh that escapes him, head dipping down with an amused breath, he snaps back to deadpanning in a second’s time. “You should turn off your requests before it gets worse.”
“I’m not even dating him for realsies,” you argue, “the insults are empty. None of them are true, so they don’t count.”
Jongho sits beside you, flopping down on the rug from where he was crouched, “I just don’t want them to get to you. The whole Wooyoung thing upset you enough, you don’t need social media harassment to put the cherry on top.”
“I’ll be fine,” you lock your phone, tossing it to the floor beside you, “that shit won’t bother me. I’m strong.”
“Yeah, alright,” sarcasm swims in Yeosang’s voice, “is it a crime to listen to us every once in a while?”
You sneer, “Yes.”
you: btw yeosang is playing a show friday at 10
you: at eonian on 4th ave
you: woo and winter will be there
xxx-xxx-xxxx: just told u i dont have time
you: why are you acting like i want you there
xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill be there
THIRD OUTING: EONIAN, FRIDAY. 9:42 PM
“Did you hire a personal stylist or something?”
You scoff, standing in your doorway, looking down at your own outfit. You supposed it was different for you, more stylish than you’d normally shoot for when going anywhere, let alone the dinky dive bar you’ve gone to a thousand times. The doormen have seen you in sweatpants, chain-smoking cigarettes because you had too much to drink, the bartenders have seen you in stained overalls, making out with a random person in the corner because you had too much to drink, you don’t know why you chose today, of all days, to put in an effort when everyone there has seen you at your worst.
Looking at Mingi, he seemed to have the same idea. Although he always looked put together in a way, even if he was in sweats and a cutoff tank, it never looked necessarily bad. All black, leather jacket, boots, his hair styled away from his face, messily but purposeful, he looked good. Really good. It pissed you off.
“Did your staff pick out that outfit for you?” You sneer, “I’m not used to seeing you without sweatpants on.”
“Insulting the man who came all the way here to pick you up,” he nods, bottom lip folded over in the most attitude-stricken look he’s ever given you, “smart.”
“Shut up,” you grumble, heels clicking against the floor as you step through the threshold of your apartment. “Let’s just go.”
Mingi’s car is ridiculous. Ever since seeing his stupid Instagram page, there seems to be a constant reminder everywhere of who he is, what he has. It still smelled new inside, black leather interior, red detail, gear shift looking untouched, pristine. Not a spec of dust on the dash or in the backseat that held only one black duffel bag unzipped, your instincts told you it could hold a lot more.
“Have you been to Eonian?” You ask, turning your head to face him after he pulled out of your complex’s parking lot.
Pressure forces you back into your seat as he picks up speed, knees shifting below the steering wheel, palm wrapped around the gearstick, his face goes unchanged. He leans his head toward you but doesn’t turn it, “Maybe once, why?”
“Just wondering,” your voice is pitched, shaky, eyes widened while you swallow down your heart that shot up so high you could taste it. Your fingers curl into your jeans, thanking god seatbelts exist in your head, you turn your head to the window so you could close your eyes in peace without being caught as a wimp.
You hear him laugh after a second, a small, snarky giggle. The car slows and you can feel it in your chest, body sinking into leather, free to move as you please, your fingers uncurl from your pantlegs, shoulders slouching in relief.
“My bad, should have warned you.”
“I want to survive,” you don’t let him hear the shakiness in your voice, keeping it laced with clear irritation, “if I died beside you I’d have to resurrect myself just to walk ten feet away and die there instead.”
“You’re really sweet, y’know that?” Sarcasm evident, he continues, “I can’t understand why Wooyoung would cheat on such a nice, kind girl.”
Your neck twists to eye him, gaze harsh enough to cut. What the fuck? “We weren’t even together, he didn’t cheat.”
“Oh!” His laughter is punched, eyes condescending, lips half surprised and half amused, “Excuse me, he didn’t cheat, right. He didn’t want to date you at all.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you mumble, head turning to face the window again. It rained earlier, there’s still droplets of water sprinkled on the glass, the gloomy evening looking like the pit in your gut, soggy, heavy, dark. “That’s why Winter rejected you.”
“Well she wants me now,” he adds and you can hear the stupid smirk in his voice.
You snap your head toward him again, “Where did that even come from?”
“Did I strike a nerve?”
Your jaw clenches, facing the window again, mumbling, “This isn’t even worth it anymore.”
He turns the music up, letting it fill the cabin of the car, you can barely feel the road beneath you, his car drives so smoothly. You can hear him switch gears, the roar of the engine picking up, the feel of force in your chest as his speed increases, your hair moving when he slows again, it’s torture.
It’s worse when you step out to go inside the bar, the ground bendy beneath you, feet unsteady on pavement. Your stomach feels icky, your chest heavy and weird, and to top it off, the cigarette-smoking-stupid-fucking-asshole is standing right outside the front door, talking to the bouncer, doused in leather and silver. You suck in a deep breath, straightening your back, part of you forgetting Mingi’s there as you start for the door. Maybe you just wish he wasn’t with you at all.
Mingi calls your name, you don’t stop. A little firmer, a little louder, “Hey.” Jaw clenched, you stop in your tracks, the fur on your jacket whipping as you turn around. Lazily he strolls toward you, holding out a hand, to which you don’t grab.
“Hold my hand,” he wiggles his palm a little, voice edged with annoyance, “come on.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Is it what I said in the car?” He lowers his palm, head tilting, “I’m sorry if I went too far, I won’t do it again. Now please hold my hand so we can go inside together, they’ll be watching.”
Shooting daggers at him, your hand peeks out from your sleeve, reluctantly reaching forward; he spreads out his fingers with a satisfied grin, tangling them with yours, palms pressed together. There’s a certain intimacy to holding someone’s hand, not something you do often, not something you’ve done in a very long time; yet there’s no warmth that spreads through you at the contact, no electricity that stems in the tip of your spine. Strictly business.
Taking a step forward, he comments, “Your hand is clammy.”
“Wonder why,” you roll your eyes, “you have calluses, it’s gross, like sandpaper. Or cat tongue.”
Mingi smacks his lips together, walking in-step with you now, his head dipping down to hide how your words made him laugh. “You’re seriously deranged.”
It makes a smile claw at your lips, turning your head away so he can’t see the grin that fights its way to the surface. He squeezes your hand once like he can see through your wall of hair, snickering from beside you, by the time you get to the front door you’re both fighting to crack a smile like a pair of stubborn idiots.
Tall and buff, a head of light brown, curly hair hidden beneath a snapback, the bouncer eyes you over your ID, then looks at Mingi, deadpanning, “Make sure she doesn’t get near a pack of Marlboro Reds tonight.”
Wooyoung is behind him now, smiling as smoke pours from the corner of his mouth, losing its opacity as it melts into the humid air around him. He’s quiet, but he watches as your face falls, then makes it clear he’s inspecting every article of clothing on your body.
“I’m not even a smoker, Minho.”
“Minho?” Mingi questions, head bobbing in surprise and confusion. He looks at you with a dumbfounded face, “Marlboro Reds?”
“Can we just go inside?” You tug on Mingi’s hand, he takes your ID back from Minho before following you inside Eonian, his brows still furrowed.
“I thought you said you don’t really come here,” Mingi sounds lost as you pull him inside the door, the smell of humid air and alcohol meeting your nose upon entrance.
You do a quick scan of the bar, mindlessly answering, “I’ve been here a few times with Wooyoung.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with the bouncer,” he hisses his argument, standing close to you now, leaning down just enough to whisper-yell it into your ear.
Spotting Jongho in the far corner, just beside the stage at a table, your grin is finally real and takes over your entire face. “Yeah, well, he fucked my friend,” you pull him in Jongho’s direction, “I found Ho, come on.”
It takes longer than you thought it would to get across the crowded bar, you stopped three different times for Mingi to dap up strangers you’ve maybe seen before, all people who tucked Mingi into a quick hug with grins so bright it was as if they were meeting God. Antagonizing, remembering how many people love him, not that you showed your distaste as Mingi introduced you to every single person as his girlfriend, in which they all drank up your figure and complimented Mingi on how well he did scoring you.
It almost made up for what happened in the car. Almost.
Dick two inches bigger, you had more swag in your step as you dragged him to Jongho’s table, where he stood around the high-top wooden surface with two others beside him. Lee Minho, Lee Felix, tight-end, kicker. Felix, bright, blonde and bushy-tailed, stood a little shorter than Minho, who was everything dark and brooding, at least on the outside. Light seemed to return to his eyes when you approached the table, a small smile on your face, already in-character.
Jongho looked less wary as you approached this time, a pink hue to his cheeks, shoulders slightly slouched, a tall beer on the table before him. It looks appealing, even for a beer, at this point you think you’d take a swig of whiskey just to ease the lingering weight in your chest.
He notices your eyes lingering on his beer, he tugs it toward him, eyes pointed, “No.”
It makes a small laugh pass through your lips before you greet the table. Felix’s warm brown eyes seem brighter after Mingi introduces you, his freckled cheeks pink at the apples, “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
“Me?” You’re still smiling, one brow popped, “Why?”
“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho is quick to answer as if that was now a title of sorts.
Your head tilts, confusion spreading, Mingi’s hand slides to the small of your back, his pinky lining the hem of your jeans. The girl who tamed Song Mingi, your initial reaction is to laugh through the confusion, it comes out staggered, airy, uneasy.
Felix is beaming, grin spread wide like excitement was oozing from his pores, “The whole team has been talking about you, they say you’re funny, and hot, which is clearly true.”
Now heat is spreading through you, smile shifting to something of a smirk, he’s pretty. Like a girl, in a way, blonde hair straight past his shoulders, you can tell there’s a lean, disciplined body beneath the oversized clothes on his body. Backwards hat, lips plump and rosy like he’d been kissing someone for hours, you wonder how hot he thinks you are.
“Is your jacket from Anthro? I’ve been looking at it online, waiting for it to go on sale,” his eyes are on the faux fur on your shoulders, the jacket you thrifted ages ago for ten bucks, you have no idea what brand is on the tag.
Gaydar going off, you ask, “No idea, wanna check?”
His eyes flare brighter, you don’t wait for his answer as you break away from Mingi’s heavy hand, walking around the table. You feel soft fingers moving your hair out of the way as your eyes lead to Jongho, “When does Yeo go on?”
“I think in twenty minutes or so,” he shrugs, bringing his beer up to his lips.
You shiver when you feel the warmth of Felix’s fingertips at the base of your neck, “They’re late?”
Head down to allow Felix access to your tag, your eyes slide to look at the stage, lights on and empty. You got here right before ten, he should be going on any minute now.
“Technical difficulties,” Minho comments in a sing-song tone, reminding you he’s also at the table. Taller than you, beefier than Felix, his elbows sit on the table, biceps straining the sleeves of his fitted tee. Dark hair, eyes feline, lips small and pouty, shit, he’s hot, too.
You hum, storing the info for later, “I hope they play soon.”
“This is Anthro,” Felix gasps, “so cute, I want one.”
“I thrifted it a long time ago, if you ever want to borrow it, ask Mingi for my number,” you offer as you turn around, hands grabbing the hem of it to pull it forward, fixing where it sank backward.
Felix’s head turns to Mingi across the table, feigning a pout, “I like this one, can I keep her?”
In-character, Mingi shakes his head, a smooth, proud chuckle tumbling from his lips. “Sorry to break it to you, Lix, but that one’s mine.”
Mine.
Hand holding didn’t get a reaction out of you, but a singular word makes your stomach curl. You barely remember the last time you were considered someone’s partner, significant other, girlfriend, you don’t know if you ever have been; you’ve been a fuck-buddy, a situationship, a friends with benefits, everything under the fucking sun besides owned. At least five, maybe six years it’s been since someone used the word mine to describe what you are to them, and back then it was purely adolescent, puppy-love at fifteen that made you feel lovesick instead of violently nauseous.
“I need a drink,” you blurt, “from the bar.”
Mingi’s brows furrow, “Where else would you get one, princess?”
That fucking nickname. Your nose crinkles with disgust, you don’t even care about forcing a smile on your face or putting on a show, your irritation returns tenfold. Giving him a long, blank stare, you turn and beeline for the bar.
Deep, shiny oak littered with splotches of wetness, signed receipts soaked, smudged and clinging to the surface, loose, skinny black straws thrown about the bar like some drunk idiot threw a handful in the air, it was a typical Friday night here. Elbows on the bar, you push yourself up by the ledge attached to the base, you keep your chest pressed above your folded arms so the sexy bartender would help you first.
“What’s wrong?”
You smack your lips again, but you don’t turn around. Just his voice is getting on your last nerve.
“Tell me what’s wrong, you’re acting bitchier than usual.”
You can feel the words in your spine. You snap your neck to the side, “Is that why it’s so understandable for me to get cheated on? Because I’m bitchy?”
“You’re still mad about that?” Mingi asks, sounding genuine. You hear him sigh before he forces himself between you and the guy standing beside you at the bar, someone shorter than him, smaller. “Do you want me to apologize again?”
“I don’t want anything from you,” you say quietly, voice laced with venom, keeping your eyes on the tall bartender juggling bottles like they’re toys, his movements fluid. You attempt to telepathize with him, maybe he’ll hear your calls of his name in his mind.
“I thought we moved past that already,” he sighs, “you’re not even gonna look at me? I’m trying–”
“Why do you give a fuck?” You finally look at him and his brows are upturned, lips pouty, but that arrogance that’s embedded in him is so fucking clear you regret looking. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. I’m here for Yeosang, you’re here to impress Winter, wherever the fuck she is. You should go find her.”
“Hey, baby,” you turn to find the bartender finally answering your calls, “he bothering you?”
“Yes,” you smile back, giddiness forming in the pit of your stomach. Slit through his eyebrow, buzz-cut bleached a sandy blonde color, he wears a mesh tank that sits loose on his skin, flowing with each movement. “But he’s paying, so I can’t escape him just yet. Wanna do a shot with me on his tab?”
You lean in closer, eyes low, smile playful. He chuckles, eyes sliding to Mingi and then back to you, “A shot with my favorite girl? Of course. Is he doing one too?”
You shrug, “Ask him, not me.”
You both look at Mingi whose brows are in his hairline, lips parted and slightly curled in a small sneer. It takes him a second to process Hyunjin’s staring at him with a question, he shakes his head slightly before reaching into his pocket, muttering, “Nah, I’m good.”
Hyunjin pours you your favorite drink before placing two plastic shot-cups on the bar, messily pouring liquor that spills onto the grated surface below, “Cheers, to Yeosangie.”
“To Yeosangie,” your grin spreads wide, clinking plastic before smacking them on the bar and shooting them back. “Thanks, Jinnie.”
“Anything for my favorite girl,” his voice is warm, almost as warm as his pretty brown eyes when he looks at you, it makes your insides feel fuzzy. He turns to Mingi who passes him his credit card with that same confused-annoyed look, but he stays quiet. Good.
When Hyunjin walks away, he speaks, and you groan upon the first word leaving his lips. “You’re such a liar, you lied to me.”
“Whatever,” you huff, bringing the straw up to your lips. Fruity, bitter, strong, necessary. “You don’t need to know the truth all the time.”
Mingi’s shaking his head, an annoyed chuckle falling past his lips, “Is there anyone else here you’ve slept with that your boyfriend should know about?”
You shrug as he gets his card back, signing the receipt. You eye it to make sure he left Hyunjin a nice tip, which he does without a word from you. “I’ll let you know if any more show up, if you’re really that curious.”
“I’m sorry for what I said in the car,” he tries again, voice sounding strained, “I’m exhausted, the coaches are working me to the fucking bone with playoffs so close, and I’m here for you.”
Mine.
“You are not here for me,” you bite back, “you meant what you said in the car, don’t go back on it now because it pissed me off. You’re here for Winter and that’s it, Mingi. Like I said earlier, go find her.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No!”
“Fine!” You huff, “Then leave! I didn’t want you here to begin with.”
“You invited me!” He argues back, eyes blowing wide, “I came because you invited me. I picked you up after a three-hour practice. I skipped the second half of studying with exams soon to be here.”
Mine. Your chest constricts.
“You shouldn’t skip studying,” you mutter, “you can’t afford to, moron.”
“Yet I did,” his arms raising on either side of him, defeated. You look at him, really look at him, and you don’t know how you didn’t notice the bags beneath his eyes earlier, he hasn’t had that energetic, snarky-spark since he picked you up.
The lights dim around the stage, music playing through the speakers silencing, the TouchTunes turned off. Mingi sighs, “Can we just watch the show? Wooyoung saw us, which means Winter's here somewhere. They’ll see us at some point.”
“Sorry for being a bitch,” you mumble, voice small, cheeks burning.
A smile tugs at his lips, “I’m sorry for being a bitch, too.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, “Come on, it’s time to pretend you like me again.”
There’s a smile on your face when you groan, body falling beneath his arm, he walks you up towards the table again, through the crowd that parts for him as if he’s a celebrity, standing beside Jongho like he knows it’s where you’d be most comfortable.
He pushes you in front of him as people start closing in, hands sliding down, hooking into your belt loops as Yeosang’s band walks out onstage. Excitement blooming, a grin breaks out across your face, head tipping back with a hand curled around your mouth to release a sharp, pitched whistle.
Mingi echoes the noise, leaning forward to cheer for Yeosang, the back of your head touching his chest. Your head follows his body as he stands straight again, leaning on him with a smile etched into your skin, holding the plastic cup between your hands as the band takes their positions.
Yeosang’s eyes scan the crowd, you follow where his gaze gets stuck, in the back corner, sitting at one of the high-top tables. She’s here, your eyes widen ever so slightly at the sight, warmth filling your chest, a semblance of pride. Good.
“Who’s that?” Mingi leans down to ask in your ear.
“Yeosang’s kind-of girlfriend,” you tear your eyes away from her to tilt your head up, looking at him. “Their relationship is weird.”
“Hm,” Mingi’s head tilts, “doesn’t look like Yeo’s type.”
“She’s exactly his type,” you giggle, “you should know that.”
A smile forms as he looks down at you, “I guess you’re right, don’t know why I assumed everything changed after he quit playing football.”
“Running-back-gone-stoner still likes his cheerleaders,” you sing, bringing your attention back to the stage, taking a sip from your drink. “He seems happier now that he doesn’t play anymore.”
“This is the most confident I’ve ever seen him and he hasn’t played a single chord yet,” Mingi adds, nodding his agreement.
“He’s good,” there’s pride in your voice, “you’ll like their music.”
As if they could hear you, Jay strums his guitar, a striking chord that pulls the attention of the entire room. You squeal, turning your head to see Jongho who’s looking at the stage with the same amount of fondness and pride in his eyes that you wore, the same feeling you have every time you see Yeosang on stage.
Their opening song is one original out of three, the rest covers. You know every word, singing along with Jay, their lead singer and guitarist, head bopping to the beat.
Mingi doesn’t know where to look. Yeosang, who was once his good friend, onstage, or you, smiling, giggling and dancing between his arms. It’s only the third time you’ve been out in public together, but with all the texting, the updates you send each other throughout the day, the constant banter, there’s a feeling in Mingi’s chest he can’t really explain.
He’s not into you. But there’s an urge in his consciousness somewhere, to keep you close, to protect you, it makes him fucking cringe every time the thoughts cross his mind. You’re not friends, you won’t stay in contact after your alignment fulfills its purpose, it’s something he reminds himself after he thinks about you for just a little too long.
He’s tired. His bones ache, his eyes feel heavy, there’s a slouch in his shoulders he doesn’t have the strength to straighten. Your energy bleeds into him, he’s found himself going along with you the entire time you’ve been associated, as if he’s a horse you’re leading to water. So he keeps his mindless grin, a hand steady on your hip since you jumped his fingers out of your belt loops, he holds your drink with the other, keeping his palm blanketed over the open top.
He’s never seen you so happy.
He’s seen you angry, irritated, maybe he’s made you laugh once or twice now, but it’s nothing compared to the joy on your face now, how your body moves out of excitement. It’s not the liquor, it’s Yeosang onstage, who plays so well and looks so fucking cool Mingi finds himself a little jealous, a feeling he pretends isn’t there as soon as he recognizes it. The way you care for him, for Jongho, it adds to the list of things he keeps learning about you, like layers of a fucking onion.
You come to Eonian. Often. You know the bouncer, the bartender, Mingi can’t figure out why you lied. He wonders what else you’ve lied about– what more he can learn about you just by sharing space. He wonders about Wooyoung, what he said to you outside of Lucent, what made you so nervous and eager to leave. He wonders why you wanted to fake-date in the first place, if Wooyoung has done worse than cheat, if that’s why you want revenge so deeply.
The way your eyes wander across the room, finding Wooyoung and Winter, his arms thrown over her shoulders, keeping her close. How they sway together, Winter’s fingers holding onto his forearms, a small smile on her face, cheeks pink. It makes your movements smaller, the bubble of excitement surrounding your being dwindles to a flicker, you turn around and ask Mingi for your drink.
“No,” Mingi shakes his head.
Your face contorts, “What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“You don’t need to drink because you’re upset,” he keeps his voice low, “liquor isn’t going to help.”
“I’m not upset,” you sound defensive, which only confirms what Mingi’s thinking is true. “I’m at a bar watching my best friend kill it onstage, why would I be upset?”
Your brows are furrowed, lips pouty, the gloss you wore faded by now, leaving a pinkish stain behind. There’s heat in your cheeks, a pretty flush, he hates the realization that determination in your features is kind of cute.
“Come here,” Mingi offers, placing your drink on the table behind him before twisting you back around by your hips, throwing his own arms over your shoulders, tucking you into him.
You squirm, making a whiney noise, shifting your shoulders and looking down to untuck your hair where it got trapped against Mingi’s body. “You’re fucking huge,” you mumble, soft fingers coming up to hook around his forearms, Mingi can’t tell if it’s a compliment, but it’s definitely not an insult.
“You have no idea,” he smirks to himself.
You groan, “Stop saying shit like that to me.”
“Why?” Smiling, his tone comes out playful, “Curious?”
Your head tilts back to look up at him, eyes pointed, lips bent in a frown. “No.”
“Liar,” Mingi smacks his teeth, “all you’ve done tonight is lie.”
“Like I said,” you bring your attention back to the stage, “you don’t always need to know the truth.”
“So you admit you’re curious.”
“No!”
Mingi chuckles, squeezing you with his arms clamped around your front. You stay there for the rest of the show, in Mingi’s hold, head pressed to his chest, your eyes don’t wander again. They stay locked on Yeosang onstage, singing along to each song. At one point you and Mingi started swaying together when he recognized one of the covers they performed, singing along with you.
“You two are so fucking cute,” Felix comments when Yeosang’s band runs off the stage after bowing to the crowd. Mingi finally let you go at that point, where you attached to your iced-down drink like a moth to a flame.
“Yeah?” Mingi smiles at Felix before jumping into action when you bring the straw to your lips. “Don’t drink that, I didn’t have eyes on it. I’ll get you another.”
You pout, but you let him pull the straw away from your lips, “Boo.”
“What’d you think of the show?” Jongho asks, a little drunk now, Mingi thinks, as he smacks a hand on his shoulder.
Mingi’s grinning again, nodding his head, “They’re good, Yeosang is really talented.”
You squeal again, stealing his attention, “Isn’t he? He’s so fucking talented, he makes me so jealous. I wish I could play an instrument.”
Cute. He doesn’t think before reaching up to ruffle your hair, “You’re talented at lots of stuff, princess.” He doesn’t know why he said it, he doesn’t even know what you do in your free time. He blames it on it feeling right. He’s tired.
You quickly fix your hair, mumbling, “Motherfucker.”
It makes Mingi’s grin spread wider. Weird, how your insults are starting to feel like compliments.
“Are you coming to the conference game?” Minho asks, and your brows perk up at the attention, that smooth smile appearing on your cheeks, the one you use when you look at any one of his teammates. Anyone you find attractive, actually, he’s noticed.
You nod, “I’ll be there, supporting Jongho.”
“Not your boyfriend?” Minho asks, popping a brow.
“Oh shit, yeah, Mingi too,” you nod, “duh.”
He has to fight his laugh, lips tying together. You meet his eye, the look of him biting back his laugh, and crack a stupid smile at the sight. “You ready to go?” You ask, brows lifted.
Mingi’s neck cranes in confusion, “You don’t wanna wait for Yeo?”
“He has people to see,” you say casually, but Mingi knows who. “Plus, you’re tired, and you need to study before bed.”
Hesitantly, seeing the honesty in your eyes, no disappointment evident, Mingi nods. “You’re right.”
“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho sing-songs, and Mingi’s neck snaps to glare. He hates that nickname, the way they use it in the house, in practice, how it rolls off his teammates tongues with a sneer. Minho’s smile is devilish, daring; he’s one of Mingi’s only teammates that doesn’t suck-up to him completely. It’s not the right time or place to berate him for it.
You say your goodbyes politely and grab Mingi by his hand, pulling him towards the crowd, in the direction of the exit. Mingi ignores everyone who tries to steal him for a chat, giving small smiles, nods, waves of acknowledgement, but he lets you drag him all the way to the exit, where you give the bouncer, Minho, a small wave goodbye.
A little colder now, enough to rack a chill down Mingi’s spine, you stop in your tracks when you open the exit door. Winter is pressed against the wall of the building, Wooyoung’s hand over her head, forehead touching hers. He plants his lips against hers once before realizing he has company.
“Leaving so soon?” He’s smirking as he tucks his arm back into himself, standing straight, turning to face the two of you. “Yeosang played a good show.”
Winter’s eyes locked on Mingi, widened, pupils dilated like she didn’t want to be caught where Mingi had indeed caught her. She swallows, licking her lips, fixing the baggy denim on her legs as she stands straighter, moving slightly behind Wooyoung as if it’d put her out of Mingi’s eyesight.
“He always does,” your voice is cold, venomous. No warmth at all.
Wooyoung’s eyes find Mingi, taking a second to look him up and down. “Nice outfit, different for you.”
Mingi pops a brow, “Because I’m not in a jersey?”
“Sure,” Wooyoung nods, then moves his eyes to you. “Same goes for you, doll. Find my hoodie yet?”
Your fingers flex at your side, fist clenching, “I told you I burned it.”
Wooyoung chuckles, arm lifting for Winter to tuck herself into his side, it makes Mingi grimace. Gross. He’s slimey, the energy he gives off, Mingi can’t understand what the fuck girls see in him in the first place.
“Did you see Hyunjin inside?” Wooyoung asks, “He asked me about you, said your little plaything was bothering you.” Wooyoung looks at Mingi again, “I take it that’s you? But you’re her boyfriend, right?”
Mingi’s brows furrow, but you speak up before he can open his mouth. “Don’t speak to Hyunjin about me or Mingi. The only plaything you have to worry about is the one under your arm.”
Winter straightens, brows furrowing, “I’m the plaything? Me?”
“What do you think he’s gonna do with you when he’s bored?” You laugh a little, eyes so piercing it renders Mingi silent, all he can do is stare. “Toss you to the side, just like he did with me. There’s another one, you know, it’s never just you.”
Wooyoung tucks her closer, his features devoid of all amusement, back going rigid. “Lying, huh? Just ‘cus you’re butthurt? Always leads to lies, you haven’t changed one bit.”
“You’ll never change,” you whisper, but the chilly air is quiet enough that it hits its mark. “When she calls, you’ll run back to her, it doesn’t matter who’s occupying your boredom at the time.” Your eyes find Winter, “You’ll see. I feel bad for you.”
Mingi, confused, watches Winter’s face fall, the slow realization that there’s not a lick of jealousy in your voice, just sheer honesty. His head bobs back and forth between the two of you, but he grabs your wrist when steam starts pouring from your ears. “Time to go, baby. Come on.”
You pull your wrist away from him, tucking it into your chest, keeping your eyes steady on Wooyoung who doesn’t falter for a moment. A staring contest of sorts, it makes Mingi feel nervous, uncomfortable at the least.
“Time to go,” Mingi reiterates, voice heavier, hands on your waist now. “It’s not worth it. I’ll take you home, c’mon.”
It takes you a second to turn your head away from Wooyoung as Mingi starts pulling you away, but once you’re out of eyesight, in front of Mingi’s build that engulfs you whole, the shakes begin. Your fingertips, your shoulders, your teeth chatter in your fucking skull.
“In the car,” he’s whispering, encouraging, ushering you into his passenger seat. “There you go,” he closes it behind you, making sure you’re tucked inside.
When he’s behind the wheel, engine roaring to life, he takes a second to gather his bearings. He turns to you slowly, only his head, and you’re staring into nothing, body still shaking. It makes him swallow, nerves etching into his vision.
“Are you okay?” He asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of. He doesn’t know how to comfort you. You hum an agreement, a slight nod of your head, it does nothing to ease the discomfort in his chest. His lips tighten, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “What just happened?”
You shake your head, still staring into space. Voice small, battered and broken, you whisper, “I don’t know.”
Mingi feels something swirling in his gut, something foul. Like before a big game, when he isn’t positive he’s going to win. Voice low, he asks, “What actually happened between you?”
“He didn’t just cheat on me with Winter,” you finally look down at your lap, “there’s another girl. I don’t know who she is, what she looks like, I just know she exists. She’s like, the girl version of him, she made him like that.”
Mingi’s brows furrow, but you keep talking after a deep, shaky breath. “He called me a liar, I am a liar.” You shake your head, staring at your lap. “I lied to everyone when I was with him. I lied to him, I lied to myself, not to mention Jongho and Yeosang.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier that way,” you finally look at Mingi, eyes glassy, pupils dilated, “if I told the truth, I couldn’t be held accountable for my own actions.” When you notice his confusion, you laugh, a short, disbelieving chuckle. “I knew about her the whole fucking time, the nature of their relationship, I even tried competing with her at one point.”
When Mingi asks why again, you sigh. “I think because I knew I’d never win. Him and I would never be real no matter how hard I tried, and that was safety to me, in a way.”
“I don’t understand,” Mingi sinks into his seat, carefully peeling back another layer.
You shake your head again, silent for a moment. “Have you ever wanted something so bad that it terrifies you?”
“All the time.”
“This is gonna sound self-deprecating, don’t make fun of me or else I’ll fucking kill you,” you start, and Mingi’s lips curve at the corners, but he nods. “That’s how I feel about relationships, or being loved, I guess. I want it, but do I deserve it?”
Mingi’s brows furrow again, “Do you deserve it?” You blink at him, and he shakes his head in confusion, “Who cares? You want it, don’t you?”
Mingi swears your eyes get rounder, your lips plumper. He’s never seen you look so… delicate. Small, vulnerable, like your walls have crumbled away and left what’s at your core bare for him to see.
“I do,” you whisper, staring at him, into him, he feels just as bare as you. He feels the moonlight pouring into the cabin, he hears the light hum of his idling car, and he realizes he hasn’t been in this position in a long, long time.
His relationship with women has been strict since… her. Transactional, never more, never less. Give and take. He doesn’t make friends, he doesn’t form bonds, he does nothing more than fuck– when’s the last time he had a real fucking conversation with a woman? When’s the last time his chest has felt so twisted from emotion?
He stares back, eyes dropping to your lips for a millisecond. Glossy, from the spit you swiped over them with your tongue moments prior, plump and opaque with color. This is the longest you’ve gone without arguing since the moment you met. This is the first time he’s looking at you so clearly, seeing you as more than a means to an end. He swears he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.
“Take what you want,” Mingi whispers back, “who gives a fuck about being worthy of it?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips, “That’s easy for you to say, you get whatever you want.”
“Not everything,” he shifts in his seat, sinking down, stretching out his legs as much as he can. “Not even a lot, actually.”
When your brows furrow, he makes a face like he doesn’t want to keep going, but he does anyway. “I don’t have control over anything in my life. What I eat, how I train, how much I sleep, what I do in my free time, that’s all coordinated by someone else. Dating you is the most freedom I’ve had in years.”
“They don’t do whatever you say?”
“I do whatever they say,” he corrects you, lips flattening. “I don’t have to think if I don’t want to, and I fucking hate it. I’m a twenty-one year old man that doesn’t do anything for myself, it’s suffocating. Like I’m a puppet.”
Your lips are tucked between your teeth, swept to the side, head tilted. “I thought it was the other way around. Are they mad you’re… dating me?”
Mingi laughs a little, “More than mad. Consequences-mad.”
You gasp, leaning forward, palm planted on the center console. “Then why are you still doing it?”
“Because I want to,” he’s looking at you now, “for once, I’m doing something I want, and I’m having fun.”
“You’re having fun with me?” Your smile makes Mingi feel like he’s just handed you a thousand dollars. “For realsies?”
Chuckling, nodding, Mingi nods, “For realsies, princess.”
You sit back in the passenger seat, body deflating dramatically, head sinking to the side, silly smile still on your lips. Looking up at him through your brows, you say, “I’m having fun with you, too.”
Mingi doesn’t understand why the sentence fills his stomach with… butterflies, like you’d just said the words he’s been waiting the whole night to hear. He pushes the feeling down, shifting himself upward, finally plugging his phone into the car’s speaker system. “You ready?”
“Yes,” you nod, sitting up, pulling the seatbelt over your torso. “Drive nicely though, please, or else I might throw up.”
FOURTH OUTING: CONFERENCE GAME, SUNDAY. 7:02 PM.
Bass pumps through the stadium, so deep and booming you can feel it in your heels that touch the concrete beneath you, it vibrates through the navy blue, plastic chair you sat on. Only in a mini-skirt, your thighs sat bare against the cool, hard chair, a relief in contrast to the humid air that rudely asks you to put your hair up.
In the tenth row, just above the fifty-yard line, your view was immaculate. Just above where the players stood on the field, you could see the field, the players clearer than you ever have, Jongho always gifted you and Yeosang nosebleeds. A routine, up in the stands, guzzling beers because what else was there to do if you couldn’t see? You’d trust the commentator with a tall-boy of Miller and pretend you were enjoying it until you got drunk enough to not care, and to you, that was the true college football experience.
But here, almost eye-level with Mingi who lines up directly under center to take the snap, this was different. Dark hair covered by his kelly-green helmet, the only reason you knew it was him was because of his last name and the number eighty-eight on his back.
It mirrored the one on your back, the kelly-green jersey that offset his white one, it hung more than oversized in your body, off one shoulder, tucked into your skirt. You haven’t seen Mingi in a week, and when Yeosang delivered it to you this morning the pang of disappointment in your chest was so uncomfortable you pretended you didn’t feel it.
“Mingi gave it to Jongho who gave it to me to give to you.”
Yeosang threw the jersey onto your couch, oversized and… green. So green you looked down at the jersey then back up to Yeosang’s head of hair, a smirk crawled onto your cheeks. Yeosang squinted, “Don’t.”
“Oh, you can make fun of me, but I can’t make fun of you?” A hand on your hip, one knee bent, you exuded nothing but attitude. You took a step forward to pick the jersey off your couch, held it up in the air in front of you by the shoulders, “Can dish it out but can’t take it, huh?”
The mini-skirt in your closet you haven’t been able to face since sometime last year popped into your brain, a tall pair of boots you already started mentally picturing with the outfit. It looked good enough in the mirror, his jersey hung off your shoulder, you did a little twirl in the mirror to see how it swayed with your movement.
A smile was stamped onto your cheeks when you glanced at your back in the mirror, reading a very clear Song written above the number 88. After noticing the grin, you forced your lips flat, arms straightening at your sides. You turned back around, lips tucked in as you ran your palms over the jersey, blowing a sharp breath through curved lips, then left your bedroom once more.
You kind of missed him, which was a strange pit-in-your-stomach feeling you didn’t let yourself think too much about. You haven’t seen him in a week, not since your explosion on Wooyoung at Eonian, he’s been too busy with this game approaching, strategizing, practicing, training. Not seeing him after sharing something vulnerable with him, something you haven’t even shared with the green-headed-motherfucker in the room just to get something vulnerable in return, you felt strangely closer to him. Like maybe you two could actually be friends.
Silly thought. Silly you.
He stands crouched on the field, your chest still heaves from cheering when his name was announced throughout the stadium, excitement vibrating through you as much as when bass bled through your skin. The stadium looks bigger from down here, more open, yet there was less air to fill your lungs, to ease the discomfort in your chest.
There were messages in your DMs, more messages now than when you entered the parking lot to tailgate. You read the first ones upon your first step through the wired, silver gates, not telling Yeosang who was already slurring his words because it didn’t matter. The messages have never grown too personal, nowhere close to a threat, until today.
Don’t go to the game today.
His minions, the army assembled of Mingi-lovers who haunted your requests folder, you wonder what they’d think if they knew you weren’t really together. If they knew Mingi only looked at you affectionately in public. You wondered what they’d think if they looked at your text thread, if they saw the slew of insults you threw at each other on a daily basis, between the updates with time stamps because Mingi said it’s proof he’s busy.
Now, there were more.
Thought we told you not to go
We saw you tailgating.
Should we expose you for cheating on him?
In his jersey too, you must be fucking stupid
Drinking beer, so trashy
Don’t you think you eat enough?
A tall-boy in the cupholder across from you, a cup of cheese fries split between you and Yeosang, a fucking hotdog in your hand. This was normal, this is what you always did, what you always fucking ate when you came to these games. You looked behind you, the crowd was busy talking to each other, laughing, drinking, eating, there were no eyes on you. You couldn’t figure out who was looking at you. Who was waiting.
Unsettling isn’t the word for how uncomfortable being seen was, when you didn’t want to be.
The game begins and you attempt to force yourself into focusing. Yeosang, drunk and belligerent beside you, luckily didn’t notice your discomfort, you don’t think he’d notice if you dropped a fucking brick on his head right now. You pull out your phone when focusing proves impossible, rereading your last text thread with Mingi again, the only thing keeping you from grabbing Yeosang by the scruff and dragging him out of the stadium.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come down to the field when games over
xxx-xxx-xxxx: go down the stairs inside, tell security ur name. they should let u through
you: okay
you: play good or else ill cheer for jongho
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come on now
xxx-xxx-xxxx: whos name is on ur back
you: some guy
you: streets are calling me mrs. song
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wait that has a nice ring to it
xxx-xxx-xxxx: if u see winter let her know what her future looks like
you: i hate you
you: break a leg
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i dont think u say that for football
you: no like i hope you break your leg
xxx-xxx-xxxx: oh bro fuck u
xxx-xxx-xxxx: dont say that before a game
xxx-xxx-xxxx: asshole
you: go stretch or something stop texting me
You haven’t seen Winter, you haven’t seen Wooyoung. You didn’t see them in the parking lot, either, where you tailgated with not only Jia and Riyo, but Mingyu, Seokmin, Hoshi, Dino and Seungkwan. Nine of you taking up two parking spots, drinking beside Mingyu’s ninety-six Ford pickup, playing pong with the table he brought in the truck bed, sitting in folding chairs, watching from the roof panel.
Riyo claims they’re the only people she could convince to tailgate. You think they’re the first and only people she tried convincing, especially since she’s hooking up with Seokmin on the DL, but you’d believe there’s some truth to it just because Mingyu’s the easiest person to convince of anything on the planet. You can remember convincing him chocolate milk comes from brown cows and strawberry milk comes from pink cows– he was elated to find out photoshop-generated pink cows exist in real life.
Tall, buff, bronzy and handsome, he was the first one to refer to you as Mrs. Song with a slippery smirk and a wiggle of his brows. For the entire two hours you tailgated, you don’t think you heard your name once; like parrots, once one of them says something, the rest follow.
It was nice to be friendly with him, even if you eyed him up with a smirk of your own two or twenty times, advances only understood by him, and each time you remembered whose name and number was painted on your back and forced your face to fall.
Boring.
“That pass was,” Yeosang hiccups, “disgusting.”
You lock your phone, picking your head up, “I missed it, what happened? Disgusting good, or disgusting bad?”
“Good,” Yeosang nods, watching the game with a different, analytical eye, “Mingi’s so fucking good.”
“Do you ever miss playing?” You ask, tucking your phone into your pocket, picking up your beer to take a sip. Cringing, you wish you’d drank more at the tailgate.
“Of course,” he says like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked, “but I don’t regret quitting. Everything is better now.”
You can hear the liquor in his voice, it makes you crack a smile. Taking advantage of the situation, you lean in a little closer, “Do you miss her cheering you on?”
With his feet propped up on the empty chair in front of him, body lazily strewn in his own chair like it was deadweight, it might be, the way he only turns his head to look at you. “You don’t think she cheers for me anywhere else?”
Your top lip curls, leaning backward, putting space between you. “I don’t know if I should take that in a sexual way or not.”
Yeosang snorts loudly, head dipping back like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore, “You saw her at my show last week. She was cheering me on like she didn’t give a fuck who saw, it was awesome.”
“Good,” you nod, turning back to the field, eyes closing in on the pretty cheerleader dressed in little to nothing, green and white pompoms in her hands. Whispering, watching her, you nod again, “Good.”
Checking your phone again, you see more DMs, but you don’t open them. Ignorance is bliss, you tell yourself as you sit rigid up until halftime, where the cheers and boos from the crowd went right over your head the entire time. Twenty minutes to pee, buy another beer and more cheese fries because you should’ve eaten before you fucking came and you didn’t.
On edge, speed-walking through the crowds in the concourse, your eyes worked a mile-a-minute to scan every face you saw, to analyze if anyone was looking at you a certain way. It’s terrifying, knowing someone is watching, not knowing who, or from where. You stared above you, through the cracks in the stall doors while you peed, you kept an eye on your surroundings while you bought another beer, more cheese fries.
Maybe you should turn off your requests, you think as you sit back down in your seat, Yeosang leaned sideways with his head in his fist, eyes half-open.
“Are you alive?” You ask with a laugh as you sit down, handing him another tall-boy can, “Here, got you another beer.”
He resurrects like the second coming of Jesus, eyes wide and brows lifted like you’d woken him from hibernation. Back straightening, he grabs the can from your hand, sucking in a breath, “You’re my best friend.”
You laugh as you sit back in your seat, tucking your skirt beneath your thighs, the game had already begun again while you were up in the concourse. Peeking up at the scoreboard, seeing nine-zero clear as day, your head snaps to Yeosang, “When the fuck did that happen?”
“Mostly in the first quarter,” his voice is heavy with carbonation, he closes a fist over his mouth in an attempt to silently burp into it, a failed attempt.
You snicker at the sound, giggling through your words, “Who?”
“Haechan, Jaemin.”
“Jaemin’s a kicker?”
“Him and Felix.”
“Ah,” you nod, taking a sip of your own beer. Turning to him again, you ask, “Haechan’s the whiney one with the red hair?”
“Wide receiver,” Yeosang nods, “and a good one. Mingi’s passes are perfect, though, can’t give Hyuck all the credit.”
“Hyuck?”
“Haechan.”
“Oh,” you mumble, searching the field again. Mingi looks so much bigger with all the padding on, bulkier, you can see his chest heaving despite the layers, his run turning to a slowed drag of his legs as he walks towards the edge of the field.
Arms flexing as he pulls his helmet off his head, he shakes his hair back, running a gloved hand through the sweaty strands, away from his face. It’s like slow motion, his shoulders pushed back, lips parted, jaw clean and angular, teeth poking out from beneath his top lip.
“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, he looks hot. Fuck him.
That clean smirk lifting his lips on one side as he shakes hands with another one of his teammates, you don’t care to figure out which one, you can’t take your eyes off him. He tilts his chin up, keeping that same cocky smirk as he says something too far for your ears to catch, his eyebrows twitching upward. Shit.
Your stomach rumbles something unwelcome, a feeling of interest, sweat prickling at the back of your neck that isn’t from the humidity in the air. You know he’s hot, you knew he was hot before you started fake-dating him, you quickly remind yourself who he is. A narcissistic asshole, a misogynist, a lonely twenty-one year old that doesn’t have the freedom to make decisions for himself. One that likes spending his free time with you, one that laughs at your jokes, one that throws his arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side like there’s no other place he’d want you.
Mine.
You shake your head, turning to Yeosang again, “You know how I said I got those DMs the other day?”
Yeosang blinks in half-focus, “Kinda, why?”
“Nevermind,” you shake your head, sighing. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Can I have a fry?” He asks, giving you puppy eyes, you hand him the cup of cheese fries without looking at him.
By the grace of God, as if you fucking summoned her with damning thoughts, walking into the row before yours, sitting in the seat directly in front of Yeosang, is Winter.
Where the fuck is Wooyoung?
Yeosang stiffens, a cheese fry halfway in his mouth, he pulls his feet back down to the concrete, mumbling apologies through his already-full mouth. Winter is everything polite, she gives him a warm smile, tucking her skirt beneath her as she sits into the seat. Slowly she drags her hair to one side as she relaxes in the plastic, body not hitting the backrest, giving you a full, front-seat view of Song and 88 on her back.
Your lips part, eyes widening as you read it, you blink once, twice, six fucking times and the name and number doesn’t change. It’s a jersey bought from the school store, not official like the one on your back, but she’s fucking here, in front of you, with your boyfriend’s name and number on her fucking back.
“Excuse me,” you lean forward, heart beating out of your chest, brain spewing words onto your tongue and not one of them is nice.
She turns like she’s surprised, brows lifted, “Hm?”
“Your jersey?” You tilt your chin, what the fuck else would you be asking about?
“Oh,” she grins, cheeks pink, a hand coming up to cover her mouth like she’s fucking bashful. “I’m just a huge fan.”
“Right,” you say slowly, eyes thinned to shoot daggers, nodding like this shit does not add up.
Yeosang rests a heavy hand on your back, you turn your head to look at him still shooting missiles from your eyes and his face is twisted up to say what the fuck are you doing?!
Your face snaps back into reality, quickly straightening in your seat, pupils shaking beneath your lids and lips pursed hard enough to bruise, an embarrassing heat turns your body to lava. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing but the mortifying pulse of your own heartbeat, what are you doing? What the fuck was that? This is the whole point.
You’re going insane, that’s the only answer, the only reason for what you just did. The DMs, sitting in seats he got you because they’re the best view, having eyes on you somewhere in the crowd, remembering how he looked at you from the driver’s seat of his car, telling you to go get what you want just because you fucking want it. It's all going to your head.
You need to break up. Now.
You don’t see the rest of the game. You don’t hear the music, the sirens of triumph, the roars of the crowd, you don’t even process that they won until you’re standing up, clapping, staring out at the field with your face utterly blank. This is fear. This is real, genuine, raw fucking fear.
“Let’s go,” Yeosang is tugging on your arm and your gaze is elsewhere, confused, your mind somewhere along with it.
You tug your arm back, “Go where?”
“Down to the field?” Yeosang furrows his brows, “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” you give him a weak smile, “yeah, ‘m fine.”
You’re gliding up the stairs into the concourse, fuzzy finding the staircase to lead you back down, you’re shaking your head, trying to snap yourself out of it before you reach the bottom platform. There’s a man shuffling around like he was waiting for bodies to approach, earpiece connecting to a small black box clipped onto his slacks, a black polo to match, his face reading focus, professionalism. You mumble yours and Yeosang’s names and he lets you through with a stretch of his arm, you heave another breath when the LED lights come into view at the end of the tunnel.
The field is vast, it’s warmer down here, the air is wet. Bodies seem to cover every inch of sideline, cameras, lights, people with clipboards and hats on their head with your university’s logo, you’re too aware of your fingers at your sides.
You spot him and he’s smiling, laughing as he talks to an interviewer, already standing before a camera, it makes your heart drop to your asshole. You shuffle closer to Yeosang who’s already on the hunt for Jongho, you’re sure he doesn’t want to be caught down here by his old coach or any of the staff, if they’d even recognize his bright green hair.
“You’re down here?” Jongho finds you before you find him, brows furrowed, hair sweaty and chest heaving, he wears confused brows and a winded smile.
Chest puffed from padding, sweat dribbling down his forearms that aren’t covered by nylon, you actually feel a semblance of relief when you see him. “Mingi invited me, I wasn’t coming without Yeo.”
“Oh,” his smile spreads, “how was it?”
Yeosang claps his hand, throwing another on his shoulder, “You’re a fucking boulder, wish I was down here with you.”
Jongho looks confused, “Are you drunk?”
Your eyes travel, landing on Mingi, who catches you just as you look over. You see him brighten, smile widening, a sparkle in his eyes that makes your stomach do flips. Fuck.
You watch him mouth the words excuse me, nodding his head before escaping the press, running over to you with that stupid fucking smile you might have seen in your dream last night.
“You came!” He yells when he gets close enough to pull you into his chest, acting as if his sweat didn’t soak through his padding. Huge, massive, he swallows you, it makes your knees weak.
You verbally cringe, muttering a noise of disgust before pulling away, “I was right, you smell like wet dog.”
“Beautiful woman,” he corrects, face reading amusement, “like you in my jersey, green looks good on you, princess.”
Your eyes meet the turf beneath your boots, “You don’t have to say that, no one can hear you, Mingi.”
“Damn, no insulting rebuttal?” The more he looks at you the more his smile falters. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
You look up at him through your brows, surprise written on your face as you take in the concern on his. He can tell? You shake your head, plastering a fake smile on your cheeks, “I’m great, I’m fine, I’m good. Did you hear me cheering?”
“For me?” He’s cheesing, excited like a little kid.
You laugh a little, tucking your hair behind your ear, “Duh, you told me I had to since I’m wearing your jersey.”
“Let me see,” he pulls his arm from where it laid over your shoulder back to his side, “do a little twirl for me, smart girl.”
The heat on your cheeks is molten, you roll your eyes as you make a ponytail in your fist, twirling to give him full access of him on your back.
He cheers, woo-ing loud and shameless, his smile takes over his entire face. “Wow, look at you, like a real-life WAG.”
“What’s a WAG?”
He shakes his head, “Means you’re mine.”
Mine.
You panic, words spilling from your lips, “Guess who else is in your jersey.”
His smile falls, body going still with knowing disbelief, “No.”
You force a tight-lipped smile, nodding, “Yup.”
“Oh my god!” Yeosang cuts you off, loud and obnoxious. Now he chooses to get rowdy? “I almost forgot, you guys should take pictures.”
In boyfriend mode again, Mingi’s gloved palm finds the small of your back, coming to your side when you twist around to look at Yeosang, face screaming no. Yeosang giggles, a nasty little smirk on his lips that tells you he’s playing the game, too, maybe better than you are at this point.
He pulls his phone from his back pocket, “Come on, pose.”
You look at Mingi, uneasy. He shrugs, unbothered. Hand tighter around your waist, he leans into you, smiling. You try to force light into your eyes, doing your best to grin like a proud girlfriend, not that these pictures would ever see the light of day.
“Cute,” Yeosang crouches, “move over, the lighting is weird.”
You huff, but move in the direction Yeosang’s pointed palm is ushering you in, Mingi following, the both of you quiet. Too aware of where you are, eyes, cameras, lights— it’s overstimulating just having his fucking hand on you, his body pressed to yours.
Yeosang eyes you over the top of his phone screen, flashing something mischievous, “Now kiss.”
“What?” There’s barely a moment between his order and your reaction. Mingi stiffens beside you, you think you’ve gone cold, you think you might drop dead on the turf.
“Kiss!” Yeosang nearly whines, “Come on, what are you, children? One kiss for a picture, you’ll thank me for it later.”
Your jaw drops. Blinking at him, stuttering a rebuttal, head shaking and a hand moving to wave in front of you out of denial, Mingi speaks before you do.
“Okay.”
“Huh?!” You look at him like he’s insane.
He shoots daggers, eyes bouncing back and forth between you and Yeosang as if to say don’t blow our cover. Little does he know, Yeosang was present when the plan was fucking formed.
“No,” the shake of your head is final, “absolutely not.”
“One kiss,” Mingi argues, “it would be a cute picture.”
You whisper, “Why are you encouraging this?”
He shrugs, his smile effortlessly stupid, “It’s just one kiss.”
Your eyes lower to his lips for a split second. Round, plump, pink, wet with spit from his tongue that glides over them seamlessly, there’s an anxious pit in your stomach, your fight or flight kicks in.
He uses the angle in which you turned, one hand sliding to your waist, the other on your jaw, tilting your head upward. Warm, his touch delicate, you feel your heart in your throat as he leans in, kissing you with a softness no one has ever kissed you with.
You’ve been someone’s situationship, friends with benefits, fuckbuddy— all things that require a disconnection to function, a wall you were far too good at putting up, keeping stable. You’ve been kissed with haste, with fervor, just to add a touch of romanticism because the rest that followed lacked respect in its purest form.
This was different. It wasn’t a peck, your lips parted for him, your body melted into him, his hand on your jaw was guiding, grounding, his gloved thumb swiped along your skin like he fucking meant it. He tasted clean, like he just drank a gallon of water, still fresh on his plump lips that tucked yours in like they belonged there. It's not right, it’s not right but it’s working and you’re fucking terrified.
He pulls away just as softly as he leaned in, a dopey smile stretching his lips wide. Keeping himself close, he hums, “See? Just a kiss.”
You don’t realize your fingers wrapped around his forearm, or that your spine bent towards him. Breath shaky, grip iron, your eyes flicker upward and even the way he’s looking at you is different.
You swallow down your discombobulation just enough to utter, “We need to break up. Now.”
You're in love with your coworker Hongjoong. Sort of. Not really. But, you like him, and your friends, San, Jongho, and Yunho, they hate him. They really hate him. He lives in a constant repetitive pursuit of stringing you along just to drop you all over again. When a company gala is announced, you're certain he'll ask you... Until you catch him with another girl. Again. Summer in the city, your friends form a plan, a fake boyfriend plan to make Hongjoong jealous, leaving you and Yunho to trudge around Manhattan under the sun to make it believable. Unspoken boundaries set in place six years ago get tested. Are you making it out of this with your best friend?
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ yunho x fem!reader - {30.8k words} don't read the warnings if you don't want spoilers! fake dating, idiots friends to lovers, enormous sweet tooth rotting plot, explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking, cussing, dirty talk, some of these guys are kind of mean at work, yunho's a sweetie, san and jongho are funny, smut warnings; p in v, oral if you squint, biting, spit if you squint, dom!jyh, cum inside, nip play, accidental exhibitionism, unprotected (do not do!)
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ happy valentines day mon! ✿ it's me, your secret valentine fic giver! i had so much fun writing this piece, and i had so much fun secretly learning about you (totally not creepy). you inspire originality, and i hope i conveyed a tiny bit of what you inspire others to invoke within themselves. you're so cool! (you'll get this after you read hehe). i'm so grateful to have become moots, friends, and to experience your art, your writing. you're truly an artist, and you bring so much joy here to the tumble community, i hope you never forget how loved and wanted you are here! hugs & kisses cool kid ✿ @03jyh23
thank you @everyonewooeverywhere for putting this event together ✿
✿ this is also a love letter to my favorite series created by my best friend @minkieater ✿ the city holds a very special place in my heart for a plethora of reasons i'll take up too much text space trying to explain. some of her characters pop up here, please go check out their story! i highly recommend it and all of it's mini spin off shotties. ily, t.
yun: JUST CAME ON.. I think the lady next to me on the subway can hear it ‘cause I turned it up all the way and she gave me this crazy look.. This music though.. Maybe it’ll help you feel better about your meeting.. Good luck……… See you at Dante’s later
*yun sent a song*
[ I Melt with You - Modern English ]
Finishing your hair in the foot long mirror above your bathroom sink, you tapped on the song with your pinky and tucked one more pin into the bun on your head. Whimsey filled the quiet where the only sound to be heard was the lullaby of the city outside of the cracked bathroom window. Open barely three inches, as far as it allowed, fresh summer air blew in with the pop of a siren, a car horn, people chattering below on the streets, above on their balcony.
Wiping your fingers under your eyes, settling on light makeup for the work day, your hips rocked to the beat, a poppy type song dipped in something angsty, teenage rebellion. You’ve heard this before, in some movie, you think, the two of you probably watched at some point which is how it came to circle through his music library.
A song for every mood, a song for every occasion, a song no matter the cause- Yunho had one for everything. You could see him now, headphones covering his ears, wrapping over his head, the wire tangling with his leather bag that hung over his shoulder and sat on his lap, a bag too frail and too old, but one he won’t rid of because it’s from the seventies.
Listen, Shug, you don’t get it…
He worked downtown at a record store part time when he wasn’t on the clock and running errands for his big named producer boss, Jag, the coolest, the raddest, most amazing Jag. After sorting records and analyzing set lists for local bands big and small, Yunho answered Jag’s calls, his messages, his damn pages, and disappeared for a few hours, returning with insane lore drops on the latest albums close to release, and who he caught kissing who in the lounge of Republic Records.
Capping the mascara tube, twisting it shut, you blinked at yourself in the mirror just as old as Yunho’s bag and groaned. Pursing your lips, longing to paint on a fun color, one the company you worked for wouldn’t allow, you took a deep breath and blew a raspberry.
Yunho could wear whatever he wanted. Yunho could dress like himself, he could wear the patterned sweaters you thrifted together, the crappy sneakers he’s certain John Lennon owned, ripped denim, silky slacks, he could wear it all and accessorize the crap out of himself. Earrings, layered necklaces, leather or braided bracelets, unique glasses changing each day, a hat or two somewhere in the rotation.
Trudging into your bedroom, not even two feet from the bathroom door, you reached into your shoebox of a closet and pulled out a grey pantsuit, one that hugged you in all the right places but killed the part of you that longed to wrap yourself in color.
Bopping your head to the song that repeated from the edge of the bathroom sink, you hummed along to the lyrics you half knew while you dressed yourself, ignoring the belts hanging around the bed post, or the funky sunglasses you bought several pairs of from a street festival last summer with Yunho and San.
Grey corduroy slacks, a white button down, and a grey vest concealing your chest. Fastening each button, securing the details in place, not that there were many, you twisted side to side in the full-length mirror you found on the street leaning against a mailbox, one San hung up for you, and loosed a breath.
“You’ve seen the difference and it’s getting better all the time,” you sang to yourself, quietly, not wanting your neighbor to bang on his wall again, and picked up your phone.
Tapping out a message, letting your knees bounce to the music, a smile pricked onto your bare lips.
you: I know this song??? How am I singing this right now???
yun: It was in Valley Girl
Giving yourself a look in the mirror, you rolled your eyes and typed back.
you: That movie sucked, Yunho
He answered quick.
yun: ‘Cause you don’t have taste, Shug
you: I know the song!!!!!!
yun: Doesn’t count, you hate Valley Girl, grow a pair and watch it again, this time we’ll drink, then you’ll love it..
Pocketing your phone, the clock up in the corner taunting you as it ticked down to the minute you had to part with your sanctuary, you slipped into black heels two inches tall and slung your work appropriate purse over your shoulder, one that matched the olive of another suit you could’ve worn, the only color they’ve allowed you to toy with.
“There’s nothing you and I won’t do,” you sang, pulling a lip gloss from the pocket on the side, slicking it on while you bounced a bit more. Capping it, feeling your phone vibrate, you exchanged the lip gloss for your cell.
yun: Did it help.. The song..
Your smile grew.
you: Yes… it did, thank you
yun: :) :) :) :) :) :) the future’s open wide
A giggle escaped you, reading the lyrics he sent just as they came out of your phone. Swiping out of open apps, you silenced your phone and popped it back into your pocket. Sucking in a deep breath, the slightest bit of nerves making themselves known in your stomach, you hummed to yourself, the song he’d sent, the one you just shut off.
Every morning song he’s sent you, you’ve had to turn it off before leaving the apartment, to not disturb your neighbors, to not be a nuisance on the street though every corner came with at least three. You tucked him into your pocket, with your cell phone, with the song, and you became someone else entirely, someone he didn’t know, someone he didn’t get to see. A girl who wouldn’t listen to the songs he sent, and certainly not a girl who would enjoy them.
You became one he’d look at. One that he’d shoot subtle smirks at when the boss tripped over a word or two. A girl that laughed at every joke he told, even if it fell flat with whoever else stood around you. Hongjoong, he worked in the office beside yours, an assistant to a manager who worked beside a manager you assisted. Too often, since starting, the two of you had been assigned the same task at the same time. A coffee run, a folder to file, an exchange of documents for the others’ boss to look over.
From day one, Hongjoong in black, his slicked back hair, his perfectly pristine suits ironed and hung daily… You liked him. With his shoulders rolled backward, his posture uptight, he oozed charisma, a confidence that would certainly skyrocket him forward in no time. Graduating from NYU, pursuing post-grad degrees, some you didn’t understand, he walked and talked with a gust incomparable to most. A boss. A leader. The type of guy to lower his brows, soften his eyes, give you a reassuring smile and shake of the shoulder, and suddenly you’d feel as though you could take on the world as well.
Career wise, you knew it’d be best to keep him on your side, however…
With the mess of time and endless hours you spent together, you didn’t account that falling for the guy would ever become a possibility.
Yet here you were, wearing pantsuits you had to take a loan out to afford, and pinning your hair back in ways you’ve only seen older women in movies pull off. Another corporate daisy in the garden that was the office he frolicked about, dancing his fingers over the edges, the petals of each one, appeasing them all with that god damned wicked smile that came out with a wink.
Accidentally. Sometimes. You think. You hoped.
He drank champagne at corporate parties. A pocket watch hung from his slacks, and he’d sling his jacket over his shoulder to reveal what he’d been wearing was a tailored three piece he copped from Rodeo on vacation with his sister and her car company owning husband. With a pinky in the air he laughed in singular syllables as the department heads cracked their jokes you didn’t understand, most likely a guy thing, and he made sure to compliment every woman that breezed past him.
The kind of girls that had legs miles long, hair blown out and bouncing at their shoulders or below, low cut dresses front and back, diamonds dripping in the plunges front and back. They’d give a tight lipped smile, one you’ve practiced in the mirror before feeling utterly ridiculous, and he’d end up coercing one into the back of a car with a driver provided by the company. A car you arrived in together. A car you’ve never been the girl to go home in after the party was over.
You’d catch a cab, tipsy and groveling, and meet up with Yunho and San at Dante NYC, your favorite bar on MacDougal, the street of all things food and drinks. The owner knew the three of you, you’ve frequented Dante’s since your days at Columbia, escaping back down to the Village once the classes in Harlem were through.
Small, as places in the city were, Dante’s had a vibe none other could replicate. Tiny plates of just enough food to each order on your own and pass around to share, bartenders on shift before they scurried off to audition for a Broadway show that worked and lived for tips, offering heavy pours if you offered up your cash, an old Italian energy, a type of culture that Manhattan yearned to hold onto. It’s where you were off to tonight, Yunho and San in attendance, along with Jongho, another co-worker of yours, if you could convince him.
One of the last times he ended up at Dante’s with you three he drank his body weight in whiskey and sang a Celine Dion duet with the bartender, stripping down to his undershirt beneath his button down. San has the videos to prove it, and he isn’t afraid to use them if Jongho is acting snippy in the groupchat.
You’d be there in mere hours, drinking and singing along to the music Yunho would be in charge of, ordering plate after plate of whatever the chef felt like cooking up, hanging off of San’s broad shoulders and groaning about your boss with Jongho. You just had to make it through this mandatory meeting your entire branch was required to attend.
Slipping into a cab headed uptown, city sights whizzing by the window in the blink of an eye, you’re dropped off in front of a skyscraper, one unlabeled, but drilling into the fluffy summer clouds. Swiping your card, bidding your driver a good day, you stepped onto the concrete and smoothed out your shirt. Just as you were headed to grab the golden door handle that stretched across half the glass, a beefy bicep hooked into your elbow and yanked you backward.
“Ladies should never open the door for themselves,” his melodic voice tickled your skin.
Shooting him a tight smile, a slight roll of your eyes, you met his milk chocolate gaze and said, “Jongho, you are much too kind.”
Pulling the door open for you, he leaned down to mutter, “Just showing you how a gentleman should act towards a lady.” Guiding you inside, he ushered you through the lobby, throwing an inconspicuous wave toward the receptionist you’re pretty sure he’s slept with. “Holding doors, never letting them navigate uncharted territory on their own.”
“Pretty sure I’ve worked here for two and a half years,” you giggled, nodding toward a group of employees chatting by the elevators.
Heels clicking on the tiled floor, the sound echoing up into the tall ceilings carved with marble and painted like the sistine chapel, you took in everyone's appearance, them having done pretty much the same as you, taking themselves a bit more seriously this morning.
“This meeting is uncharted territory,” you mumbled, meeting eyes with a few colleagues plagued with tunnel vision. Jongho sighed, glancing about the room.
“I haven’t seen anyone this paranoid since- Ah! Mr. Song,” he cut himself off as the two of you turned a corner, running into a man in a tuxedo fit for a royal wedding. Bending in half some, a bow of sorts, you panicked and copied him, having no idea how to act in front of the man who traveled across the country to speak with your company.
Mr. Song gave you both a light smile, acknowledging the way Jongho held onto you, the way he escorted you through the building. Giving him a short look, one with a bit of pride, he said, “Good morning. I’ll see you soon.”
Jongho beamed. “Prompt as usual, Mr. Song.”
The older man flickered his gaze toward you, his eyes glazing over your body, ending on your hair. His smile had somewhat faded, and he didn’t give you as much as a sigh before he turned to continue his pursuit over the tile.
Scoffing to yourself, so Jongho could hear you, you shot him a glare as he slipped his arm out of yours. “Did you know he was going to be down here?” He nibbled the insides of his cheeks. “You asshole, you used me.” Situating your purse over your shoulder, you shoved him like a child and bounded ahead of him, straight for the stairs.
“Hey,” he spat, hurrying after you. Long strides brought you far, but he was quicker, catching onto the strap of your purse with the curl of a finger. “Hey, Shug,” he teased, pulling you to a complete stop.
Whirling around, you narrowed your eyes. “You can’t call me that.”
He smiled. “What’s it even mean? I’ve listened to him call you that for a year.”
Shrugging, you jiggled your head around. “Shug, like sugar, I dunno, you know him, it’s vintage,” you drug out in a deep voice to mimic Yunho’s.
Jongho eyed you curiously, how you fidgeted with your bag, how you glanced around like you were sharing a secret. “Okay,” he said softly with the smallest nod, gesturing toward the stairwell, “After you, y/n.”
“And after these are filed, we have to get those into his mailbox, and then Seonghwa has to sign these for you, I’ll get Wooyoung to sign these for me, and then we’re set,” Hongjoong flashed a dazzling smile your way, buckling your knees. He oozed charisma. He smelled of something musky and dark, something you yearned to taste on his smooth skin adorned with silver jewelry hanging off of him.
Taking the folder from his nimble fingers he wore rings on, you smirked. “And then we have to sit through that meeting.”
Hongjoong rolled his eyes and leaned forward on the counter, dipping his shoulder toward you to nudge you. “Did you get a look at Mr. Song? I don't know whether or not to expect anything good from this.”
Inching closer to him, you narrowed your eyes. “You think we’re all fired? Forever?”
Matching your energy, a wickedness flashed in his eyes. “We’re gonna have to work the corners, he’ll rip everything away from us.”
“In that suit, with that attitude, he will,” you said, and he laughed.
He tapped you with a fist, sliding over more papers across the counter before reaching for two coffee cups. “We’re gonna be fine,” he mumbled, shaking his head as his smile softened, “I have an in.” Wiggling his brows, he flashed you a wink.
Gulping, keeping the heat that longed to rise to your cheeks at bay, you tilted your head. “Of course you do, Joong, I expected nothing less.”
He laughed again, filling up the cups in front of him. “It’s gonna be good, I was just messing with you.” Raising his gaze, intense and disarming, he winked again. “Hope you’ve got a dress that drips off of you like those pants, y/n.”
Jaw popping open, blinking entirely flustered, you took the coffee cup he held out for you as he passed by, and didn’t say much else aside from, “I-I do,” and you watched him strut away wearing that goddamn smirk. I do?
You thought to yourself, tearing through your closet in your brain. Dresses you owned, sure, but nothing compared to what you wore today– bland, grey, itchy fabric. A dress? You were going to need a dress? After today's meeting?
“Shit,” you whispered, collecting yourself, bounding for your boss’s office.
For hours you worked beside Seonghwa, Mr. Park, a tall man with broad yet slender shoulders and clean cut black hair pushed backward off of his forehead. In a sleek black suit, his jacket hanging on the back of his door, he wore the top two buttons of his shirt undone, giving you a peek of the chain that hung beneath the collar. Utterly stunning, but too old for you, you adored watching him subdue clients that sat in the chairs in front of his desk, both women and men falling under his spell, dazed by his beauty.
He treated you fairly, like anyone else in the office. Though you were his assistant, and you answered to his commands, you were his equal in a sense, and you felt nothing but comfortable in his presence.
Wooyoung on the other hand, Hongjoong's boss, he’s one to watch out for. Handsy after a glass of whiskey, married for what seems like a billion years, his wandering eyes have caught you in quiet hallways on the way back from the restroom more than once.
“Tell me, y/n,” Seonghwa sang from his chair, sitting back against the leather, tapping his hundred dollar pen on his desk, “What keeps you at this company?”
You puttered about his office, straightening books, organizing filing cabinets. Glancing at him over your shoulder, his gaze locked in on yours, curious, you hummed and brushed your hands against your pants. Itchy fabric.
“Pay is good,” you said, and he let out a loose laugh. Stepping toward his desk, you leaned over the back of one of the two chairs facing him. Eyes drawing over the nameplate in front of him, you smiled. “The people are fun.”
Seonghwa lowered his brows. “Are they?”
“Why do you ask?” Twisting your fingers together, you copied his face.
He sucked in a breath and let out a guttural sigh, surprising you. Standing to his feet, you stood up straight as well. “I’ve been thinking some thoughts.”
“As one does,” you joked, watching him pace along the back part of his office, staring out the floor length windows.
Turning to you, he sat down on the edge of a cabinet and flicked the pen between his fingers. “You don’t think some of them are too egotistical?” Pressing your hands to the front of your hips, your lips parted with a thought you weren’t sure you should say. Seonghwa noticed, dropping his chin. “You can tell me. Your secret is safe with me, they always are.”
Wooyoung popped into your head. The nights spent at company parties watching Hongjoong act like Mr. Big Dick popped in right next to him. Passing by Mr. Song on the first floor, the way he looked at you, looked down at you, popped next to him.
Seonghwa’s lips curled into a smile. “I can see it,” he sang, pointing at you with his pen, “You’re thinking it.”
“I am,” you whispered, scrunching your face up. “Am I going to get fired?”
He chuckled and walked around his desk, pushing off of the cabinet with his foot. “I’d never fire you, you’re much too good at what you do, and you don’t act like these… assholes.”
Your gasp made him snicker. “Mr. Park,” you teased.
“Please,” he shot you a look, “What do I say about that.”
You crossed your arms over your chest and lowered your chin. “Mr. Park, what do I say about that?”
Rolling his eyes, he walked by you to the other side of his office. In a silly voice, he mocked, “It’s not professional.”
“It’s not,” you said, tone stern, “Now sit down and think about what you’ve done.”
Seonghwa whirled himself around with a smile and listened to you. Plopping back into his chair after his circle around his space, he pulled himself under his desk and placed his elbows on it.
“After today's meeting,” he said quietly like the walls could talk, “We need to talk.”
Nerves struck through you. “Do you know what it’s about?”
Perking a brow, he shook his head.
“Hongjoong said he knows,” you said, and Seonghwa rolled his eyes more dramatically than before.
Splaying backward in his chair, he exclaimed, “Of course he does– see, this is what I mean!” Jolting forward with a wave of his hand, he groaned. “What did he tell you?”
Glancing at your feet, your cheeks flushed. Setting aside how your heart stuttered at the thought of his words, you mumbled, “That I’ll need a dress, or something.”
Seonghwa paused. Resting his hands over the wood of his desk, he cocked his head aside. “You still have a crush on him?”
“Seonghwa!” Heat blasted through your cheeks, the hot and cold too much to handle.
Your boss smiled. “Just checking. Is that why you won’t agree with me, that they’re assholes?”
Admitting it made it true, and you didn’t want it to be true.
Under his gaze, Hongjoong’s, you’ve never felt more valuable, like the work you did here mattered, like the punishing of yourself daily while you readied yourself in the morning was worth something. One day you’d be the girl climbing into the back of the car with him. One day he’d place his hand on the small of your back instead, he’d waltz you around hotel lobby’s, through ballrooms, he’d introduce you to men with big names you can’t pronounce…
“Y/n,” Seonghwa cooed.
You blinked. “Sorry, I just…”
He drug his tongue over his teeth, taking a deep breath. “What have I told you before?”
Your fingers curled under the vest you wore. Dropping your eyes to his desk, you muttered, “That good guys don’t work here.”
Seonghwa followed your eyes and dropped his to the desk. Tapping his pen a few times, he clicked his tongue and said, “Why don’t you break until we have to go sit in that room full of testosterone?”
Perking up a bit, you breathed, “Really?”
He huffed a laugh, gesturing to your purse hanging up on the wall. “Please. Go get a drink before we have to subject ourselves to nonsense.”
Taking yourself across his office, you slung your bag over your shoulder and rifled around in it for your cell phone. Giving him a crazy look, you said, “No drinking on the clock, it’s-”
“Unprofessional,” he said at the same time as you, bobbing his head. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
you: And then he said, do i own a dress that drips off of me like the pants i’m wearing
sannie: bro wants you, what the hell
yun: Gross.. objectifying you per usual, i’m not surprised in the slightest
you: not objectifying, thats wooyoung, hongjoong has never put his hands on me
sannie: but you want him toooooooooooooo
you: I do, god, he’s so smiley today too……….
yun: Are we still going to Dante’s or what..
you: Yes and Jongho is coming, he just doesn’t know it yet
sannie: FUCK YES
sannie: tonight we get him to sing whitney houston
you: ANNNND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
sannie: EEEE-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WILL ALLLLWAYS
you: LOOOOVE YOUUUUUU-WHOOOOOOOO
yun: Classic
“Typing a mile a minute,” his voice struck your skin like he doused you like ice cold water, “What’s so funny?” A flick of a lighter. A sharp inhale and long exhale. Cigarette smoke washed over you where you sat on the concrete bench of the corner park across the street from the company.
Dropping your phone face down in your lap, you folded your arms over yourself and shot him a look. “None-ya.”
Hongjoong grinned, sitting on the edge of the bench beside you. “Oh really,” he teased with a wiggle of his brow. “Texting your little boyfriend?”
Now ice cold water did wash over you. Sitting up a little straighter, you shook your head in a convincing way that hid the fact that you were desperate for him to know that you were very much single. “Not my boyfriend,” you moaned, “My friends.” Putting emphasis on the S, you reached for his cigarette.
Giving it up, he eyed your lips as they wrapped around the tip. “Insane.”
Blowing out the smoke, handing it back over to him, you crunched your brows in question.
He rolled the cigarette between his fingers and gave you half of a shrug. “That you’re single, that’s all.”
You wanted to squirm with how his eyes fell over you. You wanted to wriggle around, get a little friction between your legs by the seam of your pants, and then straddle him and get a public indecency charge. It sucked he could read it all over your body.
With a smirk, he took a drag of his smoke and met your eyes. “You got a dress or what?”
“I do,” you said.
You don’t, but you will.
“Good,” he crooned, sucking down another hit of his cigarette. “You ever been to a company gala before?”
Company gala. A Gala. Excitement bubbled within you. Asking you if you had a dress, asking you if you’ve ever attended a company gala…
“We started around the same time, Joong, do you think I ever have?” Teasing him, you snatched the cigarette from him and finished it, jabbing it into the concrete of the bench before flicking it into a nearby garbage can. “You’ve been to plenty, Mr. Mayor, okay?”
He laughed. Apparently you were funny today.
Crossing his legs, bouncing his foot, he shook his head as his smile grew. “I just know how to work them, sweetheart,” he crooned, and your insides did a cartwheel, “You could too if you’d just give it up.”
Your phone vibrated on your lap. Picking it up, you opened the message and smiled at it. “Give it up?” you asked, half paying attention. Typing back to Yunho, you giggled to yourself and pressed send.
Hongjoong, quicker than you, reached for your phone and pulled it from your hands before you had the chance to lock it.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, scooting toward him, scrambling for it, “Give that back.” Fighting you off with his elbow in your gut, he skimmed the message and laughed. This time instead of him laughing with you, you could feel it in your gut, he laughed at you.
“What the hell is a Shoog,” he curled his lip up, reading the text aloud. “Shoog, I don’t know about you but that song is stuck in my head, we can get Jongho to sing that one later instead, that’d be really funny.”
“It’s Shug,” you huffed, pushing at him, trying to reach for the cell he gripped, “It means sugar.”
Leaning into you, almost onto your chest entirely, his smile rested in a way you’ve never seen. Devious, but a little enticing. “Sounds like a boyfriend to me.”
“He’s not,” you almost shouted, catching your phone as he tossed it into your lap. Hongjoong used his body weight to rock onto his feet, brushing off his thighs from the concrete. “You have a problem if he is?”
Pursing his lips, cinching his brow, he scoffed. “The fuck you take me for, sweetheart? I don’t care who’s in your pants and who’s not.” Pointing at your phone, he jerked his head. “Loverboy has a nicer suit than me?”
Exclaiming aloud, shock evident on your face, you pressed your fingers between your brows. “What is going on?” Dropping your hands, you shot him a glare, one he returned with a sultry smirk. “Joong, what are you getting at here?”
He straightened his suit jacket, cocking his chin. “Nothing,” he said simply, nodding toward the building across the street. “I’ll see you inside. Meetings in ten.”
Without a response from you he left, strutting across the street and over the steps into the lobby. Sighing roughly, letting the sound regulate your nervous system from whatever that was, you picked up your phone.
yun: Shug I don’t know about you but that song is STUCK in my head.. We can get Jongho to sing that one later instead.. That’d be really funny..
A smile graced your lips.
you: I'd love that, I have been singing it all day… About to go into the meeting… wish me luck
yun: The store is dead.. You should skip it and come hang out with me..
yun: Kidding, good luck corporate candy, don’t let them eat you..
Men flooded the room. Whenever the company filed into the conference like this, bodies upon bodies, the realization that with more than one company across the country that there were more men just like this to crowd rooms…
The women were far and few between, in tight black dresses and high heels, with their hair on their heads like crowns. Make up done to the nines, their jewelry glittering underneath the harsh overhead lighting, they clung to their supervisors, the men they assisted, some of them arm in arm, waltzing through the conference room doors with their sharp jaws and pointed noses turned up.
You waddled beside Seonghwa, like a little duck, following the man that stood six foot tall around the room, smiling politely as he shook hands and introduced you to men who spared you a glance for no more than three seconds. After each round Seonghwa leaned down to murmur in your ear, “Assholes.”
He says your name properly, he doesn’t introduce you as his assistant, he introduces you as his colleague, his second, his right hand, a partner in crime of sorts, though most of the men didn’t find that one too funny. But, it made you laugh. And, to Seonghwa, that’s what he cared about.
He prefaced this meeting letting you know that he knows how it feels to be a little fish in a corporate ocean, let alone be a woman in a predominantly male field, to which he told you he doesn’t know, but he takes the time to understand. He had your back, he always has and he always will, which is why he favored your opinion on where to sit.
There were open seats beside higher ups visiting for the day, the ones that weren’t onstage. Some were beside the charismatic mouths that most tried to steal the attention of, beside Wooyoung and Hongjoong who laughed louder than all the mouths you could try to count.
Jongho sat toward the back, his chin tipped down, focused on his phone. On his own, his keeper elsewhere, he pressed his phone to his ear and babbled a mile a minute, letting his eyes scan the crowd. Meeting yours, he lit up, and his hand shot in the air. Giving him a meek wave, keeping your cool in front of your office's CEO that Seonghwa discussed matters with, you waited for him to finish, and then just as Mister Boss turned his back, you pointed at Jongho.
“Seats,” you offered.
Seonghwa gave you his soft smile, lifting his eyes to Jongho flinging his arm about. A gentle laugh pushed through his lips. “Sure.”
He would’ve sprawled across the chairs next to him if you didn’t hightail it over there. Weaving through men in suits, some side eyeing you but shaking Seonghwa’s hand, your smile grew as you got closer to Jongho.
“No, I gotta go,” he said into his phone, standing up to throw an arm around your back like the two of you didn’t bump into one another that morning, “I gotta go! San, she’s here, let me go.”
Gasping, you tore his phone out of his hand and pressed it to your ear. “Saaannie,” you sang, heart warming at the giggle that answered you, “Why are you not wooorking?”
Seonghwa shook Jongho's hand and slipped behind you into the seats, leaving one open in the middle for you. He greeted the man on the other side of him and fell into conversation.
San’s warm voice melted through the phone, “I’m on my way to go see Yuuunho.”
“Lucky, we just got into our meeting,” you huffed, plopping down next to Jongho who slung an arm around the back of your chair. “It’s full of men. Old men.” Seonghwa whipped his head of black hair around to give you a look. “Sorry,” you smiled, and laughed as his lip curled.
“Seonghwa’s there?” San sighed, “He’s so hot- Love your jacket! …No, you! …No, you!”
Crossing your legs, you sat backward against the seat cushion and Jongho’s arm. Sharing a glance with him, you muttered, “He’s making friends again.”
Jongho rolled his eyes, flicking his bangs from his forehead. “When is he not?”
You moved the phone between your ears, Jongho leaning in to have a listen. “It’s a store on Broadway… Broadway and 12th… By Ribalta… The Italian place! You’ve never been? …You have to go!”
“San,” Jongho said.
The men took their place onstage, squabbling with one another about who gets to sit where and who will speak first. Mr. Song, Mingi, the man who looked down on you this morning, with his chin held high he waltzed about the stage, like a celebrity, waving to those who were worthy.
“It’s really good, I swear… Ugh, I know, it’s like sometimes they try too hard to be authentic, trust me, babe, this one is worth it…”
“San,” you said.
Seonghwa and the man beside him focused forward as the room began to fall quiet.
“...It’s right next to it… The store… Yeah, but they’re limited to what they carry, so they might not have it in season right now–”
You and Jongho both sneered, “San!”
“What!”
“We have to go,” you breathed, wanting to laugh, but the pressure of the men above you literally and physically ate you alive. Putting the phone back in Jongho’s possession, you sucked in a breath and settled in your seat.
Jongho whispered into his phone, “Yes, yes, I’ll see you later… Dante’s? No, she didn’t tell me, but I’ll be there… Okay, okay… I will not sleepover… I don’t care what happened last time, I’m not– Goodbye!”
Mingi tapped on the mic connected to the podium, stepping up with a grin and thunderous applause. Your hands stayed folded on your lap. As did Jongho’s. As did Seonghwa’s.
You glanced at Jongho with a perked brow. “Last time?”
He sighed, shaking his head. “Let it go.”
“You owe me for this morning,” you narrowed your eyes, and he copied you. “No, no, tell me, Mr. Misogyny.”
“Not Mr. Misogyny, fine,” he groaned, shifting in his seat to face you a bit more. The applause died down as he leaned into you, whispering, “The last time we went to Dante’s and I got shit faced, San was supposed to take me home.”
Furrowing your brow, not listening to Mingi’s opening greeting, you whispered, “Did he not take you home?”
Jongho’s eyes widened. “Oh, he took me home. And he stayed.”
Gasping internally, your smile spreading over your cheeks, you gripped his knee, digging your nails into his slacks. “Gay.”
He shot you a glare. “Bi.”
Rolling your eyes, you whispered, “San is gay, you are a typical bisexual New Yorker, you’re not special, we’re all bi here.”
He took a hand to his chest, clutching nonexistent pearls. “Ouch?”
Glancing to his hand that screamed gay, you popped your brows. “Mr. Misogyny.”
He threw his other hand toward you, whacking your arm. “Shut up!”
“Shut up, you shut-”
“Children,” Seonghwa scolded with a smile, breathing through a laugh at how you and Jongho froze to look at him, arms tangled, faces scrunched up.
Pulling yourselves into your own seats like toddlers, you set your focus forward and pursed your lips. Mr. Song went on and on about the success of his company, how proud he is of how his success has spread nationwide, that he’s grateful to have such strong men like himself working beneath him, for him. You could hear how Seonghwa’s eyes rolled. You couldn’t wait to tell Yunho all of this.
Scanning the room, the lot of bald men and those with receding hairlines eating up every word though it all came out extremely backhanded, your eyes land on Hongjoong, snickering with Wooyoung, the two acting as though Mingi spoke directly to them.
Hongjoong sat at the end of the row, on the section opposite of yours. His legs were crossed, his slacks rising above his ankle to flash his designer socks. He wore no suit jacket, just his button down, a statement to the men around him, that he didn’t need to act or present himself like they did, that he was better than them. He sat here with ease, a relaxed posture, both him and Wooyoung simply waiting for the words to be said, and once they were, he sat forward with a gust of excitement, celebrating with the rest of them. But, then he turned over his shoulder, and his eyes landed on you like he’d kept tabs on where you were sitting.
Mingi announced, “That’s why we’ll be throwing a Harmony Foundation Gala, for all of our branches, right here in Manhattan. You’re all invited. Open bars, the finest catering, exquisite music, hours upon hours of not working,” he added coyly, and the room lost their minds, “And you will all receive a plus one.”
Seonghwa muttered to the man beside him, not surprised in the slightest that something of the sort would occur. Neither of them seemed to be excited, unlike the rest of the men who started a riot, shouting across the room to one another, elbowing each other in the guts with grins on their faces.
Jongho sighed heavily. “Well, this should be fun.”
“It should,” you mumbled, staring back at Hongjoong who shot you a wink. “This is why I need a dress.”
“Huh?” he asked, resting an elbow on your shoulder, following your eyeline to Hongjoong who turned away once he’d been caught. Jongho groaned, “Oh no.”
“He told me I need a dress,” you almost whispered. “I think he’s gonna ask me to the gala.”
Jongho sucked in a breath, one he didn’t seem to release. Glancing between you and the back of Hongjong's head, he stuttered, “Uh, really? How do you know? We just found out.”
“He knew about it,” you shook your head, “He fucking knew about it.”
Seonghwa tapped you with the back of his hand. “You were right.”
“I was,” you whispered. “He was.” Your belly bubbled with excitement, your heart beating three times faster than normal. You needed a dress, a good one, a gorgeous one. You had to schedule a hair appointment, a nail appointment, a facial, or something, whatever else it is that these other girls did before these kinds of parties, a wax, a bikini wax, Brazilian wax! And your eyebrows, you needed those done too, and maybe your face, just in case, you haven’t checked out those details in a while–
“New shoes,” you uttered out loud, and Jongho laughed.
Snapping your neck to look at him, he nearly leapt backward. “Christ,” he gasped, his hand reaching up for those non-gay pearls once again, “What just happened?”
You stood up abruptly, grasping the bottom of your vest. “I have so much to do.”
Seonghwa hooked a finger in the back of your vest by the collar of your shirt and pulled you back down. “He’s not done, you can buy your dress later.”
“And then he turned around,” you shouted over the music, hands splaying across the wooden table littered with empty drinks. San leaned forward, his broad chest bumping the table, rattling the glasses. Jongho sat beside him sucking on a straw making an awful sound. Yunho sat back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest, his face upturned. “And he looked at me.”
San threw himself backward with a gasp, his biceps rippling under the short sleeves of the tight black t-shirt. “No he did not,” he squawked, slapping a hand to Jongho’s shoulder, making the straw pop out of his mouth and his eyebrows skyrocket.
“He did,” he teased, rolling his eyes, setting the cup down on the table with a clang. Putting his elbows on the wood, he put his chin in his hands and eyed Yunho. “What do you make of all this?”
Kicking his foot around, the one crossed over his knee, he shrugged. “I think he’s a dick.” He held a finger up toward you just as a whine almost slipped out of you. Giving you a look from behind grey thin rimmed glasses, he said, “You deserve better, I don’t know why you’re chasing him.”
San, rubbing the back of his neck, slinging an arm around Jongho’s chair, muttered, “Mr. Big Dick…”
Yunho groaned, “Oh, great.” Jongho scoffed, nudging San as Yunho sat forward for his empty cup and knocked back the little bit at the bottom, and a few ice chips. Pushing them around with his tongue, he shook his head and leaned into you. “You can do better, Shug.”
Jongho kicked your leg under the table.
“Ugh,” groaning aloud, you shot a hand toward San, “You get it, don’t you?”
He picked the cherry out of his glass and popped it between his teeth. “I do, trust me, he’s packin’, but…” His voice trailed off, his gaze dragging over to Yunho.
Looking at him, then looking back at San, you swatted two hands at Yunho and groaned again. “But, what!”
“Nothing,” he shouted, twisting his lips into a smile. “We need another round, Jongho’s not drunk enough.” Yunho threw a hand in the air to call over the waitress who has served you more than once.
Jongho tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. “Why me? Why me.”
San slung himself around the boy in a hoodie much too heavy for the summer heat. “Because, pretty boy, we like to hear you sing.”
“I can’t sing.” About half the bar stopped to glare at him, even the waitress who took Yunho’s order.
Grabbing his cheeks, San squished them and brought his lips dangerously close. “So humble, so cute.”
“Enough,” Jongho shrugged him off, poking a finger into his bicep to push him away with a hysterical glare.
San’s eyes dropped to the hoodie. “That’s coming off in an hour.”
Sliding your hand across the table, you raised a pinky for him to hook with his. “I’ll take that bet.”
Exchanging wicked grins, San shook your hand around. “Loser has to let the winner take him home.” Jongho sighed, then smiled up at the waitress who clicked her pen.
“Bet,” you whispered with a scrunch of your nose.
“Thanks so much,” Yunho smized, the girl waltzing away with a pep in her step. Facing the table, he pushed his hair back off of his forehead and released a breath. “You guys are nuts.” Pouting, you propped an elbow on his bare shoulder exposed by the cut off tee he wore. He set his jaw in place, narrowed his eyes, and took his time looking at you, before he flickered his eyes over to San, then Jongho. “I give it a half hour.”
San, cracking a laugh, grabbed onto Jongho once again and shook him around, the two getting into a minor fistfight as San tried to take the hoodie off of him now.
Giggling, letting your bodyweight tip more onto Yunho, you caught his eye and gave him a small smile. Nodding toward where the waitress plugged in your order, you mumbled, “She was cute.”
He didn’t have to look at who you were talking about to know. Locked in on you, he smirked. “She’s taken.”
“How do you know that? You asked her already, didn’t you?”
He let out a laugh, shaking his head. Breaking his gaze from yours, he nodded toward the corner of the bar where a scrawny boy with blonde hair to his shoulders sat, one too pretty to even be a boy, so maybe he wasn’t. Dressed in a large white t-shirt and jeans way too big for his hips, he stared out the window with wide brown eyes as he guzzled his drink. Oblivious, almost, until the waitress popped in front of him and his cheeks broke out with the widest smile and most perfect teeth.
“Cute,” you whispered, and Yunho looked at you. You watched as the boy took the girl's hands and pulled her closer, his eyes full of galaxies as he listened to her speak. He asked her a question and she blushed, glancing over her shoulder with a laugh as if to see if anyone else had heard him. “Really cute. They look young.”
Yunho considered it, tilting his head. “Not much younger than us.”
You met his eyes. “You aren’t even looking at them.”
“I don’t have to,” he said quietly. Not even the way Jongho laughed at San could break his gaze. “Do you really like Hongjoong?” He wore a singular necklace today, it hung over the old band shirt he wore, shaped like a star, or some sort of sun. Reaching for it, you pulled your lips to the side and messed with the points hanging on the chain.
“I think I do,” you said.
“You think you do?”
Looking at him, you said, “I do.”
He flashed you a lazy smile. “You sure?” Tossing his necklace at his chest, ignoring how it bounced off, you shoved away from him with a huff. He twisted in his chair, following you, leaning into you instead. “No, no, I’m just asking. Are you sure?” One of his elbows rested on the back of his chair, the other on the edge of the table. He caged you in, his size incredible.
Folding your arms around yourself, now wearing a cropped tank and ripped jeans, you blinked up at him and shrugged. “I think so.”
“Well,” he breathed through a laugh, “As long as you think so.”
“Stop,” you whined, nudging him.
“No, I get it,” he nodded, tipping his chin up, “Mr. Big Dick, I’d like him too, he’s a hot shot.”
“You’re dumb,” you mumbled, facing the table, turning a shoulder toward him. He took that as an invitation to lean in and prop his elbow on it. “Get off’a me-”
“Shug,” he said just above a whisper, stopping you from pushing him away. He had your arm in his grip, gentle, but strong. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, you’ve told us so much about him, Jongho doesn’t like him, he doesn’t seem like a good guy, that’s all.”
“What do you know?” Shrugging again, he let you go, but then grabbed your ankle with his feet and trapped it. Glaring at him, he smiled back.
“I know you,” he said, “And I know that you’d rather share a cigarette with a stranger and then buy a beer for a bum on the street, clink your glasses together and talk about the ways of the world, rather than become a CEO’s wife.” Averting your gaze to his chest, his necklace, you listened to him. “You think he’d wanna come here and see how long it takes for Jongho to strip?”
“Hey,” Jongho whined, giving you both a mere glance before San took his attention back.
“You think he’d wanna sit here and try every drink on the menu? Will he tip our waitress too much ‘cause he knows what it's like to struggle? Will he think it's funny that you have to jump once on the floorboard by the lightswitch in your kitchen otherwise the light won’t turn on?”
Blinking up at him, you muttered, “Why the lesson?”
He shrugged, glancing around the bar before he said, “I just don’t want you to forget who you are. I’ve known you for six years, Shug. This crush is growing, I don’t want you to lose yourself in the process. If you wanna sleep with him, sleep with him,” you both laughed, “Just don’t get attached ‘cause he doesn’t seem like the guy to hold onto a girl.”
You twisted around to face him again, pulling your leg free from his hold, though now your knees were nestled between his. Closing them in, capturing you, he flashed you a smile.
Perking a brow, you glanced behind him, though you could barely see over his shoulders. “And you should sleep with the waitress.”
Yunho turned around briefly, the sight of the waitress and the blonde boy making eyes at each other making him hum his disapproval. “Think that little guy does just fine,” he said, turning back toward you.
Comfortably letting life occur around you, you and Yunho shared a smile, one that faded as your eyes danced over the other's face. Six years you’ve shared, one of the first friends you made after your move to Manhattan, the cool guy in the record store you stumbled into looking for new wall decor.
San was a bonus, his roommate, a packaged deal those two. You guys clicked in an instant, sharing interests, music taste, a love for the city and all that it offered. By your third visit into the store he was inviting you out for drinks that weekend. Surprised when you asked San to join, he stuttered a few times, but agreed, mumbling something about you all getting to know one another better. Six years and a Jongho later, here you were.
Pulling your eyes off of him, you notice that the next round of drinks had been dropped off and that San and Jongho were halfway done theirs, staring at you two. Sucking in a breath, you swiveled around in your chair, and Yunho did the same, ignoring how the boys ping ponged their stare between either of you.
“What?” you snapped, reaching for your drink. Yunho pinched his brow and sipped his beer. San seemed to say something to him telepathically, but everyone refused to acknowledge it.
“Anyways,” Yunho cleared his throat, cocking his chin at Jongho and his hoodie, “Off, Choi.”
With one arm wrapped around your shoulders, Yunho kicked his feet in front of him with each step, laughing while he sang aloud and you kicked your feet with him. Smiles wide, drunken laughter bouncing off of the hot concrete into the night sky, San swaggered a few steps in front of you with Jongho under his arm.
Tossing a hand in the air, swaying into your side, throwing you off balance, Yunho sang, “I’ll stop the world-”
“And melt with you!” Jongho slurred, trying to escape San’s hold, but if he did he’d stumble over his own feet and almost fall on his face like he did five minutes ago.
“You’ve seen the difference and it’s getting better all the time,” San’s voice was muffled, Jongho grabbed him as soon as his mouth opened and tried to kiss him.
Yunho, throwing his head back with a laugh that echoed down Bleeker Street, he squeezed you into him and sang, “There’s nothing you and I won’t do!” Hitting you with a grin, he groaned. “It’s so good, it’s so good.”
Bumping his hip with yours as the four of you came to a stop at the corner of 6th Avenue, your tipsy smile made him laugh. “This’ll be your song for the entire next week.”
Dipping down, his nose almost touched yours. “Until-”
“Something makes me feel better than this,” you said at the same time as him, widening your eyes.
Leaning into his hold, letting him balance you, you released a ragged sigh. “I needed this,” you yawned, snaking an arm around his waist for stability. Your several drinks had caught up to you, you needed your sweatpants and your bed. “I needed you.”
He smiled, meeting your gaze, his eyes heavy from the liquor, deeper than ever. “You did?”
Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, your fingers brushing against his bare side, you smiled something lazy and giggled. Then, you giggled again as Jongho almost tripped up the curb across the street. “I did,” you said with a sure nod, following close behind the boys heading up Bleeker.
Yunho snapped his head up and pressed his lips together, trying to hide his smile.
Nudging him, you asked, “What?”
He shook his head, popping out his bottom lip. “Nothing.”
Your laugh projected down the street, “What!?”
“Nothing!”
Digging a finger up into his armpit he clamped down with a cackle, you dug your finger into his sides, in the cut outs of his shirt, bellowing with cries of success as he wriggled around and bent in half. “Tell me! Tell me!” San and Jongho were several steps ahead now, San raking his fingers through Jongho’s hair where his head sat on his shoulder.
Yunho lifted a knee, his whines and rampant giggles a white flag, and he tried to push you off of him. Clamping yourself to his front, your chests pressed together, both hands in the cut outs of his shirt, you had him. His weakness.
“C’mon,” you teased, grabbing him, messing with him, tickling him, all too funny really. “Tell me, tell me, tell me–”
He snapped straight up and grabbed onto your shoulders, pulling you into him as his face wiped clean. “Christ,” he muttered, spinning to the side. His arms slid around your back, holding you tight. Fear shooting through you, you grabbed onto his biceps and whipped your head around, searching for the source of his worry. Behind you, a door to a restaurant had swung open, one that would’ve hit you if Yunho didn’t have several inches on you and hadn’t seen the people coming.
“Excuse us,” a familiar voice slurred. Jung Wooyoung.
Which meant there was the possibility that–
“Hey, sweetheart.” Hongjoong.
Shit. Shit.
Heart lodging in your throat, you shoved Yunho away and brushed your hands over your front. In a cropped tee and ripped jeans you couldn’t believe you were running into him right now, while you looked like this, after several drinks. Crooked hair on your head, a necklace that had spun around the wrong way, the makeup you had put on after work that was now smeared, your lipstick worn in the middle. Yunho stumbled back a step, you didn’t have much power to move him, but your shove threw him off. Clamping his hands to his stomach, he tangled his brows and glared at you.
“Oh,” Hongjoong crooned, looking at Yunho before he smirked at you, “Sorry, I mean, Shug.” He wore what he had on in the office today, black slacks and his white button down that now had more buttons undone. Wherever his suit jacket had gone, you didn’t want to know. The bare skin of his chest made your mouth water.
A woman stepped out of the restaurant in tall heels and a short dress, complaining about the service, or the hostess, or the bathrooms, you couldn’t make much out over the heat of Hongjoong's stare. She tucked herself into Wooyoung's arm that he held out for her, a cigarette now hanging from his lips, one she reached around in his front pocket for a lighter to light it for him. She was handsy, grabbing something else with a smile before she fished the lighter out. Looking up at them, Wooyoung perked a brow, staring at you, catching you watching them.
“What’d you call her?” Yunho asked Hongjoong, cocking his head aside.
That wicked fucking smile. “Shug,” fell from his lips as smooth as the liquor you’re certain they serve inside this five star joint, “That a problem?”
Yunho narrowed his eyes. “What’s your problem?”
By the time you ripped your eyes off of Wooyoung and his girl you had tuned back into what you stood in the middle of.
“My problem?” Hongjoong laughed, “I don’t have a problem, Stilts.”
Yunho scoffed, making the face he made before his anger overcame him. It never usually happened this fast. This was weird.
Yunho took a step toward him, toward you. “Walk away, Shrimp.”
Holding up a hand, pressing it to his chest, you screwed your brows up and gave them both a look. “Stilts, Shrimp… Grow up, what fucking year is it?”
Hongjoong, surprised, snickered, “What a mouth, Shug!”
“Shut up,” Yunho lunged, but you held him back.
“C’mon,” Hongjoong sized, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you. “You like that old-timey shit don’t you? Play along, Doll, we could have some fun, go to the hop and shake a leg before we have a shag–”
Yunho moved you aside in a blink, lunging for Hongjoong, pushing at his chest with both hands, sending him backward a few steps. “Walk away.”
“Watch yourself,” Wooyoung said, voice steady. He had his phone in his hand already dialed to 911. All he had to do was push the button.
Shoving yourself through the middle of the boys, you swatted at his wrist. “Okay, too far.”
He winked at you, puffing on his cigarette. “He taking you home?” he asked, nodding at Yunho.
Giving his girl a look, she didn’t seem to care. Muttering, “Oh my god,” you turned around and grabbed onto Yunho’s arm, tugging him away from Hongjoong. “Let it go, let’s just leave.” Glancing over your shoulder, you rolled your eyes at Hongjoong who still challenged Yunho. “Leave.”
His eyes glazed over to you, up and down your body, his tongue dragging over the flash of his white teeth. “Not your boyfriend,” he nodded, his eyes fluttering closed for all of two seconds, “Right. See you on Monday, y/n.” The three skipped across the street in the opposite direction. Hongjoong didn’t give you another look, but Wooyoung did, his smirk evident.
Shivering in the summer heat, his eyes making your skin crawl, you wrapped your arms around yourself and started down the sidewalk, following Jongho and San who were long gone.
“Hey,” Yunho breathed, hurrying after you, your pace quick. He reached for your shoulder, but you shrugged him off. “Hey,” he said, louder, “You mad at me?”
Bounding over a cross street, flicking your head in both directions, you didn’t bother to look at him. “No,” you spat, then shook your head, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
You sped up, your feet powered by your stomach that turned in cartwheels, and not the good kind. “I don’t know, Yunho.”
He grabbed onto your shoulder again, and this time you reached a hand up to pull him off, spinning on your heels to face him. Distraught, his face screwed up, he shook his head and tossed his hands out at his sides. “What’d I do?”
You let out one laugh. “Are you kidding me?” Barely moving, all he did was shake his head about. “Oh my god,” you groaned, twisting around to continue your race home.
“No,” he huffed, grabbing onto you to spin you back around, “What’d I do?”
For the last time, you swatted him away. “You really had to put your hands on him?” Yunho rolled his eyes and threw his head back. “I get you don’t like him, but we just talked about this, I do.”
“Even after what he said,” Yunho grumbled, eyeing the buildings on the street behind you, “Sure, you still like him.”
“He was kidding,” you said matter-of-factly, holding up a hand.
“Sure he was,” he said, raising both of his brows, “His boss was too, right? Kidding just like he was at the holiday party this past Christmas when he grabbed your ass?”
“He was drunk, he was–”
Yunho threw his hands up, his voice echoing down the street, “You’re making shit excuses for them, Shug!”
“It’s not excuses, it’s–”
“It’s what,” he slouched, tucking his hands behind his back, knitting his brows together over his eyes, “Tell me what it is. These guys taking advantage of you, for what? You tell Mr. Park they do all this? Speak to you like this? Put their hands on you? What would he say? What would he do?” He’d have them all fired. Or, he’d try.
He even asked you earlier today, if you thought they were all assholes, if you had an issue with them, as if he knew everything already and had been waiting for you to admit it. Even if he tried to help you, the higher ups wouldn’t do a thing. Shrinking into yourself, pulling fistfuls of denim into your hands, you stared at the concrete under your boots.
Gorgeous he was. Hongjoong. Even when filthy words came out of his mouth, you wanted nothing more than for him to follow through. Everything he had given you all day, the closest you’ve come to him giving you the attention you’ve always wanted from him, he seemed to confirm it all in the filthy words he just said to you. Go to the hop and shake a leg before you have a shag. Cringe worthy, entirely. You wanted to laugh and groan and never hear them again, but what if they were true?
The company gala announced at the meeting was a month away. All of his cohort nagging of get a dress, do you have a dress, and his hints of asking you if you’ve ever been to a gala, or if you had a boyfriend. Even the way he looked at you after the announcement…
He was going to ask you. There was no way in hell that he was not asking you. But with how Yunho just acted like he had to protect you from him, it could’ve screwed everything up.
Lifting your chin, meeting his gaze, you gulped and shook your head. “Let it go,” you mumbled, and his posture admitted defeat. Though it hurt your heart, you said, “I like him, and I want to go to this gala with him. I know, I see it, I hear it, but I just… Maybe I need actual rejection to get over him, I don’t know, but I… I like him. Let me do this.”
Yunho clenched his jaw. Averting his eyes, he shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” you whispered. Starting down the street, Yunho kept in time with your steps. After a minute or two of quiet, you looked up at him and asked, “You staying over?”
He didn’t smile, but he looked as if he wanted to. “Course.”
Rejection came sooner than expected. Standing at the coffee counter with two cups in your hands, at a bright nine thirty seven in the morning, you watched Hongjoong push a blonde against the wall down a hallway. Curling a finger beneath her chin, tipping her up to look down at her, his lips curled, and they spoke slowly, and she ate it up. Her slow blinks, her pouty lips parting, the lusty nods of her head.
He kissed her. Their hands slipped lower, exploring parts of them they’ve already seemed to touch, like their kiss. One practiced, one rehearsed, for a long time. An extended period of time. The way her hands roamed his back, over the curve of his ass, his hips, his thighs, up the front of his belly and down to his– Nah.
Placing both cups down, you straightened the crisp blouse you had pulled on this morning, one that you thought emphasized your curves like the dress on that blonde, and darted back into Seonghwa’s office, pressing your back to the door after slamming it shut. It hurt. It shouldn’t hurt, you’ve watched him do this with several other girls before, yet your heart had been pierced with something sharp.
Seonghwa sat at his desk, twirling his pen between his fingers. With one leg crossed, he sat backward on the leather, eyeing you curiously. “You do not look happy,” he said. Throat tightening, you shook your head. He uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “You feel okay? I can get through today alone if you need to go home.” You shook your head again, and he laughed to himself. “What happened out there that got you glued to our door?”
“Nothing,” you squeaked.
Unconvinced, he smiled. “One of these days you’re going to tell me the truth,” he said, “Or, I’m hiring you a body guard.”
“No,” you sighed, pushing off the door, stepping closer to his desk. “That hasn’t happened since–” Cutting yourself off, his brows skyrocketed.
“Continue,” he gasped, “Since?”
Raising a finger, you calculated your words, and sighed once more. “I’ll tell you later.”
Seonghwa studied you, his soft eyes sharp, analyzing you from tone to body language. “I’ll go get our coffee,” he said, knowing you didn’t want to go back out there, “Then we can discuss. Get comfy.”
“Wait,” you almost shouted as he grasped the armrests of his chair to stand up, “I’ll go. I’m sorry.”
Settling back down, he tilted his head. “Apology not needed,” he said gently, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you breathed, shaking your head. “Just… needed a breather.”
Seonghwa asked, “From?”
Four knocks sounded on the door. Sharing a look with your boss, he gave a tentative, “Come in,” and when the door swung open, your heart sank to your knees.
Holding onto two coffee cups, the cups you left behind, Hongjoong, with a grin across his face, stepped inside and held them up. “You left these behind,” he said, breezing past you to pop them on Seonghwa’s desk.
“Thanks,” Seonghwa said through his teeth.
Hongjoong held a hand toward him. “Don’t mention it, please,” he chortled, adjusting the collar of his shirt. There was lipstick on it. Facing you, he cocked his chin up. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You good?”
Thinning your lips, unable to look at him for longer than a second, you hummed, “Mhm.”
“Think she might be coming down with something,” he pouted, glancing at Seonghwa, “She was out partying with her boys all weekend.”
Scoffing aloud, jaw falling open, you shot him a glare, one he returned with a curve of his lips. Seonghwa sighed, reaching for his cup of coffee, not entertaining him.
On his way to the door, Hongjoong leaned into you. “Might want to find a date to that gala soon, Shug,” he sneered. “There’s not many left.”
“There’s not many left.”
San threw himself forward into the table, glasses rattling. “No.”
Copying him, eyes widening, you shouted, “Yes!”
“Asshole,” Jongho stated, hands palms up on the table.
Yunho, pressed to the back of his chair beside you, drug his fingers over his face, rubbing his eyes before he uttered a quiet, “Yeah.”
Knocking back the rest of your drink, slamming it to the wood, you threw a hand over the glasses graveyard before you and your friends and shook your head violently. “He’s… a jerk! That’s it. He sucks!” San, Jongho, and Yunho, they shared a glance before they turned toward you slowly. Squeezing your eyes shut, tightening your hand into a fist, you sighed heavily. “I mean it.”
Jongho asked, “Do you?”
“No,” you breathed, slumping over. Opening your eyes, you drug your hands over your cheeks. “I like him. Damn!” You pounded your fist on the table, glasses rattling again. Yunho rolled his eyes. “But, he sucks.”
“We’ve been trying to–”
“Yunho,” you snapped, pointing your eyes toward him, “I know.”
He screwed up his face and held open his arms in a shrug, his oversized t-shirt dripping off of him like water. “I’m just saying. It’s been all this time, and he’s done this to you so many times.”
Sucking in a breath, one big and dramatic, you leaned back in your chair and smoothed your hands over your thighs to grip your knees. “He has,” you mumbled, recounting the numerous times Hongjoong has flaunted a woman in front of you. “I just… I thought this time… He meant it.”
San downed the rest of his drink and popped his brows. “The bar is low.”
Jongho curled his lip. “The bar is in hell.”
Yunho stared at the table. “Satan is using the bar to hang his laundry.”
Groaning aloud, tipping your chin back, you eased the ache between your lungs with another deep breath.
He meant it. He had to have meant it. You were different from any of the other women he entertained, you were you. Insanely more fun, and interesting, and far from plastic, far from a giggle at every joke kind of girl just because he has money. He had to have meant it, all these insinuations toward the gala, toward taking you, and making sure you were prepared, and had a dress, and a date. You had him. Until…
Snapping your head forward, you twisted in your chair, toward Yunho, who shot you the world's weirdest look. Jongho furrowed his brows and swatted at San’s hand that tried to swipe his half full beer, San who also stared at the two of you, curious. Yunho stared at you, into your eyes, focused, analyzing. An attempt to read your mind, you think.
And then it clicked.
He erupted, hands flying, voice raising. “Oh no,” he shouted, flinging himself around in his chair to face you, “No, no, no! No! I did not do this! This did not happen ‘cause of what I did, Shug, don’t you dare.”
San and Jongho both shouted, “What did you do?”
Gritting your teeth, you whined, then said, “He touched him.”
San gasped. Jongho, slightly alarmed, slightly disgusted, muttered a quiet, “Whaaa–”
Yunho glared at him. “Not like that.”
“Then how?” San asked, successfully grabbing Jongho’s beer, guzzling it down.
Placing your hands flat on the table, you sat up straight and parted your lips, though Yunho begged you not to. “Friday night, when we all left, you two made it back to your apartment first, you left us behind, and we just so happened to run into Hongjoong.”
“And Wooyoung, and his wife,” Yunho added, his tone flat and unamused.
“Not important,” you brushed off.
Yunho’s eyes shot open wide. “Yes important, he would’ve abducted you if I wasn’t there.”
“Hongjoong or Wooyoung?” Jongho asked.
Yunho said, “Wooyoung.”
San elbowed Jongho. “She wants Hongjoong to abduct her.”
“I do not want him to abduct me,” you spat. “Yunho pushed him.”
The boys gasped, both turning to Yunho at once. San smiled, Jongho tilted his head, disappointed.
Yunho held up both hands, feigning innocence. Fluttering his eyes shut, his long lashes splaying over his cheekbones, he said calmly, “He said some fucked up shit, okay? He got in my face, I was drunk, I couldn’t not do it. Mr. Big Dick, I don’t care who you are, you’re in my face, you’re talking shit to my girl, I’m gonna do something.”
Jongho’s jaw popped open. San pulled his lips together before hiding behind his beer, sipping it as his eyes drew over to you.
Cocking your head to the side, you narrowed your eyes. Yunho dropped his hands and looked at you, the face of normal, of patience. Glancing at the table, at the empty glasses in front of him, counting one, two, three, four… Okay.
“You’re drunk,” you said, facing the table and San and Jongho’s disappointment. “He was making jokes, Hongjoong, and he just so happened to get in our way, and between us, and–”
“And I wasn’t having it,” Yunho swung a hand about, “He acted like he had some major claim over you or something, I wasn’t gonna take that.”
Squinting at him, you asked, “And, what? You have ownership over me?”
He snipped, “What?” Facing you, he crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Sounds like it,” you huffed, giving a look to San. “You heard my whole thing about him that night, how it was possible he wanted to go to the gala with me, and I told you, I like him, and when we run into him, you ruin it.”
“He ruined it himself,” Yunho argued, his hands flying, “If he didn’t get jealous and try to piss on you to claim his territory, I would’ve never snapped. You’re not an object to be won, that’s how they look at women, that’s not you.”
Opening your mouth to fight back, Jongho sat forward and slung a hand between you. “Hang on,” he said quickly, taking his time to look at each of you.
Silence fell, though the bar moved around you, tables getting their orders, the blonde boy and the waitress whispering on barstools, faint music pumping in the background. Jongho exchanged something with San, a look that spoke to only them, and in seconds San broke out into a toothy grin.
Jongho said to you, “Hongjoong said something fucked up to you.” The three of them waited, anticipation on their tongues.
Shrugging, you muttered, “I mean, yeah, I guess it was fucked up.”
San continued before Yunho could air his grievances, “And when Yunho stood up for you, it pissed Hongjoong off?”
Giving your best friend the tiniest of glances, you shrugged again. “Yeah?”
San and Jongho both snickered and faced one another, slapping their hands together. “It’ll work,” they muttered to one another, “It’s going to work. It’s perfect, isn’t it? How did we not see this before? He’s so stupid, he won’t see it coming, he’ll be so pissed, he’ll–”
Yunho waved a hand in front of them. “Hello!?” The boys whirled around, taking in your shared confusion.
“What’s going on?” you asked as the waitress appeared at the end of your table, ready for the four of you to order another round.
San smized, mischief in his eyes, his gaze flickering from Yunho, to you. “You’re gonna win this. We’re gonna play his game.”
Four knocks sounded at your door. Timid knocks. Knocks he’s never made before. Usually they’re loud, and obnoxious, and a little excited, like the introduction to a Led Zeppelin song. This time they were any John Denver song ever to exist. Stomping through your apartment in wedged strappy sandals, you grumbled to yourself and yanked the door open, unable to believe he wasn’t going to pretend to be happy about this predicament when he’s the one who got himself here in the first place.
“We won’t have to do this,” is the first thing to leave his mouth before you get a word in. Dressed in denim torn to shreds showcasing his knobby knees and the length of his legs, the cropped black t-shirt he had pulled over his head hung just at the belt, if he had worn one. Tiny chains wrapped around the base of his neck, various golds and silvers wound together in mismatched plaits. His hair hung over his eyes, a bit shaggy today, wavy and natural.
“I don’t, but you do,” you said with disdain.
Following you into your apartment, pushing the door shut, Yunho heaved a dramatic sigh. “But, if you’re not comfortable…”
Uncapping a lipstick, you wandered into the bathroom to glide it over your lips, a shade of pink to go with the stripes on your mini skirt. “Why wouldn’t I be comfortable?”
He appeared in the doorway, just as tall as it, leaning against the frame. Stretching one arm over his head, he made a sound while he thought, and opted to say, “I dunno, cause it’s me?”
Smacking your lips together, dropping the lipstick into the makeup bag on the shelf over the toilet, you shot him a look through the mirror. “It’s you because of what you did.” He rolled his eyes. Turning to face him, you pressed a finger to his chest, his hard, broad, sturdy chest. “This could easily be San, or even Jongho, that’d be the easiest, but this is how you’re going to make that night up to me.”
He dropped his chin, a smirk pulling at his lips. “My penance is being your fake boyfriend, even though Hongjoong thinking I am your boyfriend is what got you into this mess.”
“Us,” you corrected, standing to your tip toes in your sandals, missing his nose with yours by an inch. Pushing by him, he followed you, two steps into the kitchen.
“I was defending you, Shug, you can’t be mad at me for this,” his volume raised, and you held up a finger. “Sorry,” he huffed, slapping his hands on his thighs, dropping his tone, “Yeosang still giving you problems?”
Putting together a purse, a little leather one, you wiggled your brows, fishing your keys off the counter. “Not as of late, but I got something on him now, so if he ever does have some more shit to say, I’ll just tell him all about how I heard him going at it with his boss’s wife.”
Yunho gasped, a smile finally painting onto his face and yours. “You’re kidding me.”
Slinging the purse over your bare shoulder, your strapless top clinging tight to your middle, you pursed your lips and shook your head with pride. “Not at all,” you said, moving for the door. Yunho clung to your tail. “He’s a freak, who woulda thought?”
Stepping out into the hall, giving you space to lock up, Yunho glanced at the neighbors door and started putting puzzle pieces together. “Like… how?”
“Well,” you started, slipping your keys away, “This was last weekend, and yanno, it kinda made me realize these walls are paper thin, so I don’t think I can be too mad at him getting mad at us?” You started down the hallway, Yunho in tow. “Anyway,” you laughed, throwing your hands up, glancing up at him walking beside you, “I heard them come home and fumble with the keys in the door, they were giggling and shit, and he was hushing her. I was paralyzed at the kitchen table doomscrolling through clips of Maneskin’s last tour–”
Yunho squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his chin back. “Will we ever get them again?”
“One can dream,” you muttered with a groan. “I heard them over La Fine, okay? Vic was killing it, her tits were out, it was great, and I heard them.” Yunho held the door to the stairwell open for you. “He was telling her what a bad girl she was,” you amped up the act, walking backward down the stairs, to put on a show for him, “You shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t be doing this.”
Yunho grinned, a laugh caught between his teeth.
“What will he think? What will they say?” You held up a hand to signal the character switch. “She says, “Fuck what they say!”
“No!” Yunho shouted, reaching out to grab you as you tripped over your feet and laughed. “Turn around.”
“Yes,” you confirmed, listening to him, facing forward, grabbing onto the railing. “I don’t even think they made it out of the kitchen. I’ve seen his apartment, that wall is shared with the one in my bedroom, they fucked in the kitchen.”
“Damn,” Yunho sighed, pushing open the door to your building, ushering you out onto the summer street of New York City. “Quiet boy has game, who woulda thought.”
Catching him off guard, you spun around and grabbed onto his biceps. Pushing him back against the brick wall of your building, you flipped your brows over all sappy and sweet, and whined, “Take me, Yeo, take me!” Shaking your hair around, you giggled. “Do what he can’t, love me like he can’t!”
Yunho’s shoulders rose, eating his ears as you shook him. Wide eyed, he smiled at your words, at the exasperated way you shouted them, mimicking Yeosang's boss’s wife, but then you gazed up at him, lips pursed, eyes soft, cheeks pouty, and he swore he stopped breathing.
Squeezing his arms in your hands tighter, you fluttered your lashes as you blinked, putting on an act, making fun of the way the woman many years older than Yeosang spoke to him. Fingers pressing into the meat of his biceps, realizing you surprised him, and that he wasn’t prepared to hear you do this in front of him, no matter the context… You gulped and wiped your face clean of emotion.
The summer air grew thicker, your cheeks flushed, your stomach sunk a little– And you weren’t sure why. It’s not the first time jokes like this had been made, your friends always moaned a bit, they were boys for fucks sake, the occasional flirt sneaked out, this wasn’t new. As you gazed up into his sappy brown eyes that weren’t ready to experience this, how it seemed like a part of him was listening, paying attention, you audibly expressed your apologies with a groan and pulled away from him, hands dropping to your side.
“Yeah, it was…” you sighed, dragging a hand through your hair, “It was wild, anyways, should we go? I dunno what time they close, and San said that if we don’t make it there before six then the woman will–”
Yunho pushed off the building and hooked his arm in yours, a smile growing on his pink lips as he pulled you down the street. “Let’s go,” he said, entirely normal, keeping things normal, as normal as normal can be. Looking down at you, he said, “Gonna need you to recreate that for San and Jongho though, that was hysterical.”
Wedging your bottom lip between your teeth, you nodded. “Can’t believe I never told you guys.”
“That Yeosang gets chicks? And that he fucks?” He huffed a laugh, “Can’t believe you never told us either. I thought–”
Jumping in your sandals at the street corner cutting him off, you unhooked your arms and gasped. “Wait, if we’re gonna practice this, shouldn’t we hold hands instead?”
Yunho tugged at the hem of his cropped tee. “Waffle or pancake?”
Oh, how you yearned to lose your shit, fall to the concrete, and laugh at him. Instead, you deadpanned, and said, “You did not just ask me that.”
Holding up your hand for him to take, he scrunched up his face and gave you a look. “Shut up. C’mere, Shug.”
Reaching around your back, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, yanking you into his side, the warmth of his hold engulfing you entirely. Wiggling his fingers to ask for your hand, guiding you with subtle nods of his head and small smiles, he laced his fingers with yours, the hand hanging from your shoulder, then gestured to your other hand wedged between your bodies.
“Sixteen Candles, c’mon,” he mumbled, meeting your eyes with a humor in his.
Furrowing your brows, you scoffed. “Yeah, sure Jan.”
He rolled his eyes. The people waiting at the corner moved on, leaving the two of you alone until a few stragglers flew by with papers in their hands or headphones on their ears. Everyone dressed for summer, tanks, shorts, dresses, crop tops, their variations of outfits mixed and matched yet impressively cohesive– Your neighborhood the neighborhood of color, of originality, thrifted clothes and bright colored hair. Artists, musicians, bohemian spirits.
“I am not Sixteen Candles-ing you,” you giggled, and he clicked his tongue.
“You have to,” he joked with a solemn shake of his head. “I’m sure as hell not doing it to you, I’d rather you do it to me. It’ll be cute, do it.”
“But, there’s no one even around to–”
Yunho used his free hand to grab onto yours, pulling it behind his back as far as he could, allowing you to do the rest. Sliding it into his back pocket.
By the grace of the gods, the heavens, the angels, whoever you believed in, his denim hung off of him loose enough that you weren’t necessarily holding on to anything specific. Until you started walking. His proud smile guided you across the street and across a few more blocks like this, and your palm brushed over him repeatedly.
It felt weird, to feel like this wasn’t right, or that this was crossing a line, even though you’ve smacked him on his ass plenty of times before, mainly after a few drinks. This was intimate. A scene in an old movie you watched together, a scene in a newer movie you watched together… Where the girl needs the boy to do these things, and the boy agrees to make his old girl jealous…
Looking up at him, his brain at work putting pieces of the city together, admiring the streets that didn’t mirror the financial district in the slightest, you supposed this was fine. This was the purpose. Technically, it’s his duty, to help you make Hongjoong jealous, or, more jealous than he already appeared to be. And plus, it was Yunho.
Like you said, this was his way of making that night up to you. Though, at the end of the day, you’d rather be doing this with him than anyone else. Too intimate or not… It felt right.
“What do you mean you don’t have a dress yet?” The woman in jorts and a frilly blouse with big chunky boots on her feet stared at you in disbelief. Standing in front of a mirror in silver high heels, you stared back in shock. Yunho sat behind you on a stool with his hands on his knees, and confusion on his face. Her deep brown hair was tied up in a tight bun, with bangs hanging on her forehead. “How are you buying shoes without owning a dress?”
Shrugging, you parted your lips to answer her, but no sound came out.
“Insane,” she spat, her lips curling, “Every girl knows, you buy the dress first, then you buy the shoes. How do you expect the dress to fit right, or lay right, or fall right at your feet if you’re buying the shoes first? You get a dress, then shoes, how do you know you can even wear the heels? Do you even like these ones? You’ve tried on several pairs, no wonder it’s taking you forever, you don’t have a damn dress.”
Biting your tongue, you sucked down a breath to steady your heart rate and your skin that burned. “This is the one store I can afford, my friends and I are thrift lovers, I’ve never done this before, so I–”
“Great,” she berated, “So I get to deal with the inexperience, wonderful, where did you say you worked?”
“Harmony Foundation–”
Her lined eyes widened. “And this is all you can afford?”
Pressing your hands to your belly, you shook your head fervently, feeling your throat tighten like how it would just before tears slipped down your cheeks. “I-I guess I don’t know, I mean, I’ve never done this, I don’t like to dress like this–”
“Great!” She shouted, and the few other customers in the store turned to seek out the noise. “You don’t even like it, why am I wasting my time, you might as well–”
“We’re done here.” Yunho leapt to his feet, snatching your wrist in his hand, pulling you behind him. The woman screwed her face up as she tipped her chin back to glare at him. “Don’t start. This was a waste of our time. My girlfriend works hard, she deserves this night. Fuck you for making her feel less than. Our best friend sent us here, he’s obsessed with you guys actually. I can’t wait to tell him how disgusting this whole visit has been.” Glancing at her name tag, he scoffed, “Have a nice day, Mina.”
Keeping his grip on you tight, he moved you away from the mirror, away from the lady who started out sweet as pie, and sat you down on another stool across the store. Crouching in front of you, he propped one foot up on his knee and started working his fingers at the buckle, the rough tips of his fingers brushing over your smooth skin.
He clenched his jaw tight, eyes pointed at your foot and shoe he slipped off of you. Moving with persistence, you could see the figurative smoke bellowing out of his ears, the gears that grinded behind his eyes. Switching feet, he slipped the shoe off gently, his actions rough, but the way he touched you– Soft. He put you back into your sandals, his whole hand wrapping around your ankles to move you around, his touch entirely distracting you from the menace Mina had been. Strapped into your shoes, he blinked up at you and sighed heavily.
“My girlfriend,” you teased under your breath, and he sighed again.
“Don’t start, I’m pissed off, Shug. Let’s go.”
He held your hand this time, really tight. Fingers intertwined, the grip he had on you almost made you want to peel his hand off ‘cause it was so tight.
“Yunho, it’s fine,” you breathed, trailing behind him as he bounded down the street, dodging bodies that crowded now that it was past six o’clock. “I’ll find something later, we don’t have to go anywhere else, I’m over this today.”
The shake of his head told you plenty. “Me too.”
Dropping your hand, setting you free, he crossed his arms over his chest and stopped behind a group of people waiting for the cars to finish whizzing by to trudge across the street. His jaw tightened, and he wouldn’t look at you.
“I’m fine,” you assured him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged you off. “Yunho?” The cars stopped. The bodies moved. You scurried along beside him, keeping up with the long strides of his legs. “Yunho,” you groaned playfully, elbowing him a couple times. It wasn’t until you were at the next block that he opened his mouth.
“That’s how it feels when Hongjoong speaks to you the way he does,” he said, turning toward you. “And I’ve only experienced it in person maybe twice? But, even when I have to hear about it, or whenever you talk about him, that’s how it feels.”
Glancing away from him, to the traffic, the unique people around you, you go numb for a moment hearing his name. Tilting your head, you asked, “Being degraded in the middle of a store by a woman who hasn’t gotten laid in years?”
He shot you a look. “What do you think Hongjoong does?”
“But, he gets laid all the time.”
Yunho drug his hands through his hair, arching his back in a stretch with an obnoxious whine. “Oh my god, Shug, nevermind, you’ll never get it.”
Pedestrian traffic moved, pushing you both along the current. Store doors swung open with chimes, music played underneath the awnings of eateries and restaurants with outdoor seating, delicious smells wafted through the cultured air.
“Hang on,” you groaned, reaching for the sleeve of his shirt, “I want to get it. I don’t see what you see, I’m sorry, okay?”
He, again, shrugged you off of him. “It’s really going to take you getting together with him, getting cheated on, heartbroken, and disposed of, to realize it.”
You grabbed onto him again, your hands pulling at his shoulders. He paid attention for you, his eyes on alert, scanning the crowds, the streets, it’s what he always did. Never once did you have to worry while you were out with him, he became your brain, your thoughts, your safety. Even now, while in the middle of some sort of argument, he pulled you out of the way of deranged tourists who think they have the right of way.
“I’m trying, okay?” Begging him to slow down, to look at you, to take a break, to understand you, you said, “I want to see what you see.”
His glare hardened. The crowd dissolved some. Turning into you, he smoothed his hands over your shoulders and pushed you up against the corner wall of a vacant store front. Leaning into you, his forehead millimeters from yours, he softened his eyes, his words not matching the tone he spoke in.
“If you wanted to see what I see, you’d try a little harder,” he nearly whispered. Flickering his eyes between both of yours, letting them flicker over your face, he smirked. “If you really cared that bad, to understand, to listen to me, to us, then we wouldn’t be doing this little experiment, would we?” His gaze glazed over your lips. His smirk deepened. You were holding your breath.
“Fake dating,” he mumbled with a Broadway worthy roll of his eyes. Chills ran down your spine as one of his hands slid up your neck, his palm cupping your chin, his fingertips brushing your hair. “To get his attention, to make him jealous, to play his game. Since when do you care about fitting in with people, Shug? Becoming one of them?”
You barely shook your head, whispering, “I don’t.”
Yunho narrowed his eyes. “Then, why are we doing this?”
“Because…”
“Because,” he repeated, mimicking the slight whine in your tone. “Use your words, you’re a big girl.” His thumb danced over your cheekbone, his words made your knees buckle. “I love to listen to you talk, it might be my favorite thing in the world. Tell me, why are we going to do this? Act like a couple, like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, like we’re in love, like we share the deepest, most intimate parts of ourselves with one another at three in the morning entangled in a mess of sweaty sheets.”
You weren’t holding your breath, you couldn’t breathe. The depth of his eyes made it impossible to look away, impossible to pretend like his words dripping with sweet melted sugar weren't affecting you. He was close, so close, his body heat hotter than the sun that procrastinated setting.
“You look pretty today,” he whispered. “You always do. When I got to your apartment, and I watched you put this lipstick on, I just,” he shook his head, “Couldn’t not think about… it.”
Gulping, your voice shook as you whispered, “About what?”
He broke out into another smirk, his perfect teeth peeking through his heart shaped lips. “No,” he mumbled, a quiet laugh coming out of him, one that rumbled in his chest so deeply you could feel the bass, “I don’t wanna sound like him.”
“Say it,” you whispered, fast, and he bit his lip.
“Yeah?” Questioning you with a raise of a brow, he stood up straighter, chin cocking back.
You gazed up at him through your lashes, and you swore this newfound persona of his faltered. “Please.”
His other hand slid up the other side of your neck. He tipped your chin back, both of his thumbs on your cheeks, his fingers in your hair. Shared air filtered between you, he was that close. Eyes on your lips, on the shade of lipstick he watched you layer on, he whispered. “It’s filthy.”
“What did you think about, Yunho?” Your eyes fluttered shut for a split second, and he sucked in a breath.
Taking one thumb to your bottom lip, he tugged at it gently before pressing the pad to both of your lips, smirking as your lips seemed to instinctively kiss it. “Thought about how pretty they’d look wrapped around the tip of my…”
Your jaw fell open, your lips parting with a stifled sigh. Pressing your thighs together, his eyes widened some. It took him three seconds to move, out of your space, many steps from the wall.
Letting a laugh loose, he swiped the thumb covered in your lipstick over his lips and winked at you. “Bet San or Jongho wouldn’t do that, huh?”
Catching your breath, utterly blindsided, you situated your clothes that felt like he had ripped them off of you and thrown them back on even though he hadn’t touched them, and you pushed off of the wall. Trying to laugh, feeling as though you’d been doused with a bucket of ice water, you took a deep breath and shook your head. “No, they wouldn’t,” you forced your laughter, “Good one. That’s believable, how’d I do?”
Yunho rubbed a hand over his bare middle, his shirt lifting to show off his toned stomach. Bobbing his head, his eyes unreadable, he shrugged. “Don’t think you’re winning an Oscar any time soon. Your impression of Yeosang’s sugar mommy was way better.”
Smacking your lips, you laughed for real and rolled your eyes. “Not fair,” you muttered.
“You’re gonna have to try a little harder if you want us to be taken seriously,” he teased with a sarcastic huff, holding out his elbow for you to hook yours in.
Swallowing, hard, your heart finally beating steadily, you rubbed your lips together, your lipstick that he looked at, again, and said, “Guess we’ll have to practice some more.”
The clock ticked on the wall, the halls silent enough the only sound to be heard were the hands counting down to five o’clock. Standing at a counter, waiting for the receptionist on your floor to return with several files Seonghwa needed to finish a sale with one of his loyal clients of many years, you had your elbow propped up on the edge and your chin sitting on your fist.
It was the morning after your failed shopping date with Yunho, last night ending with stacked jokes on the way to San’s apartment, where you met Jongho there and spent the night shoveling take out into your mouths and playing guess that artist with Yunho until you all grew tired enough and fell asleep on the sofa’s mumbling about what new tattoos you all should get.
Snoozing on Yunho’s shoulder, you’d be lying if you said what he’d done to you didn’t stick with you. Pushing you up against a wall like you had done to him, except instead of mimicking a neighbor's hookup, he spoke real words to you. Words that sounded true. Words that felt true. Words you think… you wanted to be true. You’ve never heard him speak that way, his voice low and gravely, the things he said, dirty and hot.
Thinking back to the flings he’s had here and there, your mind wandered to the possibilities of what he said to them, how he treated them, an entire side of him you never once thought to ever explore. He turned you on, your body reacted to him, you wanted him to keep going, to say more, to maybe even do more than just touch his thumb to your lips like he wished it really was the tip of his…
“Hey, Shug.” A chill ran down your spine, your skin erupting in a blazing fire. Jolting upright, slapping your hand to the counter top, you whirled around and met Hongjoong’s smile, a stack of papers in his hand. He occupied the space beside you, stepping into your field of energy, placing the stack right next to your hand.
“Please don’t call me that,” you said with the release of a breath.
Hongjoong leaned against the desk and crossed one foot over the other. Glancing around the stranded lobby, he smiled before he pointed his eyes at you. “Find a date to the gala yet?”
Okay, straight to the point, damn. Time to lock in. Your stomach sank.
“Yes,” you squeaked, voice high pitched and nervous.
He perked a brow, his eyes drawing your body and the outfit you had thrown together this morning after running home from San’s with a half hour to spare. You were almost late this morning, and your oversized button down and wrinkled slacks let everyone know.
The corners of his lips perked up. “Wild night?”
“No,” you pushed through your lips.
Hongjoong met your eyes and laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. Look at you. That your boyfriend's shirt?” Scoffing, you looked down at yourself, and he laughed again. It was in fact Yunho’s shirt, one he didn’t use anymore, a white button down that would fit his chest snugly. It hung off of you, but this wasn’t the first time you had worn it.
“This is mine,” you stated with a point of your finger to your belly.
Hongjoong furrowed his brows, but his smile remained. “You sure you didn’t pick it up off his floor this morning?”
“No, Joong, it’s mine.”
“Coulda sworn he spent the night putting you through the mattress, at least from what I saw,” he snickered, averting his eyes to behind the desk. “Smooth talker, huh?”
Your blood ran cold. “What?”
Hongjoong laughed. “You let him talk dirty to you? I know you like a filthy mouth.”
Eyes bugging, you laughed with him, nervously, and knitted your hands together. “I-I-I don’t know what you’re… what you’re talking about, what are you…”
“I saw you,” he said, plainly, giving you a look. “On the corner of 7th, he had you pinned to the wall, his hands on you, talking all quiet.” He popped his brows and swung his hand about as he spoke. “I’ve never seen you look the way you did, all doe eyed, like he held your consciousness in his hands, so submissive–”
“Shut up,” you snapped.
He raised a brow, his lazy smile wicked. “Tell me again how the shirt isn’t his, how you weren’t letting him defile you last night, go ahead.”
“I didn’t, it’s not–”
He kept going. “Thought you’d let him take you right there on the street corner, I mean, damn, how long have you been in love with this guy, I would’ve thought you had something for me if I didn’t catch you two like that, does he know what a flirt you can be?” Leaning toward you, he popped his lips as he mumbled, “A brat?”
“Oh my god,” you muttered, pressing your front to the desk, knitting your fingers in your hair, staring at the linoleum. “Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.” Willing the receptionist back in whispers, Hongjoong heard, and fucking laughed.
“He probably gets off on it, right? Knowing you’ve got a little game going with me, he probably loves to hear all about it so he can fuck it out of you. Claim you.”
“Hongjoong, shut up. Leave me alone.”
He took a step closer to you, dipping his chin down. “No, I want you to be able to run home to have the fuck of your life after you tell him about this. Let him know that when I saw you over here all alone in his shirt, I envisioned what it’d be like to rip it off of you and spread you open on Ms. Kim’s desk, and how I wouldn’t care if she came back and caught us.”
Pressing your hands to your face, shaking your head, you sucked air in through your lips, and for the first time, you wished Yunho were here to stop him.
“Matter of fact, Wooyoung likes to watch,” he smirked, “He’d love a show. Would probably get a raise,” his fingers touched your shoulder, gently, but with purpose, piercing through the fabric of your shirt, “Just gotta make sure he can see your tits, so he can–”
“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa’s voice echoed off the ceiling, booming through the empty space. Clenching your jaw, tears welling up in your eyes, you clawed at your scalp. He tore his hand off of you, moving faster than you’ve ever witnessed. “What am I hearing?”
A sigh came out of him as he took a step away from you, his hands folding on the desk. “Please, she likes it.”
Seonghwa scoffed. “I guarantee you, she does not. Y/n?”
Peeling your hands away from your face, you pushed your hair back and turned to look at him. With a face full of sorrow, he waved a hand toward him, coercing you closer. “Go into my office and wait for me there. We’ll file a report together, but I’d like to personally hand his ass to him face to face.”
Only able to give him a nod, you wrapped your arms around yourself and hurried down the hall, straight into Seonghwa’s office, though you longed to linger and listen to what your boss had to say.
you: It worked..... He's pissed off or something..
yun: What happened.
you: I get what you guys mean now.. How he talks..
yun: Call me. Now.
you: I’ll tell you later….. Do you have to see Jag????? You haven’t mentioned him
yun: He hasn’t needed me.. I’m yours tonight.
Outside of a store with gowns on mannequins in the windows, you and Yunho stood elbow to elbow against the glass, appreciating the bustle of the people on this side of a neighborhood you longed to spend more time in. Similar to your own, this one had more structure to its freedom, like the people here knew exactly what they wanted and what they brought to table. It filled you with a sort of peace, clarity, like your dreams were right in front of you, and you could snatch them without remorse.
“Don’t say I told you so,” you muttered, and Yunho hummed.
“Never,” he said flatly, eyes scanning the heads that passed by. “I’m sorry that happened. He’s a dick.”
Looking up at him, you pinched your brows. “That’s all?”
He glanced back in shock. “Well, I can’t exactly go and kick his ass can I? If I do, you’ll lock me up and force me to marry you and have several kids, live a suburban life, I dunno.”
Laughing, throwing your head back, you gasped, “What!?”
Yunho held up his hands, his wide eyed expression growing tenfold. “Are those not your conditions for me putting my hands on him? I pushed him, so we have to date, what do you think you’ll make me do if I beat him up?”
“Sign a prenup,” you giggled, shoving him with your elbow. His obnoxious nod and the unintelligible sound he made answered for him. “I’m sorry,” you sighed, leaning your head against his arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t do the dating thing, maybe you just come with me to the gala as my bodyguard.”
“It makes me sad that you even have to think that way,” he mumbled.
Glancing up at him, your cheek squished on his bare arm, he looked down and smiled. “Seonghwa will be there, you don’t even have to come if you don’t want to, I don’t wanna subject you to hanging around these kinds of guys for hours on end.”
Squinting, he said, “I’d rather be with you to save you from having to hang around those guys for hours on end. I’m coming to the gala whether you like it or not, Shug.”
“Shug,” a woman’s voice parroted, one a little rough, a little grungey. “You really do call her that.” Yunho broke out into a grin, tossing his head back bashfully, trying hard as hell to negate all accusations as you pushed off the window to greet his friend.
Stunning didn’t cut it. Ki, her name as sharp as she was, but not as simple. Covered in tattoos, doused in silver jewelry and piercings, her hair styled like she’d had it professionally done, you couldn’t help but let your jaw drop. Another girl stood with her, as close to her as you stood to Yunho, looking nothing like Ki. A little more indie, maybe bohemian, whereas Ki bled straight rock ‘n roll.
Her smile smacked you in the face, perfect and dazzling. Holding out her hand amidst Yunho’s rebuttals, she introduced herself. “You’re exactly like he described,” she shook her head, giving you a onceover, “I’m Ki, this is Riley,” she said giving a nod to her friend who smiled and gave you a wave of her fingers. “Hope it’s okay you deal with both of us, you seem to fit right in between our vibe, I figured we could both give you a hand.” Her eyes flickered up at Yunho. “He’s not gonna know what he’s doing. You need girlfriends.”
Giggling, you looked up at him and he shrugged shamefully.
“You’re lucky he called,” Ki breathed, taking your wrist in her hand and Riley’s in the other. Giving Yunho a glare, she muttered, “You’re lucky Jag has let you have so much time off.”
“Time off?” you asked, bouncing back and forth between them. “You said he hasn’t needed you,” you said to Yunho, whose eyes widened.
Ki pursed her lips, her saccharine smile enough to woo you, you’re not sure how Yunho hasn’t been woo’ed yet. He said something back to her, with his eyes, an implication he didn’t want to speak further, a white flag of sorts. You aren’t sure how much time they spent together at Republic, though her name has come up plenty of times– Comparing the two of you.
“Let’s go, Shug,” Ki joked, tugging you and Riley along, into the store, leaving Yunho to trudge behind. “I’ll take the left side, Ri you take the right, Miss Sugar can take the middle.”
Yunho let the door swing shut behind him. “What about me? Do I get a say?”
Riley gave him a small smile. “If the boyfriend shopping thing is universal, I suggest you sit this one out.”
Ki seemed to know what she was talking about with the way she laughed and nudged her shoulder, her bright smile and confident laugh bouncing around the racks of dresses. “He’s not her boyfriend, but still, sit this one out,” she said to both of them before the group broke into four.
With a sheepish shrug, Riley pulled her lips together and turned on her heels. Ki tossed her hair off of the shoulder of her lace tank and bolted for a black dress on a mannequin in the window. Yunho, he smiled at you when you turned to him, and waved you away to follow the girls.
“She’s cool,” you whispered, flickering your eyes over to Ki.
Yunho narrowed his eyes and smiled wider, whispering, “I knew you’d say that.” Smiling back at him, for too long, feeling your insides fill with warmth, a sort of comfort knowing he’d do something like this for you, he glanced at both of the girls on either side of the store and shooed you away.
You took to Riley first, who was already looking your way with her hands on a dress. Painting a smile onto your lips, you approached her in her oversized vintage Screen Actors Guild tee and clasped your hands together. Before you had the chance to open your mouth, she cut you off.
“This one’s gorgeous,” she mumbled, holding the emerald dress up in front of you, pressing it to your chest like she’s known you for ages. “I think this really goes with your skintone, but I’m not loving the straps, I think you should– Wait, how are you doing your hair?” Her eyes narrowed, studying you, drawing all over the bare skin you exposed today. “You’re fun, aren’t you? How many tattoo’s do you have?”
“I got a few when I’d been drinking honestly, my friends know this guy who does them underground, yanno, so I have to have at least–”
“So cool,” she said without letting you finish, “I love tattoo’s, but I have to keep them hidden.”
“How come?” you asked, watching as she hung up the emerald dress and pulled out a few others, giving you glances over her shoulder.
“Broadway,” she said with utter nonchalance. “But, my boyfriend and I, we both have a matching one on our– Oh my god,” she sighed, turning toward you, grabbing your wrists, “I’m so sorry, by the way, for implying that Yunho’s your boyfriend.”
Giggling, you shook your head. “Don’t worry about it, I know how it looks, it’s really–”
“I’m sorry, though,” she said with a pout, “I have chronic foot in mouth disease, it’s severe, just ask Ki, or don’t, I don’t need this getting worse. I’m not good at this. I have a lot of guy friends.”
Shifting your hands around, grabbing onto hers that held onto you, you comforted her with a smile and shook your head. “So do I, I understand.”
“Hey, Glucose!” Ki shouted from across the store, waving her hand in the air, her bracelets jingling.
Yunho picked his head up from where he rifled through suit jackets, almost shrieking within a laugh, “Glucose!”
Riley let go of you and gave you a gentle push on your back. By the time you made it to Ki she had already sent Yunho back into his silenced role, giving you the tiniest of smiles as you were subdued to more dresses being held up in front of you. Shooting him a wink, one he made a face of disgust at, you giggled, and Ki paused.
“He’s something, huh?” she asked, tearing her eyes from yours when you looked at her. The black dress she held had lace on the bodice, like her tank, and it was tight fitted, all the way to the bottom. “You might not be able to move in this, but I like black for you, what do you think?”
“I love black, sure.”
Pulling at the fabric, her eyes on the dress she held up, she muttered, “I meant Yunho.” Ki met your eyes with a glimmer in hers. “I got the story, y/n. He actually wouldn’t shut up. Whenever I see him at work, I get updates about you, instead of himself. When he asked me to come here he sounded so… worried. I thought, how can this girl have this boy who’s like chronically relaxed in this much of a fucking tizzy?”
“Oh,” you breathed, half following. She hung up the tight dress and pulled out another, one dark blue and Cinderella-esque. You both crunched your noses before she could even bring it in front of you. “How about that one?” Pointing to a black dress with long sleeves, she listened and held it up.
Tilting her head to the side, her striking eyes drinking in your form, she continued quietly, “Hope it’s okay I brought Riley, I didn’t want to be third wheel. Plus, I haven’t spent time with her in a bit. I like this one– Yunho!” He scurried over to her side, accepting the dress she tossed him. “Trying this one on,” she said and waved him off, “Shoo.”
Flashing you a smile, his face telling you he was just happy to be here, he returned to where he came from.
“You spend a lot of time at work, right?” Following her, like a shadow, you eyed her tattooed fingers as they grazed over satins and velvets before snatching one. “Yunho says you’re like… Really important.”
Her lips perked up. Holding up a velvet grey a-line, it didn’t make it two inches in front of you before she swapped it for a strapless black satin floor length thing. “I guess I am. He’s sweet,” she took a breath, “But, yeah, I spend a lot of time at work, I travel a shit ton, and Ri lives here in the city. I do too, but…”
“But?” you questioned, and she shrugged it off.
“A story for another time,” she smiled.
“Uh, Riley told me she has a boyfriend, are you, uh, seeing anyone?”
She gave you a look over her shoulder. “Why, interested?”
Bushing, you pushed a breath through your lips and stepped in a tiny circle. “You’re gorgeous, but no,” you laughed, “I’m into someone else.” She glanced at Yunho, and you rolled your eyes. “No, he’s… just a friend.”
“Does he know that?” she asked, flicking through the dresses.
“Yes,” you said definitively, brows going awry.
Ki nodded, slowly, pulling out a black gown she didn’t bother to hold up in front of you. “Yunho!” Like clockwork, he appeared, with several more dresses in tow.
“Who gave you these?” Ki asked.
Yunho blinked. “Riley.”
Taking in the dresses of various colors and lengths, Ki mumbled, “Damn thespian.”
“We need options!” Riley shouted across the store.
“She heard you,” you laughed, and Ki smirked.
“Quiet isn’t my specialty.” She tossed the dress over Yunho’s arms, and as he disappeared she asked, “Who are we into, Miss Sugar? If it’s not that hunk of alt sweetness the girlies eat up at the label.”
The girlies. Turning to find where he disappeared to, you found him at Riley’s side, the girl shorter than you, craning her neck back to look up at him. Her smile, soft, but her giggle, loud. Ki followed your line of sight and scoffed.
“He’s too tall for her, trust me,” she muttered, lower this time, “Plus, she’s like, locked in with her man. Trust me.”
“Is she?” you asked within a whisper.
Ki gave you a look, raising a brow. “Quiet isn’t her specialty. They’re crazy theatre kids, they’re… gross. One time I saw them–”
“And what about you?”
She rolled her eyes, enormously long. The breath she let out was just as long. “Don’t worry about me. You don’t wanna hear what it’s like being caught between two guys, one perfect for you, who knows everything about you, your secrets, your shadows, but then the other is capable of satiating a hunger you didn’t know you had.”
“What happened? After… the… satiating. I assume he wasn’t good for you?”
Ki held up a dress and pursed her lips. Shifting from the dress to your face, she released a breath and shrugged. “I was still hungry.” This dress she held onto herself. “Listen, he didn’t put me up to this, but I know about this other guy you’re into. Take it from me, as someone who’s been involved with a colleague. You have this fucking amazing guy right here,” she said, gesturing behind her toward Yunho who trailed behind Riley like a puppy. You almost spoke, but she cut you off. “I know, you’re friends. But, let him be an example. Of the types of guys you should be looking for.”
“Damn,” you uttered, lowering your chin with a snicker.
Ki furrowed her brows. “What?”
Giving her a look, you shook your head. “He didn’t update you about what happened today, I guess. You don’t have to give me the speech, I’m not Hongjoong’s biggest fan anymore. I know it’s been his obsession to rid me of him, I’m sorry he pulled you into this, but I’m good. Thanks for coming to help me, but I don’t need a pep talk.”
She tried to stop you, but you pushed past her, towards the fitting rooms. Holding a hand in the air to signal Yunho, she pointed at the back of you and shrugged. “I dunno what I did, that’s all you.”
Ignoring the worker who asked you if you needed any help, you stepped into a fitting room empty handed and let the door swing shut, pressing your back against the wall. Tears brimming your eyes, you took a shaky breath and released it all at once.
Everything cycled through your head, memories flashing all at once, from Hongjoong’s almost invitation to the gala, to the night Yunho pushed him, to yesterday when Yunho had you on the corner questioning everything you thought you knew about your relationship.
Why were you questioning everything you thought you knew about your relationship? You never have before, this wasn’t normal. He was Yunho, your best friend Yunho.
Comfort is all that it is. Familiarity.
You’ve just perhaps reached a point in your friendship where you care too deeply, because you know so much, because you’ve spent all this time with him, and now that it’s at a point where the lines seem to be starting to blur because you’re going to have to pretend to date him, it’s confusing.
That’s what it is. You couldn’t think that again if you tried. You wouldn’t even be able to say those words out loud. Did it make sense? You shouldn’t be spiraling about this, you should be spiraling about the fact that Hongjoong made some serious threats to you today, if you could even call them threats. You didn’t want to call it what it was, but Seonghwa sure did, and he had no shame in doing so.
Work tomorrow should be a blast, if he’s even there. The gala is right around the corner, would he even be allowed to attend after this? Groaning through a cry, you tipped your chin back and shook your head. Of course he’d still be allowed to attend, these men got away with everything. He’d be able to do what he said he’d do and he wouldn’t–
“Shug?” Three gentle taps to the fitting room door.
“I need a minute,” you steadied your voice as best as you could.
“I have your dresses,” he said softly. “Wanna try them on while you take your minute?”
Reaching for the door handle, you pulled it open and met his eyes, taking the pile from him. “Thanks,” you sniffled.
He frowned. “You okay?”
“Do I look okay?”
“No,” he whispered. “What happened?”
Hardening your glare, you mumbled, “Go talk to Riley.”
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“Or Ki, maybe that’s better,” you huffed, “She seems to know so much already, go tell her some more.”
You threw the door shut, but he caught it. “Hang on, what are you talking about?”
“Leave me alone,” you said, hanging the dresses up. Pushing on the door to push him out, it was silly of you to forget he was much, much stronger than you. Bumping the handle as he fumbled his way in, there was an audible click as the door slammed shut and his back pressed to it. The already small room grew smaller. Two bodies and a stack of at least thirteen dresses in one tiny New York space, one of those bodies over six feet tall. You couldn’t turn around without bumping into him. “I have to try these on, get out of here,” you muttered.
His jaw tensed. Staring at you for all of three seconds, he took a deep breath and spun around, facing the door, away from you.
“Yunho–”
“Someone’s gotta zipper you.”
Sighing, losing this fight, you said, “Don’t turn around.”
“You already know I wouldn’t do that.”
Even this felt weird, and it shouldn’t. You’ve changed in front of him before, you’ve been half naked and drunk in front of each other, you’ve seen him in his boxers, he’s seen you in a bathing suit, this shouldn’t be so vulnerable, so… intimate.
Ki implied, several times, that Yunho, quite possibly, maybe, cared about you too much. Maybe in a sense that you haven’t been able to pick up on until now. Pulling your shirt over your head, you tossed it over his shoulder, smiling at the inaudible laugh he heaved. Even though yesterday on the street, where he said some things you never imagined would ever leave his lips, when he pulled away, he acted as though it was for the gala. That you guys were practicing. Come to find out Hongjoong had seen you. Hongjoong had seen you.
Slipping out of your shorts, kicking off your shoes, you tossed the denim over his other shoulder. “Yunho?”
“Yeah?”
You took a blue dress off a hanger and stepped into it. “Yesterday,” you started, shimmying the tight fabric over your hips, slinging the spaghetti straps over your shoulders, “Did you see Hongjoong?”
His head tilted to the side, reluctantly asking, “When?”
“Zip me?”
He turned, and his eyes softened at the sight of you in the mirror. The bodice hugged your chest, blue satin cascading down your form to the floor so that you could so wear those silver heels with this. The fabric was bound over your middle, in three ripples slipping over your right hip and around the back like a waterfall.
“Wow,” he breathed before snapping out of it, tearing his eyes off of your curves and onto the zipper at the middle of your back. Sliding it up, careful to not let his fingers graze your skin, he stepped back against the door and waited for your consensus.
Gliding your hands over the satin, over the chest, you pouted your lips and shook your head. “I like this,” you said, taking your hands to your hips. Yunho’s eyes followed. “But, I don’t like this,” you said, grabbing fistfuls of your tits. Yunho’s eyes followed.
“I do,” he whispered without thinking. Meeting his glare in the mirror, shock evident on both of your faces, you let out a laugh, and he let out a groan. “Oh my god?” Rolling his eyes at himself, he vigorously shook his head and reached for the zipper, freeing you before he spun around and banged his head against the door. He snatched your clothes off of his shoulders and hung them over the door, huffing to himself.
“It’s okay,” you said, sliding the dress off, opting for a black one Ki had set aside. “Practice, right?”
Yunho hung his head, shaking it like he had. “That wasn’t cool, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you whispered, stepping into the lace.
“You look pretty today,” he whispered. “You always do. When I got to your apartment, and I watched you put this lipstick on, I just,” he shook his head, “Couldn’t not think about… it.”
Sliding it up your body, this one strapless, you held it tight to your chest and felt along your back that the zipper laid right over the curve of your ass. Glancing behind you in the mirror at his broad shoulders, wider than you, you took a second to admire how much larger than you he actually was. Gentle giant.
Ki met your eyes with a glimmer in hers. “I got the story, y/n. He actually wouldn’t shut up. Whenever I see him at work, I get updates about you, instead of himself. When he asked me to come here he sounded so… worried. I thought, how can this girl have this boy who’s like chronically relaxed in this much of a fucking tizzy?”
Except when it came to you.
“I do not want him to abduct me,” you spat. “Yunho pushed him.”
The boys gasped, both turning to Yunho at once. San smiled, Jongho tilted his head, disappointed.
Yunho held up both hands, feigning innocence. Fluttering his eyes shut, his long lashes splaying over his cheekbones, he said calmly, “He said some fucked up shit, okay? He got in my face, I was drunk, I couldn’t not do it. Mr. Big Dick, I don’t care who you are, you’re in my face, you’re talking shit to my girl, I’m gonna do something.”
“Yunho,” you whispered, and he turned, his cheeks growing pink. “Zip me?”
Eyeing you in the mirror, how the lace clung to you, contouring your curves where the satin accentuated your form. Laying on top of you like it was a part of you, it hung from your thighs to the floor, the fabric free for you to move about, to dance, to walk comfortably. The chest, corset like, heartshaped and detailed with lace, it held you perfectly, every part of you. He couldn’t help himself. He stared.
You watched him have to manually tell himself to stop, to focus on what you asked him to do, but when he saw where the zipper laid, he lost it again. Eyes blinking a million times, he took a step closer to you, careful to not stand on the puddle the lace left around your feet. He blushed with color, his cheeks to his ears, as pink as can be, his hands acting just the same.
A little nervous, if you had to describe it. His fingers brushed over your skin, the small of your back, and you shuddered, goosebumps erupting over your skin. “Sorry,” he whispered, pulling back abruptly, not looking up at you in the glass.
“S’okay,” you whispered with a gentle nod. “Your fingers are cold.”
He shook his head once, squinting at the dress. “I-I think I have to… pull it up from the inside. I can get Ki–”
“No,” you sighed, stopping him from stepping away from you. “You do it,” you said, your gazes eating one another up. You forced through your lips, “Practice, right?”
His miniscule shift in expression made your heart swell. The slight tweak of his brows, the plumping of his lips, the flutter of his lashes, all too tiny to be made out to be something, but you knew him.
Standing closer to you, your back nearly pressed to his front, he took in a breath and held it, taking the zipper between his fingers. Using his other hand to pinch the bottom, he slowly pulled up, his middle knuckle gliding up your spine, the act so gentle, so improbably erotic that you cursed yourself for how your breath hitched in your throat and the bottom of your belly clenched. It didn’t help that he stood close enough that the warm air that slipped through his parted lips grazed over your skin, your bare shoulders, your bare back. Radiating heat, his own breath uneven, once the zipper reached its peak, he paused.
Neither of you moved. He gazed down at the dress, and you blazed a fire in his eyes through the mirror he refused to look at you through.
“Coulda sworn he spent the night putting you through the mattress, at least from what I saw,” Hongjoong snickered, averting his eyes to behind the desk.
You wondered if he could feel it. The tension disgustingly thick you could cut it with a knife. His large, strong hands, what would they feel like if he slid them down your hips in this lace? His lips, parted and dousing your skin in goosebumps with the hot air he exuded, what would it feel like if he dropped a bit lower and pressed them to your skin, the valley of your neck, the expanse of your exposed chest? Heat swelled in your belly, dropping lower, your thighs aching to squeeze together, but you wouldn’t. Not now. Now you were aware.
“Yunho,” you whispered desperately.
“I did see him,” he uttered quietly, finally meeting your gaze in the mirror. You wanted to melt to the floor at the sight of how lust had overcome him and he actively fought back. “I did what I did so you wouldn’t see him. I’m not proud of it. Especially now with what he did to you.”
“Not proud of it, what do you…”
He sighed, standing up straight, keeping his eyes on yours. “I didn’t want to do what I did,” he shrugged. “You were already getting upset with me, I knew that if you saw him it would push you over the edge, so I had to distract you, and nothing I would normally do would work. So, I made something up.”
Dropping your hands to your side, you gaped and spun around. “Made something up?”
Huffing, he screwed his brows up. “You thought what I said was real?”
Taken aback, you scoffed and rolled your eyes. “Uh, of course not, why the hell would you say something like that to me?”
Narrowing his eyes, he bobbed his head and poked his tongue in his cheek. “Right,” he muttered after a few seconds. “Right.”
Spinning around, almost bumping you with his elbow, he turned the doorknob and yanked. It didn’t budge. Trying again, he yanked. He yanked, again. The walls shook.
“How do I unlock this,” he mumbled, messing with the knob every way he could think of.
Sighing, you wedged yourself around him and tried to pull his hands off the gold, but he swatted at you. “Let me help,” you grumbled, “I don’t want you in here anymore.”
“I don’t want to be in here anymore,” he countered, tugging at your hands.
“Good, I want you to leave.”
“I want to leave.”
You threw the mindless bickers at one another for what felt like forever, until it got to the point of tears. Yours.
“You’ve been no help, I can’t believe San and Jongho came up with this, this is so stupid!”
“Stupid?” Yunho pressed a hand to his chest. “You said it yourself, I’m the one you want to do this with! Ki!” He banged a fist on the door. “This wasn’t supposed to turn into this, Shug, we were just supposed to go to the stupid gala.”
“Don’t call me that,” you huffed, reaching behind you for the zipper of your dress to free yourself. “You’re done calling me that.”
Groaning, he swatted at your hands. “Let me do it, you’ll rip it.”
“No,” you shouted, swinging your body away from him, tugging at the lace, “I got it. I’ll do it alone, like I’ll do the gala alone!”
“You’re not doing the gala alone,” he said, in a fistfight with your fingers. Let… go!”
“Hands off of me, Yunho.”
“You’re going to tear it, you like this one, this is it, don’t tear it!”
Fighting back, clawing at the fabric, you finally kicked a foot back against his knees and sent him stumbling backward, but the space was too tiny so he fell into you, and before he could catch himself, you were twisted sideways, and the lace tore down your back in one long, loud rip. Hands trapped behind you where your back pressed to the wall, you gasped and froze. Yunho hung over you, both of his hands pressed to the wall above you, his body hovering on top of you.
“Fuck,” you whispered.
“Why the fuck would you kick me?”
Glaring up at him, your noses almost touching, you sneered, “Why the fuck would you keep trying when I told you to leave?”
“I can’t leave, the door’s locked!”
“Fuck this,” you said, reaching up for handfuls of his shirt. Pushing off of the wall, taking him with you, your dress slipped down as you pressed him to the opposite wall. “You are going to climb out of here, either under or over that door, I don’t care, just get–” The door swung open.
“Whoa!” Ki shouted, eyes wide, pulling the door shut in a hurry.
“No!” You and Yunho both shouted, and her face went crazy.
“I don’t wanna watch!”
Yunho glanced down at what this looked like, the way you gripped him and how your dress fell off your body. You had him pushed up a wall for fucks sake. Not to mention, if you had tried anything else with lace he’d find himself in a very awkward predicament. At least he could hide what it was for now.
“I’m done,” he said, reaching for your hands, making you release him. With one more look, he shook his head, and he left, not before murmuring to Ki, “Stay out here, that door locks from the inside, help her out.”
As soon as the door shut you sunk to the floor and let the tears spill.
Sipping your drink, the bubbles dancing over your tongue, you laid your head back on the cushion of the sofa you sat in front of. Jongho laid over a lounge chair, a beer can in his hand hanging off the edge, his legs over one armrest, his head over the other. Faint music played in the background, something off of his phone. You didn’t dare ask who made the playlist.
“It ripped,” you said with a flick of your hand, “It ripped right down the back, and I paid for it, because I ripped it, even though the woman says she’s not sure if she’ll be able to fix it.”
Jongho turned his head to give you a pout. “Damn, I’m sorry.”
“It’s whatever, I guess,” you took a swig of your drink, “I’m not meant to be at this stupid thing anyway. I need to just call Yunho, tell him it’s off, and then let Seonghwa know I won’t be going.”
“Nooo,” he sang, shifting to lay on his side, tucking his knees into his massive chest. You frowned and he copied you. “I don’t want to go without you.”
“You’ll have San,” you muttered with a shrug, “You won’t miss me.”
“Yes, I will,” he whispered. Sharing a look with him, one that said a trillion things about leaving a friend behind at a work event where they’d need you because you get it, he said, “San won’t get my jokes.”
A smile graced your lips. “He’ll learn.”
“You can’t just break it off with Yunho and come without him?”
“There’s nothing to break off,” you said, voice growing stern, “We are friends, that is it. I don’t want to go to the gala, not anymore, not when I know Hongjoong will be there… And Wooyoung. I’m done with men.”
He sighed. “I get it.”
Screwing your face up, you shifted to your knees. “I mean, you should’ve seen his face, acting like I’m the one who messed this up, when he’s the one who said that shit to me. He’s the one who made me believe him, I totally thought that what he said was real. It felt real.”
Jongho marinated in silence, the gentle nods of his head encouraging you to go on.
“What do you take it as? ‘Cause I took that all as real,” you huffed, not giving him time to answer you. “You don’t say stuff like that, not to a friend. Especially not a guy friend to a girl friend, because that’s… that’s just…”
Crinkling his can in his hand, he shifted his lips to the side in thought. Eyes pointing from his beer, to you, he offered, “He made you feel something.”
“Yes,” you hissed without a second thought, “And that’s messed up.”
“Is it?”
Shooting him daggers, you shouted, “Yes!”
Jongho didn’t move. He didn’t even react. He simply asked, “Why?”
“I don’t… I don’t know,” you whispered, sitting back against the couch, planting a hand to your forehead. You downed the rest of your drink, your third of the night, and sat the empty can on his coffee table.
“Did he make you feel like Hongjoong makes you feel?” Jongho asked.
Rubbing your fingers over your bare eyes, your bare face, you shook your head. “No,” you answered honestly.
“How’d he make you feel?”
Giving him a look, he laughed.
“Tell me,” he teased, “I won’t judge.”
Taking a long, deep breath, you folded your arms over your front, your cozy hoodie, and released the air with a heavy sigh, one gravely and rough, a groan of sorts. Looking away from him, whether out of embarrassment or bashfulness, you lifted your shoulders and teetered your head side to side. “I wanted him to keep going,” you said, shifting your eyes over to him to see if he reacted. He didn’t. “I wanted… to know what else he would say. I wanted him to finish his sentence, and tell me what he really wanted.”
“That’s not bad at all,” he said quietly, finishing his beer.
The music changed into a softer song, one from the nineties. You recognized it, Yunho’s played it before, a one hit wonder gone rogue, never heard from again. You thought about him and how his brain worked, how passionate he felt about music, the joy it brought him, how it changed his mood in a snap, the way he’s devoted so much of his life to the art. No limits, that’s what he’d say music made him feel, immortal, everlasting, whole.
The songs he would send you in the morning when he knew you had a long day ahead of you, or when he knew the day would be a hard day, they always worked. As if he could feel what you were feeling, the tunes he prescribed cured you, in every which way. He cared. Deeply. San and Jongho didn’t get the songs. You did. And you haven’t gotten one in over a week.
Shifting onto all fours you crawled over to Jongho and wiggled his phone out of his pocket. Swiping open to his music, ignoring the dirty message from San on his home screen, you typed a title into the search bar, and you tapped on it. Turning the volume up, the song crashed through the speakers, bright and excited and invigorating, like Yunho himself burst through the door and lit up the room. The first verse led you into a story, a love song in disguise, one unlike any other, hidden behind a facade of futuristic melodies. And then the chorus hit, and your heart swelled.
‘I’ll stop the world and melt with you… You’ve seen the difference, and it’s getting better all the time… There’s nothing you and I won’t do…’
Haunted by memories, becoming a cage for them to flutter about in, you curled around your knees you tucked into your chest and buried your face in your arms.
All of the nights he’s walked you home from Dante’s, all of the nights he’s stayed, falling asleep either on your couch or in your bed on top of the covers still in your clothes from the bar. The days he’d swing by the office to drop off a new album find he thought you’d like, or bring you a coffee, or offer to take you to lunch, or to grab you something on his way to the label. This entire week, how he’s blown off work, or called out, or told Jag he’s not coming in, so that he can take you around the city and shop for a god damn company gala he agreed to fake date you at just to make your work crush jealous.
The way he looked at you the very first time you stepped into the record store, in a distressed denim jacket over top a short black dress that hugged your thighs, one that matched the boots on your feet– Boots you’ve since retired because they cannot handle the lengths you have to walk through the city. His eyes, they lit up. Half slumped over the counter with his chin in his hands watching the tourists flit about the rows of records just to not buy anything, when he saw you, he knew his luck had changed.
It was when he used to load his lobes with earrings, one of the first things you noticed, how he didn’t care how insane he may look to others. After picking up The Runaways Queens of Noise cassette, you slid it across the counter, shoved your hands in your pockets, and told him, “You’re cool.”
His slender knobby fingers grabbed the tape. Unable to take his eyes off of you, the style of your makeup, the grown out bright pink color at the tips of your hair, how confident you were in how you smiled at him. He stuttered, a lot, scanning the tape, typing something into the register, mumbling his thanks, and how he thought you looked pretty cool too… You laughed at him, you can remember laughing at him. With him. The sweetest, kindest, cutest New Yorker you’ve run into since your move.
Just before you stepped out onto the street, he called after you, “We’ve got new stuff coming in this weekend,” he gulped as you spun to smile at him, “We’re the only store that gets the good stuff, the real stuff, so… If you’re interested.” Any chance to see that face again.
“I’ll be here,” you’d smiled.
He’d given you a nod, some sort of relief washing over him. “Cool.”
“Cool.”
Leaping off of Jongho’s floor, tossing his phone onto his chest where he laid, you ran your hands through your hair and hurried for your shoes at the door. He sprung off the couch as you bustled about.
“What are you doing?”
Shaking your head, really fast, you slipped into your sandals and waved him away. “I have to go,” you sniffled. “I’ll call you later. Thanks for drinks.” Leaning into him to press a kiss to his cheek, you left him dumbfounded in his doorway.
“I’ll walk you, it’s late,” he shouted down his hallway.
Turning over your shoulder, you tried to smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”
Springing down three flights of stairs, you wiped your sleeves over your cheeks to dry them, and stepped out onto the street. Past nine o’clock, the New York nightlife bled onto the gravel, the stretches of concrete, balancing on curbs, weaving through cars, a favorite pastime of yours. And Yunho’s. Raw dogging the walk, no music, no phone checking, no one to talk to, you held your focus forward, your pace just as pointed, focused, brisk.
Cancel it all. The thought circled like a vulture in the hot summer sun. The gala, the fake dating, the crush on Hongjoong– Cancel it all. Get rid of it. None of this would happen, everything would go back to normal, and you wouldn’t be overthinking your feelings for Yunho. You already haven’t talked to him in three days, the dressing room incident having happened over seventy two hours ago. His hands touching you like you were the most delicate thing to exist. The way your bodies both reached for one another. How he told you everything he said wasn’t real.
“Not real my ass,” you muttered to yourself, stopping at a corner.
You crossed before the light turned, the tourists around you wide eyed and curious that a Do Not Cross didn’t stop you. They followed you, and you knew what they felt within them, the first time you darted across a street with the possibility of traffic incoming, little to nothing compared to that feeling. Doing everything for the first time in the city, the freedom, the anonymity, no limits, as if you were immortal, everlasting, whole. New York was your music.
‘The future’s open wide…’
Yunho was your music.
Summer air whipped through your hair, breezed over your skin, a type of fresh laced with a grunge you could taste, grit, determination, the opportunity to restart day after day, to become someone new, to step into who you were meant to be. Even alone on the street, strangers passed by, most you didn’t mind, they lived the life you envied, the life you came here to pursue, you had no fear. Somewhere he was here.
Yunho, a summer night on 32nd street, barreling up and down the sidewalks mouthing off, daring one another to go up to the karaoke bars, to flirt with the bartenders for free drinks, to climb the scaffolding and scream from the top of your lungs, just to fall into one another in fits of laughter before plopping down on a curb on the corner of 33rd and 5th Avenue to admire the Empire State Building. Dozing off on his shoulder as the liquor and rumble of the streets sung you to sleep. Having wandered too far from home, faced with an hour's walk back to your apartment… He tucked you under his arm, kept you awake by making you guess the songs he would sing, and he got you both on the subway and home before you realized you had to be up for work in three hours.
Faced with dirty looks from others as you pushed through a crowded street corner, you eyed the lights, the crosswalk, and the moment the lights changed and the cars stopped, you ran. Even after you hit the curb, you kept running, skipping sideways through groups of girls in tiny party dresses, rounding men with trash cans by the curbs, dodging doors that swung open onto the street. You ran until his building came into view.
Sucking down air like it was your job, you stepped into the vestibule and pressed 323. Pressing a hand over your heart that pounded, you waited. He didn’t answer.
“C’mon,” you gasped, pressing it again. It buzzed. You waited. He didn’t answer.
“Fuck,” you cursed, pulling your phone out. Swiping to his number, you tapped it, pressing your phone to your ear. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon… Pick up.”
“Your call has been forwarded to an automated–”
“Fuck!”
Leaning into the keypad, you pressed 323 eight times, quickly, before giving up with a groan. Kicking the wall, you staggered backward and sunk against the wall, staring at his apartment number like you’d be able to open it with your eyes. You tried his phone again, but he didn’t answer.
He should be home by now, he never stayed at the label this late. Unless he was making up for all the time he lost dealing with you, he never worked past eight, and usually got back by eight thirty. He could be with San, if you weren’t all out together, those two sometimes went out on their own, but it was Sunday.
About to tap his number again, or maybe Jongho, the inside door to the building pushed open, a woman in a knee length dress with curled hair holding it open for you. “Oh, here you go,” she said sweetly, her deep purple colored lips twisting into a smile. “I’ve seen you before.”
“Thank you,” you breathed, taking the door from her hands. Making sure it closed, you glared up the stairs and shook your head. “Six,” you spat. Go.
By floor three you were already winded. By floor five you propelled yourself up with your hands, slapping the concrete of the next step like it was your bitch. By floor six, you had to stop at the top and catch your breath. Several years in the city and the stairs were still your kryptonite.
He better fucking be here.
Trudging down the hallway of concrete floor and old brown walls, you stopped in front of 323 and held up a fist, freezing before you could pound on it.
What were you going to say? Would you apologize? Would he apologize? Neither of you had anything to apologize for, this was… dumb. Did you think you would show up at his door and tell him… that you don’t know what you’re feeling? That you’re confused, that you think you might like him, that your feelings may be deeper than you thought, that you screwed up six years ago and friendzoned him and he was too sweet to act further? To take it further? Even though the way he pressed his thumb to your lips, the way he had his hands in your hair, your thoughts on the backburner, and his heart in your hands, your knees trembling–
“Shug?”
Your heart sunk to your knees, your stomach leapt up into your throat.
Whirling around, fist still in the air, you released a sigh. “Yunho.”
Wearing sweats, an unlikely outfit for him to be out and about in, accessoryless with a baseball cap on his head, he carried a garment bag folded in half and another bag slung over his shoulder, his leather bag. “What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping in front of you to unlock his door.
Scrambling back to give him some space, you gaped, a fish out of water. “I-I was… I tried calling you, but I…”
“I left my phone here,” he muttered, pushing the door open. Looking at you over his shoulder, his face unreadable, he asked, “You coming in?”
Stepping over the threshold, following him onto the hardwood of his kitchen, you folded your hands over your belly and bit down on your tongue before blabbing, “I’m here to apologize.”
Setting the bags down on the kitchen table he and San share, he creased his forehead and moved to hang up his hat on the handle of a kitchen cabinet. Popping the fridge open, he eyed the shelves. “Apologize for what?”
“For…” You took a breath and spun in a little circle, almost catching your ankles together. “For–”
Facing him, he waited patiently, holding out a water bottle for you to take. Reaching for it tentatively, he shoved it into your palm. “You smell like alcohol.”
“I was at Jongho’s,” you muttered, all emotion leaving your face. He grabbed the back of his hoodie and pulled it over his head, his t-shirt lifting underneath, flashing you his middle. His toned, golden skinned middle. Averting your gaze, you faced away from him and sipped from the water.
Dressed down, entirely bare aside from the cotton that hung off of him, your apparent new attraction grew tenfold. His shirt was huge, his sweats were huge, but they were tight. They were tight in the–
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Snapping your eyes to his, you widened yours and nodded. “Yes,” you breathed, then screwed your eyes shut, “I mean, no, no, I’m not.”
“How did you get here?” He moved around his kitchen, searching for snacks in the cabinet. He was going to try to feed you. Hurrying to his side, you closed the doors he opened, and he gave you a crazed look.
“I ran,” you said.
He froze. Hands in the air hovering in front of a handle, he laughed aloud once, then turned to press his backside to the counters. “You ran,” he parroted, crossing his arms over his chest. His biceps rippled under the loose sleeves. The veins on his forearms, they ran through his elbow to his fingertips. His fingers, they… “Shug.”
“Yeah,” you sighed breathlessly, fluttering your lashes as you looked up at him.
His brown eyes narrowed. “What is up?” Whether your movements were liquor fueled or entirely not your own, you reached for his arms, smoothing your hands over his skin. Face faltering, his eyes shot open as you stepped in front of him, your knees parting around his where they stuck out. “You’re drunk,” he said.
“I’m really not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Then catch up,” you whispered, pressing your fingertips into his skin.
“What are you here for?”
You glanced at the fridge. “Have a drink first.”
Groaning, getting nowhere with you, he gently moved you out of the way and scoured his fridge for a beer while you rifled through the cabinet over the sink and pulled down a bottle of vodka.
“Oh no,” he snickered, “I don’t think so. Put it back.”
Giving him a small smile, you acquired two shot glasses from their resting place. Placing the bottle and the glasses on the counter with a rattle of the glass, you poured out two and knocked one back. “You tell the truth when you’re drinking,” you cringed, nudging his shot closer to him.
The confusion that lived in his eyes since he came up the stairs somewhat subsided, but was still present. Downing half of his beer at once, typical male, he reached for the shotglass with his other hand and shook his head before taking it. Smacking it to the counter top with a groan and a gasp, he said, “I’m gonna hate you tomorrow morning.”
“Maybe,” you said, small and quiet.
“What is going on?” He finished his beer and crunched the can in one hand, throwing it into the kitchen sink with a clang. Pouring two more shots, you held up the glass for him to clink his with yours, and you took them at the same time. “Fuck,” he sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Coughing once, you managed, “We’re not going to the gala.”
Eyes shooting open, he cocked his head aside and he poured two more shots. “You’re not serious, we’re good, so what, we argued, we’ve done that before, we’ll–”
“Not like that,” you said, and he frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Clinking your glasses, you both took your third shot and exclaimed aloud. Swallowing thickly, you pointed at him, leaning over the counter he stood on the opposite of. “We’ve never argued… like that.”
Yunho shrugged, pointing his eyes at the glasses. “Whatever.”
Slamming a hand to the counter, you laughed. “That’s all you have to say? Whatever? You’re agreeing with me.”
“Am not,” he spat, giving you a crazed look. “You were bugging out over what happened with that fuckass asshole, and you decided to take it all out on me!”
Scoffing, laughing, maybe both at once, you sprung up and held out your hands. “Would you like me to tell you I wasn’t even thinking about him at all?”
Yunho sneered, “Bullshit, you’re always thinking about him. Him and that god awful attitude, cocky son of a bitch–”
“I was thinking about you,” you shouted, pouring two more shots.
Yunho pushed off the counter and gripped his chin, pulling at his lips. Parading around the kitchen with one hand on his hip. “He’s horrible, he’s horrible, and the shit that he says, and the way he says it, like it’s okay. He talks to all women like that, not just you, but it’s worse because it is you, and I–”
“Yunho,” you raised your voice, moving around the counter to grab onto his arms again, shaking him. “Did you hear me?”
Shaking his head, still lost in his thoughts, he tensed his jaw. “I didn’t, I’m so angry, he pisses me the fuck off.”
“Don’t let him,” you said softly, dragging your hands over his biceps, his forearms, his hands. “He’s not worth it.”
His ragged sigh washed over you. “He’s not, but fuck, he really gets under your skin, how did you put up with him for so long, I just…”
“I don’t know,” you mumbled, answering him between his rambles, “But, I’m done. I’m over it.” Your fingers tangled with his briefly, his distracted mind subconsciously grabbing onto them, letting you do whatever it is you wanted to do to him in this moment.
“He needs to be fired, he needs to be reported and fired…”
“Seonghwa’s taking care of it, I don’t think he’ll get fired.” Sliding your hands from his arms to his middle, you step closer to him and drug them under his shirt, your fingertips finally grazing his middle, his core, his toned belly. He didn’t even realize, he just let you.
“Even if he doesn’t, there needs to be something done with the CEO’s or something, shit, I don’t even know what they’re even called, I don’t know how this shit works, I just know it’s fucked up, and you’ve been subjected to it for so long…”
Placing your palms over his belly, your breath hitching in your chest as you gazed up at him while you felt him, how his chest rose and fell with every heavy breath, how his abs clenched with every bite of a word, your blood ran red hot. His lips, moving a mile a minute, you don’t remember when you stopped listening, you wanted to listen, but all you could think about was how they felt, what they’d feel like on yours, wrapped around your…
“Shug.” His voice was quiet.
Looking up at him, how close the two of you had gotten, how he had backed up against the kitchen cabinets, how you were pressing yourself to him. Your hands got greedy, you were gripping him with a vengeance, feeling him up from his belly to his chest, your fingers were peeking out of the neck of his shirt. “Yunho,” you whispered, shameless.
Blinking heavily in the dim light of his kitchen, he dropped his chin, your noses millimeters apart. “Did you say… You’re over it?”
Both hands slid over his chest and up to his shoulders, pressing your thumbs into the muscles. Nibbling at your bottom lip, you took a breath in time with him and nodded, slowly, whispering, “I did.”
A curse pushed through his lips, one you couldn’t make out in the slur of the liquor. “What are you thinking about right now?”
You dropped your hands lower, your fingertips grazing his nipples on purpose before you gripped his belly. Proud of how he hissed and flinched, you smiled. “You,” you said, blinking up at him. “What you said to me, and how you said it… How it made me feel.”
Breathless, he sighed, “How did it make you feel?”
“Like,” you gulped, using all liquid courage to make these words work, “Like, I wanted… Wanted you to…”
“Fuck,” he whispered, then seemed to remember what he had done, what he said, what he made you feel, what he so obviously realized that he made you feel. Taking his hands to your chin, thumbs pressing into your cheeks, he tipped your head back and lowered his. Eyes burning into yours, his voice rumbled so low you could feel him in your core. “Words. Big girl, remember?”
“Take me,” you whispered, and he held back a smirk. “Take me, show me, do it to me, touch me, fuck me.” His lips parted with a sigh, his brows pinching in the center. “Do what he can’t, what he’ll never get the chance to do, love me.”
His eyes fluttered shut, his vodka laced breath grew uneven. “Hang on.. W-Wait…”
“Yunho,” you whined, and his eyes shot open. “I don’t care about what you’re gonna tell me, about how this s’gonna ruin something, it’s not gonna happen. I hate knowing there’s girls looking at you.”
“Girls looking at me,” he said an inside thought out loud.
“Ki told me,” you grumbled, sliding your hands around his back, leaning on his chest, “The girlies at the label love you.”
He squinted. “What girlies?”
“I dunno,” you said, loud, making him jump, “Maybe it’s Ki and Riley, I dunno, Yunho, do you hear me? I’m over this Hongjoong thing, I just told you to fuck me, and you’re standing here talking to me–”
His strong hands tipped you further back, his frame caging you in against his chest. Tilting his head, he curled his lip with a curse before pressing his lips to yours in a kiss burning hot, a mess of teeth, a mess of tongues, nothing perfect, just a total hot, wet mess. Gasping for air whenever your lips parted, you took your hands out of his shirt and threw them around his neck, lifting your knees to climb onto him. Grunting through clenched teeth as he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled you higher, he groaned as your fingers knitted through his hair, giving him the gentlest tug.
“You can pull harder than that,” he muttered, and you smiled within the kiss.
“Jeong Yunho,” you teased, head tilting as his lips trailed down the side of your neck. He took two steps forward and sat you down on the counter beside the vodka. Tugging again, harder, he groaned, a sound trapped within his chest. “This s’gon be fun,” you breathed.
Tongue lobbing out to lick stripes under your jaw, he nipped the skin of your neck and hummed, the noise vibrating through you. “Wha’s that,” he slurred, his hands gripping the curve of your waist, shamelessly sliding over your ass to squeeze.
“Figuring out what you like… What we like… Together.”
Connecting his lips with yours, he hummed here, smushing your noses together as he mumbled, “Let me do it.”
“Hm,” you hummed back, dipping your tongue out to swipe over his lips. Nipping at it with his teeth, his heavy eyes drank in your lips, already swollen and pink.
“Let me do it,” he whispered, knees buckling as he tried to kiss you. Holding him by his hair, Yunho entirely leaned over you, his eyes drunk on you, his body drunk on the liquor, he licked his lips and shook his head. “You won’t have to do a thing,” his lower register struck through you, you needed your sweats off, now. “You won’t have to move, you won’t have to think.” Your lips parted and your eyes softened, and he smirked. “Let me do it.”
“Shit,” you hushed, grabbing onto his shirt, yanking it over his head. “Please.” He did the same with your hoodie, pulling it off of you, pleased to find nothing beneath it. He didn’t miss a second. Kissing down your neck, his tongue teasing you in all the right places, he slid his hands down your thighs and pressed them open. Afraid that you soaked through the cotton, your suspicions became true when he grinned up at you. Pulling your legs closed, he forced them back open.
“Don’t,” he whispered, kissing up the valley between your tits, wrapping his lip around your nipple, sucking at it harshly. The first moan fell from your lips, and he nearly crumbled. Fingers digging into your thighs, he muttered, “So fucking perfect.”
Tugging at his hair, the strands a complete tangle now that you’ve mussed them up, your head dropped back with another cry as he kissed the other, using his fingers to tease the perky bud he left a slick mess. “Yunho–”
“God, so perfect,” he groaned, grabbing handfuls of your tits as he stood up to press an open mouthed kiss to your lips, tongues in a tangle, whines intertwining. “Wanna play with you forever.”
“Please, please–”
“Please, what?” Against your lips, he snickered, quietly, proud of what he’s done to you already.
“Touch me,” you whispered, sucking in a gasp as he slid his hands higher on your thighs, up to the curve of your hips, into the dips.
His smile against your lips made your breath shake. “Can I?”
“Yunho,” you whined, trying to grind onto him, but he stood an inch too far.
Glancing between you, he huffed a laugh. “Did I really work you up like this?”
Pulling at his hair, tugging him closer, your noses touched as you muttered, “I wanted you to dick me down on 7th Avenue, asshole.”
“Damn,” he pulled his brows together, “Really?” Rolling your eyes, he snickered. “There’s my girl.” You clenched around nothing, your jaw dropping open with a gasp. He dipped his thumbs over your clothed, wet, center. “Oh, that’s what you like, huh?” Writhing as his thumbs pressed into you, your moan made him pout. “Oh, babe,” he cooed, dragging them up and down, slowly, on purpose. “Feel good?”
Your fingers loosened in his hair. Limbs growing gooey, you smiled something ditzy and let your eyes close. “So good,” you whispered.
His lips ghosted your cheek, his nose pressing there instead. Rocking with you, he said, “I’m barely touching you. My girl’s needy, huh? Kept you waiting so long.”
“Why did you?” Breath irregular, you peeked at him and whined as he grazed over your sweet spot. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Touching the tip of his nose to yours, he gave you a gentle kiss, one that lingered, and whispered, “I was scared.”
“Don’t be,” you shook your head, feeling his thumbs still. The look in his eyes, one you’ve never seen before, one he’s kept hidden for too long, and you his mirror.
He took a hand to your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips. “I still am.”
“Let me prove this to you,” you whispered, “That this is real.” Squishing his cheeks in your hands, you kissed him and he laughed. “Let me do what you said you want me to do, let me–”
“No,” he said quickly, standing up straight, still taller than you even with you sitting on the countertop. “You have nothing to prove, nothing you owe, no task to fulfill. I had guy brain, and you don’t deserve guy brain.” Drinking in every word, you bobbed your head. “You really want me?”
Whispering, you smiled, “Since I met you.”
“Since you… Fuck, Shug,” he tried to push away from you, but you pulled him back in, engulfing his lips in a kiss, grabbing onto his shoulders, climbing on top of him. Clinging to his front, the feel of him holding you, carrying you, so secure, you wanted him to fall to the floor and let you defile him as you pleased, but he didn’t stay in the kitchen. Lips locked, he bumped into the skinny walls of the apartment as he stumbled into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.
The idea that San could come home at any minute didn’t come to either of you, you left your shirts on the kitchen floor.
Splaying you onto his mattress, climbing over you, he gripped the waist of your sweats and pulled them off, doing the same with his own, wasting little to no time. Mouths working overtime, stifled moans swapped with the spit, he cradled the back of your knees and pushed your thighs against your chest. Parting from you, lips smacking, you caught your breath as he sat back and gazed down at you spread open for him. Shaking his head, taking in how your chest heaved, how your hair was thrown so sexily, so messy, how you glistened for him, all for him.
He did this to you, made you a panting, sweaty, whiney mess. You were in his bed, naked in his bed, he kissed you, he touched you, he was about to… Fuck. Looking between you, at how he sucked down hungry air, how he gazed at your body in disbelief, how your legs were spread, how his heavy, leaking cock would not be able to fit inside of you…
“Yunho,” you whispered, or gasped, it sounded the same.
He gulped and gave you a shake of his head. “Trust me?”
“You’re so big,” you said without a second thought, and he held in his smile. “What the fuck, you… You’ve just been hiding this?”
“Would’ve let you see it if you asked me nicely,” he teased before his eyes narrowed slightly and he focused on your expression. “Trust me?”
Letting your head fall back on the mattress, you whispered, “Always.”
Bending in half, keeping his knees under your legs, he settled on top of you, soothing your racing heart with a soft kiss to your chest before he trailed up your neck to kiss your lips. His fingers smoothed down your belly and slipped between your legs, the first real feel of him touching you, teasing your clit, twisting his fingers in long, gentle circles to work you up, though it felt like he did this for his own enjoyment.
Smiling as he felt your lips part and your arms wrap around his back, he pressed gentle kisses to your cheeks, groaning with you as you moaned for him with little to no regard for the neighbors. Vulnerable, sensitive, intimate, he thinks he could live right here forever and devote the rest of his life to bringing you pleasure. He grew harder, if that were possible, he thinks he’ll finish untouched, until you finally beg.
“Wanna feel you, wan’ you inside,” you pushed out through gusts of breath, “Please, Yunho, need you, need you.”
“Sound so pretty,” he mumbled through kisses to your skin, “Gotta help me, baby, okay?”
Your whine echoed through his room as you cried, “Okay.” Brows twisting, body burning, you arched off his bed as he slid two long, slender, curved fingers inside of you.
“Damn, Shug,” he said through his teeth, scissoring his fingers as he slid them out of you before he pushed them back in. “Tight little thing, you gonna take all of me?”
“Yes,” you cried, melting into his touch, the slip of his fingers.
“Don’t be an overachiever,” he cooed, nudging your nose with his, the tips of your lips brushing together.
Jaw clenching, you stilled your breath, choked back a moan as he pressed his fingers up, finding that spot with ease, and managed to say, “I could go fuck Hongjoong instead.”
Yunho saw red. You broke out into a grin, biting down on your bottom lip. Pulling his fingers out of you, he grabbed both of your wrists and pinned them over your head. Connecting his hips with yours, his cock slipping through your arousal, over your clit, he laughed as you whined, and he held you tighter, your legs, your body, folded in half.
“You’d think I’d see this coming,” he groveled, pressing his nose to your cheek. Angling his hips so his tip caught your entrance, he bared his teeth and spat, “My girl’s a brat.” The pressure between your hips grew as he pushed himself into you, inch by inch, slowly, lips parting as you sucked him in, both of you. “You want him?” His voice shook, his stomach tensed, his grip on your wrists grew even tighter.
Through a breath, you cried, “Yunho,” back arching into his chest, arms and legs writhing in ecstasy, the shock subsiding leaving you completely and utterly cockdrunk.
“Moanin’ my name, but telling me y’want him,” he snapped, testing the waters with a slow drag of his hips. Using one hand to hold both your wrists, he took the other between your legs, playing with you. “Who knew my girl was so messy, huh? You feel this?” The tip of his middle finger swirled over your clit, your body trembling. “So wet,” he whispered, grazing his lips over the shell of your ear, “Let me right in, baby, you don’t want him. You’re just a needy little cockslut who’ll say anything to get what she wants, huh?”
Pleasure shot through your middle. “H’my god,” you moaned as he moved again, each gentle thrust of his hips rendering you thoughtless. “Your mouth.”
“My mouth?” He thrust again, harder this time. You nodded and parted your lips to speak, but he slid his finger in, the one he touched you with, spreading your own sweetness over your tongue. “Talk about yours.” Lips wrapping around the digit, you sucked as he pushed it towards the back of your throat, seeing stars as he pushed into you, harder, getting faster as he felt you relax further.
“Saying his name,” he snapped, pulling his finger out with a pop to your dismay. You whined and he shook his head. “Bad girls don’t get what they want, do you hear yourself?” Both of his hands held onto your wrists again. Shifting over you, pressing down on your hands, propping himself up on his knees, lifting your hips in the debauched act, he smirked. “You’re mine.”
Insatiable, starved, entirely feral, he pistoled into you, your foreheads pressed together, your lips bumping with every other moan, every other smack of his hips against yours.
“You’re mine,” he growled again, catching your bottom lip between his teeth, his breath rough and ragged. Enthralled with how you writhed, how you cried out his name, how no other word seemed to come to mind, he smiled wickedly, and you clenched around him. “Squeezin’ me already, you like to hear that? That you’re mine?”
“Yes,” you whispered, your lungs filling with air that didn’t seem to release, “Say it, say it.”
He let go of your hands and groaned, sliding them beneath your body, holding onto you. Burying his face in your neck, he latched his teeth to your skin as he rutted into you and moaned, “Mine. No one else can fucking touch you,” he pushed himself up to his elbows to kiss you messily, “I do have a claim on you, fuck anyone else who tries. You belong to me.”
Hands clasping around his back, your nails dug into his skin, scrambled pink lines drawing over the expanse of his golden skin. Your body, gleaming with a sheen that matched his, clung to him. So full, so complete, you didn’t want him to let go. You’d spend eternity getting rocked senseless by Jeong Yunho.
The press of his lips to your skin, the clench of your belly as he pushed himself inside you to the hilt, his hands clinging to you like you were the last strain of sanity in the world–
“I love you,” you whispered, feeling your throat tighten. Tears welled in your eyes as he picked up his head in shock, his eyes wide, his hips slowing.
Mid-breath with parted lips, he brought his hands to your cheeks and held you.
“God, don’t stop,” you whined, half laughing as your tears spilled, “Keep going.”
Yunho, heart thundering in his chest, breath racking through his lungs, he shook his head and drug his thumbs under your eyes to wipe them clean. It took him eight seconds, but he whispered, “I love you too.”
Gazing up at him, trembling in ecstasy and through tears, you grabbed his cheeks and pulled him down to kiss him, hard and soft, all at once. Within it he groaned and grabbed onto you, wrapping himself around you, hitting that pace from before, hard and soft, all at once.
Minutes passed, several sweaty, disgusting, erotic minutes of skin on skin, becoming a part of one another. His bed had shifted, it banged into the wall, the frames of old records already shaking from the noise alone. You were too wrapped up in one another to notice, to care, to give a shit. From mewls, to moans, to giggles, to filthy words, neither of you wanted this to end, but with an ending came a promise of again.
High pitched and entirely deranged, you cried out for him, your vision searing white hot, your body doused in him, clenching around his cock, shaking in his hold, giving him the most vulnerable part of you, allowing him to drive you here, to hold you through it, to talk you through it. His swift mumbles of, “Good girl, oh fuck… Feels so good, I know, did so good… I’m right here, right here– Fuck, where do you want it?”
“Inside,” you whispered, voice broken, only able to hold onto him, your nose pressed to his cheek. “Inside.”
The creak beneath you was obscene as he sped up, focused on his own high, spiraling you into overstim. Head going dizzy as he took you, and used you for what he wanted, what he needed, you moaned with him as he spilled into you, his teeth pressing into your shoulder as he came.
Everything went still, aside from the rise and fall of your chests. Everything went quiet, aside from the gentle noises slipping through your lips.
Lifting his head, his lids heavy, his lips swollen, he gazed down at your fucked out eyes and flushed cheeks and sighed. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered, pushing hair from your face, planting a kiss to your cheek. Blinking up at him, you could only manage a small smile. “Was this your plan? When I found you at my door?”
Shaking your head, you moved at a snail's pace, taking your hands to his cheeks, your body exhausted and trembling. “No,” you whispered, smoothing your thumbs under his lashes, “Just wanted the truth.”
Yunho pursed his lips, his brows curious under his messy hair. “The truth?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, “You do love me.”
“I have since I met you,” he confessed, dragging the backs of his fingers along the edge of your jaw.
“I think I have, too,” you whispered. “I was just…”
Yunho shut his eyes for a second. “Scared.”
“Yeah, scared.”
He started to smile. “Are you still?”
“Not with you,” you whispered, “Never with you. Why do you think I had the balls to say it?”
Laughing, he shifted over you and your bodies parted. Admiring how your lips popped open at the feel, he smiled and pressed a kiss to your bottom lip. “I love you,” he said quietly, like someone would hear him, someone like you.
Cheeks going pink, you smiled. “I love you too.”
“Come shower with me,” he whispered against your dewy skin.
“You might have to carry me, you’re a wild animal.”
His smile pierced through your heart and stirred your belly, swimming in the leftover pleasure he’d brought you to mere minutes ago. “Anything for you, Shug.”
Crawling off of you, he helped you up and wrapped an arm around your back. Pulling open his door a crack, he peered out into the shared space and listened.
Swatting at his chest, you giggled, “You really think he came home?”
Shrugging, he shot you a sarcastic look, “Wouldn’t be able to hear him if he did, you’re really loud.”
“Yunho,” you gasped, bumping him with your hip.
“Look’s like your strength is back,” he teased, “Guess you can walk to the bathroom alone.” His grin grew as he slid his arm off of you, laughing as you grabbed onto him and clung to his side.
“Don’t be a jerk.”
Smoothing a hand over your hair, he hushed you and shook his head, “I’m sorry, I’m kidding, I’d never. C’mon.”
Taking you out toward the kitchen, the bathroom on San’s side of the apartment, you tiptoed over the hardwood, and you both paused.
Your hoodie and his shirt, they were folded neatly and placed on the counter beside the bottle of vodka that had been capped, the shot glasses arranged nicely next to it.
“Uh, we didn’t do that, did we?” he asked, sharing a just as confused look with you.
Thinning your lips, you felt your cheeks flush of all color as you looked up at him. “Nope.”
“Ah, shit,” he grumbled, “Where’s my phone?”
Glancing around, letting yourself slip away from him, you searched for yours as well. Finding it on the other counter, again placed nicely, surprised he didn’t also plug it into a charger for you, you swiped it open and drafted a text to Seonghwa, one you sent with an apology for the late hour.
Yunho groaned from behind you, swiping his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back. “Well,” he trailed off, stepping to your side, showing you his screen and his text from San.
UR BROTHER: jongho and i are going to dante’s, glad you idiots worked this shit out IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME… meet us here when you’re done, i want details, jongho doesn’t, please help me torture him… sounds like your doing a good job though!!!
Your shoulders rose to eat your ears.
Yunho bent his knees and leaned into you, popping a kiss to your cheek. “Loud.”
“Stop!” Whining, you shoved him, and he staggered back with a laugh.
“It’s hot,” he shrugged, reaching for you to pull you into the bathroom, “I like it that way. We gonna go get a drink?”
Leaning against the doorframe, watching him turn the hot water on, you admired his bare body and smirked. “If we’re sure that San’ll go home with Jongho.”
Whipping himself around, he took one stride toward you and looped his arms around your neck, pulling you into him. “He always goes home with Jongho, and you’re coming back here with me.”
Biting down on your bottom lip, you smized. “You serious?”
He curled his lip and dropped his chin down to kiss you rough, whispering, “Deadly. Now get in here and let me see if I can make you cum in five minutes.”
“Yunho,” you laughed, having blushed more in your time with him this evening than ever in your life. He whisked you beneath the hot water and pushed you up against the wall, kissing you.
Pulling his lips away, he pressed his forehead to yours and took a deep breath. “I don’t wanna go to the gala.” A smile pulled at the corners of your lips, growing until you almost doubled over in laughter. “Whaaat,” he whined, laughing with you, the sound contagious.
Gripping his cheeks you shook him a bit. “Don’t worry about that, we’re not going. I just told Seonghwa.”
“Oh,” he sighed, relieved, “Okay, good, that’s okay?”
“More than okay,” you rolled your eyes, “I didn’t wanna go either.”
Pulling his lips to the side, he said, “I got your dress fixed.” Taking your wide eyes for an answer, he added, “I went back to the store to get it, San knows someone really good at this kind of stuff.”
“Who is she?”
“He. A drag queen in Greenwich.”
Huffing through a laugh, you shook your head. “You know sometimes they prefer it if you call them she.”
Yunho furrowed his brows. “His name was Brian.”
Tilting your head, you squinted. “Huh… Why are they all named Brian?”
“Don’t know…” His voice trailed off, leaving you both in thought until he dropped down to his knees and spread your thighs apart with his chin. Laughing at how you shrieked, he wiggled his way between them and kissed the inside of your hips.
Your fingers tangled with his hair. Laying your head on the wall, you laughed breathlessly, “Five minutes.”
He smirked and poked out his tongue. “Starting now.”
you do not have permission to copy or translate my works without my consent.
one date with someone else is all it took to realize you're in love with your roommates, wooyoung and san. but do they want you as much as they want each other? ⋆.˚
━ woosan x fem!reader, roommates/best friends to lovers, smut minors dni, 18+, consumption, mxm, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, threesome, don't wanna spoil anything so read at ur own risk!
━ wc 28.6k
━ happy almost cb day! this fic is my second & final installment of @everyonewooeverywhere ‘s fic exchange event, and a gift for my bestest friend in the world, love of my life @chimivx ᢉ𐭩 this is the best lie ive ever told, the best secret i've ever kept, i even stole your layout for it! you deserve the world my plum, and i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it ⋆˙⟡ ⋆.˚
“I think that dress is saying, ‘Take me back to your place,’ but the other one leaves more room for mystery, like maybe, ‘I could come home with you, but I might just be here for free dinner.’”
With your hands on your hips, you stared at your roommate, San, unimpressed. Curled up on your bed, he laid on his side, one palm holding up his head, the other on your puppy’s belly, rubbing it while your black lab laid there with his paws up, tongue lolling out of his mouth.
“Which one are you going for?” He asks after receiving nothing but silence in return, one knee bent up, the other extended straight along the length of your mattress, his foot near your pillows.
A date with a shared friend of your two roommates, one you originally didn’t want to go on, but were now somewhat excited for. You haven’t been on a date in a while, which you didn’t think much of, but it seemed everyone and their mother was more than concerned for your love life than you were. You were content with San and Wooyoung, your two roommates, and your one year old black lab named Sweetie who was almost as big as you.
After fighting both San and Wooyoung’s attempts at convincing you to go out with Yunho for a week, you finally agreed, days into the follicular phase of your cycle, mere moments out of the month when you craved the touch of a man. Now, mid-ovulation, you weren’t completely sure where you wanted to end up tonight.
You knew Yunho well. Being a friend of both San and Wooyoung, he was over your apartment all the time, with his shaggy brown hair, cozy clothes that made him look like a librarian, legs that stretched on forever. Sometimes you caught yourself staring at his veiny hands for a second longer than what was considered appropriate, but you never thought of Yunho as an actual option.
When you came home after a long day of teaching, blabbing to San and Wooyoung how the other teachers at the studio teased you for being single yet again, telling you that you should at least go on dates, the pair took it upon themselves to find you a suitor. Silently, without your knowledge, they hooked you up with Yunho, one of the only other single people in their friend group. Your friend group.
“I guess the second one?” You tilted your head to the side in thought, turning to stare at yourself in the mirror again, a black dress that hugged your curves dangerously. “Maybe this is more club than it is dinner and drinks.”
“Try on the other one again,” San tilted his chin toward the brown dress you tossed on the chair in the corner of your room, the one usually tucked under your desk that held your two-monitor PC setup. Used mainly for The Sims 4. No one had to know that part, though, your set-up was sick.
You whined, head falling backward, effectively giving up. Sweetie’s head picked up, and San’s amused smile grew as you trudged across your bedroom, crawling on your bed, sprawling yourself across your best friend who rolled on his back, opening his arms to welcome you in.
San chuckled, your head tucked below his chin, vibrations bleeding through your skin. His body was so hard beneath you, so warm and inviting, you could happily stay here, buried into him forever. He turned his head, making room to press a kiss to the top of your head, “You’ll have fun, Yunho’s a great guy. He’ll treat you well.”
“What if I just want to cuddle and watch movies all night? Is it so bad to cancel now?” You mumbled, voice muffled by the cotton white tee he wore, one from the pack you bought him a month ago. His home uniform, a white tee that clung to his body like latex, and gray sweats that hung so low on his hips you wondered how they didn’t fall off sometimes.
“Come on,” San ushered you upward, his chest pushing on your cheek until you pulled your arms under your body to lift yourself off of him. You pouted, he smiled, dimples joining the party on your bedspread. “If you don’t like him, you leave, no harm, no foul.”
“He’s your friend,” you whined again, bottom lip jutting out in the most exaggerated way. “Why did I agree to a set up with one of your friends?”
Just as San was about to protest that Yunho is one of your friends too, you heard the front door snap open, sneakers hitting the wall as he kicked them off his feet, you always heard him before you saw him. Yours and San’s heads turned to your opened bedroom door as Wooyoung yelled from the living room, “It’s date night!”
You sighed, sitting backward, legs tucked under you. Sweetie got up from where he snuggled against San and joined your pity party by laying across your lap, head nuzzling into your tummy. Like a reflex, you scratched your fingers along his back, on the top of his head, he pushed air through his nose in delight.
Wooyoung ran into your bedroom, halting dramatically in your doorway, both hands propped up on the frame on either side of his head. His eyes danced between you, San and your dog, but they landed on San. “Why isn’t she ready?” Eyes sliding to you, “Why aren’t you ready?”
“I don’t wanna go,” your head tipped back again, whining, “Sweetie doesn’t want me to go either, look at him, he’s so cozy. He wants me to stay home and cuddle with him.”
Wooyoung’s lips flattened in a line, “You can’t cancel on him, Shy. He’ll be here in thirty minutes to pick you up, it’s rude if you cancel now. Get up, girl.”
Your top lip curled in distaste, you hated when he said your name like that, even if it was the nickname they both had for you. Really, it was San’s nickname, which was originally your mother’s, he picked it up when he was three, when your entire family called you their shy girl. The nickname had always stuck with him, even after moving away from your hometown and into the city that your family thankfully wouldn’t step foot in, even after almost a decade. When you met Wooyoung your junior year of college, he thought the nickname was so damn cute he started calling you Shy, too.
Wooyoung moved to the center of your room, movements fluid, eyes dancing about the space like he was your fairy godmother. Picking up the brown dress thrown over your chair, he cheered, “Aha! I love this one on you.”
Sighing, you tapped on Sweetie’s head, a warning to him before you stood up. He crawled off your lap and back into San’s chest, settling in his side just like he had before you interrupted. You stood up off the bed, pulling your dress down your thighs, and Wooyoung grinned, eyes flaring, “That dress is an option? What, are you planning on fucking him?”
Eyes narrowing, you scowled at him, crossing the room to snatch the brown dress from his hands. In all black, jeans, tee and jacket, he wore his hat backwards on his head, hiding his short, cropped black hair. Rings adorned his fingers, silver necklaces on his neck, he and San so opposite it still made you laugh at how close the three of you are.
You supposed you were the glue. To Wooyoung’s hotheaded, outspoken, free-bird self, San was more emotional, logical, he actually thought before he spoke, when his feelings didn’t cloud his mind. You were the perfect combination, spontaneous yet level-headed, in tune with your emotions, in tune with theirs, you were the ground they stood on, the final word in their decisions. Why did you need to go on this date when all you needed was in this room with you?
“No,” you bite, throwing the dress on the bed while you pull the one you already wore up and off your body.
Woo laughed, sitting down on the chair he stole the dress from, “No? Your panties match your bra.”
“I just wanted to be prepared,” you throw the dress at him as soon as it's off your body and he catches it with one hand, eyes obviously drinking in your figure. Too close for comfort, that’s what the three of you were, roommates and best friends and an enigma no one around you can understand.
When you turn to San, his eyes are on Sweetie before him, his fingers lightly scratching his head. Always polite, always considerate, you grabbed the brown dress you threw on the bed, forcing yourself to not recall the days where he wasn’t so respectful.
“Did you shave? Be honest,” Wooyoung’s eyebrows raise as you step into the low cut, bodycon brown dress. You snort, walking towards him so he can zip it up your back.
“I trimmed,” you answer simply, amusement dancing in your tone, pulling your hair to one side to give him access to the zipper. He straightens in the chair, one hand on your hip as the other tugs the chilly zipper up your back, he stands back up to reach the top. You turn to him, hair still grasped in your fist, brows raised as the thought crosses your mind, “Should I have shaved?”
“Hell no,” San responds from the bed, eyes trained on you and Wooyoung standing feet away from him. “Yunho’s a man, like, a man. He doesn’t give a fuck if you have a bush or whatever.”
“You should have left the bush,” Wooyoung’s smile is swimming in his eyes too, half-joking, half-serious, “it’s like unwrapping a present on Christmas morning.”
You peel away from him with a laugh as you stand before your full-length mirror, hands gliding down your body as you twist from side to side, head tilted to look at yourself from every angle. You look good, the color compliments your features, accentuates your curves just enough, you didn’t know if the heavy feeling in your gut was anxiety or if you didn’t feel confident or what. It’s been a long while since you’ve been on a date. You sigh, “I just feel like it’s too much.”
Wooyoung comes up behind you, one of his veiny hands on your waist, his cologne in your nose. Woody, notes of creamy sandalwood, spicy, you ease into his touch as he swings a pair of pumps around your front for you to look at through the mirror. You missed when he grabbed them from your closet. “You’ll feel better with these on,” his voice is low in your ear, velvety even if it wasn't intentional, “Your legs will look longer. He’ll wanna eat you from across the table instead of his food.”
You nod, swallowing, ridding your thoughts of all things incriminating about your roommate and best friend. He moves to crouch down on one knee in front of you, your heels on the floor beside him. San, on his stomach now, is beaming while he watches Wooyoung give you princess treatment as if your heart wasn’t reaching tachycardic level, “It’s like you’re Cinderella. Shinderella.”
Your brows scrunch as a punched laugh rushes from your chest, one palm holding the hat on Wooyoung’s head for leverage as you slip your foot into the deep maroon heel he’s holding out for you. “That was an awful joke, Sannie.”
“I liked it,” Wooyoung smiles up at you, sincerity in his eyes, all warmth and love as he grabs the other shoe, “You deserve to be treated like a princess, so if he doesn’t hold the door open for you, pull the chair out for you, if he doesn’t pay the bill, you come home straight to us.”
He stands up on two feet to lean forward, pressing a kiss to your freshly done hair, hands squeezing your shoulders, “Why does this lowkey feel like a big deal?” He turns around to look at San while your face flushes aggressively, “I feel like we’re giving her away.”
San snorts a laugh, tucking a muscled arm under his head to lay his cheek on, “She knows she’s ours at the end of the day.”
You roll your eyes, hands on your hips again as you turn to San, disagreement in your body language but in your heart you know it’s fucking true. Ever since you were little, you’ve looked up to San in a way, always taller than you, stronger than you, older than you. Even if it’s only by a year, you’ve always seen him as someone wiser, someone you could count on no matter what, if you needed him, he’d be there. Because of that you’ve always stuck by his side, never treading farther than arm’s reach, because as much as you were San’s, he was also yours.
And he knew it in his bones, too.
“It’s one date,” your voice is full of reassurance as you walk to your closet, pulling out your collection of bags, totes, purses, already having one in mind. Finally finding the tiny black Coach purse as you realize what you’d just said, you whip around to look at his dimpled-cheeks deep in the pocket of his elbow, purse tucked under your arm, “Why was I just about to convince you why I should go? This is getting very backwards.”
“Because you love us so much, you don’t want us to sit here all night, all sad because some six foot sexy man is taking you away from us,” Wooyoung’s voice is full of humor as he sits back on your bed, one leg tucked under him, one hand rubbing San’s exposed ankle. He sits up a little straighter, “You should still go, though. We won’t be that sad.”
With your features blown into offense, you scoff, “I’d expect you two to be crying, nervous wrecks while I’m gone. You’re telling me you’ll be fine and dandy while I’m off getting pounded by that same six foot sexy man?”
“Pounded?” Wooyoung and San answer at the same time, their eyes wide, eyebrows in their hairlines. San even picked his head up from the pocket of his elbow.
You laugh loudly as you put your everyday purse on Wooyoung’s lap, transferring all your necessities into the tiny handbag. San sits up, crawling behind Wooyoung with his legs straddling the younger man’s back, “You’re really gonna fuck him?!”
“Do we need to have the talk?” Wooyoung blinks at you, face completely shocked, leaning back into San’s arms that wrapped around his front, “When was the last time you even had sex?”
“I’m twenty-eight years old, first of all.” You hold up two hands in front of you, palms flat, facing both men. “Second of all, I don’t know! Who knows? If the date goes super awesome-ly then I might end up in his bed, yeah.” You point a finger at Wooyoung, eyes narrowing, “Third of all, screw you. Two years, shut up.”
Wooyoung raises his arms in defense, lips tucked between his teeth to stop himself from giggling. San still looks surprised, cheeks pink, jaw slack and eyes wide, “I– I don’t know why I’m so shocked that you admitted that so easily.”
“You’re acting like I’ve never had a boyfriend before,” you close the clasp on your purse, “I may have not fucked in two years but I’ve fucked plenty.” Looking at Wooyoung again, you ask, “Can I wear your Chrome Hearts jacket? The leather one?”
Wooyoung nods with his face scrunched like it was no biggie before asking, “So are we expecting you home tonight or what?”
“Why are you being so adamant about this?” Your eyes bounce between them, lingering on San’s cheeks that deepen by the minute, “I don’t know yet, jeez. What time is it?”
San scrambles for his phone, “He’ll be here in ten.”
As if Yunho himself was in your bedroom with the three of you, the doorbell rang. Your eyes widen, “Shit, he’s early.”
“We’ll distract him,” Wooyoung grabs your waist to move you to the side as he stands, rushing out of your room to greet Yunho at the door. Sweetie jumps off the bed next, following him, probably thinking something exciting was happening, and San mimics the two as the third musketeer.
Your finishing touches, extra deodorant, more perfume for good luck, a little lip gloss, a few fluffs to your hair. You caught yourself in the mirror again before leaving, doing another three-sixty, viewing yourself from every angle possible without twisting into a pretzel. Scrunching your lips, you stare at your own face, something still didn’t feel right. You hated when your gut was telling you something, but didn’t say what it was.
The three are in the kitchen, four if you count Sweetie, mid-conversation as your heels announce your presence before you breathe a word. Meeting San’s eye and then Wooyoung’s, both stared at you in awe, affection sparkling in their dark eyes, like they’d never seen you so dressed up before. Sweetie is at Yunho’s feet, the six foot man crouched into a hunched-over ball, hands scratching the dog’s ears until he sees you.
“Wow,” he stands, black slacks on his long legs, a cream-colored button up on his upper half, brown jacket thrown over his arm. Black hair styled and off his forehead, he looked clean, crisp, handsome. “You look beautiful.”
Your face heats up, beaming as you say, “Thanks, you look handsome, too.”
Wooyoung giggles like a child, you snap your head to sneer at him, catching San who’s still staring at you fondly. They’re like your parents, chaperoning your first date like you’re a teenager.
Wooyoung skirts around the kitchen island, “Your jacket, milady.”
Rolling your eyes, you smile apologetically at Yunho who looks amused as Wooyoung drapes the leather jacket over your shoulders. Yunho’s eye drops to the emblems on the sleeves as you slip your arms inside, the obvious Chrome Hearts crosses, the jacket Wooyoung paid an arm and a leg for. His eyes flicker before rising back to your gaze, face unreadable for a moment before he slaps the bright smile back on his cheeks.
“Ready?” He asks after you pull your hair out from beneath the collar.
Nodding, you murmur, “Yeah, ‘m ready.”
San and Wooyoung stay tucked into each other, watching like proud mothers as you wave your goodbye, wiggling your eyebrows. You blow a final kiss to Sweetie before you’re out the door, in the open air of an unforgiving February night, Yunho’s car parked directly next to yours. He opens the door for you, closes it behind you, and he’s in the driver’s seat in a flash.
“How are you?” He asks as he clasps his seatbelt and immediately you’re filled with the ick of inevitable awkwardness. You hated small talk, you hated this feeling, of a new relationship budding, of not automatically being at the oversharing-because-I-can stage.
But you respond politely, with a smile on your face that he couldn’t see through, all the way to the fucking restaurant. A nice place, moody lighting, an obvious date night spot. Your table is off to the side, against the beige-colored wall, more private than the center of the restaurant, thankfully. The air between you is a little more congenial by the time you’ve had a quarter of your fruity cocktail and there’s food placed at the center of the white tablecloth.
“I love my kids,” you shake your head, swallowing down a bite of the appetizer he ordered, “they’re all great kids, it’s the parents that make me want to rip my hair out.”
Yunho laughs, an easygoing thing, and you smile when it reaches your ears. “They’re all bad?”
“Not all of them,” you respond, words practiced, almost scripted, at the point in date talk where you were discussing what you do for a living. Next comes future talk, if this went anything like the dates you’ve been on in the past did. “Just the ones that nitpick everything I do, like they have any idea what they’re talking about.”
Yunho nods, “It’s like that at my job, too. But not with parents, with clients, the ones who talk about artwork like it means something to them. I know they just think it looks cool and they want it on their wall, but that’s enough, I mean, leave it at that. I understand not everyone is a connoisseur.”
Your grin widens, a giggle falling past your lips as you bring your glass up to catch it. You have to give it to him, he’s funny, but not as funny as Wooyoung. He doesn’t look at you the way San looks at you, either.
By the time you’re halfway through your entree you know you aren’t going home with him. You could possibly see him again, depending on how the second half of your entree goes, but the need to see him naked on top of you isn’t quite there. A sweet guy, heart of gold, you know he’s a genuine friend, you’ve had plenty of conversations with him before at your apartment during gatherings to know enough about his nature. But romantically, sexually, there isn’t a spark in your veins, a sizzling to your blood, a dampening in your panties that makes you want more.
He’s a great guy– but he’s not for you.
“Can I ask you something?” Now a singular piece of chocolate cake between you accompanied by two silver forks, you nod as you dig the prongs into the triangular edge.
“Your jacket,” he raises his perfectly trimmed brows to the leather that hangs off the back of your chair, “it’s Wooyoung’s?”
“Definitely,” you nod furiously, without missing a beat, “you know him and Chrome Hearts are in a very serious, very committed relationship.” The smile Yunho gives you in response doesn’t completely reach his eyes. You pop a brow, “Why?”
His fork dances around the plate, “I don’t know.” Setting it down softly, he leans back in the upholstered chair, “wearing his jacket on a first date, when he’s the one who set us up. I don’t know.”
Your head tilts, heat flooding you, the nervous kind. Confusion bites at the corners of your eyes as you blink at him, “What do you mean?”
“Can I be frank?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re Yunho, but sure.”
Amusement huffs from his nose, but he doesn’t exactly smile. “Is there anything going on between you?”
You pause, mid-bite, cake millimeters from touching your tongue. Body going hot, your arm lowers slowly, “Between who?”
“Between you and Wooyoung. You and San. Both of them, I don’t know.”
Your brows shoot upward, jaw dropping, “What the fuck?” Looking around, noticing the eyes on you, you cover your mouth with your hand. You didn’t realize the volume you cursed at— you mumble an I’m sorry sheepishly to the room around you.
“I’m serious,” Yunho leans forward again, and his eyes are so genuine it throws you for a loop. You knew your friendship with the pair was closer than the typical, a little strange at times, with the flirting and the touching and the looks. You knew how you felt about your roommates, your best friends, how there’s a certain depth in the way they treat you, love and respect too raw to be faked, how it always makes your stomach pang with gratitude too deep to express.
“No, Yunho.” You shake your head, fork landing on the small, ceramic plate. The words are short, not necessarily offended, but it’s clear the question didn’t sit well. Your relationship with the two men, both a third of your being, is completely platonic.
Did it really seem like it wasn’t?
“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, eyes squeezed tight, regret oozing off of him. “I don’t know why I asked you that, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you try to laugh to ease the tension, but it comes off demeaning. Yunho stiffens, hands coming up to dig the pads of his fingers into his eyes. “I’m serious, it’s fine. I know we’re a little closer than your average roommates, but we don’t fuck.”
You could feel eyes in the room on you again, this time you ignore them. Yunho’s hands leave his face, eyes cracking open, words escaping from his lips too quickly to have been thought about first, “You never have? Not even with Sannie?”
“Not even with Sannie, no. I haven’t seen him naked since we were seven, we’ve never once kissed, nothing.”
Lies. Lies, lies, lies. You don’t know why they spill from your lips like a waterfall, like you had to defend yourself. Maybe you were trying to convince yourself more than Yunho.
His brow pops like he asked the question just to receive your deception, “That’s not true.”
Taking you by complete surprise, your heart plummets, sputtering, “O-okay, well—”
How did he know? He shouldn’t know about your times in college, Sannie throwing you around the mattress with a boy from your English class. Or the handful of times with the girl from your contemporary dance class. Or the times you’ve been each other’s New Year's Kiss, or the times you’ve messily made out in the corner of a frat house after he finished a keg-stand. It was all platonic, anyhow, so whittled down to ancient history it wasn’t even worth bringing up.
“Why lie if you aren’t doing it still?”
Your eyes widen. You don’t know why you lied. You weren’t expecting him to catch you in it. Your ears are on fire.
“I’m not lying!” It comes out louder than intended, too defensive, too full of quickly found, nervous anger. If you were honest with yourself, you thought about ancient history often, you thought about what it would have been like with Wooyoung involved too, yours and San’s missing link. A line you haven’t crossed. You and San haven’t touched each other since you were twenty-one.
But you still think about it. More than you should.
You empty a much needed breath, one heavy and long. You ignore the stares of the people around you. You try not to let Yunho’s gaze be patronizing. You try not to feel the embarrassment radiating off of him.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, head dropping down until your chin is tucked. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“I do,” Yunho says quietly, almost shakily, like he’s scared of saying the words that follow. “You and them… you want it, don’t you?”
“We’re just friends,” you nearly whisper, an unexplainable tightness in your chest. “Roommates,” you add, and it sounds like an insult.
He lays an open palm on the table, and you pick your head up to meet his soft smile, eyes full of sadness, pity. You take his hand anyway.
“You should really tell them how you feel so this doesn’t happen again.”
How you feel?
How you feel?
You don’t even know how you feel. You have memories that linger, a soft spot for the two men you spend all your time with that was the size of a crater. You have touches, eyes, words you weren’t sure should mean more than they do. You have emotions, you have a fantasy you keep buried, you have a secret that would shatter you if it ever saw the light of day.
That line hung over your head the entire drive home. Yunho paid the bill, much to your dismay, you definitely didn’t give him the best date of his life, but your argument was cut short by the reminder that you had bigger fish to fry. You needed the brain power for the thoughts that’d keep you awake tonight, while your roommates were fast asleep in their rooms, unaware that you were pondering about the possibility of them ever being more.
Yunho parked beside your car again. Turning towards you, keeping the car running, he said, “I won’t say anything about tonight.”
“Thanks,” you mutter in a breath, “I’m sorry again.”
“Don’t be,” Yunho shakes his head, laying a hand on your thigh to squeeze it encouragingly, “I hope it works out for you.”
Giving him a weak smile, you unbuckle your seatbelt and let yourself out of the car, the stupid fucking heels on your feet clacking against the pavement. “Drive safe,” you say before closing the door behind you, and Yunho nods with a warm smile.
You face your apartment building with a pout. That could not have gone any fucking worse, and those two upstairs are going to do nothing but pester you for every single detail. Forcing a breath through your lips, you walk up the stone steps to your front door, bracing yourself for questions you can’t answer as you push it open.
The apartment was quiet, lights dim, you slipped your heels off upon entering, dangling them from your fingers. Sweetie didn’t greet you, very unlike him, but maybe he was asleep at this hour— with the frenzy in your mind you didn't realize it wasn’t late at all. You took the corner around your foyer to reach the living room, and the sight before you had a shriek ripping from your chest, eyes blowing wide, heart positively dropping into your ass.
On your living room couch, brown leather, wrinkled and weathered from years of use, was Wooyoung, shirtless, lip locked with a shirtless San beneath him. Bronzy, sculpted chests pressed together, veiny hands in dark hair, spit-stained lips messily tangled, Wooyoung’s toned hips were rutting against San’s before your shriek bursted their bubble.
They broke apart like teenagers getting caught, Wooyoung so surprised he launched off of San’s lap and onto the fucking floor. “Shy!” San yelped, as shocked as you are, gaze panic-stricken as it bounced between you and Wooyoung, he stood up instinctively.
Your insides felt like weeds. Tangled up, knotted together beyond belief, the air in your lungs was gone, there wasn’t enough oxygen in the closing room to fill them. You stared as Wooyoung blew his hair off his face, leaning back on his elbows on the floor, legs bent up and spread, denim unzipped, sporting a tent in the pocket of his undone fly.
San was no better. Undeniably hard, droplets of wetness on his low hanging gray sweats, skin red and splotchy, glowing with a sheer sheen of sweat. His hair was fucked up, as was Wooyoung’s, sticking out in every direction, curled where fingers had been rooted.
Wooyoung’s lips curled in a lazy grin, “You’re home early.”
Your hands are shaking. You think if you take one step, your knees will buckle. This feels like betrayal. Your skin is fire-hot, body buzzing with confusion, shock, rage, hurt— you were out on a date they set up for you, while they were at home fucking?! Did they just want you out of the apartment for the night? How long have they been hooking up?
You can hear your heart pounding in your ears, you can feel every ounce of blood thrashing beneath your skin like your heart was the eye of a hurricane.
Your vision blurs, words coming out short, “I-I don’t—” shaking your head, you move in the direction of your bedroom. Sweetie’s at your side, you don’t know where he even came from, you don’t have the heart to greet him. Under your breath you mutter, “I’m going to bed.”
“Shy,” San calls after you, his voice strained. A little louder, a little harsher, he tries again, “Shy!”
You close your bedroom door and flatten your back against it, breath leaving you in tremors, palms shaky against the wood behind you. Sweetie is at your feet, dancing on his paws, whimpering for some form of attention from you, sensing all the emotion in your chest.
You sink down until your ass meets the floor, eyes focused on nothing, hands mindlessly reaching for Sweetie as your brain replays everything you just saw. Wooyoung’s back arching his chest into San’s, San’s tongue slipping between Wooyoung’s lips, one hand on Wooyoung’s thigh while the other tugged at his hair. Wooyoung’s hips rolling against him, his eyebrows furrowed in pleasure, a shakiness to his lean body that could only be perceived as need. This was not the first time they’ve done that.
Your chin tilts upward as Sweetie licks your cheeks, you didn’t realize silent tears poured down them, dripping from your jaw. You couldn’t deny it now— everything Yunho insinuated, everything he said, how witnessing those two together made you feel. You wanted them. You wanted to be in the middle. You wanted their lips and hands on you just as much as you wanted to watch them touch each other.
Fuck.
You can’t pretend like your feelings don’t exist anymore. Half the reason you didn’t want to go tonight was because you wished they were taking you out, instead. You wished they begged you to stay home, with them, watching movies curled up on the couch, just to end up how they did without you. Without you. There wasn’t any room for you, they had a relationship on their own. They left you out of it. They set you up with someone else so they could have each other.
It hurts like a knife to your gut.
You can hear them whispering through the walls. You can’t make out a word, but they sound like they’re arguing, or debating. Then it’s quiet.
Sweetie whimpers again. You pouted at him, his precious face seemed like it was pouting back at you. “It’s okay,” you reassure the puppy, hands cupping his face, scratching behind his ears, “I’m okay, I promise.”
Wiping your tears, heaving a breath, you push yourself up, leaving your heels thrown beside the door where you dropped them. You tug the leather off your shoulders, hanging it in your closet— you didn’t have the heart to give it back to him right now, but it was too expensive to throw haphazardly on your gaming chair.
After pulling out pajamas, you reached for your zipper, but you couldn’t reach it to get it down. You tried again, folding your arms behind you, fingers touching, zipper out of reach. You curse under your breath, shoulders strained, it hurt, your breathing picks up again in frustration.
Sweetie jumps on your bed, watching you. It seemed he felt pity for you, too, sitting on his back legs, head tilted as watches how pathetic you looked— the tears bubbled up again.
San knocks on your door twice. You know it’s him because the knocks are soft, gentle, Wooyoung would have just barged inside after a slew of obnoxious knocks of his knuckles. You didn’t want to see either of them right now.
“Let me get your zipper.”
Your arms unfold from your back, hands planting against the mattress beside Sweetie, head dropping as a defeated sob silently rips from your throat. The black lab’s nose nuzzles in your hair as you force the tears back in, back down, away.
San opens the door without waiting for your response. You can’t see him eye the pair of heels on your floor, picking them up, placing them in front of your wide closet, you keep your eyes on the white comforter, laser focused on keeping your emotion locked up. On silent feet he comes up behind you, moving your hair out of the way, deft fingers slowly pulling your zipper down your back.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice is as soft as his movements, tender, like if he spoke the wrong word you’d crumble in his hands. You shake your head, sniffing. His sigh is light, apologetic, “We didn’t think you’d be home so early.”
“It’s okay, I’m fine. The date just didn’t go as planned,” your voice is nasally from how much snot had formed in your sinuses. You wipe your nose with the back of your hand, standing up, turning to look at him. Still shirtless, skin still red and splotchy, the only difference now was that his face was filled with concern instead of shock. “I’m sorry I broke up your date night.”
He shakes his head fervently, “You didn’t break up anything, Shygirl, what happened on your date? You didn’t like Yunho? Are you okay? Did he do anything—”
A sharp chuckle tumbles past your lips, you look off to the side, shaking your head. “I don’t wanna talk about it, I just wanna go to sleep.”
You can feel the cool air of your bedroom on your bare back. You feel exposed, despite being naked in front of him so many times in your life, despite standing before him in a bra and underwear just hours earlier. You cross your arms over your chest. “Go back to Wooyoung.”
His lips tighten, but he nods, eyes searching your face for something he can’t find. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”
You nod, looking up at him just as another hot tear slips down your cheek. He raises a hand to cup your cheek, to wipe your tear away with his thumb, but you pull away. His eyes widen ever so slightly, you’ve never once pulled away from his touch. He doesn’t press it, instead he turns on his heel, leaving your room, closing the door behind him gently, knowing space was what you needed, even if he wished you needed him.
You felt better in comfy clothes, curled up in your bed, Sweetie snoring softly beside you, his head basically on your pillow. You tried to focus on that, how his shiny black coat rose and fell with each breath, how he stayed by your side because he knew you needed comfort. Your brain was too muddled to pick apart each and every emotion you were feeling, there were too many, too blended together.
But you definitely tried, for each hour you were supposed to be asleep.
The studio is quiet.
Rehearsal finished for the night, all of your kids home by now, probably doing last-minute homework or showering before school tomorrow, you don’t know what you’re still doing here. The floors are mopped, the mirrors wiped down, the speaker is off and plugged in, your laptop and charger tucked away in your tote. Sitting on the floor of your studio, criss-cross-applesauce, you leaned back on your palms, chin tipped up to the ceiling.
It’s been a week since you found out your two best friends, your roommates, the two people you now know you’re in love with, are in a relationship. You truly have no idea how you got away from their barrage of questions unscathed, the two men want to know every detail of your life on a regular Tuesday, let alone when you come home crying after a date. You put your deceptive shoes on, straightened your back, and blamed every single one of your tears on how sad you were about it not working out with Yunho.
Truth was, you haven’t spared the date with Yunho a single thought since you came home to see them making out on the couch. Since then, it’s been a constant fight convincing yourself everything was fine. In reality, everything was fine, you’re healthy, you’re stable, you have a puppy at home that still pees a little out of excitement when you walk through the front door.
You just couldn’t have what you wanted most, and you’re not a child anymore. Wooyoung and San seem so happy together, attached at the hip, pressing soft kisses to each other’s lips randomly, giggling at something the other said, so lovesick and ignorant to how shitty it all made you feel, you couldn’t be mad. You tried your hardest not to be upset.
As if you’ve been onstage for a week now, it’s felt like seven days of constant performance. Wearing the mask, playing the part of a perfectly-okay-girl, not letting them peer inside to see your heart shredded beneath your ribs. There was still a part of you that was disappointed they couldn’t see through the charade, they knew you better than anyone else, too occupied with one another to make an effort in seeing the truth.
“What are you still doing here?”
You picked your head up, wide-eyed as you glanced at Wooyoung in the doorway, holding a silver ring of multi-colored keys around his pointer finger. Gray sweats, hoodie on top, a black puffer layered over it, sneakers on his feet half-tied. His hair laid messy over his cheekbones, forced down flat beneath the deep red hood, the color compliments him. You think every color in his closet compliments him.
“Hello? Shygirl?” He’s smiling now, taking a few steps inside the studio, eyes raking over your frozen form. He pushes the ring of keys inside the pocket of his puffer as he gets closer, bending down at the knees, the backs of his thighs tucked to his calves.
“Just thinkin’,” you smile weakly, head rolling to the side, cheek landing on your shoulder. He’s so pretty, barefaced, skin clear and soft and beautiful. Shadowed beneath his hood he looks even more breathtaking, the hollows of his cheeks prominent, the freckle under his eye appearing darker.
With a heavy breath he leans backward, landing on his ass, arms stretched out behind him, mimicking the same way you sat. His legs longer than yours, they straighten out in front of him, feet tangled between where yours sat strategically. Always close, never close enough.
“About what?” He tilts his head. “Competition?”
Yeah, that sounds good enough. You nod and he begins his encouraging monologue all over again, softness in his tone, a determined edge of confidence, you’ve heard it all before. You didn’t care to listen to the details.
“Okay, be serious, what’s up?” He reigns in his knees, wrapping his arms around them, leaning forward, brows furrowed. “You’ve been off all week, Shy. I know it’s not dance-related.”
You give him a weak, disappointed smile, shaking your head. The worst, shittiest excuse comes to mind, but you’d rather use any excuse than tell him why shrapnel floated through your blood, pieces of your heart that shattered beyond repair a week ago. “I’m just getting my period, I’m in my head, that’s all.”
He pouts, “You swear?”
You nod, eyes heavy, “I swear.”
It doesn’t even feel bad to lie. Maybe you’re tired of wearing the mask. Tired of feeling.
“Wanna dance with me?”
Your eyes flicker up to him, a question in your lifted brow. “Dance?”
His grin has turned mischievous, lopsided eyes thinning with the giddiness on his cheeks, he plants his palms on the floor to push himself up, throwing his puffer to the side as he walks to the speaker in the corner of the room. Turning it on, static catching as he plugged in his phone, he looked over his shoulder to ask, “What song?”
“Woo,” you shake your head, “I don’t want to–”
“Come on,” he looks back at his phone screen, you can only assume he’s scrolling through his liked songs on Spotify, “your endorphins are in jail right now, they need to be released.”
Your lips tighten, he leaves no room to argue. He never does.
Ain't another woman that can take your spot, my…
He turns with the same feline grin as bass pounds through the room. He turned the volume up on the speaker, the building empty, no one lingering around to hear it.
Your brows raise, a smile begging to curve your lips, “Justin Timberlake? Really?”
“Get up!” He yells, chest pumping to each beat, limbs fluid as his feet glide in your direction, “It’s just you and me, Shy-Shy. Come on.”
You push yourself up off the marley flooring reluctantly, and then you hear his voice.
“If I wrote you a symphony, just to say how much you mean to me,” he grabs your hands as soon as you get your footing, a scowl on your face as he pulls you towards him, “If I told you you were beautiful, would you date me on the regular?”
You can’t fight the smile that creeps over your cheeks this time, letting him guide you to the center of the room, still fighting your instinct that begs your body to move to the beat of the song. Bodies facing the mirror that stretches from one wall to the other, he glides behind you, his right hand still over yours, freeing your left.
“I can see us holdin' hands, walkin' on the beach, our toes in the sand. I can see us on the country side, sittin' on the grass, layin' side by side,” still holding your hand, you sing with him as he guides you, his left hand on your hip. “You can be my baby, let me make you my lady, girl, you amaze me. Ain't gotta do nothin' crazy, see, all I want you to do is be my love.”
You’re giggling at first, moving with him, singing loudly in the studio, until he spins you around, two hands on your hips, holding you close.
Ain't another woman that could take your spot, my love…
Your smile falters, lips parting as you stare up at him, breath stolen from your chest. His hoodie had fallen, leaving his hair visibly messy over his face, a smile so true, chocolate eyes holding half of your heart, you remember who he is. Jung Wooyoung, roommate, best friend, coworker, he’s so many things to you, but not yours.
Is this some kind of sick joke?
Like he can read your thoughts, like he’s trying to make you forget, he twists you back around. Two hands on your hips, knees bent and legs spread, you follow suit, watching each other in the mirror. Your outfits look planned, your sweats baggy and low, hoodie tucked up, hair that was once in a bun now halfway spilling down your cheeks, you let your body flow. Allowing your mind to go blank, you let yourself feel the music, your hips sway with his, your movements clean, you dance together like you choreographed it.
“There you go,” he’s grinning again, nodding, encouraging, “my love, my love, my love.”
Four minutes and thirty-six seconds feels like a lifetime, yet no time at all. You and Wooyoung, your bluetoothed brains, and Justin Timberlake in the studio nearing eleven at night, you ended the song out of breath, staring at each other from feet away, as if you’re twenty-five all over again when San had just opened the studio. Brain cleared, endorphins released, you did feel lighter– not better, but lighter, like Wooyoung reached into your mind and took the edge off himself.
“Feel better?” He’s smiling, chest heaving, hands on his hips, one knee bent with the other holding his weight.
You nod, tugging on your ponytail to free your hair, just to pull it up all over again. Walking toward him, you’re still out of breath, “We should have recorded that.”
“We can do it again,” he offers, “although I don’t think we’ll ever reach that level of synchronicity without choreography again.”
You laugh, a lighthearted thing, “No, I think that was the extent of our bluetooth abilities.”
He takes a step forward, throwing his arms out to wrap around you, pulling you into his chest, pressing a kiss into your forehead. “I missed dancing with you.”
He smells like home, woodsy, spicy, sweaty– you can’t help the way you drink him in, letting the smell of him calm something primal, something integral in your soul.
Wooyoung is convinced you’re the only person in the world that can steal the breath from his lungs just by looking at him. Your arms wrapped around his torso, chin tucked into his chest, looking up at him with those big eyes he could get lost in, his breath catching in his throat is a verbal sound. He can feel the heat in the base of his spine, he settles into your touch as it spreads through him like wildfire, his heart picking up speed, pounding harder against his chest.
Holding you like this, wanting you like this, like he has since the day he first saw you– around a fire, in the backyard of a house party at Seonghwa’s place, sat next to San with a cute, shy little smile on your cheeks. He thought you were San’s girlfriend, he assumed it from the way you looked at each other, spoke to each other. Stars in your eyes, a soft, comforting tenderness in your voice that turned your words into song, Wooyoung thought he’d lost before he even entered the game.
But then he watched San leave your side for the pretty brunette from his dance class, the guy Wooyoung kept his eye on, taller than San, muscular, beautiful. Mere minutes went by before San kissed him, and even if San was shorter, smaller, Wooyoung watched as he dominated the kiss, hands in his hair, making the taller man cower for him. Obey him, even just in a kiss.
Then you stood, sauntering over in your ripped denim that hugged your ass perfectly, one hand on San’s shoulder had him pulling away fully, dimples out in a smile, face flushed with a hazy, lustful stare. You talked, talked, and talked before San was grabbing you by the hand, the man following behind you both as you left. The three of you, together, you left together.
Wooyoung was left confused– aroused, curious, hopeful, but still so fucking confused. He asked around, Yeosang told him the nature of your relationship, that San’s known you forever, that you do that sometimes. Casually. You weren’t dating– but you fucked. Other people. Together.
Wooyoung wanted to be next.
He wanted you. He wanted San. He wanted both of you. Carnally.
But that day never came. He formed a friendship with you easily, with San easily, the three of you becoming a trio that did everything together, but your hobby, your past-time after a party, never included him. In fact, it stopped altogether when Wooyoung became involved.
It’s not like he didn’t try, he’s flirty by nature, it comes as easily to him as breathing, but eventually he accepted that your relationship, your friendship, had taken root in something platonic. It bloomed into the best thing that’s ever happened to him, two people that love him fully, unconditionally, but by the time he moved into your shared apartment, he had to pluck the petals off the basis of his interest– his arousal, his want, his need, tucked away in his back pocket like it was never there to begin with.
It became easy, over time, until San kissed him for the first time, restarting all the work he’s done, placing him back at square one. Three in the morning in the kitchen of the apartment, the only light over the sink, dimmed and low, San took Wooyoung by his cheeks and made him feel like San wanted him the whole time, too.
And he did, Wooyoung learned. And he still wanted you. So did Wooyoung.
“I missed it, too,” you whisper, your face too close, he has to swallow down his instinct, every fiber of his being that tells him to fucking kiss you. Dancing with you, it’s something the two of you used to do often when San first opened the studio, when you weren’t as busy, as successful as you are now.
Sometimes San was included, in the corner of the room, correcting your form with a smile on his dimpled cheeks, amusement on his tongue, sometimes he was dancing with you, too. Late into the night, sometimes a few seltzers added into the mix, those nights Wooyoung could have sworn there was an understanding between the three of you, that there was a layer of arousal, of want, those nights Wooyoung prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that you’d repeat history with him. For him. The way you looked at him, the glint in your eye, even now, more often than not you looked at Wooyoung like you wanted him to pin you to the floor beneath you.
For years that look has given him hope, that eventually something will happen, something will bloom between the three of you. It won’t just be him and San pining over you while they try to fill the gap with each other.
He hasn’t seen that look once since you caught him with San. You said you were fine, okay, that their relationship doesn’t bother you, that you’re happy for them– and there’s truth to it somewhere, Wooyoung assumes the truth is mixed into the lies, that you weren’t completely bullshitting him, the only reason they tried to set you up with Yunho is because they were convinced it’d never happen with you. They gave up. At least Yunho was a nice guy.
His arms lift from your shoulders to push your hair away from your face, stray pieces that had fallen even if you’d just put it up, barefaced, maybe some mascara on your lashes, he’s stunned the way he always is. So beautiful it makes his stomach hurt, your skin soft in his palms, warm in such an inviting way, he doesn’t want to let go. His voice tumbles out small, “You’re so pretty, Shy.”
Your heart skips a beat in your chest. His eyes look so soft, a fond smile on his lips while his eyes glance at yours like he was going to kiss you, while he looks at you like he loves you, he does love you– it’s different. It looks different. Chest turning tight, stomach doing a flip, your arms uncurl from around his waist, you break away from him quickly like he burned you, the loss of warmth hits hard even if you were the one who enforced it. “You shouldn’t do that,” your tone comes out harsher than you wanted it to, voice slightly broken, stressed. Panicked.
Wooyoung’s brows furrow, “What? I- Shy.”
“It’s disrespectful,” you don’t know why you’re speaking, where this is coming from. Your throat is tight, heart pounding against your breastplate, you bring your hand up to lay where it’s bursting from your chest. “You can’t do things like that anymore, Woo,” you’re avoiding his eye, head shaking rapidly, voice panicked and wary beyond control, “not anymore.”
“I made her hate me because I couldn’t control myself.”
Wooyoung is pacing around San’s room, shirtless, his hair sticking out in every which way atop his head, oily after work, even more so from how many times he’s ran his hands through it. San, on his bed, also shirtless, briefs loose on his hips, wears furrowed brows and a solemn downcurve of his lips after hearing the story Wooyoung frantically woke him up to tell him.
The younger man ripped his hoodie and his tee off his upper half upon entering the room, crawling onto San’s bed, shaking him awake. Eyes barely closed, he’d just fallen asleep, blinked awake upon the first shake of his shoulders, “Woo? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I think Shy hates me,” his face was red even in San’s dark room, brows furrowed and voice panicked in a way he hadn't heard in a long time.
San sits up halfway, turning over to face Wooyoung, “What? No she doesn’t, what happened?”
“We were at the studio, we danced, I called her pretty and she freaked out,” Wooyoung sits back, his breaths quick and uneven between his words, he toys with his fingers in his lap, eyes wide, blinking rapidly. “She called me disrespectful, Sannie, she said I can’t do that anymore, I don’t know what happened San, I–”
“Baby,” San reaches to put a hand on his cheek, taking note of how hot he felt, “calm down, breathe. Don’t say anything, breathe with me for a few and then we can talk, okay?”
Wooyoung’s first breath is shaky, panicked, like he couldn’t suck down air fast enough, couldn’t get it deep enough. San sits up fully, pressing a hand onto his diaphragm, keeping the other soft on his cheek, “Breathe, baby.”
A few counted breaths until he sounded even, one singular hot tear rolling down his cheek onto San’s palm, the older man leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips. “No matter what, she doesn’t hate you, okay? Tell me what happened.”
Wooyoung takes another two breaths before speaking, telling him the story from the start. How you looked at him like you were offended, like he’d just done the worst thing in the world, how you didn’t speak to him the entire subway ride home. How when you walked inside the apartment you barely greeted Sweetie, instead you silently gave him a treat from the counter before bringing him to your room, closing the door behind you. You didn’t even look at him, like he wasn’t beside you the whole time.
Mid-story he’d jumped off the bed, began pacing back and forth on San’s carpeted bedroom floor, speaking a mile a minute, each word edged with panic like he’d done something despicable.
“She hates me,” he finally stood in the middle of the room, voice cracking, “I made her hate me because I couldn’t control myself.”
“No, Woo,” San shakes his head, voice soft and comforting, “knowing her, she thinks our dynamic changed. To her, we’re off-limits now, we can’t act the way we always have, can’t flirt and touch and do all the things that make us, us.”
He starts pacing again, hands running through his hair, tugging at his roots. San can barely see more than his shadow in his dark room, but he doesn’t need to see to know what look is on Wooyoung’s face, how his brows tie together, how he tucks his lips together, face splotched red.
“I don’t want that!” Wooyoung keeps his voice a low cry, “I don’t want us to change. This isn’t what I wanted to happen, I want her to want us, I want her.”
“Come here,” San keeps his voice calm, steady. Wooyoung walks over, standing between San’s legs, one of his hands still in his hair. San leans forward, plants his palms on Wooyoung’s hips, “She has no idea how we feel about her, Woo. She’s trying to be fair, to keep her distance so she doesn’t hurt either of us. You know how her head works, baby.”
“What if she doesn’t forgive me?” The way his voice breaks is like a shot through San’s heart. But San knows you better, he knows your mind, knows your soul, he’s known you since you gained consciousness, he’s watched them form, learned you as you grew.
“There’s nothing to forgive you for, baby,” San whispers, tugging the younger man towards him, forcing his knees onto the bed, to bracket around his hips. He brings a hand up, petting his hair, sliding down to cup Wooyoung’s cheek, bringing him closer, “Everything is okay.”
Wooyoung presses his lips into San’s, hands landing on his broad shoulders, his body melting into San’s touch, finding comfort in his hard, broad body, his own sinking into him. Wooyoung’s hands travel to find his neck, his cheeks, deepening the kiss, his tongue poking out to slide into San’s mouth, still light, steady.
Until San’s length twitches under Wooyoung, making the younger man smile into his mouth, “Yeah? Hard already?”
“Don’t tease me,” San is breathless, their lips still touching, “I’m supposed to be making you feel better.”
“Ah,” Wooyoung’s tone is still teasing, his grin spreading into a smirk, “I know how you can make me feel better.”
San snorts, head tipping back until he falls back onto the bed, letting Wooyoung crawl on top of him, his head tilting as Wooyoung leans his head down, pressing a kiss to one of San’s pecs, soft hands roaming his torso. Body shivering, San keeps his voice light, “Did you freak out just to fuck me? A ploy, huh?”
San can make the outline of Wooyoung’s scowl as he stares up at him, making San chuckle, Wooyoung bites down on his skin and he hisses. “I was stressed,” Wooyoung’s voice is sharp, “I still am stressed, but now I’m kinda horny and it’s your fault.”
San laughs again, hands coming up to tangle in Wooyoung’s hair, pulling him upward, “I’m sorry baby, I'll fix it for you, yeah?”
Thirty minutes rolling around in the sheets, keeping their voices quiet, their movements slow but not any less tantalizing, Wooyoung is filled, sated, skin sticky against San’s as he lays on the older man’s chest, dozing off to the sound of his heartbeat.
Despite being woken up by Wooyoung, it’s harder for San to find sleep now, mind muddled with thoughts about you. Analyzing Wooyoung’s story, the details, how you looked at him– he wondered if there was a small chance you felt the same way towards them.
While you were still in college, you and San had moments where lines blurred, he can still remember the nights where you brought someone home just to barely touch them. So wrapped up in each other, lost in pleasure, you almost forgot there was a third person there to play with. It didn’t just happen once, not even twice, it happened enough times to where you had to stop after the third person left angry and unsatisfied, an unsettling feeling floating around the room that neither of you had the balls to address.
Always light, always casual, you explored pleasure together, different positions, different kinks, different dynamics for so long– he blamed those days on you two being young, horny, rabid animals, looking for a good fuck, a new skill to add to your arsenal. It was around the time you two met Wooyoung, San thinks, when that night happened, the last time you touched each other sexually. Still to this day, unspoken, swept beneath the rug.
San sometimes wonders if the lines blurred sooner, he’s loved you since you were young, in high school even, it’s petrified him since he was a teenager to tell you how he feels. What if you don’t feel the same way? What if he told you, and your friendship ended? He couldn’t bear a life without you, he doesn’t know a life without you.
Maybe he figured one day his feelings would dissipate into thin air, that he didn’t need you to love him back, that as long as he never told you, you’d still be friends. But then you fucked. And then you fucked again. And you kept fucking until San realized he’d never be satisfied with anyone else, that he needed you, he needed you to love him back, he needed to treat you how you deserved.
When you stared at him with wide eyes, crawled off the bed with shaky legs, retreating back to your room without a word, San almost laughed at himself. At his feelings. Because why would you ever love him back? He's watched you grow up, each phase, your best and your worst, that’s friend zone material, at least in his younger, twenty-something year old mind.
But you never grew apart. And after the fucking stopped, the makeouts, the lazy hookups, the people you both thought were sexy and sought out together, it seemed to have added yet another layer of strength to your relationship. Vulnerability. A closeness you should never, ever have with a friend as close as you two are, it never ends well.
Years later, still in the same boat. He still loves you the same. He still wants you the same. Somehow he got comfortable without the intimacy— or without the sexual aspect, he should say, because your relationship was full of intimacy. It never really bothered him, he never really yearned for more, until it was three in the morning and he had his fist wrapped around his cock with only you in his mind.
Then he had Wooyoung, the sole person he’s entrusted with his feelings, sputtering words between Wooyoung’s tongue pushing between his lips, so obviously confessing feelings that he’s kept trapped inside for over a decade, just to find out Wooyoung feels the same way. That he’s also wanted you since he laid eyes on you.
It was confusing, the lack of possession, of jealousy in his gut. He already knew he wanted Wooyoung, living with the younger man only made him love him more, their friendship was already blurring lines the day they met. For awhile San thought maybe you felt it too, that maybe you saw how Wooyoung looked at you, maybe you realized San had never started treating you differently. That he loved you, that Wooyoung loved you, and it wasn’t all platonic.
He wonders if you love them back. If there’s even a small, microscopic part of you that wants them, more than friendship, more than sex, even. Not that he’d decline you if you proposed sleeping together. For a week now, your spark’s been gone, the twinkle in your big, doe eyes you wear like an accessory was replaced with something dull, something sad. You blamed it on the date with Yunho— but was that really the truth? You barely told them any details, you kept it vague, you even blamed that on not wanting to think about it, talk about it.
As he settles into the mattress beneath Wooyoung, one arm curled up to hold his head close to his chest, he wonders if you’re asleep in the other room, dreaming of more, too.
“It’s fine,” you smile weakly at Wooyoung whose head is burrowing into your chest like he’d crawl inside and make a home there if you let him. “I’m sorry I gave you the silent treatment, I just freaked out a little.”
His voice is muffled by your hoodie, your chest that his head was buried in, “Don’t apologize, please don’t apologize to me, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“Woo,” you forced out a chuckle, flexing your body on the old, brown leather couch that he was forcing you deeper into, “look at me.”
He picks his head up, his pretty, bronzy, bare face is littered by splotches of cherry. You ruffle his hair, smelling your shampoo, a blend of grapefruit and vanilla, “I’m not mad, it’s fine. Let’s just be done with it, put it past us, okay?”
Wooyoung pouts, but he nods, then lays back on your chest all over again. You groan, shifting your body to get comfortable under his weight, wondering how the fuck they were hooking up on this thing when you have to fight for your life to get comfortable on it.
“Sannie,” you shout into the open, living room air, “come get your boyfriend off of me!”
Wooyoung gasps, picking his head up to shout towards the hallway, “Don’t! I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Your head tips back in a laugh, knees bent up on either side of his body that’s dead weight on top of you, arms caging you in against the couch. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“You’re warm, let me stay,” he nuzzles his head into your hoodie further, his voice a sated mumble.
You smack your teeth, eyeing the pink princess blanket between your bodies, “You’re laying on top of the blanket and you don’t have clothes on.”
Shirtless, briefs on his legs, he snickers, guilty as charged. “You’re the only heat I need, baby.”
“Woo.”
“Too soon?” He picks his head up, brows lifted and eyes apologetic, “I’m sorry.”
San comes out of the hallway, fresh out of the shower, droplets of water sinking down his temples, onto his bare shoulders, his chest from his still-soaked hair. It makes your breath stutter in your chest the way it always does, he’s so effortlessly perfect it makes you miss touching him, feeling his soft skin beneath your fingers, sinking your nails into his strong, hard muscles. He smiles when he sees you, dimples prominent, he says nothing as he crosses the room with bare feet, nothing on his body but gray sweats on his legs.
“Don’t you dare,” you warn, seeing the twinkle of mischief in his eye, how his grin turns from soft to playful.
He ignores you by crawling onto the couch, shoving you into the back of it so he can take up the side, the couch just big enough to squeeze the three of you, only if San’s strength is on the outside to keep you boxed in.
You yelp as your body sinks into the couch, “San! I was comfortable.”
“You’re only comfortable on the L part,” San quips, body nuzzling into yours, Wooyoung giggling from below you.
“The chaise?” You snort, eyes flickering up to his that stare right back, “we’ve had two sectionals since we got this apartment, and you don’t know it’s called a chaise?”
He giggles, “I don’t care what it’s called, I just know that you like it.”
“And you only sit in the corner,” Wooyoung adds, his head sinking down to lay on your stomach. Your ankles cross over his back as his arms curl under yours, more comfortable now that you’re tangled, his arms taking pressure off your lower back.
“Let’s stay like this forever,” San doesn’t give you time to answer, squeezing in closer, pushing you and Wooyoung further to the back of the couch. He smells like his bodywash, sweet and soft, you would stay forever if you could.
Your voice comes out strangled under the pressure of his body, “We’re gonna have to, because soon I’ll be dead. You’re gonna kill me if you keep pushing me into the couch, Sannie.”
“I just want to keep you here,” he pouts, squishing his face closer until his nose presses against your cheek, “if I let you go, you’ll run away.”
His wet hair bleeds into the pillow, quickly spreading to where your head lays, it brushes against the side of your head the closer he gets, it’s cold. You squirm, “Your hair is freezing, Sannie, holy shit, there’s too much happening right now.”
San whines, but he rolls off the couch, landing on one steady foot, standing up. You suck in a breath, but your pillow’s already soiled, you frown. He grins.
“I’m going to the studio,” he says swiftly, “come with me, I have a few things to do before the day starts.”
You groan, lip lifting in protest, “I don’t have a rehearsal ‘til six.”
“Lucky,” Wooyoung mumbles, “Mine’s at four.”
“I know when yours is,” you mumble back, “I was gonna enjoy my alone time.”
“Freak,” San teases, a smile playing on his lips, amused at what he insinuated.
Wooyoung’s laugh is loud, piercing through the room, “That was a good one.”
Your brows raise, deadpanning, “And what if you’re right, hm? What then?”
They both turn to look at you, faces serious, both silently asking really?
It’s your turn to laugh, head tipping back into the pillow, and they both groan, San walking away, Wooyoung pushing off of you. It makes you laugh harder, talking through it, “Come on, that was a good one, you should have seen your faces.”
“Are you seriously not gonna come?” San, brows raised, asks from the entry to the hallway. “We can stop for food on the way, the three of us can hangout before everyone else shows up.”
You make a show of shaking your head back and forth, “I have shit to do here before work.”
Wooyoung smacks his teeth, “Like what? Laundry?”
You flatten your lips, “Have you seen the mountain of clothes in my room?”
San snorts, disappearing into the hallway, and Wooyoung finally climbs off the couch, “Fine, do your laundry, but I know you’ll miss us.”
“I’ll miss you so bad,” you’re wearing a smile now, watching him with lazy eyes as he follows behind San into the hallway, disappearing into the shadow of the walls.
Your smile falters, settling, before a frown takes its place. Soon enough, probably sooner than you think, you’re sure you won’t be able to do this anymore– spend so much time with them, cuddle with them, live with them, eventually they’ll grow sick of you, they’ll only want each other.
There’s already no room for you in their relationship, and with time, you’re sure the space they’ve carved out for you will dwindle to nothing. Looking across the room, you find Sweetie sunbathing beneath the window, his head politely tucked over his paws, the sun casting a shiny glow over his black coat, the sight makes you smile. You call him over and immediately he’s jumping onto the couch, laying on you where Wooyoung had just been, replacing the warmth he’d ripped away.
“At least I have you,” you whisper, smiling, fingers scratching under his ears.
“Yunho!” Wooyoung all but whispers, his loud voice carrying down the aisle, perking his tall friends’ ears. The older man whips his head around in confusion, smiling when he sees Wooyoung and San, giving them a small wave before walking down the aisle to greet them properly.
Stopping in a mid-sized corner store, the halfway point between the studio and home, San made good on his promise to pick up food on the way into work; Wooyoung was already giddy before seeing Yunho, this corner store was his favorite, it sold his favorite energy drink.
“Whatsup?” Yunho’s grin is wide as he clasps the hand of both men, pulling them both into a hug, landing a smack on their backs. “You guys going to Steer on Friday? I heard it’s got a weird industrial, mechanical vibe to it, I don’t know. Joong seems pretty hype about it.”
San and Wooyoung both nod, but it’s San who answers, “Yeah, yeah, we wouldn’t miss it.”
“Sounds weird, though,” Wooyoung adds, “do you know if the drinks are cheap?”
“Three bucks a beer,” Yunho’s tongue pokes out from between his teeth, nodding, and the three men erupt into what can only be described as men-turned-pelicans finding an endless pit of fish to feed on.
They’re all smiles and laughter until Yunho asks if you’re going, which sparks the two men’s memory, Wooyoung and San’s backs standing a little straighter, entering Shy-defense-mode.
“I…” San begins, then turns to Wooyoung.
Wooyoung, already staring at him, blinks, then turns to Yunho, “Maybe?” He gives it a second, then blurts, “Can I just ask what happened between you two?”
San’s lips tighten, head falling until his chin tucks into his chest. They shouldn’t have asked, Wooyoung shouldn’t have asked, but he can’t help his curiosity– he wants to know, too. They haven’t gotten anything besides vague answers from you.
Yunho’s eyes widened, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. It makes San curious, too curious for his own good, he adds, “We won’t say anything, she just won’t tell us anything, and we’re worried about her, y’know?”
Yunho’s chin tilts in defense, brows flattening, “I didn’t– it was just–”
“We’re not accusing you of anything bad,” Wooyoung waves his hands out in front of him, eyes wide, chucking nervously. “Shy said you were really great to her, it just didn’t work out, or something. She cried for like an entire day after and wouldn’t tell us any more details.”
San frowns with remembrance, how you shut yourself away and wouldn’t let them in, figuratively and literally. When Wooyoung’s hand falls to his side, San grabs it, giving him an encouraging squeeze, the two meeting eyes with small, fond smiles painted on their cheeks. Yunho’s eyes lock on the action, on their smiles, confusion morphing his features, everything scrunching together at once.
“What?” San asks, “Was everything okay? You’re both being so ominous about it.”
“Us?” San asks, surprised, eyes wide and brows high.
San and Wooyoung share a look, then reluctantly, they nod. Wooyoung smiles, “Yeah, we’re together.”
“Like, just the two of you?” Yunho has a finger pointed, dancing between the two of them.
San’s head turns in question, “Yes?”
Yunho’s jaw drops, nodding slowly, then with a pitched, disbelieving tone, he mumbles, “No shit.”
“I know,” San nods with a knowing smile, thinking he’s got all of Yunho’s thoughts figured out. “Long time coming, though.”
“It’s been like, a little over a week of us being together officially,” Wooyoung adds, his grin proud and wide, “but it’s been good so far. We’re happy.”
“Does she know?” Yunho asks, his face quickly settling back into confusion.
Wooyoung’s lips purse, “Yeah, she knows. Why?”
Yunho nods slowly again like he’s thinking, then shakes his head quickly when Wooyoung’s question settles. “No reason, just wondering. Anyways, I’ve really gotta run, I’ve got this thing that I’m already late to and… art, and you know, yeah. Bye.”
“Wait, you didn’t–”
“Sorry guys, see you Friday though, yeah?” Yunho gives them a brief smile, then scurries down the aisle like Wooyoung and San were about to put the plague in his palms.
Wooyoung and San stand there for a second, brows furrowed, heads tilted, before they look at each other utterly dumbfounded. Wooyoung points down the aisle, “Was that homophobic?”
San, still confused, responds, “Perhaps.”
“Hm,” Wooyoung’s eyes thin, “could’ve sworn him and Mingi fucked before.”
“I thought so too,” San squeezes his hand again, “who cares? We can snitch on him Friday.”
Wooyoung’s grin returns, laughing loud enough for the whole bodega to hear, “Imagine Hongjoong’s face.”
“Hongjoong would beat the shit out of him with one hand, Naoya style.”
The more San thinks about it, the more he thinks Yunho might not actually be homophobic at all.
“Don’t call me schizophrenic.”
Wooyoung snorts, “Are you about to say something that will make me think you’re schizophrenic?”
“Maybe,” San responds, lips scrunched. Sitting at the receptionist desk at the front of the studio, the final piece of San’s thought process clicked into place when you brushed past them into your studio for rehearsal. “I think Shy might love us back.”
Wooyoung, sitting fully on the desk beside San, wears a white tank on his upper half, exposing the tattoo on his forearm, black sweats on his lower, hiding each inch of bronzy, toned muscle. He’s housing a granola bar, his knees spread, back hunched, brows raised as he watches San think.
“That interaction with Yunho was kinda weird,” San begins, leaning back into the rolling computer chair, hands lazily thrown at the center of his spread thighs. In all black, his clothes look painted on, tee clinging to his chest, his arms, his torso, sweats exposing the breadth of his thighs.
“We knew this already,” Wooyoung nods, sticking out his free hand in a rolling motion, “let’s skip to the Shy part.”
“What if she was crying the whole day after her date with Yunho because of us?” His eyes flicker up to look at Wooyoung, who only raises a brow. “What if she didn’t work out with Yunho because she wants us, and she told Yunho all about it?”
“Why would she even go on the date then?”
San deadpans, “Did she want to even go on that date?”
Wooyoung slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes widening, “Oh my god, she definitely did not want to go on that date. What if she didn’t work out with Yunho because she wants us, and she told Yunho all about it?”
San rolls his eyes, and then literally rolls the chair away from Wooyoung who tips his head back in laughter. “I’m sorry, come back,” he says through his laughter, “please? I’ll stop, I’m sorry. It just sounds like we’re grasping for straws here.”
“Why else would Yunho be so weird about us being together?” San continues, rolling the chair until he’s between Wooyoung’s spread legs, he lays both palms on his knees. “And when he asked ‘just the two of you’? Come on, he basically told us the whole damn story.”
Wooyoung holds onto his granola bar with two hands, eyes closing as he terribly sings, “Just the two of us… We can make it if we try, just the two of us…”
“Listen to me, Wooyoung. I’m being serious.”
It seems to lock him back in, Wooyoung meeting San’s eye, his back straightening a little. San’s lips perk upward, his groin opening an eye at the easy display of submission– not the time.
“Okay, fine. But I do think you’re a little insane and grasping for straws.”
San smacks his teeth, “I’ll prove it to you, then.”
“Yeah?” Wooyoung cracks a smile, “How are you gonna do that? That night in the studio set us back, like, five years.”
“You don’t know her like I know her,” San sits back in the computer chair again, smirk crawling its way onto his cheeks, his arms crossing over his chest.
Wooyoung scowls, “Are you flexing on me right now?”
“No!” San shakes his head, “I’m just saying, I think I could get her to crack if she does want us back.”
“And why would you do it any better than I could?” Wooyoung’s voice is sharper, “I wanted her to begin with, you know.”
“And I was fucking her before you ever laid eyes on her,” San responds in the same tone, “don’t get cocky with me, not when it comes to this.”
Wooyoung’s brows raise, back arching ever so slightly at the tone of San’s voice. There’s amusement playing in his words as he says, “Wow, never thought I’d see the day you get possessive.”
“With you, there’s no reason to, it’s not a competition,” San shrugs, “besides right now. You struck a nerve.”
Wooyoung smiles, hopping down from the desk to place a fat kiss on San’s lips, “You love me.”
San’s dimples are on display in a smile as he lifts his arms to grab Wooyoung by his cheeks, leaning up off the chair to kiss the younger man again, “That I do.”
“You’re really gonna try?” Wooyoung asks again, leaning against the counter, his legs crossed between San’s as he takes another bite of his granola bar. “Even after my studio debacle with her?”
San nods, “I’m optimistic about it, I know, but I really do think I’m right.”
San learned to enjoy cooking before he learned to enjoy being in the gym. Him and his mother in the kitchen, teaching him recipes she’s carried through her years learned from her own mother, to recipes he’s learned from cookbooks and the internet that fall within the strict guidelines of his diet.
It turned from sustainability to passion— cooking became a love language before he knew it, and the main reason is because he’s always loved cooking for you most. More so since the two of you moved in together, even more so when Wooyoung moved in, too. Cooking for the three of you, to eat at the kitchen table, on the couch, even if he was dropping off plates to you in your bedrooms… San loved it. Adored it.
For you to enjoy something he made for you warmed his blood until it sizzled with affection, to know he was making a good, hearty, healthy meal to nourish you, he never thought cooking, of all things, would make him realize how deeply he’s in love.
It’s a constant reminder every time his bare feet touch the tiled floor of the kitchen that he loves you, that he loves Wooyoung. Tonight it feels stronger, but maybe that’s the two glasses of wine and his pink cheeks talking. The way you’re dancing about the kitchen, twirling in nothing but a big tee, singing along to the song playing from the speaker you keep in the kitchen— the confession is laying right below his skin, on the tip of his tongue, begging to be set free. After his realization, a bubble of hope so big you could pop it with a fingernail, he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep it in.
You’re laughing at something he said, his tipsy mind doesn’t even know what it was, but your laugh is so loud and so involuntary it squeezes the life out of his lungs. He wants to pick you up and put you on the counter, his hands on your perfect thighs as your ankles hook around his back, he wants to kiss you. He wants to feel you laugh into his mouth. He misses you.
“I don’t want to talk about me at eighteen,” you shake your head, still giggling. Your hair is in a bun atop your head, messy, pieces hanging out like you tied it without looking in the mirror. Barefaced, no pants, no bra, this is his favorite version of you, the one that doesn’t care, the one that’s perfectly comfortable being in your own skin.
“Why not? I loved you at eighteen, too,” San turns back around before his cock begins stirring in his pants— he stirs the pot on the stove, instead.
You come up behind him, on your tippy toes to place your chin on his shoulder. Still smiling, teeth stained with a faint, deep red, “Yeah? You loved me, huh?”
San knows it’s the wine talking, you’d never be so bold otherwise. He doesn’t even think you’re being serious. But, being himself, his brows dance above his eyes as he says, “Of course I did, I still love you.”
You roll your eyes, smile faltering for just a second before it returns with vengeance, “I thought you meant you loved me, you goof.”
Should he just say it? Should he? His back straightens a little. Uneasy, voice a little shaky, he tries, “I did, I had a– a huge crush on you when we were eighteen.”
Your eyes blow wide, spinning around next to him to press your back up against the counter, palms folding around the edge. Surprised, but a little disbelieving, your jaw drops, “No way.”
“I’m serious!” I still have it to this day. “When you dated that one guy— fuck, what was his name?”
“Mark.”
“Mark, that’s it. When you dated him senior year, I was so mad, I can remember being at graduation and being so fucking jealous that you were kissing him for pictures.”
You gasped out a laugh, mortified, shocked, stomach dropping with what you could have had, “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What was I supposed to say?” San steps to the side, half of his body taking up all of yours. He pretends like he doesn’t notice how small you are beneath his body. “‘Hey Shy, I know we’ve known each other all our lives, but in the past few years I’ve actually formed a gigantic huge crush on you. Sorry if it ruins the friendship.’”
“Exactly that, yes,” you’re laughing again, nodding, head tilting to the side as you look up at him with those fucking eyes. He loves them, so big and full of knowledge, experience, maturity and grace that is only expressed in the most you way. In a quieter voice, like you’re afraid to say it, you mumble, “I guess that explains college then, huh?”
There’s a pit in his stomach, one full of gasoline, and you just dropped a lit match down his throat without even realizing it.
“There’s a lot that could explain college,” San smirks, one dimple arriving at the scene, moving so he’s fully standing in front of you, caging you in between himself and the counter. He presses his hands into the ledge, voice teasing, light and airy, “Like how we wanted each other, and were using a third person as an excuse?”
Your smile falters, eyes widening. You swallow, San watches as your throat bobs, breath turning shallow, chest rising and falling beneath your tee. He can’t help the way his smirk grows, liquid confidence and too much optimism making his arm raise to brush a thumb over your cheek, reveling in how you twitch under his touch, eyelids fluttering. He remembers this body like it was his own, how you react to him, what gets your panties wet, what makes your toes fucking curl. He wants to show you how much he remembers you.
“Are you guys talking about college again?”
You gasp loudly, jumping, body slithering out of San’s clutch and into the open floorplan of the kitchen, all in a few quick, panic-driven movements. With a hand clutched over your heart, you’re out of breath, “Fuck, Woo, you scared me.”
“I could feel the jealousy simmering in my bones, I knew you had to be talking about college,” he’s leaning against the archway, playful smirk on his lips, golden skin gleaming beneath the warm light of the kitchen. Shirtless, body on display, an ankle crossed over the other with a pair of baggy basketball shorts on… fuck Wooyoung for interrupting him, but fuck, San might actually get hard with the both of you half-dressed.
You roll your eyes, taking two steps before you press your back against the other side of the counter, using your palms to lift you up over the edge. Exactly how San wants you, how he imagined you, his breath catches in his throat. He turns back around instead of dwelling on it.
“Shut up, Woo,” he hears you mumble, “those days have long ended. Should’ve met us earlier.”
Wooyoung whines, uncurling his arms from his chest to walk further into the kitchen, stopping in front of you with his palms pressed to your knees, “What, you don’t miss it, Shybaby? Not even a little?”
San turns the knob on the stove until the flame lowers to a small flicker, stirring the roux in the pot. He turns his head halfway, side-eyeing Wooyoung whose back is slightly arched as he stares up into you, hands now planted against the edge of the counter on either side of your thighs, so confident, not a shred of insecurity in him. San wonders how he’s managed a complete one-eighty from the night he woke him up to freak out. Maybe he’s really making this a competition.
You stiffen, eyes widening. Tipsy, but not drunk enough to admit something like that. A nervous laugh stutters from your lips, “I— What? Like I said, that ship has sailed. Those days are over. The baton has been passed to you, Woo.”
You use one hand on Wooyoung’s bare shoulder and the other pressed to the countertop to haul yourself off of it, landing swiftly on bare feet. Scrambling out of the kitchen towards the living room, you call over your shoulder, “Let me know when dinner’s ready, I’m gonna lay down, the wine went straight to my head, I think.”
Wooyoung waits a moment before he turns to stare at San, eyebrows flat. San tightens his lips, an insult in his eyes, whispering, “Why did you interrupt?”
Wooyoung crosses the kitchen, his voice a sharp whisper, “I thought you already did it. Do you know how it looked from over there?”
Leaving the roux, he leans up against the counter, arms crossing, “We would have been making out by now if you didn’t interrupt.”
“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung whines, “it’s fine, just try again.”
San covers his face with his hands, “You know what?” His hands lay on his boyfriend’s shoulders, “What I just did will hit its mark, maybe if you try next, we can get the point across without having to actually say it. Then she will come to us.”
“If I try then she won’t have to come to us,” a cocky grin spreads across the younger man’s face, “it’ll be game-point. You’ll come home to find us fucking.”
San’s lips thin, but he doesn’t respond. At this point he doesn’t care how it happens, as long as it happens.
You thought the wine had left your system hours ago, after the meal Sannie made you, especially after a movie on the couch. The wine is the only explanation for your insides feeling warm and gooey— not the fact that across the hall, you could hear the squeaking of the mattress, the bedframe hitting the wall repeatedly, strangled moans leaving two men’s lips that you could tell they were trying to keep inside.
Sweetie slept on his bed on your floor, head buried in the gray plush, waking up every few minutes or so from an especially loud moan or a shrill bang of wood against wall. Even your fucking dog was losing sleep.
You’ve never heard them before, not once. Not once. Why tonight, after having both of their hands on you, their eyes staring into you, after the question Wooyoung asked? Do you miss it? The fear that zapped up on your spine was so intense you needed to lay down and close your fucking eyes.
Confusing as much as it was scary, Wooyoung speaks of jealousy, but asks you if you miss fucking his boyfriend? Was it a kink to them? Is that why they’re fucking now?
They get off on other people wanting them… Wanting each other… That had to be it. The jealousy aspect, of reclaiming one another, and they used you to do it of all people?! It’s worse than mean, it’s worse than rude, it’s cruel. Cruel to dangle their relationship in front of your face after flirting with you— even if flirting with you is all they’ve ever done.
You can remember meeting Wooyoung for the first time, sitting with him in a smoke circle, laughing your heart out when only three or four words had left his mouth. You ended up in tears, cheeks aching, lungs empty and dry, by the time everyone up and left and it was only the two of you left, he’d come onto you. Your first time meeting, even if he said he took notice of you far earlier, around that same smoke circle.
You can’t remember why you’d said no, how you rejected him. You had a feeling, maybe, that your relationship with him would grow far deeper than one night spent together in a cloud of hazy lust. Still to this day you remember that ache, laughing so hard you nearly gagged, eyes locked in on him, waiting for the next hilarious thing to leave his lips. It became routine, the next time you saw him out, the time Sannie introduced you to him when you already knew each other, when your name fell from his lips for the first time, Wooyoung has always, always looked at you with a certain look in his eye— like he was waiting for the smile to kiss your cheeks, for the laugh to fall from your lips.
You don’t remember exactly when your duo with San had turned to three. Wooyoung only moved in two years ago, but you’ve been close for years now, since that night around the smoke circle, passing three joints amongst nine people.
Maybe you were meant to become friends with him so he could end up with San, so the two of them could knock their headboard against your fucking wall and remind you that you’d never be on the inside.
It felt sour.
Yet for some reason, the hurt laying low in your tummy swam with the heat, the desire, curling into a pit of fire-hot pressure you couldn’t ignore. You’d already pushed the sheets off your body, already tugged your shirt up, desperate for air. You tried a pillow over your head, squeezing cotton against your ears. You went on your phone, scrolled Twitter, watched a few TikToks, tried your favorite ASMRtist.
Laying low in the background was them. Endless. San’s low grunts, Wooyoung’s pitched whines, they poured through the thin wall separating your rooms, surrounding you like wildfire. They were everywhere, in the air, on your skin, in your sheets, but the ache curled low, settling into nothingness because you could hear the pleasure but were feeling none of it.
You gasped as you heard it— one singular line gritted through San’s teeth, “Yeah? Gonna be good for me?”
You bent your knees up, head tipping back into the sheets, eyes squeezing shut. Your fingertips tapped against the bed, pushing a heavy sigh through pursed lips. That voice, his tone, the actions that accompany it, your memories are your personal hell. You could see them, Sannie bending Wooyoung in half, a foot planted on the bed as he drilled into him.
Then Wooyoung whimpered, “Yes, please. So good for you— I’ll be good, please, fuck me Sannie—”
Your lips parted, a shaky breath slipping through. Your body was steaming, ears straining to listen to every last fucking detail even if you didn’t want to hear any of it. Even if it hurt, you needed it like water, like air, so badly you wanted to get up out of bed and walk in there.
“That’s it,” San grunted, you could see the sweat beading between his pecs, “stay down, don’t fucking move.”
You bit your lip as your hands traveled to your thighs. Nails scraping against your skin, your nipples pebbled against the open air of your room, shame and embarrassment twisting with the rest of everything curling in your gut. Arousal, jealousy, rage, nostalgia, shame, hurt— you needed your panties off. It felt unethical, you should put on headphones, you should leave, you should do anything but dip two fingers into your panties.
You moaned as your fingers made contact with your clit. Immediately you clamped a hand over your mouth, back arching into your own touch, ignoring the flame of shame completely as your eyes fluttered closed. You eased yourself into the pleasure, breath picking up as Wooyoung’s moans grew louder, the smack of San’s hips landing harder.
Your other hand sank down to toy with a nipple while your fingers circled your clit in tight, rhythmic movements, eyelids twitching as their pleasure became your own. Timing your movements with theirs, lips parting when a moan sank through drywall, you let your mind drift, placing yourself in the fantasy.
Laying up against Sannie’s chest, Wooyoung between your thighs. On top of Wooyoung, hips circling his as Sannie pushed up against your back, hands on your chest, one sinking down to rub circles on your clit. Sitting on Sannie’s lap just like Wooyoung had the night you caught him, chests pressed together, hands in hair, hips mindlessly rutting together, Wooyoung on your back as if you really were between them that night.
The movie played in color in your mind, so vivid, like it was happening— with noise melting walls, it felt real. Lost in the pleasure, in the fantasy, you didn’t realize their volume had lowered, that their movements slowed.
“Sannie, stop, stop,” Wooyoung splayed a hand behind him, head perked up, face still twisted in pleasure, but his lips stayed parted like he couldn’t believe his ears.
“What?” Concerned, San had two palms on Wooyoung’s hips, pausing immediately, “Are you okay? What's wrong?”
“Listen,” Wooyoung whispered, like if he spoke too loud, you’d hear him. That you’d stop.
San’s brows furrowed, lips parting to question, but then he heard it. Small, faint whimpers, and then a moan— a genuine, raw, unbridled fucking moan, yours. He recognized it, he knows it, he’s forced it out of your lips, his hips grind into Wooyoung’s warmth out of instinct.
Wooyoung’s head dropped, arm bending until his elbow hit the mattress, a low moan spilling from his lips as his arm slipped between his thighs, tugging on his length. His voice comes out low, ragged, “I can’t believe this.”
“Fuck,” San cursed low, long, hips picking up again, slow but steady, quiet enough to hear your sounds float through the wall. “She– I–, Woo.”
“Yes,” Wooyoung whispered, moaned, hips fucking back onto San’s length in a nasty, slow grind, “wish she was in here, sh- it, want her hands on me.”
San’s fingertips squeezed into the plush of Wooyoung’s ass, face scrunching together in pleasure, a silent moan leaving his slacked jaw. The shock, the debrief would have to come later.
“You— you wanna fuck her while I fuck you? Hm?”
Wooyoung arched deeper, fisting his length faster, picking up speed all over again, drowning out your noise. San wasn’t faring much better, hips stuttering into Wooyoung, one hand sliding up to claw fingers into his boyfriend’s back.
San’s eyes stayed locked onto where the two met, watching how Wooyoung’s ass rippled with each harsh thrust of his cock, the end approaching too fucking fast.
A few more thrusts until he was hunched over, drooling onto Wooyoung’s back as he filled him up, Wooyoung’s release spilling all over the comforter beneath them. They didn’t even get as far as undoing the sheets.
Dinner, a few glasses of wine, a movie with too much touching, Wooyoung was already dirty talking San before they opened up the bedroom door. Cocky smirk on his pretty lips, head tilted, eyes sparkling, teasing him about you— oh, he was begging to get fucked. San’s been overly careful of your presence for awhile now, never too loud, keeping Wooyoung’s mouth on a tight leash when you’re home.
But Wooyoung pushed each and every button tonight, all concerning you. How he’d fuck you better, how you’d crack when he tried, how he’d treat you better than San, San put one hand around his throat and the rest unfolded in a mess of teeth, tongue and lube. To hear you through the wall, getting off to them, was the cherry on top. They needed to do something, now.
San ripped the comforter off the bed and crawled beneath the sheet, not caring if Wooyoung spilled into them as he settled over San’s chest, their breath still heavy, hearts still pounding.
“You seriously think she was getting off to us?” San asked Wooyoung, brows raised in innocence, in fear of what he thought to be true, being false. He kept his voice low, a small whisper.
Wooyoung, fully out of breath, chest still heaving and soaked in sweat, laughed. A hearty chuckle, he ran a hand through his hair, smile lingering, “Yes, baby. Bet she’s in there nervous as hell that we heard her.”
You sat up in your bed, chest heaving, eyes wide, right hand still shaky. Fuck. There’s no way they heard you, right? Too wrapped up in each other, they were loud, there’s no way they heard you over the sound of themselves. You looked over to Sweetie in panic, only easing when you saw his head still tucked into his half-torn bed, eyes closed, breathing even.
If Sweetie wasn’t bothered, then they definitely didn’t hear you.
You lay flat against your bed, mind whirling, so fucking confused because that was so hot but it wasn’t right. Masturbating to the sound of your two roommates, two best friends who were in a relationship fucking, it wasn’t morally correct, that you knew before your fingers slipped into your panties. Post-nut clarity seeping in, you’re met with regret, guilt, and the urge to give up.
Reminding yourself was painful– they don’t want you, they want each other. There’s no room for you in their relationship.
Maybe you’ll go with them to that fuckass bar tomorrow. Maybe Yunho will be there. Nothing could be worse than living with this.
San and Wooyoung had enough.
The morning after the multi-room sex debacle, you pretended like nothing happened. They supposed that to you, nothing did happen, you had no idea they heard you, and they weren’t going to say anything, either. You’d die of embarrassment if they brought it up, and they’ve come to the conclusion that it wouldn't be the best start of a blooming relationship. They at least thought you would question it, question them. But you didn’t.
Their patience was running thin.
The bar was loud, pop music floating through the space, a newer bar with an industrial look to it that left everything open. The ceilings showed the pipes, the walls looked to be something like steel, the decor had a very factory-mechanical vibe to it that they couldn’t quite explain– but the drinks were cheap and the music was good. With all of your friends here, they didn’t care much, anyhow, their main focus was that you wanted to be here, you wanted to blow off steam, let loose and let go after a hectic week.
They wondered how much of that excuse had to do with them.
You stood at the bar, one foot propped up on the exposed pipe lying at the base, tapping Wooyoung’s credit card against the bar. San leaned into him, their shoulders touching, both of their eyes locked in on you, watching like they always did. God forbid they took their eyes off of you.
“You guys are gonna go cross-eyed if you keep staring,” Seonghwa muttered from across the circular table, settled in the booth beside his boyfriend, Hongjoong.
“How could we not stare?” Wooyoung was quick to answer. “Have you seen her?”
“I thought you guys were together now,” Hongjoong’s brows furrowed, eyes bouncing between Wooyoung and San, fingers tapping against his glass, his draft beer halfway gone by now.
“We are,” San shrugged, “just trying to get her with us, too.”
Wooyoung snorted, “That’s one way to put it.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Jongho interrupted, leaning forward between Mingi and Yeosang, separating the couple. “You’re trying to be in… what, a throuple?”
“Yeah,” San and Wooyoung answered at the same time, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Actually, I’m not even going to question it,” Yeosang shook his head, bringing the straw in his fruity cocktail up to his lips. “San’s always had a thing for her.”
Mingi leans forward, a smile on his pink lips, agreeing with his boyfriend immediately, “Right? I thought you guys would end up together, or really, I kinda thought you were secretly together this whole time.”
San’s cheeks, already pink, must have turned four shades darker. He didn’t have time to answer though, Hongjoong cutting in immediately, “Sounds messy. Does she know you want her?”
Wooyoung’s lips tighten as he shakes his head, “Don’t know, maybe.”
“Didn’t she just go on a date with Yunho?” Jongho asks, one of his brows popped.
San sighs, “That was before we knew she was interested in us, if she is.”
“She is interested in you?” Mingi looks completely confused.
“See?” Hongjoong shakes his head. “Messy.”
Wooyoung nudges San with his elbow, speak of the fucking devil, grabbing his boyfriend’s attention to watch Yunho approaching you at the bar, a pitstop on his way back from the bathroom. Immediately there’s a fire in his gut, jealousy spreading like wildfire to each nerve ending in his body, it doesn’t help that Yunho looks hot tonight. Baggy cargos on his legs, tight tee on his torso, oversized button down hanging loose off his shoulders, fuck him. Why is he approaching you like the two of you are friendly or something?
Last they heard, you didn’t want him, you wanted them. So why is Yunho talking to you like he’s hitting on you? Why is your hand on his forearm? What could he possibly be saying that makes your head tip back in laughter? Yunho isn’t even that funny.
There’s discomfort lining San’s eyebrows as he watches you lean into Yunho, seeming almost instinctive. He knows that look in your eye, the exact grin on your cheeks, what you’re insinuating even if he can’t hear a word falling from your glossy lips. He takes a slow breath, calming his heart rate before his mind warps what he sees into something completely different.
Yunho’s his friend. If his hypothesis is correct, he knows how you feel about them, how they feel about you, wait– did they even tell Yunho how they feel about you? San’s eyes widen in panic as he turns to Wooyoung who already looks like he’s settled in his decision, jealousy in the hinge of his clenched jaw, his fingers mindlessly swirling the straw in his drink.
San thinks they’re speaking around him, he can’t hear, he chooses not to listen. He watches as you lean forward, whispering something in Yunho’s ear. His chest feels heavy as Yunho looks down at the floor like he’s hiding flushed cheeks, an easy smile on his lips, body leaning closer to you as if San and Wooyoung weren’t sitting ten feet away.
They’ve had enough.
You were already smiling as Yunho approached you, having watched him make the few last steps to where you stood. “Hey stranger.”
“Hey,” he leans against the bar, “getting another drink?”
You flashed Wooyoung’s black card, a smirk on your cheeks, “Getting as many as I can stomach tonight.”
Yunho smacks his teeth, “Rough week?”
“You have no idea,” you say through an exhausted breath, “and you? Drinking tonight? I’m sure Woo won’t notice if I add another beer to his tab.”
Yunho’s eyes dance from the table back to you, “Oh, he’ll notice.”
“Trust me,” your lips scrunch together, disappointment on your face, “he won’t. He’s too focused on San.”
“They’re together?” Yunho lifts a brow, “like, together together?”
“Mhm,” you nod, tongue poking your cheek. “New development in the saga, I guess. Not a good one.”
“I’m sorry,” Yunho frowns, “I did not expect that.”
You’re still nodding until a sigh is pulled from your lungs, “It does leave me single, though, like super single…” Your eyes flicker up to him, blinking through heavy lashes.
Yunho snorts, “Yeah? Were you not super single before?”
You laugh, a breathy little thing, leaning closer to him, a hand mindlessly landing on his forearm. “I was, but there was hope before. Now there’s nothing, like super confirmed, nothing.”
“Super,” Yunho nods, laughter still playing on his lips like he was fighting it back. It leaves you both giggling like kids, a hand covering your mouth as your head tips back.
He looks pretty tonight, you realize. Undone, casual, like he didn’t put in too much effort. Baggy clothes on his body, hair a little disheveled, he looked comfortable. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol in your system or the last bit of sanity you were clinging on to, but he looked… Different. Good, really good.
“Are you still super single?” The question slips from your lips before you can think about it.
Yunho’s brows raise, surprised, they quirk immediately after, confused. His eyes fly to the table, landing there for a moment before sliding back to you, “Oh,” he blinks, “oh. Yes, yeah, I’m still single.”
“Good,” you nod, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, feeling the heat you were so desperately missing the night you went out on your date. You needed something, a good fuck, a drunk hookup, something to distract you from how fucking miserable you felt. Hopeless was the better word, after coming to the sound of them fucking you’d never felt more pathetic in your life, you needed change, something, anything.
“Do… you have plans after this?” Yunho’s face looked innocent, of all things. Like he wasn’t sure if he should be asking the question, the implication behind it, even though he seemed to see straight through you, what you needed.
The smirk that crawled onto your cheeks was anything but innocent. “Nope, completely free.”
“Good,” Yunho nodded, his smile a little more confident now. “Fuck the black card, let me buy you a drink.”
Your brows raised, a laugh falling past your lips as both your hands shoot up in defense, “Be my guest. You deserve a do-over.”
“No I do not,” he says through a laugh, “but you deserve to have some fun.”
You roll your eyes, snorting a laugh, “Please, we both know that date was not good.”
Yunho’s head turns back to the table again before taking your place leaning over the bar, ignoring your comment but definitely not denying it, “I’ll get us a round of shots.”
And he did– vodka, bitter and hot, it burnt your chest the entire way down. But it went down easy with the liquor already pooling in your gut, body warm enough to begin with.
He bought you something fruity afterward, rum and juice, it tasted like candy— easy to sip on, easy to chug if need be. You stuck around the bar instead of heading back to the table, eyeing the dance floor on the other side of the bar, in easy conversation with Yunho who seemed like he had no intentions of heading back to the table, either.
“Do you want to dance?” His eyes flicker to you, brows raised like he couldn’t quite gauge whether or not you’d say yes.
“You know I teach dance for a living, right?” Your lips quirk on one side, “Of course I want to dance.”
“I can’t say I’m a great dancer,” Yunho admits, lips tightened in a line. “I sell art, there’s nothing fluid about walking around a gallery all day.”
You laugh, grabbing him by the wrist, tugging him towards the music that gets louder with each step. “Follow my lead,” you say simply, mind finally feeling fucking free, “I’ll give you a free lesson.”
He trails behind you with a silly smile until you enter the crowd of people, it was busy over here, you realized. The bar wasn’t too crowded, the other side of the building consisted of booths and tables for those who… didn’t want to have a good time, you guessed. Talking, catching up, the first awkward half of a date, maybe.
You loved bars that had dance floors. Clubs, weddings, anywhere that there was a space dedicated to people letting loose, allowing their bodies to move as they pleased, to feel music in their blood. It was your favorite, even if you danced for a living, this was different– no choreography, no rules, there was nothing in your mind to keep you structured. You could let yourself feel, move the way your body allowed, you didn’t have to worry what anyone else thought.
With liquor in your system, that freedom is amplified by a thousand. Dancing before Yunho, you quickly realize he lied about having two left feet, his smile is just as careless as yours as his body moves to the beat of the song, matching your rhythm perfectly. Hips swaying in tandem, arms flowing in the space around you, you’re giggling before you know it, a smile branded onto your cheeks.
Until you turn your head and see that Wooyoung and San have joined you.
San’s arms over Wooyoung’s shoulders, they danced close, hips touching, swaying together as one. They were smiling at you– or pretending to be, the first thing you noticed was how their grins didn’t reach their ears. An alarm bell sounds in your head, confused, concerned, you want to ask what’s wrong, your body stops moving as the thoughts pile in.
Wooyoung, unaffected by your lack of movement, wiggles free from San’s grip. “Let’s switch!” He’s smiling, yelling over the music, “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”
Your brows furrow as Wooyoung shimmies between you and Yunho, his arms gliding swiftly over Yunho’s shoulders shamelessly, dark hair glowing under the pink, neon light, shaking with each sway of his body.
You turn your head to San who seems like he’s taking a moment to process, then he pulls you into him by your wrist, other hand landing on your hip, your back to his chest. You start moving out of instinct, hips swaying, but your brows stay furrowed.
Turning your head halfway, you ask, “What’s going on?”
San presses his lips into your cheek, dimples out to play with the smile he gives you. This one seems more real, it eases the panic in your chest ever so slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I–” Your head turns back to Wooyoung, who has his cheek pressed to Yunho’s, saying something into his ear. “Are you guys okay?”
“Of course,” San’s palms hug your hips, pulling you flush to him, the feeling of him behind you sends heat up your spine. Immediately you’re brought back to the other night, the sounds leaving his lips, the mental picture you came up with, your hand between your legs. With his voice dripped in honey, he asks, “Are you okay, Shygirl?”
You’re nodding, body sinking into him, heat pulsing through your core, up your spine. His body feels so strong behind you, muscular arms on your hips, rocking you so sensually it throws your head for a spin. This movement brings back memories, ones that haunt you, ones you miss so fucking much.
You nod weakly, your voice a small squeak, “Yup, ‘m fine.”
He chuckles, cheeks pink, burying his head into your neck. You’re so close you could be considered one, it’s too close, it’s disrespectful, but you can’t bring yourself to let go. Yunho is right in front of you, expecting a night with you, he knows how you feel about San, about Wooyoung, and here you are falling into a haze, repeating old mistakes.
A third hand to one side of your waist, a fourth to the other. When you look up, Yunho is gone. Wooyoung stands before you with a cocky, lopsided smile on his lips, hips pressing into your front, falling into rhythm with you and San easily. He looks so pretty with pink cast onto his face, so bronzy even under neon light, his dark clothes sinking into the shadows.
“Where’s Yunho?” You ask, hands finding Wooyoung’s shoulders like it was instinct.
He takes the opportunity to come closer, the three of you molding together, the smell of both of them in your nose, the strength of them boxing you in. It feels so fucking good, it feels wrong, you don’t want them to let go, you want to stay here, dancing with them all night.
“Bathroom,” Wooyoung shrugs, thumbs caressing your sides. “Who cares?”
“Woo,” you whine, making a show of pouting, but it isn’t real. You don’t care.
“What?” His grin spreads wider, voice light and playful like he was proving his innocence, “The only thing that matters is you and us, right here. Nothing else.”
You couldn’t argue with him, not that you ever do. There’s nothing left inside you to make a rebuttal, anyway, there’s so you curl your fingers into the nape of his neck, spread your legs to allow one of theirs to slot through, and sway your hips like you were born to do it. Head falling back onto San’s shoulder, a lazy grin makes its way to your cheeks as you move with them, staring at Wooyoung over your nose, he looks at you like he’d do anything to drink you in.
He’s always looked at you this way, but there was something different about the longing glint in his eye, how his tongue slowly swipes over his lips like he’s hungry. Maybe it was knowing your own feelings playing a part, if it was anyone else you’d think they wanted to fuck you, but it’s Wooyoung. You can feel San at your back, the dirty grind of his hips against your ass, it’s been so long since you’ve been with them like this– dancing, liquor involved, too close for comfort, questioning if your relationship was as platonic as you thought it was.
Years. You haven’t touched San in years. You think back to Wooyoung asking if you missed it– you know you do, you miss it so fucking much, but was there a chance that Wooyoung wanted you to miss it? That he wanted to repeat history, this time with him involved, like all the times you’ve dreamt about? You almost groan, head tipping forward, heat spreading through your body at the thought of them wanting you like you want them.
“What are you thinking about, baby?” Wooyoung asks, his voice low, loud enough for you to hear. His face is so close you could feel his breath on your face; minty, like he was drinking a mojito, or took a shot of Rumplemintz. His smile is feline, eyes knowing as if your skull was transparent, like he just wanted to hear the words from your lips.
“I,” you take a breath, the admission sits on your tongue. “I’m not thinking.”
You can’t do it. To make yourself so vulnerable, so susceptible to rejection, you couldn’t do it.
Wooyoung leans in, soft, warm cheek pressed to yours, lips ghosting your ear, “You’re lying.”
San is on your other side, keeping himself close, his nose dancing along the shell of your ear, making you shiver. He keeps his voice just as low, sounding like an aphrodisiac, “Tell us, baby, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, hm?”
Your heartbeat quickens, pressure below your skin, they’re too close, boxing you in, there’s a pit in your core like an itch you can’t fucking scratch and they’re dangling relief in front of your eyes, out of reach. Your jaw clenches, words fighting to push through, your fingers tangle into Wooyoung’s hair at the nape of his neck, nails grazing against skin– he hisses into your ear, fingers tightening around your waist like it’s all he could do to stop himself from pressing into you.
“Fuck, Woo,” you mutter under your breath, marvelling at the sound, how it makes your stomach do a flip. The floor feels charged, tension spreading from your ankles to your spine, your words spill out before you can think twice about them, “did you like that?”
You can feel electricity prickling your scalp at your own question, but he answers it with a quick-spreading smirk brushing over your ear, “Is it okay if I did?” Your eyes widen as he pulls away from you, keeping your faces so close your noses are almost touching. His eyes stay locked on yours and you can see the desperation changing the shape of his face. He asks again, “What if I asked you to do it again?”
It’s so wrong. They’re together, they’re a couple, there’s no fucking room for you. But what if there’s a chance that there is?
Yet your fingers tighten in his hair, gripping at his roots harder than before and his head falls back, strong jaw on display, the curvature of his nose, jugular beckoning your lips forward. The music disappears as a tight sound leaves his lips, the rest of the bar fades away as his hips buck into yours, you’re left in awe, dumbfounded, the heat in your core unbearable.
“He likes it a little rough,” San whispers into your ear, voice rough, edged with dominance. His teeth dragging over your earlobe, tongue following, “You’re gonna make him hard, baby.”
“S-shit,” you manage to get out, body twitching, sinking into San behind you whose hands slide under the hem of your top at your hips, palms hot and callused against your skin. Involuntarily your hips push forward, into Wooyoung, your mind so fuzzy and confused but you’re so fucking horny all you can ask is, “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Wooyoung asks, voice playful again, his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb sliding over your skin, searing the trail he leaves behind. “You’re smart, use that big brain.”
“Kiss him,” San whispers in your ear, then plants a kiss right below it, using his tongue to seal the spot. You shiver, a whimper leaving your lips, brows tying together. You’re confused, you don’t have time to be, you don’t want to question it anymore.
You want to kiss him, you’ve never kissed Wooyoung once in your life. You’ve longed to know what he tastes like, how he uses his pretty lips, if his tongue can do all the things you’ve imagined it to. Your eyes drop down as he wets his lips again, so glossy and inviting, you bite your lip as his curve into another smile.
“You want to,” San’s lips drop to your neck, talking against your skin, “I know you want to, don’t deprive yourself, baby.”
You do want to, it’s a dream, your biggest fantasy coming to life. Your hands slide from the nape of Wooyoung’s cheek to cradle his jaw, Wooyoung’s flared eyes give you the green light, you blink once, twice, ignoring everything in your mind that tells you no as you lean in and press your lips to his. His hands cup your cheeks immediately, lips moving with yours, exploratory and relieving all at once, his tongue slips into your mouth like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it, no time to waste. San keeps his hands on your waist, groaning into your skin as he watches you, attaching his lips to your neck, kissing, sucking, licking over the marks he leaves behind.
There’s a leg between yours, you think it’s Wooyoung’s, maybe San’s, but your hips grind against it with each lick of his tongue into your mouth. It feels like heaven, or worse, mind so dazed and confused and horny but so at peace with this being everything you’ve ever imagined and more, you can’t get enough. You kiss him faster, rougher, arms wrapping around his neck, tongue searching his mouth like you need to embed the taste of him into your bones, he tastes sweet. Minty like this breath, a bitter note of alcohol on his tongue, your hands fall from his cheeks to his chest, sliding down to the hem of his shirt to tuck your hands beneath it.
Oh, he’s warm, his body feels like it looks, harsh and unforgiving, delicious. Like he could throw you around if he wanted to, you hope he wants to, unless it’s San who does the throwing– San.
San.
You break away from Wooyoung with low lidded eyes and he’s staring at you like you hung the stars in the fucking sky. Eyes glossy, lips swollen, you pull away and immediately he’s following, searching for more.
You turn your head and San’s already waiting for it, palm splaying over your cheek to pull you into him hastily, lips molding against yours like nostalgia was a sentiment created by the two of you. Like coming home, his tongue slots between your lips, teeth clamping over your bottom lip, tugging on it, you whine into his mouth, back arching into his chest. You needed more.
“Do you want us?” He asks into your mouth, breathless. You nod, and he clicks his tongue, “Words, Shy. Tell me you want it.”
“I want it, I’ve wanted it for so long,” you’re quick to admit, breathless yourself, voice raw, honest. “So, so fucking long, Sannie.”
Wooyoung grabs your face by your cheeks, stealing your attention, forcing you to face him so he can explore your mouth again, San breaking away from your back. You barely notice the loss of heat, melting into Wooyoung, chest pressed into his, hands in his hair, meeting his intentions with your own. He breaks away to peck you once, out of breath, pupils dilated, “We’ve wanted you for even longer.”
Your breath stutters, weak in the knees, you can’t process his words, you’d put it on a checklist for later. Voice cracking, wrecked before you’d even begun, you muttered, “Let’s go home.”
You felt bad for the driver with the way you sat on San’s lap the whole drive home, switching between him and Wooyoung like you were trying to figure out who was the better kisser. Truth was, you just couldn’t get enough of them, San’s kiss was a part of your being, his touch was instilled in you, familiar to the point of not wanting to ever let go. Wooyoung was new, fresh, but an itch to a scratch, a relief you’ve ached for far too long, he was addicting, like you couldn’t stop if you tried.
Sweetie is jumping at you when you walk through the threshold and the three of you bend down to pet him like you’ve never seen a dog before, like they weren’t just ready to strip you in the backseat of a minivan. Liquor still coursing through you, you’re all talking in high pitched voices, making his tail wag, he couldn’t choose which of you to give his attention to. After treats you’re in your room, tying your hair up, and naturally, the two men follow you.
San makes himself at home on your bed, still in his jeans, jacket still thrown over his shoulders, he leans back on his elbows, eyeing you over the tip of his nose as you meander about your bedroom, maybe stalling, maybe thinking. Maybe you just made all of that up. Maybe you didn't even kiss in the club and you should be diagnosed with schizophrenia.
“Shy.”
Wooyoung stands in the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.
You look between them, jacket halfway off, heart picking up speed all over again, “What?”
“Oh my god, I love you,” Wooyoung’s smiling as he unfolds his arms, crossing the room, meeting you at your back. He pulls the jacket from your shoulders carefully, pressing his lips to your temple, “We want you, baby.”
Your eyes find San’s on your bed, he sits in a cloud of arousal, still sporting the tent in his jeans. Wooyoung presses his lips to your neck, hands landing on your hips, sliding up your waist, over your chest, your breath catches in your throat, head tilting to let him explore, back leaning into his hold to let him do as he pleases.
“I know it’s been two years,” San stands from the bed, walking towards you in three long steps, slipping his fingers through the belt loops on your jeans. He tugs your hips into him, arching you off of Wooyoung, making your breath catch. The grin that spreads across his cheeks is all arrogance, “But did you really think you weren’t getting fucked the moment we walked through the door?”
Your body ignites in a way you haven’t felt in years. You whisper, “I did, I– I don’t know.”
“Do you want me to fuck you?” He presses his forehead against yours, voice soft like velvet, invading your space again with his fingers uncurling from your belt loops to play with the hem of your jeans, two fingers pinching the button of your fly.
Wooyoung moves to your ear, biting the shell of it, not soft enough to hurt, but enough to make you suck in a harsh breath. He plays with your top, sliding it upward, knuckles cold against your skin, “Do you want me to fuck you?”
You whine, sinking into Wooyoung, reaching for San’s shirt. You want them to fuck you, god, you want them both, you’ll take anything they give you. You can barely get out a small, broken, “Yes.”
Accomplishment is bright on San’s face as he unbuttons your jeans with ease, Wooyoung pulls away to flip your shirt over your head, the two moving in such quick motions you begin thinking they’ve been waiting for this, too. San helps you step out of your jeans before attaching your lips and it’s more than hungry, he’s starving with the way he tries to devour you, swallow you whole as he turns you both around, unclasping your bra as he walks you to your bed.
You fall flat against your mattress with a squeak, feeling bare before them like this, standing above you like vultures. You’ve been here before with San, it feels like seeing an old friend again; but with Wooyoung, there’s a spark of unfamiliarity, it’s been years since you’ve opened up to someone new.
“Holy shit,” Wooyoung groans, dark hair messy around his face, deepening the shadows of his structured face. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Shy.”
You burn, heat spreading through you, knees closing, “You’ve seen me before, Woo.”
He catches your knees, spreading them as San kneels onto the bed beside you, watching Wooyoung as his eyes sink between your legs. “Not like this, do you even know how fucking wet you are?”
Your hips twitch with the way he holds you open, already searching for more. Wooyoung continues, eyes glossed over, stuck at your center like it was treasure, “Fuck, baby, you’re soakin’ through your panties.”
“For you,” you breathe out, “taste it.”
His eyes snap up to yours, smile tugging at the corner of his lips, amused. “Yeah? That what you want?”
You nod, “Yes, Woo, wanna feel your mouth, wanted it for so long.”
His eyes slide to San’s with a smirk and the older man meets his stare with a short, cocky, “Told you.”
Wooyoung’s hands curl under your knees, pulling your ass to the edge of the bed before he pulls your panties down your legs, throwing them somewhere on the floor, “Didn’t tell me she was impatient.”
“I am,” you’re quick to admit, shameless and desperate, “I’ve been.”
He smiles again, lifting one leg and pressing his lips to your ankle, keeping his eyes on yours as he sinks down to his knees. Slow kisses up your calf, your inner thigh, his tongue leaves a trail, your breath hitches in your throat as he breaks away just to tug his shirt over his head by the collar.
“Nostalgic, hm?” San mumbles, close to your ear, laying down with one elbow propped up to watch, “We’ve been in this position before.”
You gasp as Wooyoung’s teeth graze your other thigh, at the sensitive part on the inside, eyes flickering up to yours to see your reaction. Through gritted teeth, one arm reaching out for San, you whisper, “Mm, missed it.”
“He’s good with his mouth, y’know,” San leans in closer, pressing his lips to your cheek then your jaw as Wooyoung finally leans forward, his nose meeting your folds before his lips make contact. A strangled moan escapes you, hips immediately bucking into him, other hand flying between your legs to take root in his hair.
As his tongue swipes through your folds your back arches, your moan exposing every feeling of relief, of how much you wanted this, needed this. His name drips off your tongue and he groans at the sound, “You sound so pretty, Shybaby.”
“Prettier when she’s louder,” you can feel San smirk into your skin, “you have no idea how shameless she can get. Suck on her clit, Woo.”
As his lips wrap around your clit your moan heightens in pitch, louder than before, fingers tugging harshly at his scalp as your hips buck into his mouth, “Holy shit, Wooyoung.”
He groans into you, fingers curling into your thighs, soothing over your clit with his tongue, “Taste so good, pussy so pretty, can’t believe I haven’t done this sooner.”
Your face grows hot as his tongue flattens over your folds, flicking at your clit with precision, no haste to his actions, he’s exploring you. Seeing what you like, what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes your stomach clench in pleasure.
His nose glides over your clit and you buck into him again, his tongue circling your entrance, drinking up every ounce of your arousal. San’s fingers find your hair, “Mm, she liked that, Woo.”
“You like my nose?” His eyes flicker up to you and you nod shamelessly, humming your agreement. He repeats the movement and your back arches as he moves into a rhythm, tongue fucking into you while his nose glides over your clit, his movements timed perfectly with each jerk of your hips.
“Wanna see you ride it,” San whispers into your ear and you gasp out, one hand curling into the sheets beneath you. “Next time.”
“Yes, fuck,” you mumble through gritted teeth, “want it, need it.”
“Wanna watch you cum,” San’s fingers find your chest, the pads of them running over your hardened nipples, pinching at your sensitive skin. Louder now, your moans slurring together, your stomach curls in pleasure, pressure building in your hips.
“Don’t stop, Woo,” you whisper, a broken sound, using your fingers in his hair to rock your hips against his face, “so good, just like that.”
He grunts in response, letting you use him, adding more pressure and you’re locking up around him, whimpering as San’s fingers pinch harder at your chest, it’s enough to pull you right to the edge.
“There you go,” San encourages, lips buried in your hair, “use him, let me see you cum against his face, make yourself cum for me, c’mon.”
“Gonna–” there’s panic in your voice like you couldn’t believe you were reaching your peak so easily, but as his fingers tighten into your thighs harder, tongue lolled out for you to ride, the slight sting in your skin combined with the stimulation to your clit throws you over with a loud cry, pleasure washing over you in waves, body trembling beneath their touch, your skin on fire.
“Yes, so good for us,” San whispers, voice coated in praise, “such a good girl, Shy. Missed watching you cum, wanna feel you do it around my cock.”
You whimper, eyes cresting open to see him above you, dimples showing as he speaks. Dark hair messily sprawled across his forehead, cheeks pink, eyes soft and warm, gaze filled with so much love it makes you dizzy. Your hand lifts from Wooyoung’s hair to cradle San’s cheek, pulling him down into a messy kiss, tongue slotting into his mouth softly as Wooyoung presses soft kisses to the tip of your mound, between your hipbones, up your stomach.
Your back arches as his lips wrap around one of your nipples, tongue swiping over them, soothing where San had pinched, it makes you whimper, one hand falling from San’s cheek to dig into Wooyoung’s hair again, softer this time. Nails grazing his scalp, ankles crossing over his back, everything felt slow, filled with purpose, like each one of their movements were solely for your pleasure.
You needed more. You needed them to treat you like they’d treated each other a few nights ago, you needed the bed to hit the wall, to hear Wooyoung whimpering, San’s domineering voice. Your other hand finds San’s hair, gripping at the spiral of his crown, making him grunt into your mouth, “Shit.”
“Need more,” you’re panting into his mouth, “need you to fuck me, I need it.”
Wooyoung’s arms scoop under your back to pull you up as San leans back to groan, you meet his lips hastily, already seated on his thighs, your legs bracket his hips, your bare chest pressed to his. Denim below you, you curse at the feeling of texture, sturdy, rough fabric, “Get these off.”
“Impatient,” he smirks into your lips, “you needy? Desperate to fuck us?”
Skin alight with wildfire, your fingers find the hair at the back of his neck, tugging as you sit upward, following his face as you pull it backward by his hair, “Gonna make me say it again?”
A smile breaks out across his face, one full of excitement, “Holy shit, Shy–”
“Who are you talking to like that, huh?” San’s at your back, chest pressed to your shoulderblades, feeling so big it’s menacing, “You should be thanking him for letting you cum on his face.”
Staring down at Wooyoung, his grin had gone cocky again, one brow raising with your hands still rooted in his hair. Your fingers tighten again and his brows furrow in pleasure, a small moan croaking from his lips, it’s satisfactory enough. You mumble, “Thank you.”
San hums in contentment behind you, “Good girl.”
Wooyou watches in awe as San lifts you off his lap, turning you to face him with ease, standing on his knees he wraps a hand around your jaw, kissing you with more force than he had all night. Tongue pushing past your lips, teeth clashing, you melt beneath him, hands finding his bare pecs to hold onto as he devours your lips, your taste, your pleasure.
“You want me to treat you like a doll?” He asks into your mouth, voice harsh, edged like a blade.
“Want you to treat me how you treat Woo,” you whimper, the admission falling from your lips without a second thought, until you feel him smirk. Hazy from a minute of his mouth on yours, the heat of shame couldn’t find you.
“Knew you were listening,” Wooyoung is at your shoulders, hands on your waist, traveling to your front to grab two handfuls of your chest. “Fuckin’ pervert, listening to us fuck.”
Your back arches, fingertips digging into San’s skin, voice coming out tight, “Hard not to hear when the bed frame is hitting the wall.”
San stares at you like he’s debating fucking the cockiness out of you, “Almost forgot how much of a brat you can be.” Your grin is shameless, daring almost, and he doesn’t like it one bit. “Gonna look at me like that when I’m fucking you within an inch of your life?”
Your brows knit together, lips parting at his words, core clenching around nothing. “Please,” you whimper, hands sliding to his shoulders to pull him forward, “please.”
He doesn’t move, a stone wall before you. Instead he asks, “Did you touch yourself?” Left in the briefs glued to his lower half, your eyes sink to the outline of his length obvious in the polyester clinging to every inch of his skin. His face is lined by confidence, “Made that pretty pussy cum thinking about me fucking you, too?”
Softly, you moan, “Yes.”
“Should have come in the room,” Wooyoung’s lips find your neck, pulling you back into him as his palms knead into your chest. ”Woulda made you cum so hard.”
You whine, sinking into his hot skin, chiseled abdomen searing your back. With your knees spread, your eyes are glossy as you stare up at San who grips his length over his briefs, mouth watering with his sculpted body on display, he’s changed so much over the years. This body is bigger, bulkier, stronger, he’s a completely different San than the one you knew back then. The things he could do to you now cross your mind, sinking straight down to the pit in your belly, your core clenching around nothing.
“Wanna touch?” He asks, still sporting his cocky grin. You nod against Wooyoung’s chest, writhing beneath his palms, his touches only edging you further. He dips his chin down to his length, “C’mere, baby.”
You crawl forward on your palms until you’re standing on your knees before him, pressing your palms up to his shoulders, feeling the curves of his muscles before sliding down to his toned chest, palms laying flat, feeling his heartbeat beneath his skin. They slide down to his abdomen, so sculpted like he’s made of stone, your head tips forward, tongue lolling out of your mouth to glide across the dips and peaks, moaning at the taste of his skin, sweaty, salty, San. He pushes out a heavy breath as your head dips lower, fingers sinking into his waistband, tugging his briefs down.
“Wanna taste,” you mutter mindlessly, mind whirling, craving his cock, missing it. It springs out of his briefs, slapping up between his hipbones, thick and red and leaking, your mouth waters. You blow cool air from your lips and he hisses, cock twitching, making you smile. Your eyes flicker upward, “Want my mouth?”
His heavy brows are furrowed, hips tilted forward, his hands come forward to cup your cheeks. “Wanna fuck you, Shy.”
Your stomach fucking churns at the sound of his voice, whiny and desperate, you clench around nothing at the thought. You missed him so badly you ached for it, the feeling of him inside you, his cock so thick leaving you full enough it’s almost overwhelming to have him seated inside.
Before you have the chance to move you feel two heavy palms land on your hips, your head turns, back arching on command. Wooyoung knelt behind you, cock standing tall between his hipbones, the pretty pink tip leaking against his lower abdomen, so bronzy and veiny and strong. His eyes follow the trail of the base of your spine up to your eyes, “Let me have a turn first.”
You whimper, arching lower, knees spreading to allow him entrance, whining out a breathy, “Yes.”
San holds your cheeks steady, “Can you take it?”
You’re on fire, hips pushing back against Wooyoung with impatience, mouth filling with saliva. “Yes, yes, I can take it, use me– Please?”
A guttural moan spills from the two of them, San rips his briefs off his ankles as he sits back on his calves, one arm behind him holding up his weight. You feel Wooyoung slide two fingers up your spine, rippling over each vertebrae and then back down again, the other hand hooked on your hip squeezing as he grinds his cock against your folds, slippery and wet, he lets out a tangled whine at the feeling.
“You sure, Shy?” He asks, “Pussy’s begging to be fucked.”
“Need this,” you mumble, “need you, don’t hold back.”
“I won’t,” Wooyoung huffs, “don’t think I can, anyway.”
You turn to find San staring at you, his eyes so warm and inviting, lined with impatience he doesn’t dare verbalize. His jaw clenches as you lean down, tongue poking out to meet the leaking tip of his cock as Wooyoung lines himself up, letting his cock catch on your entrance with each slide up your folds. San’s other hand finds your hair as you lick up the underside of him, his head tipping backward as a moan tumbles out from his chest, abdomen already clenching at the pleasure.
“Fuck, that mouth,” San hisses as you let a mouthful of saliva drip onto his cock, using one hand to spread it along his length before you take the tip in your mouth fully, his grip tightens in your roots. “Missed those pretty lips, baby.”
You can’t answer, a strangled noise forcing itself out of you as the tip of Wooyoung’s cock prods your entrance. His hands find your hips, squeezing, “Breathe for me, baby.” His tone is absent, like he needed the reminder more than you did, laser-focused on how your entrance is already sucking him in.
You breathe through your nose, eyes screwing shut as he pushes in, filling you with his length inch by inch, slowly but steadily. A high whimper punches through your lips, mouth unwrapping from San’s cock to dip your head down, hips involuntarily pushing back onto Wooyoung, wanting to be full, fast.
“Patience,” Wooyoung squeezes your hips harder, more confidence in his voice, “this tight lil’ thing needs to be stretched out, take it easy, baby. We’ll give you everything, I promise.”
You haven’t felt this full in years. Even sopping wet you could feel him carving into you, making space for himself where you haven’t been properly filled in so long– the pleasure was tantalizing, slight sting of the stretch mixing into a cocktail of euphoria, your eyes fluttered back into your head, hand tightening around the base of San’s cock.
“Breathe, Shygirl,” San encourages, “let him in.”
Your eyes open, flickering up to San who watches Wooyoung over your head, your body the bridge connecting the two men. The sight of him, flushed, chest patched with a rosy hue, your tongue slides out of your mouth to lick up the underside of him again, taking the tip of him into your mouth.
His hips buck upward, surprised at your warmth wrapped around him, he pushes his cock deeper into your throat and you gag involuntarily, other hand tightening into the sheets below you. You breathe through it, your nose pushing out air as you take him deeper, head bobbing along his length as Wooyoung fully sheathes himself inside you.
He waits there a moment, fingers gripping the plush of your ass, his voice utterly gone as he says, “She’s so fuckin’ tight, Sannie.”
San’s eyes flicker up to him, “Make her cum on your cock, wanna see.”
He pulls out all the way just to slam back inside and your throat constricts around San’s length, making you gag again, eyes watering, blurring your vision. Wooyoung whines, “Fuck, baby, holy shit, Sannie.”
Hearing him moan out San’s name while he fucks you etches stars into your vision. Your hips start pushing back, your hand leaving San’s length to take purchase in the sheets as your hips buck against Wooyoung’s length in the same rhythm that you bob your head along San’s cock. Both men moan, a pitiful sound, lewd and desperate, it makes you clench around Wooyoung, nose diving down to press into the tuft of hair at the base of San’s cock.
“There you go,” San huffs, voice strangled, you look up to see him sink his teeth into his bottom lip. “Fuck, so pretty, taking my cock so fucking well. Missed seeing you like this.”
You moan around him, core clenching and you can hear the whine caught in the back of Wooyoung’s throat, his fingers curling into the plush of your ass, squeezing so fucking hard it rips a tight noise from your chest, dying on San’s cock.
“Don’t know how long I’ll last, fuck,” Wooyoung chokes out, hands sliding up to your hipbones.
San does his best to make his smile appear cocky, “When’s the last time you fucked, huh?” He gasps the moment the words leave his lips, as you swallow around his length, he curses under his breath, tightening a hand in your roots.
Wooyoung speaks through gritted teeth, “Too fucking long, shit, she’s suckin’ me in–”
“Can’t wait to feel,” San grunts, hips twitching into your mouth, forcing you to take him deeper, “mouth just as dangerous, you’re a demon, Shy.”
You try to smile, he’s too wide in your mouth, in your throat, you settle for shooting him one with your eyes. You’re in rhythm now, head bobbing at the same pace as Wooyoung fucking into you, being so full, so manhandled by the two of them even if you were the one who put yourself here feels so good. Wooyoung’s cock is thinner than San’s, longer, you can feel how it curves along the front side of your walls, hitting every single spot you need it to.
It makes your knees wobble, your fingers twisting in the sheets, it feels too fucking good. It’s been a long while since you’ve breached an orgasm around someone’s cock, it’s muscle memory the way your arch comes back to you, the rhythm in which you fuck against him to get yourself off, the pressure building so different from when you do it yourself.
Wooyoung notices, landing a sharp smack to your ass, “Usin’ me? I can feel you fucking back.”
You pop off of San’s length to turn your head halfway, “Y’feel so good, Woo, can’t help it.”
His brows tie together, jaw falling slack, “Fuck, don’t stop, baby, don’t stop–”
“Inside, kay?” Between a moan and a whimper, “Don’t pull out.”
His palms push into the plush of your ass again as you take San’s cock into your mouth, stretching your lips wide to take him, using the slick you’d left behind to glide your tongue all the way down, choking yourself on him, bobbing your head in rhythm again.
Wooyoung’s hips stutter, he curses under his breath, one of his hands slides around to your front, between your legs, “Can’t– need you to cum first, baby, please.”
Two fingers to the bundle of nerves between your legs, your hips jerk, back arching impossibly deeper, a gargled moan vibrates San’s cock and he curses low, hands in your hair pulling, it’s overstimulating, how much is happening all at once.
Wooyoung’s fingers take all but three tight circles at your clit to send you freefalling over the edge, pressure blowing, pleasure spreading through your body like fireworks reaching each limb, every nerve ending. San tugs you off his cock by your hair, one hand fisting the base of him to stop his orgasm from hitting, and Wooyoung cries out as he barrels into you, hips finally stilling when he’s fully sheathed, filling you with warmth.
You’re gaping, staring at San wide-eyed, “Why?”
It takes a moment for you to process the warmth. Like sitting before a fire, it’s comforting, head dropping to let it sink in– nostalgic, you missed this.
“Wanna cum inside you,” he answers simply, “c’mere.”
Manhandling you all over again, he pulls you onto his lap, you can’t help but reach for Wooyoung behind you. San wastes no time, ignoring your heaving chest, the exhaustion in your eyes you’re hiding with adrenaline, with one hand on your hips he lines you up over his cock, easing you down onto his length, you hiss at the stretch, at the width of him.
“Big stretch,” his grin is taunting, “you can do it, baby, easy.”
“Fuck,” you whimper, arms stretching behind you, “Woo.” Searching for the man who just came inside you, he’s at your back, broad and steady, arms wrapping around you.
“I’m here,” he whispers into the curve of your neck, moving your hair away from your sticky neck to press his lips into you, and it’s the comfort you needed to start grinding your hips into San’s cock, moans spilling from your lips, small gasps and whines as he fills you up perfectly, walls molding to the shape of him like he’d never left.
“Fuck, Sannie,” you murmur, “‘s too much, missed your cock, but it’s too much.”
“You can do it,” he leans into you, groaning at the feeling of you around him, he searches for your lips. You pick your head up to meet him, pressing your lips to his, tongue sliding into his mouth, tasting every inch you can find. He grins into your lips, “Look at you, taking it like you did all those years ago. Still my fuckin’ slut, aren’t you?”
You gasp, hips twitching against him, clenching hard, and he curses under his breath like he wasn’t just taunting you. Lips still ghosting yours, he whispers, “Still like my mouth? All that nasty shit?”
You nod, nipples brushing against his chest with every bounce of your hips, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders. All you can manage is, “More.”
“I know, baby,” his hips jerk up and you cry out, arching into Wooyoung behind you who reaches around your front, fingers pinching at your nipples, teeth at your ear. San, voice wrecked, grunts as he says, “Still need a little pain with the pleasure to get you off, huh?”
You can’t answer, eyelids fluttering, hazy at the feeling of Wooyoung’s release spilling out of you onto San’s thighs, the squelching sound of it coating his cock, making it easy for you to bounce yourself against him like a bitch in heat.
Wooyoung chuckles into your ear, low and velvety, it sends a shiver up your spine. “Never woulda guessed that from you, baby.”
It makes a lazy grin break out across your cheeks, head turning to kiss him, all teeth and tongue, messy and delicious. “Really?”
“My Shygirl,” his voice is filled with affection, lips pressed to the side of your head, parted and spilling spit onto your temple, your cheeks, it feels dirty– so fucking sexy you can’t control the way you hump San’s cock, slurring mindless babbles and strained noises you can barely comprehend.
“Our Shygirl,” San corrects him, eyeing Wooyoung over your shoulder, a severity to his tone that makes your eyes flick upward in question.
His brows tied with pleasure, sweat dripping down his brow, dark hair messy and tangled on his head, he looks like a fucking dream. He is a dream, this is a dream, harmonious with the two as if you’ve done this a thousand times, like it was always supposed to be this way, he can read the question on your tongue. He cups your cheek with a hand, sliding it to the back of your head to take root in your hair, tugging you towards him close enough for your lips to touch, “It’s different this time.”
You try to kiss him with your slacked jaw but it’s a trading of spit more than it is a kiss, “Different.”
“Mine,” he growls, a hand wrapping around your back, fingers digging into your skin, his words too coherent to be born of the heat of the moment. “Wanted this for too long, both of you, you’re both mine.”
“Yours,” you repeat, confirm with an airy head, echoed by Wooyoung as your hips stutter against San’s cock, head tipped against the younger man’s shoulder, “f-fuck me.”
“Sit,” it’s an order from San to Wooyoung that’s answered on command, he sits on his calves before uncurling his legs from below him, cock half-hard laying stiff between his hips.
San maneuvers you with two hands on your waist, you gasp as he tugs you off his cock effortlessly, laying you back on Wooyoung’s chest like it took no fucking strength at all. Strong arms wrap around you as your skin meets his, tilting your head to the side to see him, to kiss him, he smiles as he sees you, teeth on display.
“So fucking pretty,” Wooyoung looks at you the same way he always does, stars in his eyes, like he couldn’t smile without his whole face if he tried, like the look was solely for you. “You’re mine too, y’know.”
You reach up with one arm to pull his head down to yours, the kiss softer than those you’ve shared tonight, more controlled like you needed a moment to let his words sink in, your mind too fuzzy to process the weight of what that meant.
San’s fingers hook under your knees, pushing them backward until they leave you spread, lining himself up all over again, pushing inside in one quick motion.
A different feeling of full, Wooyoung holds your face against his as you whisper a cry into his mouth, your lips still touching as he grins, “Been waiting for this too, haven’t you? You wanna be ours?”
Body going limp in his hold, hand falling from his cheek mindlessly, your body feels like fucking jelly. You nod, breath quickening, short and tight at the feeling of San fucking into you, “Need to be, waited so long.”
San’s grip tightens under your knees, picking up speed, your head turns to see him and god you want to take a picture, want to frame it and hang it on the wall; brows furrowed, lips parted, eyes focused on your meeting below, his abdomen flexing as he rolls his hips into you, it makes your toes curl where they hang in the air.
Face scrunching up, you reach for him, pulling him down to you, “Need t’kiss you.”
Messy, sloppy, wet, you can feel him in your stomach as your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close. With the last peck to your lips he presses his forehead against yours, “I missed you, I love you— taking me s’fucking perfectly, like you always do—”
A strangled noise fights to leave your chest, heavy where it sits trapped, the words forcing the warmth in the pit of your belly to bloom, explode, shattering every wall you’d built up in the past few weeks.
“I love you,” it’s a broken whisper, an admission you can’t keep inside any longer. A little louder, a little firmer, “I love you.”
He smiles into the kiss he plants on your lips, “Yeah?”
“Hey,” Wooyoung interjects, hands cupping your cheeks to tilt you backward, “I love you, too.”
You’d smile if San didn’t pick up speed all over again, instead you’re babbling a mess of I love you, I love you too into Wooyoung’s mouth, lips barely touching enough to call it a kiss, so mindless and breathless and overwhelmed all you can do is feel.
Wooyoung’s hand leaves your cheek to sink between yours and San’s bodies, two fingers pressed to your clit, swirling tight circles on the bundles of nerves. Your body fights to jerk between them, trapped between sweat and muscle, head lolling backward on Wooyoung’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.
San switches his angle, strong arms tilting your hips upward to fuck into you harder, to angle his cock to hit the sweet spot inside you, building the pit of pressure of your stomach with purpose.
Your eyes blow wide, breath quickening, “San— Sannie—”
“C’mon,” he encourages, sitting backward to fuck into you faster, “Lemme feel it, want it.”
Incoherent babbles and the clenching of your cunt has your hands reaching for his forearms, fingernails pressing into his skin, all while Wooyoung keeps his pace on your clit, rhythm perfect, pressure nothing short of unbearable.
“Woo— Sannie—” you don’t know who to cry for, hips fighting to meet San’s thrusts, grinding into Wooyoung’s fingers, “I’m gonna cum.”
“Let go, baby,” Wooyoung’s voice is light and encouraging but he’s babbling as if San was fucking him, “let him feel it, he wants it so bad, he loves it, loves you.”
Breath caught in your chest, your jaw drops as your pleasure hits its peak, meeting San’s gaze as your orgasm washes over you like a fucking hurricane, utterly speechless as your legs shake in the open air, inescapable euphoria reaching every inch of skin.
“Fuck, Shy,” San groans, “you’re so fucking sexy, oh my god, oh my god—”
You don’t have time to respond before Wooyoung is kissing you again, tilting your head backward with one hand as San extends your orgasm with every thrust of his cock, Wooyoung’s fingers slowing on your clit, letting you ride it out until you’re a whining, twitching mess.
“Fuck,” you mutter harshly, letting Wooyoung guide the sloppy kiss as San’s hips stutter, rhythm quickening to something ruthless, chasing his own high, a selfish pace.
“Gonna fill this pussy up,” San’s babbling, “all mine, mine to fill,” his voice is somewhere far, deep in the moment, “I love it, love you, my Shygirl, shit—”
Erratic thrusts come to a hilt, stalling fully seated, you moan softly into Wooyoung’s mouth as heavy warmth fills you steadily, making you shiver.
You break away from Wooyoung to look at San, eyelids low but you couldn’t miss the way his skin glows, as if you poured water over a sculpture made of gold, you stare in awe at his heaving chest, how his abdomen still clenches, flexing each muscle.
“Pretty,” the word is mindless, said through a breath.
He leans down, pressing his palms to the bed on either side of you, attaching your lips in a slow, steady kiss. “That’s you,” he whispers, “my pretty girl.”
He picks his head up to Wooyoung behind you, pressing a kiss to his lips, too. “My pretty boy.”
Wooyoung holds him close, you feel him melt under San’s touch, his words. “I love you,” Wooyoung mumbles, half-heard to you because he says it into San’s mouth, “so much.”
“I love you too, baby,” San presses one more kiss to his lips before he plants one on your forehead, “and I love you, too.”
“Do you really?” The question is pure instinct, “Like, actually?”
“Baby,” he says it like it’s obvious, like it’s silly for you to even question it. “I’ve spent my whole life loving you.”
There's a heaviness to your chest, the same tightness you felt when he said it earlier, it travels to your throat, the heat under your eyes pushing water into your lash line.
“No,” he says softly, “don’t cry.”
You can’t help your smile, sniffling, giggling as two tears spill down your cheeks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Hold on,” his voice is still delicate, like glass, he sits back on his knees to carefully slip out of you, “come up here.”
You move with Wooyoung, the younger man half carrying you to the top of the bed, your heads falling into your pillows, their bodies on either side of you in your queen-sized bed like it was big enough to fit all three of you.
Your back is halfway pressed up against San, eyes hazy and low with Wooyoung in view, you ask him, “And you?”
His smile is soft but his face reads relief like he’s been sitting on this information for ages. “I’ve loved you probably since I moved in, but I’ve wanted you since the day I met you.”
“That I knew,” you sniff, giggling again, turning your head up to see San who’s staring at you like you’re his entire world, “why didn’t you guys tell me?”
“It’s not an easy thing to say,” there’s a small, apologetic smile on his lips.
Wooyoung adds, “When we started living together I just assumed we were friend-zoned forever. When San and I got together, like, half of our relationship was based on the fact that we both still loved you while loving each other.”
San’s arm wraps around your front, tucking you further into him, “When you’re best friends and roommates and a little too close for comfort, it’s hard to not fall in love.”
“Especially when all of those things are you,” Wooyoung adds, shuffling towards you like he couldn’t get close enough, “why didn’t you tell us how you felt?”
“Because you started fucking dating each other,” you answer like you’ve been waiting for the question, amusement overshadowing the truth to your words, “I didn’t think I was invited to the party.”
Wooyoung leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, he looks at you when he pulls away, so much love and honesty swirling in chocolate it makes you shiver, but because he’s Wooyoung, he starts singing, “I only threw this party for you, only threw this party for you, for you for you…”
You snort, giggling into San’s chest, and the older man continues, loud and proud, “You could watch me pull up on your body like it’s summer take my clothes off in the water—”
You join him, just as loud and maybe even prouder, “—splash around and get you blessed like holy water, I don’t know what you’ve been waitin’ for, you know that I’ve been waitin’ for you.”
Wooyoung laughs, turning on his back, you watch how his chest expands and falls with each loud, obnoxious cackle. He turns his head to face you, “If you think about it, that song is kinda us.”
“I think that song is Jay Gatsby,” you correct him, “I’m kinda Jay Gatsby and you guys are kinda Daisy Buchanan.”
“No, we’re Jay Gatsby and you’re Daisy Buchanan,” San says a little more confidently than you did, “we threw the party and you didn't come.”
“Oh we are not arguing about this,” you turn your head to furrow your brows at him, reiterating, “but let the records show that I was not invited to said party.”
Wooyoung is quick with his answer, “We only threw the damn party for you.”
It’s like nothing has changed.
Curled up on the chaise of the couch, you in the corner, Wooyoung’s head on your lap with his leg stretched one way, San’s head is between your legs with both of your bodies laid out the other way.
Dirty Dancing is playing on the flatscreen across the room, Sweetie cozy right beneath you, on the hardwood floor with his body pressed up against the deck of the couch, everything, everyone you love is in one room.
A month of being together, the only thing that’s changed in your relationship is where you sleep, and that you kiss— and fuck, entirely too much for a typical honeymoon phase, but as San says, you’re making up for lost time.
Waking up together, going to work together, sleeping together, you wonder after years of being attached at the hip how you don’t feel tired of them. You suppose you never could, the two men being fibers of your being, embedded into you like the essence of your own being, it’s more that you can’t live without them.
And the more you think about it, the more you wonder how you didn’t notice it sooner. So hyper focused on what you want, you couldn’t realize what you already had, there was a reason your relationship has always been too close for comfort.
But now you have them, and you love them, and they fucking love you— they are not afraid to show it, they’d scream it to the rooftops if you let them. Sometimes you almost do let them, just to let the feeling sink in a little further, to let their love overflow the gap in your chest that’s been full for a month now.
One hand in San’s hair, the other drawing shapes into Wooyoung’s chest, a thought dawns on you. You ask, “Hey, remember that night at Steer?” Their heads tilt toward, eyeing you over their eyebrows, nodding. “Whatever happened to Yunho?”
Wooyoung snorts, San shakes his head, it makes you giggle. Wooyoung answers, “I told him his work was done and that we could take it from there.”
“His work was done?” You question, “What work?”
“You told him you love us the night you went on the date with him, right?” San suddenly asks, looking over his forehead at you once more. You nod like this was common information and he laughs so loud it makes Sweetie sit up on his hind legs.
“I told you, you called me schizophrenic!” San shouts over the couch at Wooyoung, sitting up on an elbow, “I knew it, my Shy senses were tingling.”
“Shy senses?” You ask, a question ignored.
Wooyoung sits up too, eyes wide, “Wha—? Maybe you should be a detective, Sannie, I’m serious.”
“What are you talking about?” You ask a little louder, “Inform me right this second, please.”
“I know you so well it’s scary,” San lays back down, one hand lazily thrown over the side of the couch to scratch Sweetie’s head, calming him. “Like the back of my hand, baby.”
His words make you smile, settling back into the couch again. Wooyoung turns on his elbow to see you, “San knew that Yunho knew,” he shakes his head, “with literally no proof, just vibes. Scary.”
You run your hands through his hair, your smile completely teasing, “You’ll get there, baby. One more decade.”
Wooyoung’s top lip curls, “Not you, too. I know you just as well, if not better than San—”
San’s head picks up with a gasp, “You do not—!”
Your giggles cut through their bickering, “You’re both stupid, I love you.”
“We love you too,” they mumble, settling back into their positions on the couch, where your hands fell to their hair, scratching their scalps into silence. Your smile stays as your head lifts back to the movie across the room, not actually watching, too consumed with contentment and that lovesick feeling in your stomach.
Yours. Finally.
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my love letter to plum, you are worth the world and more. deserving of everything you've ever wanted, i hope u loved this. ur my whole heart. i love u ᢉ𐭩
pairing: cowboy!san x fem!reader
summary: He stumbled into your life half-dead, now you can't let him leave.
tags: cowboy/wild west AU, post-civil war era, hurt/comfort, grief/trauma; fairly detailed descriptions of of blood, injury, and gore; mentions of suicide, miscarriage, and death; reader is pregnant in the epilogue (sorry spoilers)
wc: 7.9k
a/n: this fic turned out way heavier than i was anticipating, so please be aware of the tags above before you read! on another note, trying to find a pic of san from the work MV where he didn't look like a GOOBER was surprisingly really hard <3
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PROLOGUE
The wagon jolts to a stop at the end of the dirt road. The reins go slack in your gloved hands. You sit, longer than you should, staring at a house. It’s not the fanciest building you’ve ever seen, but it’s constructed well. You could hardly tell that this house had been built in a hurry, just before harsh winter set upon the plains.
Your brother had done quite a decent job building it, despite having no formal experience. Jesse had purchased this unclaimed land in 1857 and set to work making it a home for himself and his wife, Mary. Jesse had always been a caretaker, for as long as you can remember. He’d always wanted a big house with lots of children and animals. As abandoned and dark as the house now looks, your brother had gotten his wish. At least for a while.
As you stare past a broken pane on one of the windows, you see nothing but darkness inside the house. You won’t find solace within its walls. That you already know. This house will not offer comfort nor love. This would never again be a home.
It couldn’t. It had already swallowed two lives.
Jesse lasted three years here, long enough to build the foundations for the house, a small fenced-in pasture, and the beginning of a well. When he got called to arms by the cavalry, he’d left everything and gone in service of his dear Union. When word finally reached, six months later, of your brother’s death…you can still recall the feeling. Every second of that pain. Every cursed heartbeat that sent grief pulsing through your veins again and again.
Five months ago, Mary had gone, too. She’d tied a plow rope to a dogwood tree in front of the house. The coroner said the baby in her belly never drew breath before Mary took her last. They’re buried here, beside the house under the dogwood. Three little gravestones, the smallest for your brother’s unborn child.
Ripping your gaze away from the flowerless dogwood, you climb down from the wagon. Your boots kick up dust as you shuffle onto the stone pathway toward the little red-painted door that you’re sure was Mary's idea. You pass the well. Its stones lie crumbled in a pile, a layer of dried mortar too hard to use now. It looks so unfinished, so in progress that it feels like it just slipped Jesse's mind. Like he would be back to finish it any second now.
Your shaking fingers curl around the key the lawyer gave to you. The metal is cold in your palm. It clicks like breaking bones in the lock. One step across the threshold sends a shiver down your spine. Death seems to cling to the doorframe like old smoke.
You try to shake it away, knowing death is a passing thing. It can’t be stored in old wood and metal hinges. It’s just an uneasy feeling. But you can hardly bear it. The empty, ashen hearth. The empty pegs where your brother must have hung his hat. The empty cradle in the corner.
The very first thing you do is push open the windows. One of them sticks, and you can only get it up halfway. Another doesn’t stay, and you have to prop it open with the poker from the fireplace. Uninhabited for almost half a year, this poor house needs some looking after.
You stop for a moment and listen.
Wind brushes through the brown grass like a comb through beautiful silken hair. Leaves skid along the stone pathway, dried and ready for winter. There are no neighbors for twelve miles in any direction from this house. Strangely, that realization is the first thing to steady your heart in this house marked by Death.
Despite all of its haunting histories, this house will be somewhat of a haven.
Here, no one will ask why you’ve never married. No one will measure your waist or tug your wild hair into submission. Never again will you be forced to dance with gentlemen who have nothing in common with you other than a heartbeat and blood in their veins. For twenty-six years, everyone you knew had tried to mold you into shapes that never suited you. Dutiful daughter, accomplished lady, silent wife.
You have buried a father, a mother, two stillborn nephews you never held, and now a brother. You are no stranger to Death. Rather, Death is a constant companion. And the only person you’ve learned to rely on.
And now, without a single soul within twelve miles of your little house, you and Death will get on just fine.
As you unpack, the dogwood creaks and groans in the wind.
It’s going to be a horrible winter, said your brother-in-law. Jesse left the house to you, it won’t go anywhere. You should wait until spring.
How that man managed to have hope after burying two of his sons, your sister’s boys, you would never understand. He, on the other hand, would never understand how badly you needed out of his world.
You glance up at the tree. Tomorrow, you will cut it down and burn it. It will provide ample firewood to keep you warm during this terrible winter your brother-in-law spoke of. When spring does come, you will plant something else in its place. Something new.
But tonight, for the first time, you will sleep beneath a roof that belongs not to your father, not to your husband, but to you. Tonight, you will rest your head on a pillow that you dragged across three states. And tonight, you will be left alone.
You inhale deeply, holding it for a moment before releasing it. The knot inside your chest loosens.
Let Death keep its silence. You have come here to begin your own.
PART ONE
There are only two sounds in this still room: a quill scratching across paper and the wood cracking in the fireplace.
My dearest sister,
Jesse did not lie in his letters. The plains here truly are never-ending. They stretch out even further than it seems on the map. I can hardly wait to see how lovely it will look in the spring and summer when everything is green and blooming. Right now, everything is dead and bare. But even then, dear sissy, it’s so pristine. The ground is covered in a blanket of white snow, and it lies untouched, unspoiled by man or beast. It’s wonderfully beautiful.
I have settled in nicely. All of the farm animals have arrived from town, and I’ve found looking after them quite a chore. But I like it. It gives me something to do other than knitting or reading.
As you may imagine, my favorite thing about this place is the quiet. It is so complete, I can hear my very heart beating in my chest. I have not seen another living soul in the two months that I have been here. As you may also imagine, I like that very much.
I think I will do well here and do not want you worrying yourself sick about me. I will find my way home for Christmas. But, for now, here I persist in my little Death House.
You sign the letter with the same looping motion that you were taught years ago at finishing school. Disgust settles in your chest at how easy, effortlessly, the movement still is after all these years. You fold the paper into thirds and place it to the side.
You aren’t certain if you’ll send it. Calling this place your Death House somehow makes it easier to live within its walls. It feels like an inside joke, between you and the house itself. It’s funny to you, but you aren’t sure if your sister will understand it the same way. Besides, even if you did want to send it, the closest post is twenty miles away. It would be an entire day’s journey just to mail one letter. It would be much safer and smarter to wait for the post rider to bring along your sister’s next letter and just pass it on to him.
With a sigh, you lean back in the chair and fix your gaze on the front lawn outside your window. Your eyes snag on the dogwood outside. You’d never found the motivation to cut it down. Something stopped you every time, though you couldn’t place your finger on exactly what. So it stays, creaking and swaying gently in the winter wind.
As your stare swipes across the snowy horizon, something catches your eye. Sitting up in your chair, you lean toward the window and squint in an effort to see better.
At first, you think it must be some sort of animal. Jesse's letters had mentioned wolves, coyotes, and bears, among other creatures. It’s medium-sized and covered in fur. The way it stumbles forward leads you to believe it must be injured. It’s a wolf, you think. Not a very big one, but a wolf just the same.
You stand slowly and reach beside your writing desk, fingers clamping around the barrel of Jesse's Winchester rifle. You won’t shoot it. Not unless it makes its way up to the porch, and then…then you might not have a choice.
As the creature creeps further into view, it begins to change shape. It shifts in the snow and suddenly you can make out shoulders, legs, an arm, and…a face. A human face. A man’s face. You gasp, the rifle slipping from your fingers and clanging against the floor.
Now you can see that this man is clearly injured. One arm clutches his side while the other claws at the snow, digging forward as if he were pulling himself out of a grave.
Your heart slams against your chest, breaths coming heavily now.
You should bar the door. Secure every available lock and push furniture in front of the entrances so he can’t break in, although you aren’t sure he would even be able to, given his condition. You should pick up the rifle and crouch by the window. Aim it at his crumpled form and prepare to shoot should you need to.
Instead, you find yourself rushing outside, boots skidding on the icy stone path. You make it within a few steps of him before his strength gives out. He collapses into the snow, face buried underneath it. With much effort, you manage to roll him over, heave his arms around your neck, and stumble back inside with his heavy body limp on your back.
You kick the door closed with your foot and somehow drag him all the way into the parlour and drop him on the sofa. A trail of snow and water follows behind you. His weight is a challenge to your strength, and he tips, threatening to slide onto the floor. Groans and pants fly from your lips as you nudge him onto his back. His legs spill off the edge of the cushions; he’s clearly too tall for your little two-person couch.
“Sir?” you ask, at first quietly and then louder. “Sir? Sir?! Can you hear me?”
He replies in a series of weak grunts, eyelashes fluttering but remaining closed. His body tenses for a moment, as if fighting to sit up, but then falls limp. His head rolls to the side, and, for a moment, you’re terrified that he might have died. You place two fingers on the pulse point in his neck, sighing in relief when you feel it beating under your touch.
As you begin to examine him for injuries, you take note of his face. He’s younger than his pathetic, desperate crawling made him seem. He’s in his mid-twenties by the look of it. His hair is black as night, plastered onto his forehead with a mixture of melting snow and blood. Despite his haggard appearance, he’s quite handsome. His skin is smooth and honeyed, lips pouted, and nose straight.
He wears a massive fur coat made from what looks to be a wolf—that explains your earlier confusion. He looked so much like a wolf because he wears its skin. You’ve never seen anything like it. You wonder where he bought it or…perhaps he made it.
His shirt, once blue according to the untouched sleeves, is mostly stained deep red from the blood that has seeped through. It’s spreading down onto his denim pants, too. The belt that is latched there has a golden emblem of a horserider. You glance further down, taking in the cowboy boots, the leather chaps, the empty holster on his hip.
Your heart drops into your gut. This man is no good. Probably some sort of criminal. Is he faking these injuries? It’s just you out here, all alone. It would be all too easy to overpower you and take whatever he wanted—object, flesh, or otherwise. But that theory is swiftly put to rest when you discover the source of his bleeding: a deep cut along his abdomen accompanied by several other bruises and lacerations, one of which is particularly gaping across the top of his thigh.
As soon as you lay eyes on his hurts, the old training takes over. A nurse’s training. War training. The kind of craft that no gentlelady should ever become involved with.
You rush into the kitchen, fetching cotton bandages, alcohol, a basin of water, scissors, and several rags. You quickly cut away his shirt with the shearing scissors, the drenched fabric parting like wet paper. Beneath his top, it is worse than you expected. There is also a deep bruise across his shoulder that you recognize immediately as a bullet graze and several other places where blood oozes from a fresh wound.
You take care of the gaping hurt on his abdomen first. This is the one trying hardest to take his life. New hot red blood drips out in a steady stream, slipping over crusted old blood. You imagine a sight like this would make any of those ladies you used to avoid at the parties sick. To be fair, it would probably make most decent human beings feel ill. But not you. You’ve seen far worse horrors than a simple slice.
As you work, memories flash before your eyes. Images of young boys, lungs filled with blood and bile, choking to death on it. Men screaming as the saw works its way through their bones for an amputation procedure. Despite the time that has passed, your fingers still shake as you disinfect the wound before cleaning it. Your body works in a familiar rhythm, so much so that you don’t even have to think before you move. Your mind slips away into memories…into the nightmares that you had lived.
Shiloh. April of 1862.
The air was so thick with smoke, breathing was a concerted effort. A young soldier from Maine, no more than seventeen years of age, had taken a bullet to his shoulder in nearly the same place as this man’s. He clutched your arm, grip surprisingly strong for his condition. He called you Delilah. Over and over he moaned that name. Not yours, of course. It must have been his sweetheart’s, or perhaps a sister. You would never find out. You held his hand in yours, held it until it went cold. Then, you moved onto the next cot.
As carefully as you can, you ease the denim down his right leg so that you can treat the wound on his thigh. You’d seen men in all manner of undress during your service to the Union. Nevertheless, to your surprise, you find heat flooding your face as your fingers dig into this stranger’s muscular thigh.
He tenses his leg despite being clearly unconscious. As you dab the alcohol along the wound to clean it, you notice something. Inked just above the gash, in a delicate script that seems unfitting to a gentleman so rough-looking, is a tattoo.
Amicus ad aras
A friend unto the altars, or a friend until the end, if your very limited knowledge of Latin serves you well. You glance up at his face as if his pained expression alone will provide some sort of explanation as to why a cowboy has a Latin tattoo on his thigh. Latin is not a language you associate with the working class. As a well-to-do lady, you had learned a small bit of it from classic literature and church. But even your understanding of the language is extremely basic.
Aside from that, and possibly even more interesting, what does this tattoo say about the strange man who now lies in your parlour? Someone loved him enough to mark him forever. Or he loved someone enough to mark himself for them.
By the time you finish dressing his injuries, the sun has sunk low behind the white clouds that blanket the snowy sky. Now that you’ve cleaned and bandaged him up, he seems more peaceful. His long, dark lashes fan against his cheeks. His chest rises and falls steadily.
You sit back on your heels. Your dress is ruined. Blood is splattered along the cream-colored muslin from your skirts all the way down to your fingertips.
When he shivers, you cover him with a quilt Mary had sewn this spring, before she died. His hand falls out from the edge, palm up, fingers curled as if waiting for something to be placed there.
You don’t take it. You can’t. You don’t want this man to die like the last wounded man who took your hand. It has been years since a man lay in this house who wasn’t stuffed into a pine box and then under the ground.
Even in your Death House, you pray for this man to live.
PART TWO
He wakes on the third night, just before dusk.
You’re carefully spooning peppermint tea between his cracked lips, just as you’ve been doing for the past three days. He’s refused to eat anything solid and can’t seem to keep down any soups or stews you try to feed him. You doubt he’ll remember any of it. Most people don’t realize that unconscious individuals can still vomit. You learned that quickly as a nurse.
But, this time, you nearly spill the hot peppermint tea all over him and yourself. His hand snaps to life, fingers encircling your wrist. You gasp. His fingers hold tightly, strong enough to bruise. His eyes blink open weakly, revealing two dark brown irises. His chest begins to rise faster, panic and confusion clearly setting in.
“Easy,” you say, softly as if calming a startled horse. “You’re alright. You’re safe here.”
The pulse in his throat flutters like a trapped butterfly. As he wakes more, a cycle of expressions flicker across his face—confusion, fear, relief, pain.
“Where?”
The word escapes gargled and rasped, barely audible.
“Kansas. About twenty miles outside of Kansas City,” you answer.
“H-how did I get…get here?” he mumbles, eyebrows knit.
You gulp and try to readjust your wrist in his grasp. He’s got you too tightly. All you can do is wince instead.
“I’d like to know that myself,” you reply. “You crawled up my walk, bleeding something awful in different places. I brought you inside and took care of the wounds for you.”
His eyes lock with yours. Again, emotions flash through him. Then, his eyes seem to grow rounder and glassy. Your gaze flicks to where he still holds your wrist hostage. He follows your lead and gasps. His fingers loosen and fall away. Wincing, you massage your now-sore wrist. He doesn’t need to apologize; you know he feels guilty. Not the first time a patient has grabbed you like that. At least he let go voluntarily. That doesn’t always happen.
He sinks back into the pillow, eyes going wild as they flit across the ceiling. You gingerly move to lift the quilt so you can check the dressing on his ribs. He flinches and then contorts in pain with a groan.
“I’m just checking the bandages on your ribs,” you say. “I’m sorry. I should have said that before I reached. May I?”
His eyes are wide with fear, but he nods slowly. You resume your work, carefully observing the area for infection. With him waking up, he’d triggered his wound. Blood is soaking through the previously clean bandage. You quickly remove it to ensure the stitches you had sewn are still in place. You can feel his gaze fixed on you, eyes unwavering. You gulp, feeling awkward under his stare.
“You should try to lie as still as you can or the stitches will tear,” you explain as you reach for cleaning supplies and a fresh bandage.
You had found it much easier to just set up a small hospital station beside the sofa while treating him. You had considered trying to move him into your bedroom, but decided against it for fear of destroying your own handiwork.
Your eyes flick up to see him still staring at you, mouth agape and eyebrows furrowed. You gulp again and wonder if he’s delirious. Again, it wouldn’t be the first time. You swallow a chuckle as a memory surfaces of a young soldier calling you an angel when he first woke up after being knocked out for four days straight.
“Do you remember your name?” you ask, hoping to distract his attention with a question.
“San. My name is Choi San.”
You nod, offering him a small smile.
“Good. That’s good. Your fever hasn’t burned your mind away.”
You work in silence for a few minutes before he speaks up again.
“What’s yours?”
You hesitate. The empty holster and deep wounds circle through your mind. You’re not sure you should tell him.
You settle for a first name only. It feels a bit strange, foreign even, in your mouth. Anyway, you haven’t introduced yourself to anyone else in months. Your name has been a thing hanging in the air, surrounding you but not needing to be voiced aloud.
To your surprise, he repeats it. His voice is low, ability to speak still muddled from the combination of his fading fever and exhaustion. But you hear clearly your name spilling from his lips, as if he were trying it on for size.
You look over at him, heart fluttering. He says it nicely. Despite yourself, you rather like the way it sounds in his voice. Before you can continue your conversation, he falls back asleep.
Unlike the previous days, his sleep is not fitful. He still sweats through a couple of rags on his forehead, but rests well other than that. You sit in the rocker in the corner. Jesse built it shortly after the family moved into the house. One side is slightly uneven, so when you rock it tilts to one side, but you don’t mind one bit.
As your patient rests, you admire the way the firelight dances across his cheekbones. It casts dark shadows along the sharp cut of his jaw, his parted lips. Your stomach churns again, and you shake yourself. You hadn’t considered the fact that you might miss the privilege of looking at pretty people when you’d committed yourself to moving all the way out here into the wilderness. Especially pretty men.
Generally, throughout your life, you’ve never missed out on male company. It simply wasn’t something that you valued over your freedom to be as bad-mannered, socially removed, and self-sufficient as possible. But, of course, from time to time, you did wonder what it might be like.
You have no idea when you fell asleep, but you wake up to pale winter light streaming in through the windowpanes. Yawning, you rise to check on your patient. It has become your morning routine for the past several days. To your pleasure, his fever has finally broken. Though still slightly hot, most of the color has returned to his face.
While you prepare to redress his wounds, he stirs awake. You help him sit up against the sofa. You ignore the blush that heats your face when the quilt falls from his bare torso. His skin is impossibly smooth and warm against your palms. You sneak a gluttonous peek at the expanse of his back. Another round of butterflies in your gut.
He sits still, the picture of a perfect patient, as you attend to his injuries.
“How do you know how to do all of this?” he asks.
“I was a nurse. During the war.”
“How did a fine lady like you wind up in a place like that?”
You chuckle, shrugging.
“Dorothea Dix,” you respond simply. “I went to the Washington depot and volunteered myself.”
“I thought only older, unmarried women were allowed to do that.”
You share a sheepish look with him.
“I lied about my age. It was a hard sell, but a friend of mine helped me forge a letter of reference from our family physician. That got me in, and, then, when they saw I didn’t flinch at all the blood and guts, they never bothered to question it”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you volunteer?”
His question stops you in your tracks as you consider it.
“Well, I…I guess I just wanted to have some sort of purpose. As horrible as it sounds, being a nurse gave me something to do that mattered. Instead of sewing and dancing and flirting with boys at parties like all the other ladies my age, I was doing something that would mean something. I just…wanted to be more, I guess. If that doesn’t sound foolish.”
“No,” he says, his eyes soft and genuine as he looks at you. “Not at all. I know what you mean.”
You smile tightly. You honestly didn’t expect him to understand. No one at home ever seemed to.
“Plus,” you add with a smile, “it gave me the perfect way to get out of polite society. I didn’t have to pretend to like dancing or socializing or flirting with gentlemen who were less interesting than a rock.”
He laughs, wincing as the sensation tugs at his wounds. You gently place your fingers on his stomach, trying to keep the wound steady as he weathers the wave of pain.
“You shouldn’t make me laugh,” he says. “It hurts.”
“Sorry.”
The heat has crept all the way up your neck and face and into your ears now. Your heart is pounding in your chest, stomach turning in nervous circles. You honestly can’t remember ever feeling this way around a man before.
You move to the wound on his thigh. Absentmindedly, you allow your fingers to trace along the tattooed script on his skin.
“I think I’ve earned a turn to ask some questions,” you say. You look to him for consent, and he stares back expectantly. “Amicus ad aras. Friends until the end. What’s the story here?”
Sadness settles on his face, and he gulps. His eyes drop from yours to the tattoo.
“It’s to honor someone. My greatest friend,” he explains. “We grew up together in Boston-”
“You’re from Boston?” you interrupt, shocked.
He chuckles, nodding bashfully.
“I know it doesn’t look like it now. But I was raised to be a gentleman.”
It is hard to believe as you look at him. This man before you, who had been stabbed and shot and crawled up to your little Death House wrapped in the skin of a wolf. This man was once a member of the very circles you inhabited not a year ago.
“His name was Wooyoung,” he continues. “It started as a joke—the idea to get tattoos. It never would have been acceptable among the crowd we entertained in Boston. But, then, when we both got drafted for the Union…things were different. Now, Wooyoung said, it would be only appropriate that we get tattoos. He said that way, in case we die, we can still be friends until the end of time. I guess the altar turned out to be a sacrificial table instead of a Holy shrine.”
He lifts his gaze to the window. You can see the glint of tears in his eyes. You want to ask, to make sure you understand, if Wooyoung died. You don’t. Instead you redirect the conversation.
“How did you wind up out here? And I’d still like an explanation as to how you found your way to my house.”
He inhales sharply, as if resetting himself, and then turns back to you.
“After the war, I just needed out. I couldn’t stay there. I had…changed. I couldn’t wait for freedom after what I’d seen, what I’d…done.” Your heart aches at the guilt that washes over his expression. “I got roped into cattle herding pretty quickly. Out here, they snap up any strong young man who doesn’t know any better.”
Relief floods your veins. Not a criminal, just a simple cattle herder.
“Is it really dangerous?” you ask.
“It can be. Usually not so much for me. I work for a wealthy ranchowner, which means most of my job is to keep cattle on property and look after their health.”
“So, what happened here, then?” you gesture to his various wounds.
“The bull got out. A storm was coming, and we didn’t realize until he’d already run miles to the east. He was the owner’s only actively breeding bull, so he was needed to repopulate the herd next spring. I went out after him. The storm came early and dumped all this snow. I lost my way. Didn’t realize how far I’d gone until a bullet grazed my shoulder here. Somehow, I’d wandered onto rival ranch territory.”
He pauses, heaves a deep breath and shakes his head. It’s sickly amusing the way he tells it, like a neighbor commenting casually on the weather.
“I was outnumbered. Tried to run off, but my horse got spooked and threw me. They got me pretty good. I must’ve passed out from the pain. I don’t remember. Maybe they thought I was dead. I don’t know. They left me. I woke up covered in snow and in so much pain I could barely move. There was nothing for several miles. I thought I was as good as dead. Then I saw the smoke from your chimney. I don’t remember anything after that. Just the relief when I saw it.”
His gaze softens as he looks at you, eyes flicking between yours. Your chest tightens. You immediately banish the idea of leaning forward and kissing him as soon as it pops into your head.
“Ah! The coat,” you say suddenly as the question pops into your head.
“Huh?”
You stand, crossing the room to grab the animal skin coat. You hold it up to him.
“You were wearing this when I found you. Where did you get it?”
“Oh, that? I made it. When I realized I’d lost my way, I didn’t know how long I’d be stuck out in the storm. All I had was my gun, a knife, and some extra bullets. So, I shot a passing wolf, skinned it, and took its coat to stay warm.”
You nod. So it is a wolf’s coat. You no longer feel silly for mistaking him for a wounded animal.
“I almost shot you myself,” you say, smirking. “When you came stumbling up my path, I thought you were a wolf.”
He laughs, dimples forming beside the corners of his mouth. You can’t help but smile back. He looks even more handsome when he smiles.
“Well, I’m very grateful that you didn’t."
PART THREE
The days start to blend together. With San in your life, you’ve found a purpose to your otherwise boring schedule. Recuperating him has shocked you back into your nursing roots. After the war, you went back to being just a lady. Opportunities to be something more were scarce. Now, for the first time in a while, you feel rejuvenated.
Besides that, you actually genuinely enjoy his company. Of course there have been people in your life that you love, but, in all honesty, there are very few people on this earth who you actually like talking to.
With San, it feels surprisingly easy.
Mealtimes find you at the kitchen table. You set down bowls of potato soup or rabbit stew with cooked carrots and freshly baked bread. At first, he eats like a feral animal. You have to remind him to reintroduce the food slowly or he’ll be sick. He compliments your cooking, not that you can understand why, and always cleans his plate. When he holds out his cup for a refill, your fingers brush. Neither of you move away.
In between meals, you do your chores about the farm: looking after the animals, harvesting eggs and milk, making candles and soap, any repairs or sewing that needs to be done.
When not busy with those tasks, you tend to your patient. The first week, you allowed him to rest as you brought whatever he needed to his side. Then, you started to work on getting him up to walk around. You feared if you waited any longer, he would forget how. He complained and whined, but obeyed your instructions and constant nagging. You shuffled along the length of the parlour, his arm heavy across your shoulders. Your palms spread greedily across his muscular stomach and back to steady him. In a matter of days, he was able to move around by himself.
He cooperates beautifully when you clean, apply salve, and rebandage his wounds. Now that he’s more mobile, he sits in a chair while you dress his injuries. It’s much easier to reach them that way. You kneel between his legs to wrap the healing gashes on his abdomen and thigh. Each time, your skin heats and your stomach twists. It feels slightly indecent to position yourself between his legs, but it’s the most efficient way you’ve found to accomplish your work.
The cut on his thigh is melding into a pink scar, and the one on his stomach is now a thin red line jutting across his skin. The bruises are gone and other lacerations have healed. Sometimes, selfishly, you let your touch linger on his skin. It shames you, but you like the way it feels to touch him.
Within three weeks, he’s all but back to normal. One morning in December, you’re shocked to find him outside splitting kindling. He still favors the left side of his body as the right half heals. The axe rises and falls steadily, like a heartbeat. You watch from the doorway, a smile ghosting across your lips. A fleeting thought crosses your mind, wondering if this is what it might be like to have a husband. If so, perhaps it’s not that bad, after all.
That evening, he cooks for you. Six eggs, beaten, with a pinch of salt. He fries them crispy on the edges, informing you that’s the way his mother taught him. He slides the plate toward you with a shy grin. Not surprisingly, it’s delicious. He watches you eat every bite, chin propped on his fist. You laugh from embarrassment. He just smiles as though feeding you is even better than eating.
Later, when the fire burns low, he reads to you while you brush his hair. It has become a little tradition after dinner to sit together by the fire and read. Some nights you speak aloud, and other nights, he does.
You had started to brush his hair for him when he wasn’t able to lift his arms above his head. He’d caught his reflection in the mirror and complained about looking like a mess. He’d tried to do it himself, but you intervened before he broke the stitches that you had been looking after so tirelessly.
Both of you know very well by now that he is perfectly capable of brushing his own hair. But neither of you have admitted it out loud, and so you keep doing him this favor in silence. You wonder if he likes it as much as you do, or if he’s just lazy.
Either way, you don’t really care. The strands slide like silk through your fingers. When you drag your fingernails through the hairs at the nape of his neck, he releases a satisfied sigh. You bite your lip. You do it again, slower, and he shivers. Your gut flips when he leans his head back toward you, eyes closed.
It takes every ounce of strength you have not to lean forward and kiss him. You swallow the lump in your throat and push yourself away from him. Feigning exhaustion, you tell him you’re going to head up to bed. He stands abruptly and opens his mouth, as if to say something, but then closes it and nods. Before you turn away, you notice his jaw clenching.
That night, the terror comes.
You wake, startled, to the sound of San’s screams. Without even bothering to make yourself decent, you rush out of your bedroom in your thin nightgown and dash down the hall to the room that San had made his. The room that would have belonged to Jesse and Mary's baby.
Flinging open the door, you find him thrashing on the bed. In all honesty, you’re surprised he’s still asleep. You’re across the floor in a matter of seconds. You call his name as you reach out to restrain his flailing form.
“San! San, wake up! Wake up!”
Sweat is streaming down the side of his head, slipping along his neck and onto his bare chest, which is heaving uncontrollably. Just like before, your nurse training shocks into your system like muscle memory. You’d helped countless young men wake up from night terrors just like this one. You finally manage to grab hold of his shoulders. You shake him as hard as you can.
His eyes fly open, wide and glassy. It takes him a moment to focus on you, but once he does, his body visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop, and his head lolls back. His mouth trembles, still parted as he tries to catch his breath. Your palm instinctively slides around the back of his neck, fingers stretching to support his head.
“You’re okay,” you nod. “I have you. You’re safe.”
He heaves a deep breath, as if realizing that you’re telling the truth. When his gaze fixes on you, his eyes flick rapidly between yours. He stares so intensely that you find yourself lost for words, training be damned. You don’t know what to say, so you just look back at him. His vision drops down to your lips, just once, for a second, before he lunges forward.
His mouth is on yours. It’s not a romantic kiss. It’s not elegant or refined. It’s rough and sloppy and desperate. You freeze, body going stiff. Then, you lose all control of yourself. You’re kissing him back, head angling to reach him better. Your hands are gliding through the hair that you’d brushed so carefully just a few hours ago. His palms slide onto your waist, tugging you down onto him.
He spins you sideways, tangling his legs with yours. The hem of your nightgown starts to creep up your leg. His calloused fingers on your bare skin make you shiver. You arch into him, eyes closed, chests pressed together. A filthy moan slips out of you when he attaches his lips to your neck. He presses his hips up against you, and you gasp at the sensation of him.
“S-san,” you breathe, his name escaping like a desperate prayer.
He goes rigid.
“No,” he whispers, lips detaching from your skin. You gasp in protest, and your head jerks down to look at him. His eyebrows are knit, head shaking. “No,” he repeats. “Not like this.”
He moves away from you to sit on the other side of the bed. He drops his head into his hands and tugs his fingers through his hair. You sit up on your knees, admittedly a bit desperately, and reach for him.
“What? I don’t…I don’t understand.”
He gulps and then takes your hands in his. His thumb brushing along your knuckle.
“I can’t take you like this. Not in desperation. Not in impulse,” he explains. He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb stroking your cheek. “I want to do it right. I want to love you the way you deserve.”
A shot of anger courses through you, and you consider arguing back. But, as you stare into his sweet, caring eyes, all that rage melts.
Over the last month, you’ve started to realize that maybe love and marriage and companionship…isn’t actually all that bad. You’ve realized that having someone there to complain to, to rely on, even to argue with, is nice. It terrifies and angers you to admit it, but perhaps you’ve learned that you don’t want to be as alone as you thought.
You trace the lines of his beautiful face. He survived. You have both survived in this Death House. Together. Without you, his corpse would have been hard as a rock and covered in mounds of snow by now, never to be found. Without him, you would still be rocking the days away, searching for projects to give yourself, for reasons to continue going each day. You hadn’t really noticed it until now, but the truth is that you need him just as much as he needs you.
And, so, instead of speaking, you just lean forward and kiss him again, softer this time. Then, you melt into the bed with him. He holds you tight, kissing the top of your head. For a long while, the room is comfortably quiet besides the cracking of the fireplace.
“I guess…” he says quietly. “Since I’m all healed up, now, I’ll be heading out after the snow melts.”
Your heart cracks, like a vase dropped and shattered into a hundred tiny pieces. You spin in his arms until you’re nose-to-nose.
“You’re leaving?” you ask, voice slightly shaking.
He smiles weakly, finger brushing your shoulder.
“I don’t think it’s right for me to stay here, eating all your food and taking up space. Besides, we’re not married, and I wouldn’t want anyone to think badly of you because you’re letting a pathetic leech stay with you. I don’t want to take advantage of the kindness you’ve already shown me.”
You prop yourself up on your arms on his chest and quirk an eyebrow.
“What about anything that I’ve said or done since we met has led you to believe that I give a damn what anyone thinks of me.”
He laughs, the sound warm and crisp. His palm slides onto your cheek fully. You welcome the warmth and lean into it. His smile turns sad, bitter. He sighs.
“You make it hard to leave,” he mutters.
“Then don’t.”
You say it simply because the matter at hand is simple to you. If he wants to stay and you want him to stay—and you very much want him to stay—then he should stay. And that’s that. He smirks and then maneuvers your head so he can kiss your forehead.
You melt back into him, tucked away in his side. He never answers, never tells you whether he’s going to stay or not. You don’t care. You’re used to getting your way, and you’re pretty sure you can convince him to stay with you if you just play the right cards. You know he wants to, anyway.
But, that’s a battle to fight tomorrow and the next day. For tonight, you just snuggle into his warmth and let sleep wash over you both.
EPILOGUE
The old dogwood tree has never come down.
Some mornings you still feel an aching sense of grief when you stare at it. But its leaves are big and green now, and it’s sprouted gorgeous white blossoms that drift by in strong breezes. Now it seems to whisper instead of groan, the three little headstones beneath it decorated with wildflowers. Spring has transformed the Death House. You would have never guessed at the beauty it was hiding underneath all that snow. It helps, too, of course, that San has put so much work into it.
You look up from your book just in time to watch him throw a stick for that little hound he’d brought home. He’d been gathering firewood in the forest behind the house when he stumbled upon the poor thing. When he came inside with it, you’d laughed and pointed out the similarities between this little dog and the first time you’d seen San. The dog, aptly named Wolf, has brought a sense of youth and joy into the house that you would never have expected.
San laughs, bright and loudly. His shirt is stuck to his back with sweat. He has filled out again, shoulders twice as broad as they were the winter he crawled half-dead to your door almost five years ago. His scars are completely healed, and his health seems to be in good condition.
Your belly is big enough now that you have to rest things on it instead of your lap. San pokes fun at you, but he’s always there when you have backaches or morning sickness. Seven months along now. Your baby would be a summer child. That feels right, feels like San.
Just as you’d suspected, you’ve gotten everything you wanted. San stayed and, after many months of teasing and begging and seducing, he’d finally loved you the way you deserved. You remember those silly girls at the rich-person parties passing along rumors that if a couple was truly in love, it only took one time to produce a baby. You thought they were full of it.
Maybe not.
Thinking of those girls always makes you laugh. What terror they would feel if they could see you now. Unmarried, living with a man, and pregnant with his child. Some folks still stare when you ride into town for supplies—your extended belly, no ring on any finger, sun-browned skin and unkempt hair. Let them talk. Twelve miles is a long way for gossip to travel, and by the time it reaches the Death House, it’ll be no louder than a whisper on the wind. Out here, the vows between you are silent. There’s no need for legal proceedings to reinforce them. I’ll mend what breaks, you’ll keep the fire going; we’ll bury what’s dead and plant what lives.
He walks behind you as you head inside. You always assure him you’re not going to spontaneously fall down, but he insists just in case. You pause just inside the doorway. A smile creeps across your face at the sight of the cradle in the corner. San had stripped it down to the wood your brother had used to make it. After complimenting Jesse's craftsmanship, San refinished it in a different color and gave it a new life.
“What are you smiling for?” San asks, hands sliding from your waist onto your belly. He props his chin on your shoulder. You lean on him.
“I’m glad it won’t be empty anymore,” you say quietly. “I always hated that it was so empty. I…” You gulp down the tears that are rising in your throat. “I’m happy we can give it life. That we can bring life into this home.”
San smiles, kissing your cheek and then nuzzling his nose against your skin.
“Me too. I think this house is ready for some new life.”
You return his grin, turning to the side and giving him a deep, long kiss. When you pull back, you whisper against his lips, “Well then, it’s a good thing we’re ready, too.”
pairing: cowboy!yunho x cowgirl!reader
summary: You ride hard, punch harder, and don’t need saving. But you just might have room in the saddle for someone who knows how to hold on.
tags: cowboy/wild west AU, mild enemies to lovers, secret identity (fem!reader disguised as a man), slow burnnn, hurt/comfort, a tad bit of era-accurate misogyny, NSFW/18+/MDNI (BDSM—bondage + blindfold, oral—f receiving, fingering, cowgirl and lotus positions, soft!dom!yunho, switch!reader, the hat stays ON, unprotected P in V—and for the last time in this series a reminder to WRAP IT)
wc: 12.2k (WHOOPS can u tell yuyu's my ult bias)
a/n: was this fic perhaps a bit self-serving...um yeah and what about it? had to finish the series strong duh. if god is good, may we all meet cowboy yunho again in our dreams tonight <3
⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆
PROLOGUE
Dawn’s first light paints the Oklahoma sky in streaks of pink and gold. The air is still cool, carrying the sharp bite of the night’s chill. You inhale the scent of campfire with each breath. You guide Daisy, the American paint horse you’ve ridden for ten years, toward the company’s outpost. You ride in slowly, letting Daisy sniff her way through the tufts of grass along the dusty ground.
You’d risen long before the sun crested over the horizon. Waking early comes easy to you now, after all these years. Most mornings, you climb out from your bedroll under the stars, take a gander down to whatever body of water—pond, river, or creek—is closest, and splash icy water on your face.
Then, you braid your hair. It's taken you years of practice to get it right. It needs to be tight enough so that you can coil it up underneath your weathered cowboy hat. Nowadays, you can hardly see yourself in the old desilvered mirror you’ve carried around for years, but it works well enough to help you tuck any stray strands away. Your button-up shirt is loose, vest secured up to your neck, chaps worn soft from use.
Freedom isn’t free out here.
In your case, you pay for it through a disguise perfected over many years. It could be worse. If dressing up like a man is the price you owe in exchange for the privilege of riding free on the plains, you’ll pay it each and every time.
To anyone watching, you’re just another lean cowboy reporting for duty. You’re not afraid; you can hold your own against any man, woman, or beast who dares cross you. Posing as one of the boys just makes everything simpler. You deal with fewer questions, stares, and assumptions about what a woman can or can’t handle on the trail.
You dismount, boots crunching the ground below you. No need to secure Daisy to the post—she’s too well-trained to go wandering off. The words Red Rock Horse & Cattle Company glisten in gilded print on the frosted glass window of the door when you push it open. Old man Hargrove is already up, sitting behind his desk with a tin mug of steaming coffee. A couple of other workers mill about the office, but it’s quieter than usual this morning. Hargrove lifts his chin at the sound of your boots clicking across the wooden floor.
“Mornin’, kid,” he rasps, voice rougher than gravel.
“Hey, boss,” you reply in a tone lower than your natural register. You slide into a wooden chair in front of his desk. “Got somethin’ good for me today?”
He sips his coffee slowly and eyes you over the rim.
“Oh, I got everythin’ good that’s out there. But I think you’ll want this ‘un.”
He slides a heavy sheet of folded paper across the desk. You flip it open, eyes skimming. The contract order contains all the necessary details: client information, number of cattle requested, preferences and specifications for that cattle, and payment information.
An official-looking symbol is stamped over the top right-hand corner. Your eyes widen when you read United States Army scrawled across the top of the page. The request calls for at least 700 horses in good health and maturity for service with a preference for mustangs. Specifications detail geldings, dark bays or browns.
“United States Army, huh?” you ask, eyebrows raising.
Old man Hargrove hums and nods slowly.
“Told you I got the good stuff. This ‘un’s a tall order. Cavalry needs a string of mustangs delivered ’fore first snow. ’Parently, they ain’t skilled ’nuff to rope up the wild ’uns up in the high plains. Pay’s double if you bring ’em in early.”
On his cue, you take a gander at the bottom half of the order. A greedy smirk spreads across your face. $120 per head, with premium of double pay for early arrival or extras above the contracted quota. You feel the familiar thrill spark in your chest. Months on the plains—no towns, no rules, no people. Just the ride, the wind, and the wide-open sky.
“That’s big time,” you comment. “I’ll take it.”
Hargrove grunts in approval.
“Knew you would.”
“I assume I ain’t ridin’ out by myself? 700 horses is quite a haul for one person.”
You meet the old man’s knowing eyes. There’s a familiar sternness in them that you’ve grown to appreciate over the years. You already know the answer to your question, anyway. He never lets you ride out alone. He’s known your secret for years. Never once has he revealed it to another soul, aside from your riding partner, Colton. At the end of the day, results are what matter to Hargrove. And you always deliver.
“You’ll ride lead with Colton. He’s already waitin’ out by the south gate.”
You nod, swiping up the contract and pushing yourself to a stand. You turn toward the door, but his voice freezes you in your tracks.
“You got two others with you. They’re new ‘round here—just rode down from North Dakota. ‘Sposed to be decent ropers. Rendezvous point’s the river fork, ten miles east.”
You sigh, grimacing. You were really looking forward to a months-long ride with Colton. You don’t have to cover up around him, since he already knows about you. You’ve gone on hundreds of rides together. The two of you make a damn good team, and this particular contract is worth more than your last twelve combined. You cannot have two pathetic tenderfoots slowing you down.
“Fine,” you say through clenched teeth.
As you reach for the doorknob, you hear Hargrove’s rasped voice from behind you, “You come back in one piece, kid. Got it?”
“Don’t worry, old man. I’d never let the good ol' U.S. government’s money go to waste.”
You offer a smirk as you swing the door closed. Tucking the contract into your vest, you mount Daisy and kick off toward the south gate. Colton is waiting exactly where Hargrove said he’d be. He lounges against his big bay gelding, hat tipped back, eyes closed as he soaks in the morning rays.
“Long time no see,” you shout as you ride up next to him.
“Took you long enough,” he drawls, grinning. “I was wonderin’ if you’d chickened out this time.”
“Me? Chicken out? Nah, that ain’t in my bones, darlin’.”
Colton chuckles, swinging up onto his horse’s back. He’s never treated you any different. He’s never made a fuss. He’s always just seen you as a partner. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Heard we’re stuck with a coupla Dakota boys this time ‘round,” you say as you both start off toward the rendezvous point.
“Yeah. Hope they can sit a horse better than they talk.”
“Long as they rope half-decent and shut up, I ain’t got a problem. Months, Colton. Real trail time.”
Colton inhales deeply and then releases it.
“My favorite kind.”
You adjust your hat, making sure it’s secured around your chin and won’t fly off during your ride. Then, you pull loose the bandana from your neck. The once bright red piece of cloth has been tarnished so much from the sun and the dirt that it’s turned into more of a red clay hue. No worries. With this new money, you could buy 15 brand new bandanas. You secure the fabric around your nose and mouth with expert precision, leaving just enough space for you to peer out.
New partners means new eyes. Also means that you’re no longer you. Now, you’re Riley, the quiet young cowboy who works hard and doesn’t talk much. You’ve found it’s better, anyway, to let your work speak for you when it comes to meeting new people.
Side by side, you and Colton ride out through the gate. The outpost shrinks behind you as the vast plains open ahead.
Off on another adventure. You can hardly wait.
PART ONE
The river along the fork in the road shimmers like blue-tinted glass under the morning sun. Ten miles pass easily between you and your partner. You see the two Dakota boys before they see you. Waiting on the other side of the bank, their forms are nothing but shadow. You slow Daisy to a stop underneath the shade of a tree and glance at Colton. Your partner pauses next to you.
“Welp, there they are,” he says.
“Mhm,” you hum in agreement, unsure about your new partners.
Daisy’s hooves splash quietly in the low-standing water as you carefully guide her across the stream. The bank on the other side is a bit steeper, so you lean forward as Daisy trots up and over it. The Dakota ropers turn toward you as you emerge over the top.
“Howdy,” Colton calls out, reining in just ahead of you. “You the boys from Dakota working the cavalry job?”
“Yeah, you the others from the agency?” one of them—a smaller, rougher-looking one, replies.
Colton tosses his head toward you. Reaching into your vest, you draw out the contract. You unfold it and hold it forward so they can see the red stamp on the top corner. They follow suit, providing their version of the same contract they must have received from their own agency.
“Well, I’m Colton Reeves. This is Riley Oakley,” Colton says, gesturing to you when he shares your pseudonym.
“Ross Morrow,” the rough one answers back. He points at his partner. “And Jeong Yunho. Heard a lot ‘bout y’all.”
Colton laughs.
“Good things, I hope.”
As they talk, you size up your new team members. The shorter one, Ross, is perched on a chestnut stallion. His gear is strapped on but somewhat haphazardly. Much of it looks in desperate need of repair or replacement. His clothes, too, are worn and faded. His face is shadowed by an orange-colored beard and long, unkempt hair that sticks out from the back of his brown hat.
The other one, the taller one, sits comfortably. The reins attached to his black horse rest on the saddle and not in his hands, telling you he has trust in and control over the animal. He has broad shoulders that fill out a faded blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His forearms are sun-browned and corded with muscle all the way down to his gloved hands. His brown cowboy hat is tipped back just enough to reveal sharp cheekbones and a mouth with a noticeable cupid’s bow. Your gaze drops to the rope secured at his side. It’s clearly well-used but meticulously maintained and coiled carefully so as to avoid any unnecessary damage while traveling. His weight is shifted slightly toward the right side where the rope hangs. Muscle memory. All unconscious habits of someone who genuinely knows what they’re doing.
“So, uh…your friend always this quiet, or what?” Ross’s question brings you back to the current moment.
“Oh, nah,” Colton answers for you. “He just don’t talk too much.”
Your partner glances back, eyebrows raised to silently ask if you’re alright. You nod twice. When your eyes slide over, they lock with the tall cowboy. Ross had introduced him as Yunho. Unusual name. Clearly not from this area. He stares at you, interest evident in his expression. You hold his gaze. You don’t back down from any man. It’s not your style.
“Well, y’all any good with a rope?” Colton asks.
Yunho tears his expression away to look at your partner.
“Good enough, I hope,” he answers. His voice is smooth like a river stone.
“Alright,” Colton says, nodding in approval. “Guess we’d better get goin’, then. Herd ain’t gonna wait up for us. Riley and I’ll take the lead, if y’all don’t mind too much. We've worked this land up, down, and sideways, so we know it good.”
Both Dakota boys nod in agreement. Colton guides his horse past them, taking the lead spot in your pack of four. You slink up next to him. A few moments later, the other ropers fall in behind you.
“Whatcha think?” Colton asks quietly.
Keeping your attention forward, you answer, “Tall one’s an asset. He knows his way ‘round a rope. I can tell. The short one…maybe he’s got a good personality.”
Colton chuckles, shaking his head.
“I’ll take half over zero,” he replies.
You travel northwest, following the faint game trails that lead up toward the high plains where the wild herds run this time of year. The river continues to flow beside you, offering a source of fresh water and a marker for your mental map.
Conversation is light. As usual, Colton does most of the talking. You say nothing and keep to yourself, opting to listen instead. Your partner drones on about your experiences on past drives—answering questions about migration patterns and weather, sharing stories like the time you’d shot a mountain lion up in the hills and the winter you’d delivered a herd through a blizzard.
Both Dakota boys seem interested. You refuse to look behind you, but it feels like one of them is watching you. You’ll have to speak sooner or later. For no other reason than to take some suspicion off yourself. Over the years you’ve learned that nobody likes a silent person; something in that quiet, it makes them uneasy, makes you seem untrustworthy. Gotta give a little to get a little, as Hargrove always says.
The hills that roll out before you are dotted with wildflowers and weeds. A tree or two have sprouted up randomly here and there. The air smells fresh and clean. You can breathe easily, even under the bandana. When the sun begins to dip low, you start scanning for a good place to set up camp for the night. You and Colton agree to settle beside a group of trees near the river bank.
Colton enlists Ross to help him scout for something to eat. They disappear into the forest, leaving you at camp. Yunho takes it upon himself to find firewood. He says as much to you before he ducks into the brush. You keep quiet and begin unloading your and Colton’s packs. You set up your bedrolls and pull out the cooking materials you brought. By the time you’re finished with that, Yunho has returned with the wood.
Finding a flat spot, you kick away some loose stones and get to work on starting the fire. While you arrange the kindling and size up which rock to strike the flint with, Yunho politely approaches.
“Need a hand?” he asks.
You don’t look at him.
“Nope. I got it,” you reply gruffly.
In contrast to your normal voice, Riley’s tone is quiet, low, and quick. Colton has helped you work on it throughout the years, but you’ll never sound like a grown man. You just figure speaking fast means people don’t always hear the femininity in your voice.
This Dakota boy seems so kind…you hope he doesn’t find you rude. But, truthfully, you don’t need his help. You’ve started a fire a thousand times. It comes easy. Within a few seconds, the flames are crackling higher into the purple air.
“Wow, impressive,” he mutters before turning to set up his bed.
Colton and Ross return a few moments later with a handful of rabbits. You’ve already put the coffee pot on, the heat welcome as the night’s chill settles on the plains. You assist your partner in cooking the rabbits, remaining quiet throughout the evening.
Your stomach growls. But you hate eating around others. The bandana has to stay on to conceal your identity, which makes it very difficult to enjoy your meal. All you can do is lower the fabric to your chin. You dip your head and let the brim of your hat cover as much of your face as possible. As soon as you finish eating, the bandana goes back up.
On a moonless night, the campfire provides the only light for your crew as you work together to set up the temporary holding pen you’ll use to corral the horses you catch. A little over an hour later, your work is finished for the night.
You position your bedroll toward the edge of camp. The ring of light from the fire ends just before it, allowing you to sleep in the shadows. You turn your back on the party, pull the bandana down to your neck, and tug the woven quilt up to your nose. You overhear Ross whisper to Colton about it, asking him what your deal is. Colton, bless him, answers by saying that you sleep this way to keep the bugs off of you overnight. You turn in first and agree to take the last watch of the night.
The next morning breaks sharp and pale, the kind of light that makes the prairie look like it goes on forever in every direction. Already awake for the watch, you’re saddled up and ready to go before anyone else. The group heads further into the plains. By that afternoon, you spot your first herd. Colton slows your pack as you crest a hill. Wild horses spread across the high grass, tails flicking.
“Alright, we’ll work the edges and push what we can back toward the corral,” Colton explains. “I usually ride out furthest to start the push. Riley’s my wing rider, since he’s got good balance on the back of a horse. He’s got a knack for keepin’ horses from breakin’ off.”
“I’m best as a hold-back man,” Ross says. “I got good eyes, so I can watch the back door and get the gate closed after they’re inside the pen.”
“I usually ride the wing, just like Riley,” Yunho adds, looking over at you. You glance up, catching his gaze again. “I can take the right side.”
You hesitate for a moment, looking him up and down. You nod. With everyone feeling comfortable in their roles, Colton takes off toward the back side of the herd to start pushing them forward.
As the wing riders, you and Yunho will focus on urging the herd toward the corral from each side. Colton will cut off their escape from the back and continue forcing them forward. Once the horses hit the mouth of the v-shaped opening of the corral, you and Yunho will peel off and let Colton run them down the funnel and into the pen. Finally, Ross will catch any stragglers from the back and secure the gate on foot once the herd is inside.
Surprisingly, your first drive is an overwhelming success. You catch about 20 wild horses in the pen. A couple slip out of your reach—perfectly normal for a small crew of only four. A few need to be released for various reasons which make them unfit for the army: any mares, smaller horses, any injured animals, etcetera. Since it’s your first day, you ignore the urge to chase after any of the breakaways. You’ll have plenty of time to round up more, especially if your team continues clicking as it did today.
Life moves similarly over the next week. In the morning, you rope the horses you want to keep, tie them nose to tail in a line, and tug them behind. You herd during the day. Each of you picks up a night shift, singing or talking to the captured horses so they can get used to human voices.
One night, you wake with a desperate need to pee. You slip quietly from your bedroll to relieve yourself in the woods. As you button up your pants, a low, smooth voice carries through the darkness. You carefully creep through the tree line. Hiding behind it, you peer out and find yourself staring at the corral. The singing's coming from the rider. Yunho...it's his watch.
Your eyebrows lift. He sings well. His voice is rich, deep, and smooth like distant thunder rolling over the plains or the velvet fabric of an expensive party dress. His tone is stable, controlled. He sings effortlessly. The melody is simple, almost sad.
As you spy on him, something warm and unsteady swims in your gut. It shocks you into reality. You straighten and physically shake yourself. Bewildered, you accidentally step on a twig. It snaps underneath you. Yunho's head jerks toward your direction, and you grimace. His voice goes quiet as he listens.
You stay frozen and wait for him to turn back to the herd. When he finally does, you hurry back to your bedroll before anything else happens.
You toss and turn that night, the haunting melody playing over and over in your head. His smooth, melodic voice like silk drifting in your mind.
On your third day of driving, you decide to start going for the runaways. Yunho picks up on it quickly, joining your efforts. At first, the competition is friendly. He tips his hat to you when you nag a stray, and you nod in respect when he turns one back toward the corral.
You hit your first rough day a week in. Bad weather rolls in and out overnight, leaving the ground muddy and soft. The group rides out in the morning but no herds are near. After a long day of watching the horizon line for absolutely nothing, your eyes are tired. You almost don’t believe them when they land on a lone horse in the distance. But when you squint, it comes into view.
Yunho must have seen him at the same second you did. You both spur at once. Daisy stretches out underneath you, ears flat. She loves the chase almost as much as you do. Yunho’s horse is longer-legged. He gains ground fast, rope already unhitched from its perch at his side. But you're a better rider. You push Daisy forward just as Yunho rises in the stirrups, arm whipping forward. He’s going for the heel catch—clean and textbook.
Not on your watch.
You unlatch your own rope, twirling it smaller, tighter, and attack the sprinting horse from the side opposite Yunho. The rope snaps out like a whip crack, settling perfectly just around the animal’s neck. Yunho’s heel loop kisses empty air and falls flat. You tug back on the rope, pulling the wild horse to a gentle stop.
Since you’re far enough away that Yunho won’t be able to hear you, you speak gently to the horse, cooing like a mother to a child, to keep it calm. You fade into silence as you saunter up toward the Dakota cowboy with your catch in tow.
“That one was mine, Riley,” he says, but there’s a toothy grin on his face.
You clench your teeth to keep your own smile at bay.
“Was it?” you tease. You mime peering closer at the horse, exaggerating the movement. “Don’t look like it to me.”
He chuckles, tongue poking into his cheek.
“Hm…challenge accepted.”
You just tap your hat brim and lead your prize away.
You hadn’t really meant to antagonize him. But that day sets the tone.
From that moment forward, it’s a fight between you. Yunho steals lone mustangs and runaways from you; you cut him off and snatch horses from under his nose. Colton and Ross laugh so hard they accidentally let some of your catches escape. When the Dakota boys are out of earshot, Colton pokes fun at you.
“Someone’s got a crush,” he says in a low voice.
“Shut up,” you hiss.
What should have been an easy way to make money has turned into all-out war. Though it appears to be a joke to the boys, it’s nothing of the sort to you. They don’t understand. They could never understand what it’s like for you. Under all those clothes, under the binding wrapped tightly around your chest, you’re still a woman. That means you have to work harder, be better. While the three of them laugh and joke about it, you rage silently within your heart.
Ross is the first to suggest keeping a tally system. You can’t prove it but you’re almost positive that he and Colton are placing bets behind your backs.
The formal competition begins on the tenth day. Having roped in a good chunk of healthy horses yesterday—bringing the grand total to just over 200—you all agree that you've earned a break from the routine today. Instead, you and Yunho will face off, trying to snag as many wild horses as possible.
By noon, the tally is even at three each. Both of you are sweated through, horses lathered, ropes fraying at the ends from overuse. Your audience appears to enjoy the chase for the first half of the day but, when lunchtime rolls around, Ross suggests you both call it quits and accept a tie.
“No!” you shout, completely forgetting to disguise your voice. You clear your throat, trying to control the octave. “We don’t stop ‘til it’s finished.”
You turn to stomp back toward Daisy, but someone catches your arm. Rage flares. Your head snaps over your shoulder, curses ready to fly from your tongue. It’s Colton. His eyebrows are knitted, concern clear as day. He yanks you over to the side.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself, kid,” he says quietly. “It ain’t no big deal. You’ve shown you can hold your own. But that’s enough now.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” you spit, wrenching your arm free. To Yunho, “We gonna do this, or what?”
His eyebrows furrow for a moment. But he clenches his jaw and nods. You ride out, a safe distance between you. Nothing stirs on the horizon for several minutes.
“Maybe we should head back in,” he suggests, looking over at you. "We haven't eaten in hours."
You remain frozen, lips pressed tightly shut under your bandana. A few silent moments pass.
“Look, I don’t know what your problem is,” he continues, tone a little icy, “why you don’t like me or whatever, but I-”
He must have seen it in his peripherals. Your eyes widen. A magnificent stallion—huge build, muscles taut, coppery coat shimmering in the afternoon sunshine. A perfect specimen, so fine he’d probably fetch a bonus just by himself.
You and Yunho share one quick glance before you both take off. You ride neck-and-neck, your horses creating a chorus that sounds like thunder as they rip the ground away under their hooves. The stallion dodges left; Yunho follows. You cut across, forcing the horse to the right. Whether you mean to or not, you’re working as a team.
That doesn’t last long. When you top a hill after the beast, you both reach for your ropes. Completely blindsided by the competition, neither of you pay attention. You throw the lasso at the same time. Your ropes both land around its neck, but you pull back in different directions.
You gasp, the rope slipping from your gloved hand. You watch Yunho’s lasso do the same. Instinctively, you pull back on Daisy’s reins. Yunho follows. You both skid to a stop, dust swirling up into your faces. You look up just in time to watch the stallion clear another hill and sprint away.
Out of reach now.
Not to mention that he's run away with your best rope. You won’t be able to replace it until you get back into town where you can visit your trusted ropemaker.
Your blood boils. From your peripherals, you see Yunho hop down from his black horse. He stomps toward you, finger accusingly pointed.
“Hey, what the hell are you—” he shouts.
You dismount and waste no time. Without hesitation, you spin and ram your knuckles into the side of his face. He stumbles back a few steps, hand moving to his jaw. He looks up at you, mouth agape.
“That was my best rope, asshole!” you yell, forgetting again about your tone of voice.
“You almost got both of us killed! And you’re worried about your rope?”
You lunge forward, hands connecting with his chest. He stumbles back. Your fingers curl into his shirt. You tug side to side and try to bring him down. He fights back, hands grasping at your shoulders. He’s definitely stronger than you. But he must be too surprised to hold up, because he tumbles onto the ground straight into a heap of mud. You land on top, knees pinned to his chest, shirt fisted in your hands.
Both of you freeze, chests heaving. His hat is gone. It’s rolled somewhere into the distance, forgotten. You glare down at him with clenched teeth. He stares up at you, eyes surprisingly gentle. Your expression falters when an unwanted churning turns in your stomach. Your breaths mingle in the air between you. Suddenly, he does a double-take, eyes widening. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.
And, then, you realize.
The bandana around your face has been pulled down onto your neck. He must have snagged it accidentally when you took him down. Panic shocks through you. You reach up. Your hat's gone, too. Your long, braided hair spills over your shoulder.
For one stunned heartbeat, you just stare at each other.
“Well, shit,” he breathes. “You’re a girl.”
You scramble up, pushing hard on his chest out of spite. You gather your hat, jam it low, and snatch the ruined bandana from the mud. In that time, Yunho has gotten to his feet and brushed himself off.
Heat flashes up your neck—anger or something worse, you aren’t sure. You spin, the toe of your boot catching him square on the shin. He doubles over with a strangled grunt.
“That’s for the catch, rope, and money you just lost me,” you snap, already striding for Daisy.
Without another word, you swing up onto your horse and tear back toward camp at lightning speed. The bandana’s soaked and useless now, so your face is totally exposed. The hat lasts about three strides before you rip it off to keep the mud from dripping into your eyes.
Colton and Ross are waiting when you thunder into camp. They greet you but freeze the moment you turn toward them.
Colton’s eyes bulge, mouth half-open like he’s forgotten every word he knows. He stares, utterly speechless, clearly desperate to ask what the hell happened but not sure where to start. Ross doesn’t say anything either; he just watches in stunned silence as you stomp past them and vanish into the trees behind the campsite.
PART TWO
The fire has burned down to a low, orange glow. It casts flickering shadows across the camp. Colton and Ross turned in early; you figure Colton must have explained your situation and, God-willing, Ross is accepting of it. Otherwise, you would be answering questions into the night or dealing with a situation much, much worse.
You sit on the far side of the flames, your skinning knife in hand. You sharpen it with short, vicious strokes. The anger from earlier still simmers in your veins, hot enough to burn iron. Boot steps crunch softly on the dry leaves.
Yunho pauses at a respectful distance. His hands are held up, like he’s approaching some sort of feral animal. A brown bottle dangles loosely from two long fingers.
“I come bearing a peace offering,” he says softly.
You glare at him for a moment and then flick the knife point toward the open space on the log beside you. He settles in, careful not to crowd you but close enough that your stomach twists again.
You’ve spent your entire life, as long as you can remember, around men. Most of them, disgusting and dirty. They’re working men with rough callouses and hardened exteriors. The majority of them only have access to a bath once every six months.
But Yunho…he’s not like that. He’s cleaner, somehow, less grimy.
He yanks the cork and offers the bottle to you. You lean away, eyeing it suspiciously. He chuckles.
“Just whiskey. I promise.”
You stare at it for a moment before giving in. You swipe the bottle and take a long drink. It sears down your throat but settles pretty smooth. It tastes expensive. When you hand it back, he drinks, too.
“So, I’m assuming Riley isn’t your real name,” he starts.
“You assume correct.”
He waits, doesn’t push, just passes the bottle over again.
“I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me what it really is?”
“Sure,” you reply, taking another swig. “You just let me know when hell freezes over.”
He laughs, the sound warm and friendly. You stare into the fire, watching the embers dance in the wind. He doesn’t ask you to explain any more than that, so you aren't really sure why you do.
“Out here a woman alone’s got three choices: a wife, a whore, or a corpse,” you explain. “Wasn't interested in any of that. So I made my own choice.”
“How’d you wind up out here? Doing this?”
“My parents died when I was ‘lil. Some flu or somethin’. Wiped out half my town, but it spared me, for some reason. I begged and stole for a few years to get by. Then, I heard some men talkin’ ‘bout jobs. So, I followed ‘em and wound up at the door of Red Rock Horse & Cattle Company. Old man Hargrove, the contractor there, took pity on me. I was half-starved and prolly looked like a mangy dog.” Yunho chuckles softly. “He took me in. He didn’t really know how to raise a girl, so I just got thrown in with the boys. He taught me everything I know—how to rope, herd, survive. I had to figure out a lot of it by myself, but I didn’t mind.”
“How come you keep doing it?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs, eyes flicking up and down your body. You feel heat creeping into your cheeks.
“Why do you stay out here, doing hard labor work? You’re plenty pretty enough. I’m sure some rich man would take you as his wife. You wouldn't have to struggle to survive out here anymore."
“Well…because I love the work,” you reply. “The wind in my face all day, Daisy runnin’ beneath my feet, the wide-open sky before me. I’d never give it up. For anything.”
You look at him sideways. He’s smiling, a knowing glint in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods. Silence settles for a few moments.
“Only downside is that no one really, truly understands,” you continue quietly. “They never really know what it feels like. It gets…lonely sometimes.”
Yunho is quiet so long, you wonder if he’s stopped listening. Then, softly, “You don’t have to be lonely tonight.”
Your eyes go wide. Turning your head, you catch him watching you. Firelight dances in his gaze and there’s something so endearing about it. He reminds you of a puppy, looking so earnest and sweet. You feel a pull in your lower belly again, the same one that had come and gone a few times before. His eyes flicker down to your lips. He gulps and forces his gaze back to yours.
You snatch the bottle from his hand, drink deeply for courage, and then hand it back.
“Not tonight,” you say sternly. “But keep it up, Dakota boy, and maybe we’ll see.”
With that, you rise from your seat and head toward your bedroll. It takes him a second before he jumps to his feet.
“Ah, n-no! Wait, that’s not what I meant. I...I-,” he stutters, obviously terrified that his accidental come-on attempt had offended you.
You don’t react, just giggle to yourself as you settle in for sleep.
The next several weeks blur into a rhythm. During the day, you ride forward, herding and roping any wild horses you come across. You and Yunho spend most of your time together. You’ve grown close.
You never explained to Colton or Ross what went on between you to put a stop to the war that had been brewing. You just let them assume that whatever had happened out on the plains that day set everything right. They don’t question it, either. They seem perfectly content that the two of you are working together so well. Even your horses seem to fall into step like they’ve known each other for years.
At night, after the others slip into sleep, you share whiskey or wine or whatever you have on hand. Yunho tells you about the stars; he knows so much about them. He points out constellations and planets. Out here in the wilderness, you can see them all. Funny…you’ve never really stopped to look up at them before.
One night, he comes over to your bedroll. You're awake but pretend to be asleep since you're dying to know what he's up to. More tenderly than you ever thought possible, he moves a strand of hair from your face. He strokes your cheek with his knuckle and whispers something. You don't catch what he says, but it's something sweet. You can tell by the tender way he says it.
In exchange for his star knowledge, you’ve been teaching him how to whip-crack a lasso. It’s something you learned from another roper who hangs around the cattle company a lot. If you do it just right, the snap sounds like thunder, it’s so loud. You laugh freely when the rope tangles around his boot and gently correct his form when you can.
It’s innocent. Mostly.
You can’t help but appreciate his long, slender fingers. You like the way they flex around the reins. It feels like electricity when they brush against your arm or tangle with your digits when he passes the bottle. He must know you like it; he draws attention to them far more than necessary.
Not that you would dare to throw stones. You’re doing it, too. He watches your hips when you ride. You noticed one afternoon when you turned to ask him something. You'd caught his stare zeroed in on your ass. He must like the way you shift in the saddle. So, naturally, you do it more.
“You ride like you were born in a saddle,” he says quietly one afternoon. “It’s real nice to look at, but makes it sort of hard to focus.”
You don't know what to say. You just watch him ride ahead of you, smirk tugging at his mouth.
A few more weeks slip by, the herd growing larger behind you—nearing four hundred horses now. The days start to feel less like working and more like spending time with friends. You’ve let your guard down. No bandana unless you’re near a town. Your hair stays loose under your hat more often than not.
After two months out, you decide you’ve earned yourself a full bath. You wander a little ways downstream from camp, past a bend thick with cottonwood trees. There, the river widens into a slow, clear blue pool. You tether Daisy to a low branch and then strip off your hat, vest, and shirt without a second thought. The binding comes next—long strips of linen you’ve worn tightly across your chest so many times. You unwind them slowly, breathing deeply. You leave the fabric folded neatly on a rock, kick off your boots, and wade into the water.
You duck under and let the cool liquid wash off all the sweat and dust from your skin. When you come back up, you start to brush your fingers through tangled hair. Winter's coming fast. Soon, the water will be too cold for baths. You should enjoy this one while you can. Glancing upward, you close your eyes and let the sun wash over your bare body.
“Oh…”
You gasp, sinking back into the water up to your chin. You turn around. The panic in your chest subsides when you find yourself looking at none other than Jeong Yunho. His eyes are wide with genuine surprise. You sigh and shake your head. Heat rushes into your neck and face, so hot it makes your ears itch.
“Damn,” you shout, breathless. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on somebody?”
“Sorry!” he yells back. “Thought I was alone...”
He hesitates, shirt half-tugged over his head. Your eyes snag on a slice of his skin, toned and muscular. Rolling your eyes to mask the tight coil in your stomach, you turn your back on him.
“Well, you comin’ in or not?” you ask.
As ladylike as possible, you splash water over your arms and shoulders. A few moments later, you hear him wading into the stream.
“Phew, it's so nice,” he says.
“Mhm,” you agree.
You turn toward him, arms crossing over your chest under the water on instinct. You study him for a moment—the way the light catches on the water droplets clinging to his collarbones, the way his damp hair curls up at the ends. He looks a little nervous, like he’s waiting for you to send him packing.
Silence falls. You both stare at each other for several minutes, arms moving through the water. Then, of course, because it’s Yunho, he scoops up a handful of water and flicks it at you. You gasp, half laughing, before you splash him back twice as hard. Within seconds, it’s a full-on battle. Water flies, and both of you laugh so hard your stomachs ache.
He lunges for you under water. You shriek, shoving against his chest. Your palms glide over his wet skin. With no friction, instead of stopping him, your touch slides upward and onto his shoulders. His hands curl around your hip bones, stopping you at arm’s length just a second before your chests ram together.
Your laughter fades quickly. The space between you seems to shrink. You’re close enough now to see the honeyed tint in his eyes. His long lashes clump together with water. He gives you every chance to pull away as he lifts his hand, so slowly, and tucks your hair behind your ear.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it over the river’s hum.
Your heart hammers in your chest. This doesn't feel real. It's fuzzy like a dream. You’ve spent years making sure no man ever sees you like this. Like a woman. Like…well, beautiful. And here you are, here he is, looking at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips.
“Flattery’ll get you dunked, Dakota boy,” you mutter teasingly.
He laughs, the sound a quick exhale of breath. But he doesn’t move his hand. It stays, cupping your cheek. Your eyes flick down to his lips.
Fuck it.
You lean in first. Just enough. He meets you halfway. The kiss is gentle, just two mouths pressing against one another. No tongue, no saliva, nothing crazy. Just pressure and the slight tang of river water on his lips. His hand snakes around the back of your neck, thumb stroking once along your jaw. When you pull back, your cheeks are burning hot. You drop your head to avoid looking at him.
“Well,” you mumble, splashing a weak handful of water at his chest to cover the shaking in your voice, “that’s enough of that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He chuckles under his breath. You risk a peek at him; his cheeks are tinted pink, eyes sparkling. You consider kissing him again. Instead, you just catch your lip in your teeth and shove him away. As you paddle your way to the shore, you have a feeling that it’s about to get a lot harder to stay professional.
PART THREE
The wind has teeth now. It blows sharp and relentless as it sweeps down from the north. Nights come early, spreading a purple haze through the sky. You’ve pushed yourselves hard the last two weeks. You know you’re running out of time before winter sets in fully. You’re sitting at 680 horses with at least 20 more to go. Plus, if any of you want a bonus, you need a few more than that.
But the plains are thinning out, giving way to mountains dotted with evergreen trees. You’ll be passing the herd over to the army at Fort Garland in Colorado. You’re maybe a week’s travel away from the Fort.
One gray afternoon, Colton brings the party to a stop beside a shallow creek. The four of you sit your horses in a loose circle while he studies the map Hargrove gave you months ago, now soft and creased from constant use.
“I’d say we’re close enough to town that this’ll be our last corral,” he says, folding the map with a snap. “Army post is just over the ridge. Now, I don’t want civilians pokin’ around, so Riley and Yunho, you two ride ahead and scout it out. See if there’s a good holdin’ pasture outside town, somewhere we can keep the herd without payin’ for stables or drawin’ too much attention. Ross and I’ll bring the string up slow tomorrow.”
You nod, already turning Daisy in the direction of town. Yunho falls in beside you without a word, the easy rhythm you’ve found these past weeks making conversation unnecessary.
The two of you ride on until dusk, when the lights of the town start to flicker into view like little stars on the horizon. You find a sheltered hollow a mile or so out. It’s got good grass, a row of trees to break the wind, and a creek that hasn’t frozen over yet. No property markers, no claims staked. It’ll do.
You make up a small camp. You set up your bedroll first, close to the fire since everyone knows your secret now. Yunho rolls his out just beside yours, far closer than previous nights. You eat leftover jerky and some dried biscuits in silence, passing the last of the whiskey back and forth until the bottle’s empty.
The air is frigid, temperatures dropping fast once the sun dips for the night. When it’s time to turn in, you hesitate, glancing between the fire and the two bedrolls. Yunho lifts the edge of his quilt without comment.
With a smile, you slide in between his legs with your back to his chest. You can feel his body heat immediately. You lie against his torso, propped up against the great big tree behind you.
“Now, exactly how long have you been waitin' to cuddle up to me?” you tease, though your heart’s pounding.
“I’m just being practical,” he corrects. “There's no sense in freezing when we can share warmth.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest onto your back. For a while you just rest there, listening to the fire crackle and the wind gush through the trees. Then his hand finds yours under the quilt, fingers tracing the calluses and marks on your hand. He freezes on one, a jagged scar cutting right across your fingers. You feel sick for a moment, wondering if it disgusts him. Then, he hums quietly.
“What?” you ask.
“Rope burn?” he asks, fingertip gliding over the scar.
You fish out your hand from under the covers and turn it over so the firelight catches the pale pink line that runs across the base of your fingers. It’s an old wound, thick and permanent from years of lassos slipping at the wrong moment.
“I was twelve,” you say. “I still didn’t really know what I was doin’. I went after a huge chestnut mustang. That catch was too big for how small I was. He bolted, rope slipped. Damn near took my thumb off.”
His hand slides up next to yours, pinkies touching. You laugh. Same scar, same place, on his own hand. They’re identical, aside from finger length. You both stare for a long second.
“Well,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be, “I guess that settles it, then.”
He raises his eyebrows and leans over your shoulder. You turn sideways to meet his gaze.
“Settles what?” he asks.
“Same scar, means we were meant to throw ropes together,” you explain, a grin tugging at your lips. “Or maybe just meant to be together, period.”
His answering smile is slow and warm. He laces his fingers through yours, scar touching scar.
“I believe that. Easy. But I didn’t need a scar to tell me.”
Your heart swells. You sink down into the quilt, nuzzling back against his chest. His arms snake around your waist, holding you firmly against him. The two of you just sit there. Listening. The wind howls like a restless spirit outside your little camp. Yunho’s body is a furnace against your back, his arms heavy across your stomach. You can feel every breath he takes, slow and steady. You shift your hips, just a little, without even really meaning to. He goes rigid behind you.
“If you keep moving like that…” he murmurs, breath hot against the shell of your ear, “you might get me into trouble, cowgirl.”
A shiver snakes down your spine that is definitively not from the cold. You spin in his grasp and turn onto your knees so you can look at him. You place one hand on each of his thighs, feeling his muscles shift under your touch. You’re face-to-face now, noses brushing. His eyes are black in the firelight, pupils blown wide.
“Well, lucky for you, I am trouble,” you whisper.
He moves immediately. His hand attaches to your jaw, tugging you forward. With long, slender fingers stretching across your face, he brushes his nose against yours. You inhale sharply. Your eyes flutter closed. Heart pounding in your chest, you wait. His lips ghost against yours softly. Then, pressure follows.
He kisses you sweetly at first, just lips melding together. But you want more. You need more. Your hands slide up his thighs, onto his chest, and then into the soft hair at the nape of his neck under his cowboy hat. His head turns to the side so he can reach you deeper. He gets hungrier, hotter, teeth scraping your bottom lip before his tongue slides into your mouth. You kiss him back hard. Your gut is swimming, churning as pressure builds lower and lower.
He rolls you onto your back in one smooth motion. Desperate for some friction, you open your legs. He settles between your thighs. Your fingers bump against the brim of his hat, tugging at the roots of his hair until he groans into your mouth.
Cold air nips at your exposed skin when his fingers lift the hem of your shirt. But the warmth of his palms on your body heats you right back up. He works open the buttons on your shirt, one at a time.
He kisses the corner of your mouth and then down onto your neck. These are open-mouthed, sloppy kisses. You turn your head to give him your neck freely. He licks over your pulse point, drawing a soft moan from your lips. You arch into his touch and gasp when his tongue finds the tender meat of your shoulder. He bites down hard, sucking at your skin.
It’ll be a bruise in the morning, you already know it. You don’t care. You want it. You want every mark he plans to leave on you.
“I’ve been thinking about this for months,” he growls against your throat, teeth grazing the corner of your jaw. “Thinking about you. Just like this.”
You laugh, breathlessly, and reach for his shirt.
“Then stop talkin’ and start doin’, cowboy.”
He pulls back just far enough to grin, wicked and beautiful. You bite your lip and yank at a button on his shirt. He sits back on his knees and finishes the job for you. You sigh, reaching up to run your hands down his bare torso. His skin is blazing hot. You spread your fingers greedily, smoothing over his perfect honeyed skin.
Shamelessly, you let your fingertip hook onto the belt of his pants, dipping just below the waistband. He inhales sharply, one hand enclosing over yours. Your eyes flick up. You giggle coquettishly when he shakes his head. Despite his restraint, his eyes darken.
He leans back down, gaze never leaving yours, and finishes what he started with your shirt. You slide your arms from the sleeves. The cold air raises goosebumps all over. You feel exposed in a way you never have before. But it’s not a bad feeling. It’s nice.
Yunho’s fingers find the piece of tucked linen securing the binding on your chest. He pauses, thumb brushing against the worn cloth. His eyes find yours.
“Can I take this off?” he asks. “Is that alright?”
You nod, swallowing hard.
“I’ve been wearin’ it for years. It’ll be nice to breathe free.”
He smiles softly and starts unwinding the long strips. He does it with care. Each layer he pulls loose reveals another piece of your skin. The last of the binding falls away. Your breasts ache slightly, happy to be freed from confinement. The cold breeze makes your nipples tighten almost instantly. Yunho’s breath hitches. He studies you, like he’s memorizing every inch of your body. His fingertip lightly traces along the indentations on your sides from the tightly-wrapped fabric.
“Does it hurt?” he questions.
“Sometimes. But it ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle.”
He bends over, softly pressing kisses to some of the grooves in your skin. When he comes up back, you shift nervously under his stare. You reach for your hair to have something to cover you only to realize that it’s still braided down your back. As if reading your mind, he reaches up with one hand and tugs the leather strap free. He threads his fingers through the strands, patiently loosening the plait until your hair spills wild across your shoulders. He grins sweetly.
“Better,” he whispers. “Just you now. As you are.”
You coo, breath taken away, and shrink under his soft gaze. His knuckle finds the underside of your chin. He tilts your face up, kissing you deeply. As his lips move on yours, you forget your worries. Your arms wind around his neck. One of his hands slides onto your back, the other bracing himself on the bedroll. He kisses you a few more times before pulling back. You open your eyes to see him grinning playfully.
“What?” you ask. “I don’t like that face you’re makin’.”
He just bites his lips and pushes himself to a stand. You watch, heartbeat pulsing in your head, as Yunho disappears behind his horse. When he comes back into view, he has a coil of extra rope wound around his hand. Your pulse spikes. You quirk an eyebrow.
“And what on earth is that for?” you ask.
He smirks. Standing above you, he looks like a giant. He's so damn tall…
“Hands above your head,” he says, gentle but commanding.
You hesitate for a moment, eyeing him up and down. But, then, you obey and cross your wrists above your head. The rope is slightly rough against your wrists as he secures it, but he ties it double-looped so there’s not very much room for chafing. He winds the rest of it around the tree above your head. You gasp when he yanks it tight. With your mouth agape, you gawk at him. He shrugs and chuckles breathlessly.
“Sorry. Gotta make sure it’s tight.”
You scoff, but your whole body is swimming with adrenaline. You’ve spent the night with a man once or twice before. But never like this. You’ve heard of things like this from the show girls at the saloons you duck in and out of when you come across towns. You didn't realize people actually do it.
You tug once on the rope, testing it. It holds. A thrill pulses between your legs. You can feel your core swelling, prepping for what it hopes is to come.
When he’s finished, he sits on his heels in front of you and stares. Absolutely no shame in his demeanor, whatsoever. You feel suddenly embarrassed—breasts bare, trousers pushed down to your hips, wrists bound. He whistles, low and slow.
“Pretty as a picture,” he murmurs.
He pulls your old faded red bandana from his pocket and folds it slowly. Holding it up in front of your eyes, he gives you an idea of what his plans are. You laugh but close your eyes and lift your head. He ties it snugly over your face. Darkness swallows everything but the sound of his breathing and the crackle of the fire.
“This okay?”
“Mhm.”
Then his hands are on you again, slow and deliberate. His touch trails down your sternum, circling one nipple and then the other. Your lips part, back arching into the sensation. His mouth follows soon after, hot and wet, sucking marks into the soft skin of your breasts. His other hand slips lower to unfasten your trousers. You cooperate the best you can as he slides them from your legs. While the rest of your clothes are men’s, you still wear women’s drawers underneath your trousers. Your hips shift up unintentionally when his hand smooths over your aching heat.
“Oh, hell…” he mumbles. “You’re drenched through, baby. I've barely touched you. How are you already so wet? You want me that bad, huh?”
You snort.
“Don't flatter yourself too much, cowboy," you quip. "I don’t get a lotta attention down there. On account of me pretendin’ to be a man and all.”
He snickers and slides two fingers under the waistband of your drawers. He lifts your hips so he can slide them off, leaving you completely bare before him. Part of you is terrified, but the other half is desperate to see his expression. You shiver when his hands brush along the insides of your thighs and push your legs further apart.
He drags a single finger along your folds, and you gasp at the surprise. He groans low in his throat—a raw, hungry sound that lights you up. The same finger slips back down, circling once on your clit before it dips into you. He removes it and reinserts, curling upward just right against that spot. Your hips buck up involuntarily. Your mouth falls open.
The next time he slides in, he’s added a finger. He slowly pulses in and out of you. His thumb is positioned perfectly so that it knocks against your swollen clit whenever he drives into you. The world narrows around you. Every nerve is on high alert, senses amplified because of the blindfold. You swear you can almost feel the callouses on his fingers as they pump in and out of you, over and over.
He learns you quickly, figures out what your body responds to.
You moan, shuddering when you feel the coldness of his spit on your heat. The slick between your thighs starts to drip down your legs. You clench greedily around him as he adds a third finger. He stretches you open, gently at first, and then deeper, harder.
Your thighs start to tremble. Heat builds low in your stomach, coming in waves. His thumb finds your clit again, swollen and aching. He circles it carefully. Moans spill from your lips, and your back arches. Pulling against the rope, your hands beg to be freed. All you can focus on is the aching sensation intensifying in your lower gut and the obscene gushing sound proving just how soaked you are.
He slows when you're nearing the edge, fingers stilling inside you. You whine and whimper in protest. The desperation in your tone surprises even you. The denial is torture. Every muscle in your body is like a coiled spring just waiting to burst. You feel him shift above you, the heat of his body fading just enough to make you strain against the bonds, as if you could reach for him.
“Not yet,” he says sternly.
You gasp when you feel his breath ghosting over your folds. Then, the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue from your entrance to your clit. The first lick rips a broken moan from you. The second one has your thighs trying to clamp around his head. But his big hands pin them wide open. He groans into you like a starving man, the vibration making you jerk against the binds.
“Yunho…” you whine.
He doesn’t answer. He devours you. Long, filthy stripes of his tongue, and then tight circles around your clit until your hips are bucking helplessly. He sucks the swollen bud between his lips. You feel the coil in your belly snap back into place, twice as tight as before. Two fingers slide back inside you, curling hard. His mouth never stops. The sounds that escape your mouth seem vulgar in the otherwise calm night. You moan his name again, and he goes harder. You shatter, tugging so hard on the rope your wrists burn. He doesn’t stop, licking you through every pulse until you’re shaking.
Obviously satisfied, he pulls away. One gentle kiss to your sternum in between your breasts. Then, his hands are at your wrists, untying the rope. The bandana comes off last. You blink against the light. His shadow comes into view. His face is red, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, mouth swollen and glistening with your slick.
You don’t even hesitate. The second your hands are free you shove at his chest. He lets you, surprised laughter rumbling out of him as he topples onto his back on the quilts. You’re on top of him before he can catch his breath. With desperate fingers, you pull the belt away, trousers and drawers down. He reaches for his cowboy hat, but you catch his wrist.
“No. Leave it on,” you say, the need so painfully obvious in your tone.
He chuckles quietly but obeys. He lays back with his head propped against the rolled up blanket serving as his pillow. He seems calm, probably not expecting you to get to work right away.
You relish in his shock when you drag your still-dripping core along the long, hard length of him. He hisses, hands flying to your waist. His head falls back, throat exposed, that gorgeous neck stretched, veins and all.
With your bottom lip between your teeth, you sink down in one slow, greedy slide. The stretch is perfect, just a little more than his fingers. You both moan loud, almost noisy enough to spook your horses. You brace your palms on his chest and slowly tip your hips back. Bring them forward, then push back.
His hands are everywhere—sliding up your sides, slipping over your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples, then lower again to grip your waist. He guides you without forcing you. You roll your hips slow at first, savoring the drag, the way his cock hits so deep every time you sink back down. His eyes are locked where you’re joined, lips parted, breath hitching every time you clench around him. Your eyes squeeze shut to savor the sensations.
“You ride it like a champ,” he says, laughing. “You okay?”
He reaches up, tucking a strand of fallen hair from your cheek. The tenderness feels so out of place considering the position you’re both in. You nod, leaning forward. He surges up to meet you. His mouth latches onto yours.
Now your knees are splayed on either side of his hips, him sitting between your thighs. You grind down harder. Your tongues tangle, and he slips a hand between you. He finds your clit again. Your fingernails dig into him, one on his shoulder, the other on his neck. Something hits so perfectly that you whimper, and your lips slip from his. Wincing, you brace yourself to keep going. His grip on your hips forces you to slow.
“Come on, cowgirl,” he pants against your mouth. “One more for me. I wanna feel it this time. But I want you to tell me your name first. Your real one.”
You falter for a second, surprised by the request. Leaning back slightly, you catch his gaze. He looks fucked out already. But something in those soft eyes... He wants to know you. Completely. You press your mouth next to his ear, whispering the name you hadn't spoken in almost fifteen years.
He gets right back to work. One of his hands slides up your spine, holding you up. The other rests on your thigh to keep you in place. You feel him start to push up inside you with his own weight.
That’s all it takes.
You slam down once, twice, and then the second orgasm blindsides you. And shit, is it so much better than the first. You clench hard around his cock. Burying your face into his shoulder, you hold on for life as the waves crest over you again and again. He follows right after, hips jerking up, spilling hot inside you with your name broken on his tongue.
You ride it out together and then just sit, intertwined. He wraps his arms around your torso, holding on tightly. He presses lazy kisses to your neck, shoulder, anywhere he can reach. You keep your eyes closed to savor the embrace.
Eventually, he tips you sideways, pulling the quilt up and over your bodies. He moves to slide out, but you stop him.
“You can stay. I don’t mind,” you say quietly, eyes still closed.
He chuckles softly, kisses your forehead, and pulls you into his chest. Before you slip under, you think you catch him whispering your name, quiet as a mouse.
Morning comes in pastel streaks of light. The wind is bitter. You wake first, pulling the covers up to your chin. You don’t want to leave your lover’s embrace. Ever again. So you keep still, entangled in his arms.
When Yunho eventually stirs behind you, you both agree it’s time to get up and at least rebuild the fire. As he puts the coffee on, you stifle a giggle. His skin, and you imagine yours, too, bears the evidence of your night together. Faint red lines spread across his neck where your nails scratched him. A bruise is blooming on his shoulder from where your mouth lingered.
“What?” he asks.
He looks at you over his shoulder like a deer in headlights. Fuck, he’s gorgeous this morning. You just bite your lip and shake your head.
“Oh, nothin’.”
You eat some of the leftover jerky for breakfast, have your coffee, and wait for Colton and Ross to find the smoke from your campfire. You’d stoked it with pine needles to give it a bluish tint so the ropers would know where to find you.
They finally arrive around midday.
The second Colton’s eyes land on you, you realize he knows. You haven’t looked at your reflection today, but you imagine you look something like a wild animal—hair wild, lips swollen, hickeys all over your neck. His eyebrows nearly jump into his hat. He cackles sharply, shaking his head in disapproval.
“Well, hell,” he says, dismounting. “Looks like the two of y’all had a real productive scoutin’ trip.”
You glance at Yunho whose face is redder than a strawberry. He shrugs sheepishly, eyes flicking to you.
“Productive ain’t the word I’d use,” Ross snorts. Then, he eyes the rumpled bedrolls laid suspiciously close together.
“What?” Yunho responds, throwing his hands up at his partner. “It was real cold last night. We had to do something to stay warm.”
Heat creeps up your neck, but you lift your chin and smirk.
“What’s the matter, Colton? Jealous I ain’t ever made a move on you all these years.”
“Ha! Kid, I’ve known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper and twice as mean. I wouldn’t never take you on.”
You tip your hat to him, grinning wide. You swing up onto Daisy.
“We got work to do, huh?" you say. "Let’s get that bonus cash, boys.”
Without another word, you kick Daisy forward with Yunho at your heels. You leave Colton and Ross in the dust. The town glimmers in the distance, the herd’s almost complete, and winter’s closing in fast.
But for the first time in your life, the wide-open plains don’t feel quite so lonely.
EPILOGUE
The sun hangs low over the dusty street. It’s been three years since that beautiful ride with the Dakota boys. You’d wound up with almost 800 horses by the deadline. You’d never experienced a payday so wonderful in your life. Not to mention all the bonuses that were awarded for the quality studs you’d passed on.
Fortunately, you’d also found a stud to keep all to yourself.
Word spread fast about the pair of you: a steady-handed cowboy and a mysterious expert roper. In three years’ time, you’ve established yourselves as quite the coveted service. With all that extra money you earned, you offered to buy Red Rock Horse & Cattle Company. Old man Hargrove couldn’t wait to hand it off. You knew he’d been wanting to retire for years. At seventy years old, he'd earned it, after all.
Nowadays, contracts pile up on the wooden desk like dust: ranchers needing hands for a drive, rodeos recruiting retirees or young folk with special talents, wealthy businessmen looking for escorts through rough territory. Letters and telegrams from all over the country trickle in, more and more every day.
Actually, you've had to become very picky. With so much business flooding in, it’s hard sometimes to find the time to personally take on contracts. But, you suppose, that’s part of the benefit of owning the company—you get to hog all the fun requests to yourself.
You lean back in your chair, boots propped on the table as you sort through the latest stack. Yunho sits across from you. You watch him for a moment, studying the way his back muscles shift as he cleans his rifle. His eyes dart back and forth between the gun in his lap and the contracts lying open in front of him.
“Look at this one,” you say, waving a crumpled letter. “Some guy in Texas wants us to round up a herd of wild mustangs. Says they’ll pay triple if we bring ‘em in broken, too. He says, quote, ‘nobody else seems to be able to handle the wild ones like y’all do.'”
Yunho glances up, dark eyes sparkling in the lantern light. He sets down the rifle and takes the paper from you. He reads it over, eyebrows knitting in concentration.
“Hm…tempting,” he replies. “But this one’s better.”
He slides a pristine telegram across the table. This one is from a wealthy cattle baron in the Dakotas.
"Wide open land, prime grazing territory,” Yunho explains as you read. “Says he needs experienced hands to lead the drive north before winter hits. Room for two at the front, and a bonus if we get there ahead of schedule."
It’s solid work, honest and easy. It feels similar to the job that brought you together in the first place. Unlike some of the other offers that are flashy, full of risks and lots of reward at the end, this one feels steady. It would be slow and full of open plain. That big, bright blue sky that you love so dearly. Besides, you’d always wanted to see the Dakotas.
"Alright, I like it," you agree, folding the telegram neatly. "To the Dakotas, it is. I’ve always wondered what it’s like up there.”
“I can guarantee there will be many nights perfect for stargazing," he replies with a sweet smile.
You stand and stretch out the kinks from a day spent cramped in the office. Yunho follows you outside, locking up behind him. Your horses wait patiently for you at the post. Both of you reach for your hats at the same time.
As you press it onto the top of your head, you smile. The horsehair tassel brushes against your finger. You each have one. Yours is braided with a strand of hair from his horse and one from his head; his is the same but with locks from your hair and Daisy’s mane. You created them as a quiet promise that wherever the trail leads, you’ll ride it together.
You reach for the reins, but his fingers clamp onto your arm. You glance at him. He steps closer, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb traces your jaw. With a grin, you lean in to meet him halfway. He kisses you slowly, softly, familiarly. He tastes of coffee. You inhale it greedily. His free hand settles on your waist, pulling you flush against him. When you break apart, your foreheads stay pressed together.
“Best thing I ever did was ride with you,” he murmurs against your lips.
You can’t help the wicked grin that spreads across your face. Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, you giggle.
“Best thing I ever did was ride you.”
By the time he catches up to what you’ve said, you’re already climbing onto Daisy’s back. He laughs, deep and genuine. You join in. Nothing's better than teasing your big puppy dog. You nudge Daisy’s sides to urge her forward. She takes off into a sprint, stirring up a cloud of dust behind her. You don’t look back for Yunho; you don’t need to. You know he’s right on your tail, just like always.
The trail stretches ahead of you, endless and exciting and full of whatever comes next. Fresh experiences, new joys, more nights tangled together under the stars.
And damn if this isn’t the best ride of your life.
「summary」: after waking up between the two most sought-after men on campus, you all agree to relive the steamy scene you had the night before
「warnings」: threesome duh, dom seonghwa, sub reader, sub san, seonghwa is bossy :P, alcohol consumption (the night before), kissing, teasing, titty sucking, humiliation (?), licking, biting, hickies, fingering, slapping (gentle), palming, possessiveness, clit play, oral (m & f), degradation, praising, unprotected sex, creampie, double penetration, face fucking, cum eating, multiple orgasms, begging, orgasm control/denial, hair pulling, body worship, reader is called doll, baby, babygirl, slut, darling, aftercare (most important part)
「author's note」: all im gonna say is i creamed so many times while writing this. definitely my best work yet imo. based on this ask!
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You wake up with a pulsing headache. Sunlight shines across your eyes, which instantly wakes you up - A party was the only thing that you could remember at the moment. Too many drinks, too many people. The Sigma Chi house absolutely trashed, bodies everywhere, music so loud you felt it in your skull.
You groan as you lift your hands to your face to rub your eyelids awake. Your arm shifts trying to soothe the static-y feeling of numbness radiating through it. It bumps into something abnormally warm.
You turn your head slowly, trying to figure out the source of the warmth.
Park Seonghwa. Asleep. Next to you.
Seonghwa, the guy who has girls lined up, practically begging at his feet to be fucked by him. He is handsome. Sharp jawline, perfect skin, hair that falls gracefully across his face as he sleeps. You squint at the glowing red numbers on the nightstand. Ten - fifteen in the morning.
Before you can even begin to process what is going on, a warm breath grazes across the other side of your neck. Great.
Choi San.
You are sandwiched between Seonghwa and San.
San is all broad shoulders and easy smiles, the kind of guy who makes everyone feel like his best friend. Where Seonghwa is sharp elegance and controlled grace, San is pure warmth. Even in sleep, there's something soft about him, the way his lips are slightly parted, the peaceful expression on his face.
Together, they're the campus heartthrobs. The duo everyone talks about. The ones you've seen around, watched from a distance, never imagining you'd ever be this close to either of them.
Let alone both. Let alone in bed.
Your heart starts hammering as you try to piece together what happened. The party. You'd gone with your roommate, who disappeared early, leaving you to navigate along. You remember the drinking games. The music. Dancing until your feet hurt.
And then - oh god.
It hits you in fragments, hazy at first, like trying to see through steamed glass. Seonghwa's hand on your waist. San's laugh, bright and infectious. The three of you stumbling up the stairs, away from the noise and the crowd.
"You're so pretty," San had said, eyes slightly unfocused but sincere. "Isn't she pretty, Hwa?"
"Beautiful," Seonghwa had agreed, voice low and deliberate.
Your face burns as more memories surface. San's room. The door closing. Seonghwa's mouth on yours, tasting like expensive whiskey and something darker. San's hands, everywhere, eager and warm.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
You'd slept with them. Both of them. At the same time.
The realization crashes over you like a cold wave, and suddenly you're hyper-aware of every point of contact. San's arm draped over your waist, heavy and possessive even in sleep. The warmth of his chest against your back. Seonghwa facing you, close enough that you can feel his breath.
You're still wearing - you do a quick internal inventory - your underwear, thank god, but your dress is somewhere on the floor. Someone's shirt is draped over you like a makeshift blanket. San's, probably, given the size and the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the fabric.
More memories flood back, sharper now. Vivid and visceral in a way that makes your thighs press together involuntarily.
Seonghwa's voice, commanding but gentle. "Let us take care of you."
San's mouth on your neck, trailing down, down, down. "Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it."
The feeling of being completely overwhelmed, caught between them, their hands and mouths and bodies working in perfect sync. Seonghwa's fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head back. "That's it. Good girl."
San's breathless moans, the way he'd looked up at you with those big, eager eyes, seeking approval. "Like this?"
And Seonghwa's low chuckle, amused and satisfied. "You're doing perfect, Sannie."
Your breath catches in your throat, heart racing for an entirely different reason now. Because you remember how good it felt. How you wanted to feel. How they'd both looked at you like you were something precious and utterly desirable.
You need to leave. This is insane. Last night was just... a drunken mistake. A one-time thing that shouldn't have happened.
Except.
Except you can't stop thinking about the way Seonghwa had kissed you, slow and deep and devastating. The way San had touched you like he was learning a new language, eager and attentive. The way they'd both made you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered.
You start to inch away, trying to extract yourself without waking either of them. San's arm tightens reflexively around your waist, pulling you back against him with a sleepy mumble. The movement jostles Seonghwa, whose eyes flutter open.
For a moment, he just looks at you. Dark eyes slightly unfocused with sleep, hair mussed in a way that should be illegal, and then something shifts in his expression. Recognition. Memory. His lips curve into the smallest, most knowing smirk.
"Good morning," he says, voice rough and low, and the sound of it does absolutely nothing to help your current situation.
You freeze, mouth suddenly dry. "I - hi. I should probably-"
"Should what?" Behind you, San stirs, nuzzling closer to the warmth of your body, his nose brushing against the back of your neck. His voice is husky with sleep, and you can feel the vibration of it against your skin. "Mm... five more minutes..."
Seonghwa props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that infuriatingly calm expression. Like waking up with a girl between him and his frat brother is just another Tuesday. "Sleep well?"
Your face is on fire. "I... yeah. I mean - look, about last night-"
"What about it?" His tone is casual, but there's something in his eyes that makes your stomach flip.
"We were drunk," you say quickly, trying to ignore the way San's hand is now splayed across your stomach, fingers just barely brushing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of his shirt. "Really drunk. So maybe we should just... forget it happened?"
Even as you say it, you don't mean it. Not really. Not when every nerve ending in your body is screaming at you to stay exactly where you are.
San makes a confused sound behind you, finally starting to wake up properly. His arm loosens just enough for you to breathe, but he doesn't let go. "Forget what happened?"
You twist slightly to look at him over your shoulder. He's blinking slowly, adorably confused, hair sticking up in about seventeen different directions. Then his eyes focus on you, really focus, and his expression shifts from sleepy confusion to dawning realization.
"Oh," he says softly. His gaze drops to where his hand is resting on your body, then back to your face. "Oh."
"You don't remember?" Seonghwa asks, and there's amusement in his voice now. He reaches out, fingers trailing along your arm in a touch that's barely there but makes you shiver anyway. "That's a shame."
San's brows furrow, and you can practically see him trying to piece together his fragmented memories. "I remember... the party. And dancing. And coming up here with..." His eyes widened slightly. "With both of you."
"Good start," Seonghwa murmurs. His hand moves from your arm to your hip, not grabbing, just resting there like it belongs. "What else?"
"I…" San's voice cracks slightly. He clears his throat, and you can feel the heat radiating off him. "It's kind of hazy. I remember... feelings. More than specifics."
You should move. But Seonghwa's hand is on your hip and San is pressed against your back and your body seems to have completely forgotten how to function.
"Want us to help you remember?" Seonghwa's voice drops lower, takes on that compelling quality that makes it less of a question and more of a promise.
Your breath hitches. This is crazy. You should get up, get dressed, and leave before this gets even more complicated.
But then San's fingers flex against your stomach, and he makes this small, needy sound that goes straight through you. "Please."
And just like that, any thoughts of leaving evaporate completely.
Seonghwa's smirk widens, just a fraction. "What about you?" His eyes are on you now, dark and intense and reading every micro-expression on your face. "Do you remember?"
"Yes," you whisper, because lying seems pointless when your body is already betraying you, leaning into his touch, pressing back against San.
"And?" His thumb traces small circles on your hip, the touch maddeningly light. "Do you want to stop?"
It's the gentle command in his voice that does it. The way he's giving you an out while simultaneously making it very clear what he wants. What they both want.
What you want.
"No," you breathe, and it comes out shakier than you intended. "I don't want to stop."
San groans softly behind you, and you feel his lips brush against your shoulder. "Thank god. I was worried that maybe you regretted it."
"No regrets," you manage, even though your heart is trying to break out of your chest.
Seonghwa shifts closer, and suddenly the space between you is almost nonexistent. His hand moves from your hip to your face, fingers gentle as they tilt your chin up. "Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise makes your stomach flip. "Because I've been thinking about last night since the moment I woke up."
"Me too," San adds, his voice slightly muffled against your shoulder. His hand slides up, palm flat against your stomach, holding you against him. "Even if I can't remember all of it... I remember how you felt. How you tasted."
Oh god.
Seonghwa's eyes are still locked on yours, and there's something almost predatory in the way he's watching you. Like he's waiting to see what you'll do next. "San's memory needs some refreshing," he says conversationally, though his voice is anything but casual. "Should we help him out?"
Your mouth has gone completely dry. "How - how would we do that?"
His smile is slow and deliberate. "I think you know exactly how."
And you do. God help you, you do.
San's hand tightens on your waist, and you can feel him pressing closer, his body heat seeping through the thin barrier of clothing between you. "Is that okay?" he asks, voice soft and seeking. "I don't want to - if you're not comfortable-"
"She's comfortable," Seonghwa says with complete certainty, eyes never leaving yours. "Aren't you, sweetheart?"
You nod, because words have completely abandoned you.
"Use your words," he instructs gently, but there's steel underneath the silk. "Tell us what you want."
This is humiliating. You're shy on a good day, and right now, caught between these two devastatingly attractive men who are both looking at you like you're something to be devoured, you can barely string two thoughts together.
But Seonghwa's waiting. They're both waiting.
"I want..." You swallow hard. "I want to help San remember."
"Remember what, specifically?" Seonghwa's thumb brushes across your bottom lip, and the touch makes you dizzy.
He's going to make you say it. Of course he is.
"Last night," you whisper. "I want to... do it again."
San makes a strangled sound behind you, and his grip on you tightens. "Fuck. You're so-"
"Language, Sannie," Seonghwa chides, but he's smiling now. He leans in closer, until his lips are almost brushing yours. Almost, but not quite. "You can do better than that. Tell us exactly what you want."
Your face is burning, but there's something thrilling about this too. About being pushed just slightly outside your comfort zone, about having their complete attention focused on you.
"I want you both," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "I want... I want you to touch me. I want San to remember how I felt. I want…" You break off, embarrassed.
His eyes flash with something dark and pleased. "There we go. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"Yes," you breathe, and he laughs, low and rich.
"Honest," he murmurs approvingly. "I like that." Then he shifts, sitting up fully and taking command of the space. The change in his demeanor is subtle but unmistakable. Last night, drunk and hazy, it had been easier to miss. But now, sober and clear-headed, you can see exactly what kind of control he wields.
You want to surrender to it.
San sits up too, and you immediately miss the warmth of him against your back. But then Seonghwa is guiding you, hands gentle but firm as he positions you sitting up between them, your back against the headboard.
Seonghwa's hand finds yours, threading your fingers together. "Do you remember how soft her skin is?"
San's gaze drops to where Seonghwa is holding your hand, and he nods slowly.
There's a moment of hesitation, and then San's hand is on your knee, warm and tentative. His touch is gentle, questioning, and when you don't pull away, he grows bolder. His palm slides up your thigh, over the curve of your hip, up your side. His fingers trace patterns on your skin, and you can see the moment memory starts to click into place for him.
"Like silk," San murmurs, almost to himself. His hand moves to your arm, your shoulder, your neck. Mapping you out like he's relearning familiar territory. "I remember this. You were so - god, you were so responsive."
"She still is," Seonghwa observes, his eyes tracking the way you're already leaning into San's touch, the way your breathing has changed. "Look at her."
San does, and the intensity in his gaze makes you squirm. "Can I," He licks his lips. "Can I kiss you?"
You nod, but Seonghwa makes a disapproving sound.
"Ask properly, San."
San's ears go pink, but his eyes don't leave yours. "Please. Can I please kiss you?"
"Yes," you breathe.
He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind, and then his lips are on yours. The kiss is sweet and exploratory, but then you part your lips and San groans into your mouth, deepening the kiss. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek as he kisses you like you're something precious.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard.
"I remember that," San says, voice rough. "I remember kissing you. You taste so good."
Seonghwa hums in agreement. "She does, doesn't she?" His hand is still holding yours, and now he brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "My turn."
Unlike San's gentle approach, Seonghwa doesn't ask. He simply tilts your face toward him and claims your mouth with a confidence that makes your head spin. The kiss is deeper, more demanding, and you can feel the difference between them immediately. Where San is soft and seeking, Seonghwa is controlled and commanding. He kisses you like he already knows exactly what you like, exactly how to make you melt.
When he pulls back, you're dizzy with it.
"Good," he murmurs against your lips. "So good for us."
San is watching with dark, hungry eyes. "What else?" he asks, and there's an edge of desperation in his voice now. "What else did we do?"
Seonghwa's smile is sharp and knowing. "Why don't you show him?" he says to you. "Remind him what he's forgetting."
You blink at him, confused and flustered. "I - how?"
"Tell him," Seonghwa says simply. "Tell him what he did to you. What we did to you."
Oh god. He's really going to make you say it. Again.
But there's something in his expression that makes you want to please him. Want to be good for him. And maybe it's the way they're both looking at you, maybe it's the lingering confidence from last night, the memory of how wanted you felt.
Whatever it is, you find yourself speaking.
Your voice comes out shaky, and you clear your throat. "You kissed me. Both of you. And then... your hands were everywhere. San, you - you touched me like you couldn't get enough. Like you were trying to memorize every inch."
San's breathing has gone ragged. "Where? Where did I touch you?"
You can feel Seonghwa's approval radiating off him, and it gives you courage.
"Everywhere," you whisper. "My thighs." You break off, embarrassed, but Seonghwa's hand squeezes yours encouragingly. "You touched me until I couldn't think straight."
"And what did I do?" Seonghwa asks, voice low and intimate.
You turn to look at him, and the heat in his eyes nearly undoes you. "You told him what to do. You told both of us."
"I still am," he says quietly, and it's not a boast. It's a simple statement of fact. "And right now, I think San needs a more hands-on reminder. Don't you?"
Your heart is going to explode. "Yes."
"Then show him," Seonghwa instructs. His free hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. "Guide him. Tell him what you want. Help him remember."
This is insane. This is absolutely insane. But you're already turning to San, whose eyes are wide and eager and so full of want it makes you ache.
"Touch me," you say, voice barely audible. "Please."
San doesn't need to be told twice. His hands are on you immediately, but there's a hesitation in his movements. He wants to please, wants to get it right, but he's waiting for direction.
"Like this?" he asks, palms sliding up your sides. "Tell me. Tell me what you want."
"Higher," you breathe, and his hands obey, moving up until they're just below your breasts. You can feel his restraint, the way he's holding himself back.
"Go ahead, San," Seonghwa says from beside you. "She clearly wants you to."
And with that permission, San's hands move, and you gasp at the contact. He makes a low, appreciative sound.
"I remember this," he says, voice rough. "I remember the sounds you made. The way you arched into my touch."
The praise makes San practically glow, and his touches grow more confident. More purposeful. And all the while, Seonghwa is there beside you, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other tracing idle patterns on your thigh. Watching. Directing.
You can only nod, because San is already leaning in, lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. You make an involuntary sound, and both men react to it immediately.
"There," Seonghwa says with satisfaction. "Right there. Mark her, San. Remind her who made her feel good."
San's mouth moves lower, kissing and sucking at your neck, and you're rapidly losing the ability to think coherently. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, needing something to anchor yourself to.
"Look at you," Seonghwa murmurs, and when you turn your head toward him, his eyes are so dark they're almost black. "So pretty like this. So responsive." His hand tightens in your hair, tilting your head to give San better access. "Is it coming back to you now, San? Are you remembering?"
"Yes," San gasps against your skin. "Yes, I remember. I remember everything."
"Good," Seonghwa says. "Then you remember what comes next."
The implication in his words makes you shiver, and you feel San smile against your neck.
"Every detail," San confirms, pulling back to look at you. His lips are swollen, his eyes blown wide with desire. "Can we - is it okay if we-"
"Yes," you interrupt, because you can't take the anticipation anymore. "Yes, please."
Seonghwa laughs softly. "So eager. I like that too." He releases his grip on your hair only to frame your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Last chance to change your mind, sweetheart. Once we start, I'm not stopping. Understand?"
The promise in his words makes your core clench. "I understand."
"And you want that?"
"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes."
His smile is devastating. "Then let's make sure San never forgets again."
Seonghwa wasted no time before connecting his lips to yours, one hand brushing down your arm while his other held your jaw in place delicately. San plants open mouthed kisses on the side on your neck and down the back of your shoulders, gripping his hands into the flesh of your waist.
Being trapped between the warmth of Seonghwa in front of you and San behind made you very aware that you were still there, only wearing your underwear. Same goes for them though, it seems it was the most comfortable option for everyone.
Your hands trailed down to Seonghwa’s boxers, which had an obvious tent forming under the fabric. Just grazing your hand over his clothes hardness was enough for his breathing to become uneven against your lips.
“Mmmm fuck, babygirl” he groaned, making sure you were able to hear. His hand that was holding your jaw was now wrapped around your neck, being used as leverage for him to deepen the kiss.
San’s hands snaked around from your back to your chest, grabbing one of your breasts in each of his hands. Tongue sensually dragging up your spine, leading into a playful bite onto your shoulder. He cupped your tits, movement causing a small jiggle that immediately diverted Seonghwa’s attention to them.
Seonghwa detached from you to line kisses from your cheek, to your jawline, down to your collar bones, then took one of your hardened peeks between his lips. He put enough pressure for you to naturally lean back into San’s chest, where he wrapped you with his muscular arms.
San brushes your hair behind your ear and whispers “You look so pretty like this.”
The mellow heat from his breath covered every inch of your body in goosebumps. His fingertips directed your face to look at him, making eye contact. His gaze was soft, not demanding, not expecting - just genuine.
He looked into your eyes, then down to your pink lips. Without a second thought, you pulled him closer, closing the gap. His tongue slid across your bottom lip, asking permission. Your mouth opened slightly, allowing him access. Your hand gripped into just jet black hair as your tongues slowly danced across each other. With your back still leaning against his chest, you could feel his length grow harder, pressing into your lower back with each movement.
Your other hand was still lazily stroking Seonghwa until he pulled away and traced down to the band of your panties.
“Can I take these off, doll?” he marveled, his lips coated in saliva from the mess he created on your breasts. The sheer desire evident in the way his eyes met yours compelled you to nod, no verbal response was needed.
Without a second of hesitation, he pulled them off and threw on to the floor off to the side of the bed. Seonghwa's eyes darkened with hunger as he settled between your spread thighs, his hands gripping your hips to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. The cool air kissed your exposed pussy, but the warmth from his breath quickly replaced it, sending a shiver up your spine. You leaned back heavier against San's solid chest, his arms encircling you like a protective cage, his heartbeat thumping steadily against your back.
“Wow, feel how wet she is, Sannie,” he teased while brushing his fingers across your slick folds. He circled your entrance while searching your face for a reaction.
San slipped his fingers between your thighs, met with the same wetness that Seonghwa just described. “So wet,” he confirmed.
Seonghwa's fingers pushed deeper, parting your slick folds with deliberate strokes that made your hips buck involuntarily. He pressed one finger inside you, then two, curling them against that sensitive spot that drew a gasp from your lips. The stretch was exquisite, his movements slow at first, building the pressure as he watched your face contort with pleasure. “That's it, doll,” he murmured, his voice husky with dominance.
San circled your clit with his middle finger in firm, teasing circles. Each rotation sent sparks racing through your core, your walls clenching around Seonghwa’s fingers as wetness coated both of their hands.
San's breath hitched against your ear, his other hand roaming from your breasts down to your stomach, holding you steady as Seonghwa worked you open. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his lips brushing soft kisses along your skin while his cock throbbed harder against your back, the fabric of his boxers doing little to hide his arousal. “You're doing so well for us,” he whispered tenderly, his playful tone laced with genuine affection.
The dual sensation was overwhelming - the dominant push of Seonghwa's fingers fucking into you steadily, and San's tender exploration, his touch light but insistent, like he was savoring every twitch of your body. Your head fell back against San's shoulder, exposing more of your neck for him to claim with open-mouthed kisses, his teeth grazing just enough to leave faint marks. The emotional pull tugged at your chest. Seonghwa's intense gaze locked on yours, full of possessive hunger, while San's soft eyes met yours whenever you turned, whispering encouragements that made your heart swell amid the building ecstasy.
San removed his finger from your clit and brought it up to his mouth. His tongue weaved around to gather all of your sweet arousal, licking it clean. “You taste so good, baby,” his praise only sent your head more into a daze.
Seonghwa leaned in, his tongue flicking out to lap at your clit before sucking it between his lips. The wet heat of his mouth combined with the scissoring of his fingers inside you, stretching and filling you, had moans spilling from your throat unchecked. San's free hand cupped your breast again, pinching the nipple between his fingers in rhythm with Seonghwa's sucks, the coordinated assault making your thighs tremble. “Feel that, babygirl?” Seonghwa growled against your pussy, the vibrations humming through you. “We're both here, taking care of you.”
Your head fell back against San's shoulder, and you turned your face toward him, seeking his mouth. His lips met yours eagerly, soft and inviting, his tongue slipping past your parted lips to tangle with yours. The kiss started slow, mirroring the lazy swirl of Seonghwa's tongue circling your clit, but as Seonghwa's mouth worked faster - lapping at your pussy with quick, insistent licks - your moans broke the rhythm. A deep, throaty sound vibrated from your chest into San's mouth, making him pull back slightly with a low chuckle.
San's length pressed insistently now, grinding subtly against your ass as he shifted, his own need evident in the way his breaths came ragged. He captured your lips in a deep kiss, tongues tangling with a playful swipe that turned passionate, swallowing your whimpers as Seonghwa's pace quickened, fingers plunging deeper, faster, chasing your release.
"Shh, baby," San murmured against your lips, nipping at your bottom one before diving back in. But another wave hit you as Seonghwa's tongue plunged inside your entrance, fucking into you with shallow thrusts. Your body arched, pussy clenching around the intrusion, and a whimper tore from your throat, scattering your focus. You chased San's lips again, but the kiss turned messy, interrupted by your ragged breaths and the slick sounds of Seonghwa devouring you.
You tried to pour yourself into the kiss with San, your hand fisting in his hair to hold him close, but a particularly deep thrust of Seonghwa's fingers ripped a loud moan from you. Your lips parted from San's with a wet pop, your head tilting back as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly.
"Fuck, you taste so good," Seonghwa growled against your folds, his voice muffled as he sucked your clit between his lips again. His fingers scissored inside you, stretching you open, the squelching sounds of your arousal filling the room. Your thighs trembled, clamping around his head, but he held them firm, not letting you escape the onslaught. Another moan bubbled up, high and desperate, breaking your attempt to reconnect with San's mouth - your body too lost in the waves crashing through you to manage more than a brush of lips and frantic breaths.
Without any time to think, your orgasm crashes over your entire body, making your thighs tighten harder around Seonghwa’s head. This doesn’t stop him. His tongue continues to violently lap your clit as you ride out your high.
“Just like that,” San whispers against the nape of your neck with a smile. “Cum on his tongue, darling.”
Seonghwa lets out a groan of satisfaction as he slides his tongue between your folds, devouring all of your sweet nectar. In a swift motion, he gets up from the edge of the bed and pushes San’s chest, making him land back down against the mattress.
“Go on, ride him” he lightly slaps your cheek, aiming your face to focus on San’s length.
Hesitantly, you hook your fingers into the band of San’s boxers, slowly pulling them down his legs.
“C’mon, don't act like you don't want it.” Seonghwa hissed.
You tossed San’s boxer off to the bed and swung your leg over his torso, straddling him. “Fuck,” He whispered under his breath in awe.
Sliding his tip against your wetness, you align him with your entrance. You sink down onto his length, a desperate moan escaping both of you. Once he bottoms out, you give yourself a second to adjust to his girth, slightly wincing at the fullness.
San senses your uncomfortability, but assures you that they are going at your pace. “Take your time, doll. I won't move until you say so.”
You grip your nails into his shoulders. “I’m ready.”
He starts to move his hips slowly, trying to get a feel of your reaction, but your signals are good, pushing him to move a little bit faster. His hands gripped into your back, pulling you down to meet his lips with a kiss.
Seonghwa rids himself of his boxers and climbs up behind you, lining himself up with your entrance. With no warning, as San pulls himself out, Seonghwa pushes himself in, making you stuffed full every time.
Seonghwa's fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady as he drives into your pussy with deliberate, powerful strokes. The fullness from both of them - San buried deep alongside him in a shared rhythm, their cocks alternating thrusts - makes every movement send shockwaves through your body. You rock between them, caught in their rhythm, your arms trembling as you brace yourself on San's chest. His eyes lock onto yours, dark with lust and a hint of surrender, his lips parted as he pants with each upward push.
“Fuck, she's so tight,” San groans, his voice breaking as he grinds up into you, the head of his dick pressing against that sensitive spot inside. Seonghwa chuckles darkly from behind, his hand coming down in a sharp smack on your thigh, the sting blooming into heat that makes you clench around them both. 'She is. And she's taking us so well. Aren't you, darling? Tell San how much you love being filled like this.'
Your words come out in a whimper, fragmented by the relentless pounding. “I love it... please, don't stop…” San's hands slide up to your breasts, squeezing them roughly, thumbs rolling over your nipples until they're aching peaks. He leans up, capturing one in his mouth, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh as he sucks hard. The dual sensations - Seonghwa's cock stretching your pussy, San's filling you in tandem - push you closer to the brink, your clit throbbing with neglected need.
Seonghwa notices, of course. He always does. His hand snakes around your waist, fingers finding your swollen clit and pinching it lightly, just enough to make you cry out. “You want to come? Beg properly.” He slows his thrusts, dragging out each one torturously, making you feel every inch as he withdraws almost completely before slamming back in. San matches him, holding still inside you, his cock pulsing but unmoving, teasing you with the promise of friction.
“Please,” you gasp, pushing back against Seonghwa, trying to chase the pleasure. “I need it... I need to come on your cocks.” San moans at your words as he looks to Seonghwa for permission, his hips twitching with restraint. Seonghwa's grip tightens, his breath hot against your ear. “Good girl. But not yet. San, make her earn it.”
San nods eagerly, his hands guiding your hips as he starts thrusting up again, faster now, his cock pistoning into your slick heat. You ride him instinctively, your pussy clenching around his thickness, juices dripping down to where Seonghwa's shaft slides in and out. Seonghwa resumes his pace, harder this time, their balls slapping against you with each deep plunge. The room fills with the wet sounds of skin meeting skin, your moans mingling with their grunts.
San's mouth returns to your breast, licking and biting, while his free hand reaches between you to rub your clit in frantic circles. The pressure builds unbearably, your body shaking as they fuck you in tandem, cocks rubbing against each other through your walls. Seonghwa leans forward, his chest pressing against your back, one hand wrapping around your throat,not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of his control. “Feel that? How we own this body” he whispers, his voice rough. “You're ours to use.”
You nod frantically, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaking your cheeks. San's thrusts grow erratic, his switch nature flipping as he takes more initiative, bucking up to meet you with force that makes your toes curl. “She’s squeezing me so hard,” he pants to Seonghwa, seeking approval. Seonghwa rewards him with a low growl, speeding up his own rhythm, the three of you moving as one slick, heated unit.
But just as the coil in your belly tightens to the breaking point, Seonghwa pulls your hair back sharply, exposing your neck. He bites down, not breaking skin but marking you, and slows again. 'Hold it back,' he commands, his fingers stilling on your throat. San whimpers in frustration but obeys, his cock twitching inside you as he fights his own release. They both still, buried to the hilt, letting the tension simmer, your body quivering around them.
Seonghwa eases out slowly, the drag making you whine at the loss. “On your back again,” he orders, flipping you off San with ease. You land sprawled on the sheets, legs splayed, pussy gaping slightly from their use. San kneels between your thighs immediately, his cock hard and leaking, but he waits, eyes on Seonghwa. “Lick her clean first,” Seonghwa says, stroking himself lazily as he watches.
San dives in without hesitation, his tongue lapping at your folds, tasting the mix of your arousal and their pre-cum. He sucks your clit into his mouth, humming vibrations against it, while his fingers, two, then three, push into your pussy, curling to stroke your inner walls. You arch off the bed, hands fisting the sheets, but Seonghwa climbs over you, straddling your chest. His knees pin your arms, and he guides his cock to your mouth. 'Suck. Show me how grateful you are.'
You open wide, tongue extending to take him in, swirling around the head before he pushes forward. He fucks your mouth with controlled thrusts, not too deep this time, letting you work him with lips and tongue. Below, San's mouth devours you, his fingers pumping steadily, thumb pressing your clit. The contrast - San's eager service and Seonghwa's dominant use - has you moaning around the cock in your throat, the vibrations making Seonghwa hiss.
“That's it, baby. Worship it.” Seonghwa's hand tangles in your hair, holding you steady as he rocks deeper. San adds a twist, his tongue dipping to circle your entrance around his fingers, then flicking back to your clit. Your hips buck, chasing the building orgasm, but Seonghwa pulls out abruptly, a string of spit connecting you. “San, up. I want her riding you while I take her throat.”
They maneuver you quickly, San lying back, pulling you on top of him. You straddle his hips, sinking down onto his cock with a shared groan. He fills you perfectly, thick and hard, and you start rolling your hips, grinding down to feel him everywhere. Seonghwa kneels in front of you, his hand on your head guiding you forward. You lean in, taking him into your mouth again, bobbing as you ride San.
San's hands grip your thighs, spreading them as he thrusts up, meeting your downward movements. “Fuck, yes... just like that,” he murmurs, his voice laced with submission even as he takes what he needs. Seonghwa matches your pace, fucking your face with shallow thrusts, his free hand reaching down to tweak your nipple. The angle lets San's cock hit deep, brushing your g-spot with every grind, while your mouth works Seonghwa's length, tasting the salt of his skin.
Sweat beads on your skin, the air thick with the scent of sex. Seonghwa's control wavers slightly, his breaths coming faster, but he reins it in, pulling back to let you gasp. “Switch,” he says suddenly, voice commanding. San lifts you off him with a pop, and they trade places, Seonghwa on his back now, pulling you down onto his cock. You moan as he stretches your pussy, different from San's thickness, longer and hitting deeper.
San stands at the edge of the bed, his dick in hand, waiting. Seonghwa nods, and San steps forward, feeding his cock into your mouth from this new angle. You suck greedily, hollowing your cheeks as you bounce on Seonghwa, his hands on your hips dictating the speed - hard and fast, making your breasts jiggle. San's hand cups the back of your head gently, thrusting in time with Seonghwa's upward bucks.
“Look at her, taking us both like a slut,” Seonghwa growls, spanking your ass lightly. San moans agreement, his thrusts picking up, more dominant now under Seonghwa's influence. Your body sings with the overload, pussy clenching around Seonghwa as San's cock slides over your tongue. The edge approaches again, hot and insistent, but Seonghwa senses it, slowing your hips with a firm grip.
Seonghwa's eyes gleam with intent as he holds your hips still, his cock throbbing deep inside your pussy. The pause stretches, your body humming with denied release, every nerve ending alight from their teasing. “Let her have it,” Seonghwa murmurs, his voice low and commanding.
Seonghwa picks up speed, his hips snapping forward, balls slapping against your skin with each plunge. The fullness returns in waves, your pussy clenching greedily as he angles to hit that spot inside you over and over. “That's it, take every inch,” he growls, one hand sliding up your back to press you down, arching your spine.
The dual invasion overwhelms you, Seonghwa's cock stretching your pussy wide, pounding relentlessly, while San's slides past your lips, the head bumping the back of your throat. Saliva drips down your chin as you suck harder, hollowing your cheeks to please him. San's breaths come in ragged pants, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure. 'Fuck, your mouth feels amazing,' he whispers, his thumb brushing your stretched lips.
Seonghwa's pace turns brutal, his grip bruising your hips as he chases his release. You feel him swell inside you, the veins pulsing against your sensitive walls. “Gonna fill this pussy up,” he announces, voice strained. His thrusts grow erratic, shorter and harder, grinding deep with each one. Your own climax builds again, coiling tight in your core, spurred by the friction and the way San's cock twitches on your tongue.
San's hand tightens in your hair, not pulling but guiding, as he fucks your mouth faster. “Swallow it all,” he commands. You nod as best you can, eyes watering from the depth, but you take him eagerly, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his shaft. Seonghwa reaches around suddenly, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing firm circles, the added stimulation shattering your control.
“Come with me,” Seonghwa orders, and that's all it takes. Your pussy spasms around his cock, waves of orgasm crashing through you as you cry out around San's length. Seonghwa groans loudly, burying himself to the hilt and holding there, his cock pulsing as hot cum floods your pussy. Spurt after spurt fills you, the warmth spreading deep inside, mixing with your own juices and leaking out around where he's still embedded.
The sensation tips San over the edge. He thrusts once more, deep into your throat, and cums with a muffled shout. Thick ropes of semen coat your tongue and slide down your throat as you swallow reflexively, milking him with your mouth. Some dribbles from the corners of your lips, but you take most of it, the salty taste lingering as he pulls back slowly, stroking himself to empty the last drops onto your tongue.
Seonghwa stays inside you a moment longer, rocking gently to ride out the aftershocks, his cum plugging your pussy before he finally withdraws with a wet sound. A trickle of his seed escapes, running down your thigh, but he doesn't let you move yet. “Stay put,” he says, voice softening just a fraction. San collapses beside you, chest heaving, but he reaches out immediately, wiping the cum from your chin with his thumb and pushing it back into your mouth. “Good girl, you took it all so well.”
They shift around you, Seonghwa easing you onto your back fully now, legs spread as he kneels between them. His hands are gentle this time, massaging your thighs where his grip left faint marks. “Look at you, all spent and beautiful,” he praises, leaning down to kiss your inner thigh, tasting the mix of fluids there. San props himself on an elbow, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach, dipping lower to spread Seonghwa's cum around your folds without pushing back in.
San murmurs, his voice tender, the submissive in him surfacing fully now that the intensity has peaked. He leans in, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, then your neck, avoiding the earlier bite marks with care. “You were perfect. So responsive, so eager to please us.” You shiver under their touches, the praise warming you from the inside out, chasing away the lingering ache.
Seonghwa nods in agreement, grabbing a soft cloth from the bedside, always prepared, and cleaning you gently, starting with your face, then your chest, and finally between your legs. He wipes away the excess cum, his movements unhurried, almost reverent. “You handled us like a dream,” he says, his dominant tone laced with affection. “That pussy milked me dry. I'm proud of you for holding out until I said so.” He discards the cloth and pulls you into his arms, cradling your head against his chest.
San joins in, wrapping around your other side, his leg draping over yours. His hand finds yours, intertwining fingers as he nuzzles your hair. “I loved how you sucked me off, swallowing every drop without hesitation. You're our good little slut.” He kisses your temple, his breath warm against your skin. The three of you lie tangled like that, bodies cooling in the aftermath, the room still heavy with the scent of sex but now mingled with something softer.
Seonghwa's fingers comb through your hair, untangling the knots from their earlier grips. “Hydrate,” he instructs quietly, reaching for a water bottle on the nightstand and holding it to your lips. You sip gratefully, the cool liquid soothing your parched throat. San takes a turn next, helping you drink more before setting it aside. “We'll get you something to eat soon,” he promises, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back. “You burned a lot of energy for us.”
As your breathing evens out, Seonghwa tilts your chin up, capturing your lips in a deep, lingering kiss - not demanding, but appreciative. His tongue explores gently, tasting the remnants of San on you, and he hums in approval. “Mine,” he whispers against your mouth, then pulls back with a small smile. “Ours.” San chuckles softly, pressing his own kiss to your shoulder. “Yeah, ours. And we take care of what's ours.”
“Tell us if you need anything,” San adds, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. “A bath? More water? Just rest?” You shake your head, content in their embrace, the praise wrapping around you like a blanket. “You both make me feel so safe,” you murmur, voice hoarse but happy. Seonghwa's chest rumbles with a pleased sound, pulling the covers over you all. “That's what we want. Now go back to sleep, pet. You've earned it.”
San dims the lights with a remote, the room falling into a cozy glow. They sandwich you between them, Seonghwa's arm over your waist, San's head on your pillow, his fingers laced with yours. Whispers of 'beautiful' and 'perfect' float in the air as drowsiness claims you, the aftercare sealing the night's intensity with warmth and care.
But even in the quiet, their touches linger - Seonghwa's hand stroking your side, San's leg hooked over yours beyond the passion. You drift off feeling cherished.
the beginning is inspired by a post i saw but i do not know the user name!
you just can’t seem to stay away from trouble. your husband sets you straight.
request for @89petals
word count: 5.9k
western au, dom husband!seonghwa x innocent sub!reader ft. outlaws!mingi, san & wooyoung.
warnings: angry sex, punishment, impact, degredation, glove kink, mask kink. mentioned whipping & public humiliation. not proofread.
—————
Seonghwa knows you’re naive. It’s not hard to tell; the way you carry yourself, the way you talk, the way you stare so sweetly at him, everything about you exudes innocence, screams vulnerability. And not just to him — he sees it in the eyes of all the men you encounter. It’s obvious, visceral, primal; the desire to touch you, to dirty your pure, unsullied skin with their calloused hands and sweet talking. The longing to be the one to corrupt you. To ruin you. And he knows it’s only him, his protection, standing in their way. Stopping you from falling into one of their traps. Keeping you safe.
He’s tried so hard to make you see it like that; to make you understand. Understand that you need his protection, why you need it; what would happen without it.
But you just don’t get it. No matter how hard he tries, you just don’t understand. He knows it’s partially his fault; he spoils you incessantly, rotten, some would say — though how any man could resist doing so is a mystery he could never untangle. But he’s tried to be harder on you; tried to put his foot down, draw the line and say “this is how it’s going to be.” And it almost works. Each time, he almost gets through to you — almost.
Because then, just as he dares to think he’s won, you look up at him with those wide, doe eyes, a quivering lip as you ask him in your softest voice “why, Seonghwa? Have I been bad?” And he folds. Like any man would, he folds; takes you into his arms, cooing reassurances that you’re never bad, baby, you’re the best girl in the world until he forgets why he was even trying to be strict in the first place. And it works every time. Sly little minx.
Today is one of those days — one of those days where he wishes he had your reins a little tighter, regrets never having followed through and kept you in line. Because today, like so many times before, he doesn’t know where you are. You’d gone out this morning to see your friends, promising to be back soon, but you weren’t. It’s evening now, close to dusk, and with each passing second he grows more worried about you, more frantic to get you home before dark. He’s searched most of town, all your favourite places and usual hangouts, and come up empty. And no one he’s spoken to — all of them familiar with you as the beautiful, innocent wife of the man who runs the town — has seen you since the morning. Where on earth have you gone?
“I’m sorry,” the barkeep says, looking genuinely remorseful — you are, by his own admission, his ‘sweetest customer’ after all. “I truly haven’t seen her, sir. Nor her friends.”
Seonghwa grunts, shaking his head in frustration; it’s starting to hurt now. A stress headache, maybe. “I just don’t know where she could be, Will,” he groans. “I don’t want her out after dark. She’d get into all kinds of trouble with the sorts that come out then.”
The barkeep nods, grim understanding on his face. “I agree, sir. I’m really sorry I can’t help you, but I’m sure she’ll be back soon. She’s a good girl and she loves ya. She won’t have run off.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he mumbles.
Thoughts of all the wrong sorts in the town, visions of how they could have taken you, what they could be doing to you, plague his thoughts, increasing his heart rate so much he barely manages to collapse into a nearby seat in time. The barkeep watches with a worried expression as Seonghwa leans back, breathing laboured as he removes his hat and slams it down on the bare table.
“Heat getting to ya?” He asks. “Don’t be so troubled, sir. She’s done this before, hasn’t she? Bet ya she’s gone after some frog again.”
If the situation weren’t so dire, Seonghwa would laugh at the memory; when you were still his fiancé and, having not seen you the entire day, he’d sent a search party looking for you, only for you to be found just out of bounds with the explanation that you’d “seen a frog” and had followed it so far you’d lost track of where you were. Seonghwa had almost cried with relief then, holding you in his arms as though you’d risen from the dead, but was so angry with you that he barely managed to hold it together until you got back to the house — and when you did, he’d doled out enough consequences to ensure you never made that mistake again. Or so he thought.
“Maybe,” he mumbles. He’s seconds away from calling another search party when a commotion outside draws his attention, as do the familiar voices of the two men in this town he can always trust to cause trouble.
Groaning, he rushes out of the bar, ready to admonish them for causing such a stir — but before he can, his eyes find a familiar face on the back of a familiar white horse. His heart warms at the welcome sight of his missing wife; as his blood pressure rises at the unwelcome sight of who you’d been with.
You stare at him with love and unease — happy to see him but no doubt aware of the trouble you’re in. You bite your lip, swallowing thickly as you dismount. Too nervous to approach him, you hesitate, lingering behind the men you’d ridden with.
“So this is who you meant by ‘friends’,” Seonghwa says as coolly as he can manage. “Mingi, San and…” He squints, not recognising the man next to them. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Wooyoung, sir,” the man grins, waving cheerfully. The man next to him, Mingi, snorts amusedly. Seonghwa almost lunges.
“Wooyoung,” he repeats. He knows he’s sneering as he says his name; sounding it out like it’s something shameful, but if Wooyoung is offended, he doesn’t say anything. The others have clearly told him who Seonghwa is, and the control he has of everything in this world town. Especially the girl they’d taken out, apparently without his permission.
“Did you have fun with my wife, Wooyoung?” He asks. “And you two? Did you have fun too?”
“Nothing improper happened, Seonghwa,” Mingi says coolly. “She wanted to go for a ride and we took her.”
“I’m sure,” Seonghwa replies darkly. Mingi at least has the decency to look a little uneasy, knowing Seonghwa could get him in a lot more trouble than he’d like. Not wanting to bother with the outlaws anymore, he turns his gaze back to you, eyes narrowing. “Come here.”
He watches you silently as you approach him, feeling your nerves with each step. He’s sure you’re half expecting him to strike you in front of everyone — even strip you down and punish you right here. But he’d never do that — instead, when you finally reach him, he pulls you into a tight, crushing hug. Tears prickle at his eyes as he inhales your scent, that sweet, perfect scent he was starting to wonder if he’d smell again. “I was so fucking worried about you,” he whispers into your hair. “My sweet little girl.”
You sigh contentedly into his chest for a moment until he abruptly pulls back, eyes narrowing as he regards the crowd that’s formed around you. “Everyone go home,” he orders. “Mingi, San, get out of here and take the boy with you. We’re leaving.”
He doesn’t wait for people to obey — just grabs your hand and drags you over to where he’d tied his horse. You try to speak but he ignores you; he lifts you up and onto the horse without a word, ignoring your protests as he steadies you before jumping up himself. “Hold my waist,” he says. Finally having some sense, you obey, saying nothing as you ride to his home on the hill — looming above the town and reminding you just who you’re dealing with.
When you arrive he lifts you off the horse, his grip on your waist harsher than usual as he plants you on the ground. He hands the reins to a waiting servant, who leads the horse away, leaving you alone with your husband. He doesn’t look at you, just orders you into the house with a stern tone. As you turn to walk towards the door he lands a harsh slap against your ass; with your layers of skirts and undergarments you should barely feel it, but Seonghwa is so strong and so angry that it’s as painful as if he had lifted up your skirts and smacked your bare skin. You squeak, losing your balance slightly before regaining it and rushing towards the door. It’s open, you assume unlocked by the servant as he’d seen your horse approaching, allowing you to slip inside and out of the desert sun.
You’re crouched down and unlacing your boots when you hear the door open and close again, and you hardly have time to register the presence behind you when it grabs a fistful of your hair, forcing you to your feet.
“Seonghwa!” You protest, flailing in his painful grip. A low noise emanates from his throat, almost a growl, and before you know what’s happened he’s landed a harsh, stinging slip on your cheek. Your jaw drops and you gape at him, staggering back when he loosens his grip. You can scarcely believe what’s just happened, what he’s just done — he’s struck you before, certainly, but never out of anger and never on the face.
“You need a fucking attitude adjustment,” he growls. His voice is deeper than you knew it could even get and he sounds downright dangerous. “I’ve been too lenient for too long.”
You whine, staring at him with your trademark eyes but this time he doesn’t react — doesn’t falter, doesn’t soften, doesn’t give in or give way to you. Your heart skips a beat at the realisation — he’s not falling for it this time. “Seonghwa, I’m sorr—”
“No, little girl,” he interjects. You swallow, bile in your threat. He really has no patience for you now. “You listen to me,” he says. “I’ve tried so hard to help you understand the dangers of this town but you just won’t listen.” He grabs you again, this time by the neck but doesn’t apply much pressure. Not that he needs to; you’ve always been putty in his hands. Now with no choice but to look at him, you see the fire in his eyes, the blazing spark — you’ve provoked him. Set him ablaze. You’re going to get burned. “Clearly,” he says, “I need to make you understand.”
You’re silent for a moment, letting his words hang in the air as you digest them. Your mouth opens and closes a couple times until you can finally force out a single syllable. “How?”
He chuckles; a dry, humourless chuckle that scratches at your throat. His eyes flicker up and down as he takes you in, admiring the body he owns and imagining what he could do to it. He bites his lip, not quite drawing blood but still hard and affected. “By showing you the dangers,” he says.
He releases you, sending you stumbling backwards again. He eyes you carefully, chuckling when he sees that one of your shoes is still on your feet. “Take that off,” he says, pointing to it. “Quickly.”
Nodding, you scramble to obey; you’re so nervous that your hands are shaking, making it hard to undo the tight laces of your boots, but you manage — perhaps due to the sharp, watching eyes you feel on you the entire time. You stand back up, feeling exposed now even though you’re fully clothed. Unsure what to say, you wait for him to speak; it seems to please him. “Go to our room,” he says. “Wait for me on the bed while I fetch a few things. You’re going to learn a good lesson tonight, sweetheart.”
Ignoring the terrifying undertones of his words, you turn on your heel, scrambling up the rickety wooden staircase; the steps creak under the pressure but you don’t doubt they can support your weight — Seonghwa built this house with his own two hands, and he knows what he’s doing; above all, he’d never do anything to put you in danger, through negligence or otherwise.
Reaching the top floor you scurry quietly down the hallway, pushing open the door to your shared bedroom and closing it softly behind you. Unsure what to do with Seonghwa’s vague instructions, you elect to keep your clothes on — he’d never told you to remove them, after all — and chance your luck that he may see fit to inflict whatever punishment he has in mind over your garments. After all, if he’s gone to fetch the riding crop, which is usually what he means when he ‘fetches something’ before a punishment, it’s not like your clothes would hinder the effectiveness of his discipline — as a renowned horseman, Seonghwa is more than capable with a riding crop, and would certainly be able to bruise, perhaps even cut you through your clothes. Not that he would cut you — but he could. Even his hands can inflict a world of damage.
Minutes later you hear the telling sounds of creaking on the staircase; as the footsteps get closer you recognise them as Seonghwa and you swallow, shifting uneasily on the bed. You wonder what he’s going to do to you — what he meant by “showing you the danger”. You trust him with your life but the fact remains that you live far from the rest of the town, so if something did happen, your screams would almost certainly go unheard — in fact, you know they would. It’s something you’ve both enjoyed and certainly made the most of before, but if he decided to use it for some other purpose, you’d be in trouble.
Minutes later the door opens to reveal him standing in the doorway, still in his brimmed hat and long leather coat and you shudder — even after five years of marriage, the mere silhouette of Seonghwa still intimidates you. When he steps out of the shadow you blink for a moment, confused. Seonghwa hasn’t fetched the riding crop, instead gathering an armful of ropes— but that’s not what catches your attention. What catches your attention is the thick cloth pulled over Seonghwa’s mouth and nose, fashioned into a mask. Paired with his hat it conceals his face almost entirely and makes him an utterly menacing figure.
He takes a step inside, spurs clinking against his boots as he walks. It’s not a sound you often hear inside, and it feels more threatening than familiar. You gulp, shifting back slightly but not enough to be out of his reach — you’re smarter than that.
He stares down at you for a moment, taking you in and scrutinising you, before that familiar voice sounds out, deeper and more menacing than ever.
“Since you think it’s so funny to run off with strange men,” he says, a little muffled through the mask but still painfully clear. “Men I’ve specifically warned you about, and you’ve refused to listen…” You hang your head, ashamed, but through hooded eyes still stare curiously at the sight in front of you. “I’m going to show you exactly why I told you to stay away from them in the first place.”
You drop your gaze, staring down at the wooden floorboards with a racing heartbeat. He clicks his tongue. “Look at me.”
You find obeying isn’t as easy as it should be — the sight of him now is overwhelming, and something about the way he towers over you, face hidden, intentions concealed… it flusters you. You want to blush and giggle and run far, far away.
He comes closer again, reaching to grip your chin and the moment his hand meets your face an electrifying feeling races through you. His voice is gruff when he speaks, eyes boring into yours. “I’m going to show you what bad men can do,” he says. “What they’d do to you if they could.”
His grip tightens, holding you still; the pressure of his fingers is bruising, painful against your skin and he knows it. His eyes flicker across your chest, peeking out of the top of your dress. They narrow slightly, stern and scrutinising but the pupils are dilated. “Was that like this when you left this morning?”
You look down for a moment, holding back a smile when you see what he’s asking. “You mean were my breasts so visible?” You ask.
“Yes.”
You giggle slightly and he tightens his grip again, forcing the smile off your face. You whine. “They weren’t,” you insist. “My dress slipped a little as I came up the stairs.”
He stares at you a moment, probably trying to decide if he believes you. He clicks his tongue. “I hope you’re right. And I certainly hope Mingi would agree with that assessment, should I happen across him tomorrow.”
“He would,” you reply. “I swear, Hwa.” You feel tears prickle at your eyes as you stare desperately at him, trying to convince him — among other things. You see the conflict on his face as he watches your display.
Usually, now would be the time where he’d give in — when you give him those eyes and promise so sweetly that to be a good girl for him. ‘Hwa’ doesn’t help either; you know that name is his kryptonite. But this time he doesn’t fold; doesn’t give in like he always does. He can’t. He doesn’t want to. Because while before, your sweet disposition and cute, childish antics, made him want to squish your cheeks and give you everything you could possibly want, now it makes him want to ruin you. To watch you fall apart beneath him; to tarnish your pure, clean soul the way he’s been trying to tell you the other men in the town are so desperate to. No, you’re not getting out of this today. He’s going to break you down and ruin you and then maybe you’ll learn.
He releases your chin, noticing with a smile the deep red marks left by the imprints of his fingers. “Strip,” he orders. “And do it quickly. ‘Cause I have to take that pretty little dress off myself, there won’t be much left of it when I’m done.”
You know he’s not bluffing this time — a number of your dresses have been ruined in this way; torn off in the heat of passion by your hungry, or angry, husband. Standing, you hurry to obey, removing your corset and skirts until you’re down to your underwear. Your gaze flickers to him, unsure. He nods, a silent order and you gulp as you remove your underwear; the last, thin pieces of fabrics protecting your modesty. Now fully nude, next to your husband who hasn’t even removed his shoes, you feel vulnerable and exposed in a way you’re not sure if you like. He stares at you for a moment and the mask prevents you from gauging his reaction. You stand nervously, resisting the urge to try to cover yourself; it wouldn’t work, first of all, and would only anger him further. He clicks his tongue. “Turn around.”
Nodding, you turn slowly to face the bed. His presence behind you is a looming, inescapable feeling even before he touches you; he runs a finger across your ass, inspecting the tender flesh. He makes a noise somewhere between pity and arousal and you realise you’re probably still sporting the marks from when he’d corrected you last; a painful, bruising correction that had left you crying and begging his forgiveness — and for something much lesser than this, you recall. You gulp as you realise he probably has much worse planned for you today.
“Gosh,” he says, almost whispering. He applies a gentle pressure to one of the marks; a bruise, by the feel of it — not enough pressure to truly hurt, but just enough to remind you that the bruise is there and why. “You just can’t behave, can you, my girl?”
A whine escapes, face pink with embarrassment at his patronising, humiliating tone but you don’t dare move — you know better. “I’m sorry, Hwa,” you whisper. When you say that name this time, he can tell it’s not a tactic or charm — you truly are sorry, and you truly want to be good. He smiles proudly at the thought. His sweet girl.
“I’ve really been too lenient, have I?” He says. Knowing you can’t see it, he doesn’t bother hiding the affectionate smile on his face. “Don’t worry, baby. That ends today.”
You gulp, nodding your assent and for a moment it seems nothing’s happening — until a strong hand on your back pushing you forwards, forcing you to bend over the bed. You make a noise of surprise, not having expected the movement, but you stay still. He stands and takes you in for a moment before his hands are on you, running down your sides with more tenderness than you expected. But that doesn’t last for long; when he reaches your ass he winds his hand back, and you hear the smack he inflicts on the bruised skin coming even before it lands. When it does, it takes a second for the pain to register; it blooms across your sensitive skin, white-hot and agonising. You cry out but have the good sense to do it into the blankets, muffling the noise. He lands another slap on the same spot, then another, ignoring your cries and apologies. After ten or so smacks he seems to get bored, backing away from you, and you realise with as much relief as fear that he doesn’t intend on beating you tonight — at least, not as your main punishment. Which means your main punishment is something else, and you have a feeling it won’t be a whole lot more lenient.
He returns quickly, grabbing a fistful of your hair in one hand while the other holds you down by your waist. “Did you like that?” He asks, voice rasped.
You shake your head, still sobbing slightly. “No, Seonghwa.”
“Good.” His hand moves from your waist to your ass, tightly gripping the spot he’d victimised — no doubt red and swollen thanks to his efforts. You cry out, dizzy with pain. “You shouldn’t like it,” he says, emphasising his point with a squeeze that almost makes you black out. “That way you’ll finally fucking learn.”
You nod, groaning at the lingering pain that persists even after he loosens his grip. He makes a noise almost like a snarl.
“Tell me, baby,” he says softly. “Do you think Mingi would make love to you?” He pulls at your hair slightly, just enough pressure to sting. You gulp. “You think San would stop if it got too much?” His hand moves down, gripping the supple skin of your upper thigh.
You bite your lip, unsure of how to answer — the outlaws Seonghwa hates so much have actually been nice to you so far, though he of course claims it’s only to piss him off. But you know what he wants to hear and you want to be good — you want him to be merciful. “No, Seonghwa,” you gasp, though it comes out as more of a whine. You’re painfully aware of his hand on the back of your thigh, squeezing at the skin and refusing to relieve or indulge you beyond that. “They wouldn’t.”
“That’s right,” he growls. “So neither will I.”
You hear shuffling behind you before something touches your arm — but it’s not Seonghwa’s soft yet rough hands. It’s harder, thicker, a little scratchy… it’s the rope. You gasp, breath hitching as he wraps the rope carefully around your arms, tying them together against your back. He leans down to whisper in your ear, “Your safeword is ‘pickles’. Remember it.”
You giggle at the choice of safeword — pickles is your horse, white and grey and beautiful and certainly an unforgettable safeword. “Okay,” you whisper.
He chuckles, moving away behind you. Craning your neck, you see him removing the hat, coat and boots — undoubtedly bothersome particularly when he’s trying to educate you. But the mask stays, and you watch as he pulls on a pair of thick, leather gloves. You swallow — he never wears those gloves with you; they’re the gloves he wears when, as the de-facto leader of the town, he deals with outlaws and criminals and anyone who causes problems — anyone he’d rather not touch. Just by putting them on in front of you he’s shown you his anger; your place. You’re dirt to him now.
When he returns to you he wastes no time; he places a leg on each side of you, holding you in place and putting him closer to where he wants to be. The feeling of his leather gloves on your skin sends shivers down your spine for a multitude of reasons but you do your best to stay still and pliant. They run across your skin, coming to hold onto your waist, squeezing it softly before suddenly they’re on your ass, grabbing your cheeks and spreading them apart — exposing you fully to him.
Without realising you shrink into yourself slightly, trying to make yourself smaller — avoid the embarrassment and humiliation of having everything on slow. He chuckles, gripping you tighter as he spits down. The saliva lands between your two holes and with one large finger he rubs up and down, spreading the spit between them. You shiver as his finger ghosts across your sensitive pussy and even more sensitive asshole, coating them with spit. But you can't do much more than shiver; the grip of his other hand on your is iron and immobilising, and you know from experience that if you make things difficult for him, Seonghwa has no qualms with striking your pussy almost as hard as he does your ass, and you don’t want to find out if he’d have any qualms about doing that to your other hole. You can’t even imagine how that would feel.
“How do you feel?” He asks, not sounding incredibly concerned with the answer. “Are you embarrassed, baby? Your holes spat on like you’re some cheap saloon girl?”
You whine and, forgetting your situation, try to reach for him — for comfort or reprieve, you don’t know. It’s only when the rope bites into your arms as you strain against them that you remember what he’d done — how he’d tied you up like a mare. “I’m embarrassed, Hwa.”
“Good,” he says, and you hear the smile in his voice. “Be embarrassed. But tell me this, honey. If those outlaws you like so much finally got their hands on you — do you think they’d use spit? Do you think they’d use anything to make it easier for you?”
“I don’t know,” you gasp.
He laughs dryly. “No, they wouldn’t,” he says. “They’d tear you open, baby. And it’d be even worse than this.”
He doesn’t give your time to react before he plunges not one but two fingers into your sensitive hole, making you choke — the thick leather coating his fingers makes them even bigger and harder to take and you feel like you’re on fire; not the mention the disbelief that your temperate, if a little severe husband, is treating you like this. You thrash in his hold but it’s no use; he only gives you a few seconds to adjust before he starts pumping in and out of you, stretching you even further. It feels good but it’s so, so much. You don’t know what to do or how to take it and the stupid rope around your arms means you can’t even hold onto him. He hums. “Must be hard, huh? Taking my fingers like that?”
“It is.”
“It should be. This is how you wanted to be treated, right? That must be why you love those outlaws so much. Because this is what you really wanted. To be treated as the cheap slut they see you as, yeah?”
You’re rutting desperately against the bed now, trying to get any kind of friction Seonghwa’s immobilising grip allows and maybe it’s because he knows he’s pushing you so hard — or perhaps he likes seeing you so desperate and pathetic — that he doesn’t stop you. The moment you’re sufficiently stretched a third gloved finger invades you and didn’t even know you could be this stretched without his dick. You’re sobbing now; tears smearing against the thin blankets as you shake beneath his hold. He chuckles; “tell me it feels good,” he says.
“It fee— God, it feels so good Hwa,” you cry, so loud it hurts your throat and rings in your ears. He laughs, hooking a hand under your waist to lift you up slightly, angling you so your holes are even more exposed and he can go even deeper. Your screams fall on deaf ears — as they probably will for the rest of the night.
“Good girl,” Seonghwa praises, and it eases your pain for a moment before it’s back in full force as he increases his pace. “I reckon you’re learning your lesson, aren’t you?”
You sob into the blankets, nodding fervently — you certainly are learning, though you’re not sure if it’s the pain or the pleasure that’s reaching you. But your sweet husband is gone tonight, replaced with an animal — and it’s not one you want to provoke again. “Yes, Hwa.”
“Good. ‘Cause if I have to teach it again, I’m not waiting to get you somewhere private. Understood?”
“Yes, Hwa,” you groan.
“Good.” He pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty and gaping. You feel your wetness begin to trickle down your leg and he traces it with his finger, gathering the juices. He grabs your hair again, yanking it backwards to pull your head towards him. “Open up.”
You let your mouth fall open uncertainly and he shoves his fingers inside, making you gag. “Suck,” he orders and you do; swirling your tongue across his juice-coated fingers as you suckle desperately at them. “Taste good?” He asks and you nod — you do taste good. Sweet, even. You’re quite proud of it — but that doesn’t make this any less humiliating.
“Good,” he says, pulling his fingers out and moving to grip your waist. “I’m gonna fuck you now. Think you can take it?”
You bite your lip, pondering your answer. “It doesn— it doesn’t matter,” you say softly, knowing what he wants to hear.
“Good answer, baby,” he chuckles. “Fuck, you’re not so dumb after all, are you?”
You shake your head, flushing a little at the condescending undertones of his words and you hear him exhale a stuttered breath. You know he’s as pent up as you are now — you don’t know what he’s going to do with it. “Hwa…”
“I’m here, baby,” he says. “Hwa’s gonna fuck you now. Not gonna be gentle, either. What’s your safeword?”
You sniffle. “Pickles.”
“Good girl,” he says, smoothing a hand across your flushed skin. You notice he’s pulled the gloves off now and you’ve never been so grateful to feel his bare skin on yours; but knowing what he’s taken them off for, what he plans to do to you, doesn’t allow you much comfort from it. “Remember that. There’s a good chance you’ll need it.”
He pulls back and for a long, unending moment, he’s gone from your sight and touch. Anticipation hangs in the air as you await his return; tension and arousal combined and lingering as the seconds pass slowly and fearfully. You squirm slightly, desperate for sensation and hoping he’ll notice, until he returns. Two large hands grip your ass, spreading the cheeks apart again. You hear him spit again, feel the saliva as it lands and smears across your pussy before you feel that familiar stretch as his thick, hard cock begins to penetrate you. He takes his sweet time inserting himself, dragging it out and it’s as much a mercy as it is a torture. When he’s finally in, your still-tight pussy only just withstanding it, he starts to move — slowly at first, then faster and faster until he’s at his full speed and power. He’s never gotten there so fast or so ruthlessly and as good as it feels, you know you’re at the edge of what you can take.
So does he — his grip on you is iron and unyielding, surely bruising you further as he uses your fragile frame to allow and force himself deeper into you. You know you’re crying; sobbing and calling his name with each movement and you think he’s saying something to you, but among all the feelings and sensations and the ever-present stretch that pulls and forces you open, the exact words he says don’t quite reach you. He’s never fucked you like this — fast and hard and without consideration for your pleasure and you feel like a toy, an object; existing only to service him. You know that’s his point — that to others, you are an object, and they’d never take as good care of you as he does. And for the first time you’re really starting to understand the truth of his warnings; as fast and intense as this is, there's still love and care hidden deep, deep beneath it. If you let those outlaws get anywhere near you, it’ll be a lot, lot worse.
As he approaches his orgasm you’re certain you’ve bitten through your lip; the taste of iron fills your mouth, your shown body strained and breaking under the enormous pressure of Seonghwa’s exertions of it. When he finally comes it’s louder, harder, deeper than he’s ever been and you quickly find yourself coming too; orgasm forced out of you by the sheer force of his own. You know you’re sobbing as you come down, heart still pounding against your skull, permeating every inch of you and Seonghwa stays still for a moment, dick softening but still deep inside you before he finally pulls out with a groan. You feel liquid pour from your hole as he does so; his cum and your juices rushing down your thigh and you hear him chuckle.
“Dirty girl,” he muses. He gathers it on his fingers again, this time placing them into his mouth, tasting the mixture of your juices and his and he makes a noise of appreciation. “Delicious, baby.”
When you start to whine again he’s quick to gather you up, skillfully untying your arms before pulling you into his hold. He situates himself in bed, back against the pillow as he holds you against his chest, rocking you back and forth. He’s patient as he waits for you to come down and back to earth, greeting you with a fond smile when you finally open your eyes, staring up at him as lovingly as you always do. He pinches your cheek, cooing at you as he speaks. “That was incredible, baby,” he says. “How do you feel?”
Your breathing is still staggered, voice soft and raspy as you answer. “Feel fine, Seonghwa.”
“Good,” he smiles. “You gonna run around with outlaws again, baby?”
You sniff, shaking your head and nuzzling further into his touch. “No.”
“I’m glad,” he says. “Because I’d so hate to have to fuck you like that again.”
You hold back a chuckle, sighing in his hold. You know he’s lying — and when you whisper back, “So would I, Hwa,” you both know you’re lying too.
—————
thanks for reading! reblog and comment if you enjoyed. requests are open!🖤🖤🖤
𝐶𝑜𝑠𝑚𝑜𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒: everyone thank @vampzity for this lovely idea to write about even though i didnt portray it how i wanted to but its okay🙂↕️ (and here you go @strrykais)
𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒙𝒂 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚 "𝑷𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔" 𝒃𝒚 𝑲𝒂𝒊... (my library) not proofread!
The soft amber glow of the city lights spilled through the half-open window, draping the room in a warm golden wash. Curtains fluttered gently with the breeze, and somewhere in the distance, traffic murmured—a low hum beneath the intimate quiet of the apartment. The music playing was smooth, sultry, the mellow beat wrapping around the space like silk, perfectly mirroring the heat still lingering in the air.
San stood by the window, one arm propped against the sill, his body swaying slightly in time with the music. The song was familiar, the kind you didn’t just hear but felt, and it painted him in soft shadows and warm light, every line of his body relaxed but alert—like a predator at rest.
His eyes drifted to you, and something shifted in his chest. You were sprawled comfortably across the plush sofa, your head resting lazily against the armrest, legs tucked beneath you in a casual tangle. The throw blanket half-draped over your lap had fallen slightly, revealing bare skin where your shorts had ridden up. You looked so at peace. So soft. So completely his.
San felt the ache again—the same one he always did when he looked at you like this. It was a kind of longing that had nothing to do with distance. It was intimate ache, a fullness that made his chest feel tight and tender at once. You were right there, and still he wanted closer.
You caught him staring. A lazy smile tugged at your lips, your eyes half-lidded with contentment as you extended a hand toward him.
“You’re staring again,” you said, voice low and rough with sleep, but still laced with amusement.
He pushed off the windowsill with a small huff of laughter, walking toward you slowly—like the moment deserved reverence. When he reached the sofa, he didn’t sit. He dropped to his knees in front of you, resting his cheek against your thigh with a sigh, like he’d just come home.
“Can you blame me?” he murmured, voice like velvet against your skin. “You look like a dream.”
Your fingers moved to his hair instinctively, nails grazing his scalp in soft, languid strokes. San’s lashes fluttered as he melted into your touch, eyes closing in quiet bliss. The connection was electric in its gentleness—no rush, no urgency, just the hush of devotion.
“You’ve been clingy lately,” you said, teasing, though your voice betrayed your fondness.
San didn’t open his eyes. “Have I?” he whispered. “Or have I just been finally letting myself feel how much I love you?”
The words landed heavy, cutting through the air like a prayer. Your breath caught—his voice didn’t waver, but it was thick with sincerity. San could joke, flirt, tease—but when he meant something, it came out like this. Quiet. Undeniable.
He turned his face and pressed a kiss to your thigh. Then another. Slow, lingering touches like benedictions. You felt each one spark against your skin, warm and reverent. It wasn’t just affection—it was worship.
“You smell like peaches,” he said, low and breathy, lips brushing your skin with each syllable. “Sweet. Addictive.”
“I used that new lotion you like,” you replied, the softness in your voice echoing the warmth in his.
His eyes met yours, dark and glossy beneath his lashes, and there was a flicker of hunger behind the tenderness—like your answer lit something inside him. “You did that for me?”
“I always do things for you.”
That broke him a little. A quiet, affectionate sound left him as he surged up to kiss you—soft and sweet at first, like he was trying not to crush the moment. His lips were warm, moving over yours with practiced gentleness. But it didn’t stay that way. Something inside him gave out, like a dam breaking, and the kiss deepened. His tongue slid past your lips, slow and searching, tasting, savoring.
His hands slid beneath your shirt, palms warm and sure against your skin. He didn’t rush—just explored. The pads of his fingers glided along your sides, up your back, over your ribs—like he was reacquainting himself with every inch of you. His touch was reverent, greedy in its softness. Like no amount of closeness would ever be enough.
Like you were his favorite thing in the world to touch—and tonight, he had all the time in the world.
“Come here,” he murmured, lifting you from the sofa like you weighed nothing. His arms were steady, strong, but his touch was gentle—as if you might shatter if he held you too tightly. He carried you to the bed and laid you down with reverence, hovering above you with worship in his eyes, every movement steeped in quiet awe.
“You sure?” he asked, breath brushing your lips, his voice raw and barely above a whisper.
“I want you,” you breathed. “Always.”
San kissed you like a vow, like each touch of his lips was sealing something sacred between you. He trailed from your mouth to your jaw, then lower, his lips warm and slow against the curve of your neck. When he reached the hollow of your throat, he lingered—sucking a tender mark into your skin, one that throbbed with heat and promise.
His hands moved over you like he was mapping something long lost—rediscovering you in slow, reverent sweeps. Each brush of his fingers left tingling trails in their wake, like your skin was blooming beneath his touch.
He tugged your shirt up and over your head, carefully—almost ceremoniously—discarding it, like it didn’t deserve to touch you anymore. His gaze roamed your body like he was memorizing every curve, every dip. His fingers skimmed down your sides, over the rise of your stomach, then lower, ghosting along the waistband of your underwear.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice rough and low. “So pretty... so fucking perfect.”
He kissed his way down your torso, soft and deliberate. At your navel, he paused, mouthing at the skin with a gentleness that made your breath hitch. His tongue flicked out, teasing, warm, before he looked up at you through his lashes, dark eyes glassy with need.
“Can I taste you?” he asked, voice hushed and reverent. “Please.”
You nodded, your breath catching in your throat.
San hooked his fingers into your underwear, drawing them down slowly—agonizingly slowly—dragging the soft fabric over your thighs with care like he didn’t want to miss a single second of seeing you. Once they were off, he parted your legs, his hands firm but tender, and knelt between them like he was in prayer.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes fixed between your thighs, pupils blown wide. “You’re dripping, baby. All for me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth was on you in the next breath, tongue dragging from your entrance to your clit in one slow, deliberate lick that made your hips jolt. He groaned—deep and low—like the taste of you set something feral alight inside him.
He sealed his lips around your clit, sucking softly before flicking his tongue over it again and again with maddening precision. The heat of his mouth, the wet sounds, the rhythm—it made your whole body tremble.
Your fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, a broken moan tearing from your lips. “San—”
“Hmm?” he hummed against you, the vibration buzzing straight through your core. He pulled back just slightly, breath hot against you. “You taste so sweet. I could stay here all night.”
Then his fingers were slipping inside you—one, then another—curling them just right until he found that spot that made your legs twitch. He set a steady pace, his fingers thrusting deep and slow while his mouth moved in perfect tandem, devouring you with a messy, unrestrained hunger.
Wet sounds filled the room—lewd, slick, sinful—broken only by your soft cries and the groans he let out against you, like he couldn’t get enough.
“San—fuck—please, I’m gonna—”
“Come for me,” he murmured, voice dark and coaxing, mouth brushing your skin. “I want to feel you come on my tongue.”
That did it. You shattered—back arching, a cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you. He didn’t stop. His tongue kept moving, fingers still working you through it, pushing you past the peak until your thighs quivered around his head.
Only then did he pull back, lips slick with you, his eyes glassy and dark, drunk on the taste of you.
“You’re shaking,” he said, voice soft, climbing up your body like he couldn’t stand to be far from you.
You barely managed a nod, your limbs weak, vision hazy.
He kissed you, deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. It was intimate—possessive—like he was claiming you all over again.
“I need to be inside you,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours, breath ragged. “Need to feel you around me.”
“Yes,” you breathed, your voice barely there. “Please, San. I need you.”
He pushed his pants down with shaky hands, urgency and restraint battling in every movement. His cock was already hard—flush at the tip, veins prominent.
He lined himself up with your entrance, guiding himself in inch by inch, stretching you so slowly it bordered on torture.
“F-fuck,” he gasped, voice caught in his throat. “You’re so tight. So warm. Feels like you were made for me.”
Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him deeper, keeping him close as he began to move. His thrusts were slow and deep at first, grinding into you with measured intent, dragging gasps from your lips with each roll of his hips.
He watched you the whole time—eyes wide, almost desperate—memorizing every flutter of your lashes, every moan.
“You feel so good,” he panted, his voice breaking. “So good for me, baby. Taking me so well. Fuck—my perfect girl.”
Each thrust struck that sweet spot inside you, building your pleasure until your body was trembling again. He kissed everywhere he could reach—your throat, your collarbones, the swell of your chest—like he needed to taste every inch of you.
One hand slid beneath your thigh, lifting it to angle you just right, and when he drove in deeper, he moaned—a low, broken sound that made your whole body shudder.
“So deep… fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so tight.”
The pressure coiled again in your belly, fast and overwhelming. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your breath quickening.
“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, voice cracking. “San, I—”
He reached down, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing quick, tight circles that made your vision blur.
“Come with me,” he begged, voice cracking with the weight of it. “Please. I wanna feel you—wanna feel us come together.”
Then his eyes locked with yours, glassy and tender, his voice breaking again.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispered. “So fucking pretty when you take me like this.”
That pushed you over the edge. You clenched around him, crying out as your orgasm tore through you, white-hot and dizzying.
San followed with a guttural groan, hips stuttering before he buried himself deep and spilled inside you, holding you so close like he’d never let go.
He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there—deep inside you, breath shallow, his forehead pressed to yours. You were both shaking, hearts pounding in sync, wrapped around each other in the silence after the storm.
San collapsed beside you, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure, and before the sheets had even settled around him, he was reaching for you. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you into his chest like he needed to feel your heart against his to believe this was real.
His breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling in heavy, shallow waves, but he still leaned in, pressing kiss after kiss to your skin. Your forehead. The bridge of your nose. The corner of your lips. And then your mouth—soft, lingering pecks that spoke of awe and gratitude.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low and tender, the kind of whisper meant only for you. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly under your eye, gaze flicking over your features with reverent concern.
You nodded, exhaling a shaky breath as you buried your face into the curve of his neck. His scent overwhelmed you—clean sweat, soft cologne, and something uniquely him. Your voice was muffled when you spoke, but full of honesty. “That was… everything.”
He laughed, quiet and breathless, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your cheek. “You’re everything,” he murmured, like it was the simplest truth in the world. His arm tightened around your back, holding you even closer.
His fingers moved lazily along your spine, sketching invisible patterns into your skin. Hearts. Circles. Random loops. The rhythm was slow and soothing, grounding you both in the weightless calm that followed the storm.
“You always make me feel so loved,” you whispered, barely more than a breath, but it filled the space between you with something soft and sacred.
San shifted just enough to meet your gaze, eyes wide and shining in the dim light. “You are loved,” he said, voice suddenly intense—fierce in the way people speak when they need you to believe them. “So much. I don’t ever want you to forget that.”
You smiled, your lips brushing his collarbone as you tucked your face closer. The warmth of his skin, the steadiness of his heartbeat, the way his arms never let up—he made it so easy to believe him.
“Can we stay like this forever?”
San exhaled a soft chuckle, resting his chin against the top of your head. “As long as you want, peach.”
The word slipped out like second nature—his favorite nickname for you, drenched in affection. The room was quiet, the air still thick with heat and the faint scent of sex, mixed with the soft, fruity hint of peach body wash lingering on your skin.
And in the center of it all was San—tender, warm, and wholly yours—cradling you like you were something sacred.
stormborns
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
theartofmadeline
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