you kind of wished he had never found out about it. not really, but now it certainly seems he likes to use it as leverage against you.
your boyfriend was gentle in all the ways that count. soft touches that made you feel like precious art. sweet words of encouragement that made you feel seen. but sometimes you feel like he might be too gentle with you.
the only times he ever let that soft-handed mask down were when he was fucking you.
and the first time he ever found out about your little infatuation, he seemed to have grown a little more comfortable with roughing it up a little.
“oh god… oh baby. fuck, you feel so good.” on your stomach, face pressed into the sheets, san’s face nudged in the tight space where your neck meets your shoulder. his arms caged either side of your head, resting his forearms next to your ears.
his chest was glued to your back, your spine digging into his stomach. bare and hot and wet, your bodies pressed against each other without an inch of space to speak for. your entire body shivered when he forced himself deeper into you, his curved, thick cock splitting your cunt open.
this position had him so deep, so invasive, so full. his hips rolled against the flesh of your ass, san’s voice dipping low in needy moans when you squeezed around him while he pulled his hips back, listening to the slick sound your pussy made, trying to keep him inside.
“pussy’s so warm today, baby.” he lets his mouth fall open against the shell of your ear, panting and groaning to make your brain melt. “making me feel so fucking crazy, you make me feel crazy, pretty.”
you forced your head out of the pillow when you felt his thrusts slow to a deep grind, pulling a ragged whine from your mouth. you pried your eyes open to watch as his arms moved around your head.
“turn, look at us.” he kisses below your ear, and drags his tongue up the side of your cheek. his right arm reaches and grabs his phone from the corner of the bed, holding it tight in his hand and scrolling and pressing buttons.
you forget he keeps a tall mirror against his bedroom wall, right next to the end of his bed. you can see the top halves of your melded bodies. his big, broad shoulders shadow your littler form under him. his soft, flushed face meeting your eyes in the reflection, his big, meaty arms flexing and twitching around your head every time he moved.
you watch to try and see what he was doing, and he punishes your nosiness with a sharp, deep thrust that makes your calf lock up.
“mind your business, babydoll.” he grumbles, then you feel it. his left arm curls around the front of your throat, tight. the muscles twitch and contract over your neck, just enough to limit your breathing. snug, warm and secure around the front of your throat.
he feels you tighten around his cock, and it makes his skin prickle. “ooh, fuck…” he groans and you feel his voice vibrate against your back. you forced your eyes up and you can see his phone recording your reflection in the mirror. catching the fucked out look on your face, his thick arm wrapped around your throat in an owning headlock.
his mouth spreads into a sly grin when your eyes roll when he pulls back his hips and then sinks his cock back into you so slowly, so smoothly, your legs jerk under him to try and escape the feeling.
“my soft little slut…” san leans down to whisper in your ear, the flash of his camera moving with each thrust. he licks the tears that pool at the corner of your eyes before he drags his head back up to watch you both in the mirror.
“look at you go, baby.” he praises around a heated smile. “drooling all over my arm like some kind of puppy. does that feel good? hm?”
you whimper out an incoherent agreement, and he giggles softly, littering the nape of your neck with soft kisses. he adjusts his hips to drag against that deeper, sweeter spot, that makes you still and lightly sink your teeth into his arm.
he keeps that meaner pace, deep heavy strokes in your guts that you can do nothing but lie under his body and take. his arm around your neck made clouds swim around in your brain. he tightens the hold, and you squeal loudly, barely catching the way he zooms in with his phone to better catch the pretty look on your face.
your cheeks squished by his muscles, your eyes desperate and heavy-lidded. he thought you looked so cute, and who would’ve thought that all he had to do to get you this needy was to put you in a headlock.
san fucks you greedily, the curve of him perfectly hitting that spot that turned your mind off. his voice egged you on, his low moans, and his pretty heavy breaths. groaning ’mhms’ of approval with every thrust into you as if he was grading the feel of your cunt around him. with every stroke, you only seemed to get even wetter, and the proof was the sticky web of your slick that clung to his base.
“mm, i love fucking my baby, slow… and stupid.” he attaches his lips to the pulse point on your neck, sucking and running his tongue over the sensitive spot of skin. “jus wanna fuck you so deep it hurts.”
he’s in your ear, talking to you and only you. all the while his phone catches every moment, every thrust and every moan.
his lower stomach repeatedly brushes against your back, his cock stirring up your insides at the most, torturous and delicate pace. the slow smack of flesh, the sticky hollow sound of your cunt swallowing all of him.
you feel his knees brace against either side of your hips again, adjusting his posture a little. his arm around your throat tightens to your near limit, his head nudges against your neck, his lips whispering against your cheek.
this way he uses your neck as leverage to anchor is body to allow him to fuck his cock into you a little faster, a little rougher.
“yeah, baby, yeah. take all of me. all of me.” san’s voice drops into a breathy purr, pressing his lips directly against your ear, the soft skin tickling you. “givin this pussy a workout hm?”
you groan and kick your feet, and he laughs at you as hand from the arm he’s got your neck trapped in buries itself in your tangled hair and yanks your head to the side so you’re fully facing the mirror, your ear resting below his jaw.
“you like to be lazy. you like to lie here— fuck… lie here and take dick, helpless and limp. let sannie do all the work huh, princess? let this pussy do all the work for you?”
he turns his head and your eyes catch in the mirror. his eyes are lidded, competent and heated. yours are foggy, tear-glazed, spent. he smiles at your expression and growls under his breath when you clench around his dick again.
his fingers scrape against your scalp with every heavy stroke of his hips, his pretty grunts and moans making your belly twist into swirls.
your hands grasp at the sheets, your cries coming out choked and breathy then more san fucked you, and he seemingly forgot that you needed to breathe until you tapped on his bicep to tell him to let up.
he does immediately, loosening the hold on your throat. you gasp and choke, but he doesn’t stop moving his hips, fucking you slow and deep while you regain your breath.
“aww, ‘m sorry babydoll.” he kisses your temple and you could feel him giggle against your skin. his voice lowers to that brain ticking whisper and you feel your air stolen from you again.
“bet you would’ve looked so pretty passed out on my cock.” he finally sets down his phone and takes his now free hand and trails it down your body, running along the side of your waist, his hips never stopping that deep, languid push and pull.
“looking all soft and sleepy.” his hand snakes between your body and the bed and finds your clit with his coarse fingertips. you gasp and squirm under him, your body shaking as a plea for mercy. san only laughs, circling upwards against the sensitive nerves while he splits your pussy open, over and over and over again.
“think i could still make you cum in your sleep princess?” he whispers against your throat and you feel as his arm tightens its hold around your throat once again. you feel the bed start to shake and your cunt start to burn with pleasure as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, filling you long and deep at just the right angle.
“mmhm, soak my cock baby.” he growls under a moan, letting his tongue fall from his mouth and tasting the flushed skin on your throat. “make it smell like you.”
he bites his bottom lip and his eyebrows furrow, his cock pounding into you so full he just might had been close to fucking your cervix.
his fingers on your clit continue to move at that dragging, spherical pattern that helps that pressure build slowly. stroke my stroke, praise by praise. you melt under his body while he uses you as he sees fit. your pussy sucks him in everytime he draws back, your pretty little moans make san’s head spin.
“gonna fuck myself to that video everynight while im on tour.” he promises against your skin, your orgasm dangerously close to sweeping you onto the floor. he rolls his hips with every thrust, forcing his fat tip to press against your gspot.
“eee..every n-night..?” you whimper deliriously, his cock effectively having cut off all cognitive function, a stupid smile spread across your face.
he laughs and kisses your shoulder as he rolls his hips a little harder. “mhm, every night baby. i'll send you some videos so this pussy-” he thrusts hard this time, as if acknowledging her himself. “-doesn't miss me too much. want you to remember how good i make you feel while i'm gone.”
you shake violently when his tip nudges that spot just right, and right at that moment you cum on the spot. your limbs jerk and twitch and once san’s felt you cumming he eases his hips into a faster rut, pounding your pussy through your orgasm, fucking you through it.
“there we go, there we go. let it take you baby, keep cumming, keep cumming for me.” he pinches your clit and teases it with gentle brushes while he mounts you on his mattress.
his arm is covered in your drool, the red indentations of your bite marks inflamed on his skin. san looks back at you in the mirror, and you’re too out of it to notice as he pulls out his phone again and starts to record the reflection.
your eyes are shut and your brows are furrowed in bliss, lips parted in pathetic whines, your cheek resting against his bicep. he keeps his eyes on the mirror as your face twists in overstimulation when he starts to grind his cock deep into you.
his muscles flex, and he can feel the strain in his wrist from continually holding the camera up to capture you two. your shoulder twitches every time he bottoms out into your pussy, and your eyelids flutter every time he presses his palm against your lower stomach. he catches every change in expression, every twitch of your body, every lilt in your moans.
he always misses you so bad when hes away, so he always makes sure he fucks you so unbelievably well that you could probably do without him for at least a few days.
until you’re sore, or your stomach burns, or you physically can’t cum anymore. and he’ll be so methodic, so thorough, so gentle. anything to get you satiated for the first few days in his absence.
he's gotta work you out of his system somehow anyway, or else he'll be a horny, delirious wreck on tour.
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.
my masterlist | fic exchange masterlist
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
for mature audiences only, minors will be stockaded in the town square
⟢ a/n: the long awaited... | this is NOT in any way, shape, or form meant to depict who / how any of ateez are irl. please do not take this fic as fact on their personalities, please and thank you.
⟢ summary: everyone knows choi san. the choi san. and the pornstar wonder boy just invited you to do a collab with him
⟢ word count: 35.7k
⟢ warnings: MINORS RUN FOR THE HILLS | masturbation (f), oral (m,f), p->v, unprotected sex (don't do that), squirting, edging, dirty talk, san makes a Crazy first impression, cowgirl/riding, bondage (f, not reader), slight yeosang x reader (mentioned), porn industry, blowjob, fingering, basically just everything you’d find in a porn
You love that you can wake up whenever you want, and that you have no set schedule to live by. The only deadlines you have to worry about are the ones you make for yourself. You love your beautiful apartment that you didn’t need anyone else’s help to get, and that it is so close to everything in the city. You love not worrying about money anymore. You get to live however you deem fit, taking life one day at a time. Everything in your life is by your own design. Honestly? It’s a dream.
And it’s easy money, giving men a fantasy for the night.
That’s what you sell, the idea of you. In everyday life, you don’t pout nearly as much as you do on camera, nor do you talk as sweetly to strangers. Some of them, though, aren’t strangers to you anymore. You recognize their usernames and their donations, especially the ones who have been fans of yours since you started, and the ones who pay for your highest tiered subscription. Twenty-five dollars a month just to jerk off to your exclusive content. Ah, men.
Your fanbase has grown and grown, skyrocketing somewhat recently when you convinced Yeosang, your hot guy friend, to join you in one of your videos. He’d worn a face mask to protect his identity, but it had been so obvious that he’s attractive even with it on. The black tank top left little to the imagination as your audience watched the muscles in his arms flex as his strong hands fingered you over and over again while he talked you through each orgasm. It was a rather simple video, with no actual sex. Regardless, that became one of your most viewed videos even though it was an exclusive, and the video that ended up paying for this apartment. Men and women alike scrambled to type in their credit card information to see it, boosting not only your ego, but your bank account as well. You gave Yeosang a decent sized chunk of your earnings, seeing as he was in the video too.
His whole face had turned red when you showed him the number of views, hiding behind his hands for good measure. He’s always been shy, it was a damn miracle you even got him to do it in the first place.
Since then, you’ve been living quite comfortably. Yeosang, too. Despite your efforts to convince him to create his own account for people to subscribe to, he’s maintained his ‘innocence’. However, recently he’s been asking you more and more about the details and dynamics of running an account like yours. You’re almost afraid to jinx it, like if you ask him outright if he’s thinking about it, he’ll forget the whole thing and never do it. Who are you to potentially accidentally deny the general paying population of your hot friend?
He may become even more popular than me, you think to yourself, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
You glance at your laptop, its camera trained at a specific angle towards your empty bed, and you peek at how many people are waiting for your livestream to start. Friday nights are always good to pull in larger crowds, and tonight is no different.
Nine hundred, and climbing.
Whoa.
You let out a low whistle at the number, the highest you’ve ever seen it just for the amount of people waiting. You’re not even due to start for another ten minutes. The number shifts around a couple times, losing some, and gaining more every minute. For the first time in a while, you start to feel a little self-conscious. This newfound fame is still just that: new. Even though you can’t see the audience you’ve gathered, you still feel that there are nine hundred pairs of eyes on you in your bedroom. There’s a nervous flutter in your chest that you can’t seem to shake off in the dwindling minutes before your stream begins.
With only two minutes left, you flit around your room, double checking how you look in your mirror, fixing your hair and makeup, and adjusting one of the straps to the lingerie you picked out for the evening. You sit prettily on the bed, taking a few moments before you start to center yourself, taking deep breaths and focusing on getting your head clear for tonight’s performance.
A ‘performance’ is basically all it is.
Your fingers hover over the trackpad of your laptop, counting down the seconds until there are none left, and you click “Go Live”.
As usual, you allow about ten seconds to go by, waiting for more to join once they get the notification that the stream has started. You read the sudden influx of chat, smiling when you see familiar usernames and knowing that rent will be covered for the next couple of months, just by their presence here. If you wanted something, all you had to do was ask for it. Someone in the chat will gladly donate however much you need – and then some – just for the chance to hear you read their username and thank them in your sweet voice.
So easy.
You saturate your greeting with honey, looking up into the laptop camera, eyes round and innocent.
“Hi, everyone,” you sing, giggling for all of the people vying for your attention. Each comment is sent with the hope that you’ll read it out. Some send tips already, small amounts mostly in the single digits, but there are a couple of doubles sent your way already. The tip counter in the upper corner of the screen increases steadily with each donation as they come. Compliments, questions, requests, and general niceties move up the screen in a constant staccato, making room for the next.
You lean back on your hands, pretending that you don’t know what you’re doing with this angle. The camera is angled down, providing an almost perfect POV shot for the audience. The fantasy begins immediately. You uncross your legs, feigning shyness.
“My day was okay, thank you,” you purr, knowing you just made someone nearly cream their pants by answering their question. “But… I’ve just been so lonely.”
You pout, right on cue to accompany your words. Instantly, the comment section floods with volunteers to cure you of your loneliness. Each one promises they can fix it, that they’ll be there for you, that they’ll never leave. It’s flattering, but none of them really mean it. Maybe they think they do, but again none of them really know you. You doubt most of them want to get to the very root of you and figure you out. No, most if not all just want to get into your pants to say that they have. Bragging rights.
[user75846] will yeo be joining you?
You read the comment aloud, shaking your head in quiet defeat. “No, it’s just me tonight.”
Some comments beg for his return, others are happy that it’s just you – the jealous types – and the rest are simply impatient to see your body. Your hand trails across the hem of your flimsy, sheer tank top you chose to wear for the evening. It leaves little to the imagination. The quiet pinging of more money being donated motivates you further. You sigh, looking up into the camera again.
“I’ve been so sad and lonely all day… you guys will help me, right?”
You pull your shirt down just a little more, showcasing your cleavage while keeping your face as innocent as possible. The comments spike again, but you don’t pay attention to them anymore. Your hand travels farther up to your mouth, fingers threatening to slip between your glossy lips. Twelve hundred people watch and wait. You hum, parting your lips slightly but not quite giving them the visual they want. Not yet. There’s no rush – not for you, at least. But one comment catches your eye because of its impatience.
[mntn3000]: start.
Very blunt. You don’t recognize the username as one of your regulars or subscribers. Whoever this is must be new. You’ve run and maintained a rather strict program with your subscribers when it comes to what they say in the live chat – politeness being one of the main rules. The lack of a ‘please’ to sweeten the demand nearly twists your face into something less angelic. Maybe whoever this user is is already close, unable to finish his sentence before he finishes himself. You bet once you take your shirt off he’ll blow his load and leave. It happens. For now, you’ll have fun with him. Teach this newcomer some manners.
You dip your fingers in, tongue peeking out to greet them into your mouth. The amount of comments slows just a little, silently telling you that some of your viewers are beginning to work themselves up along with you.
“Oh dear… ‘mntn3000’ just said ‘start’. No ‘please’? Will someone let him know how this works?” You keep your voice sugary, making sure everyone knows you aren’t hurt or being stuck-up, but that you’re rather amused at the comment.
Almost immediately, upon request, you see one of your regulars tag the newcomer in a message explaining the chat rules.
“Thank you, Woo,” you hum, lifting your shirt up even more, just for him, to show your gratitude. Your hand lingers near your breast, a small shudder running through your body as you graze your nipple.
‘Woo’, your nickname for him from his username, has become somewhat of an anonymous friend to you. He’s subscribed to your highest level tier and the VIP extras that you offer, including private shows and a group chat on Discord. He’s always the first to step in if someone says something out of line or disrespectful in any way. Your own personal guard dog.
Whoever he is, ‘mntn3000’ doesn’t say anything to Woo’s message.
Fourteen hundred people now.
You hum again, resisting the urge to squeeze your thighs together. You love the attention. And after doing a rough estimate in your head how much money you’ll make tonight, it just makes you want to put on an even better show.
“If you want something…” you purr, taking your shirt off completely. The comments erupt. “Ask nicely~” you tease, giggling to yourself.
A donation pops up immediately, the sum of which nearly makes you gape.
[mntn3000] has donated $500
Well… that’s certainly nice.
[mntn3000]: start, kitten
That’ll do it.
You’re quick to control your reaction to the generous donation. However, now you can’t help but feel like you’re performing under pressure. Some of your other patrons comment on it, but you’re on autopilot now.
One more deep breath in and your tight little shorts soon join your shirt on the floor.
You exhale audibly, turning the breath into a quiet moan as your hand continues to explore your own body. This time, you don’t tease when your fingers come back up to your mouth, accepting them immediately. Your free hand finds its way to your neglected chest, kneading the warm skin. It’s easy to pretend that the touch belongs to someone else’s manipulation.
It’s more than just a little confusing for you to immediately imagine it’s Yeosang, if not friendship-wise. The two of you have mutually agreed that you’re platonic. The collaboration was just… a friend helping a friend. Moreso than the views and money you earned from it, you’re thankful that there is no awkwardness between you two in the aftermath of it. When you had switched the camera off, he had even joked about graduating to another level of friendship, or something like that. You can’t remember exactly right now, you’re a bit preoccupied.
You pry your eyes open to read the chat, wanting to know if they’re enjoying the view so far.
[user92834]: i keep expecting yeo to show up ㅠㅠ i miss him
You whine, only able to nod once or twice. “I miss Yeo, too.”
Now you’re playing with fire. Multiple people in the chat remind you of their personal favorite parts of that video, giving you a much needed visual to get yourself off. Is it wrong? To use memories of your best friend ‘platonically’ overstimulating you for the better part of an hour? Maybe. You think you just need to get laid soon. Admittedly, it’s been rather long since you have been. Longer than most of your viewers will ever believe.
“I wish someone was here to help me,” you blink slowly into the camera, pouting again.
Your artificial patheticness is like a siren call to these men. It seems that every single one of your viewers suddenly comes alive, flooding the chat and your donations box all at once, each claiming that they should be the one to help you next time. That they have what it takes.
Except one.
You haven’t seen that ‘mntn3000’ guy’s username pop up since he sent the generous donation earlier. You wonder if he’s still watching. Maybe he’s embarrassed from earlier.
Whatever. He’s more likely just another background viewer. You probably won’t hear from him again.
Pushing the thought away, you start to finally trail your hand down your stomach to lightly circle your clit. Your hooded eyes flicker up to the screen, making sure everything’s in view. Satisfied with what you see, you resume touching yourself, continuing to loudly suck on your fingers for good measure.
[user82392] has donated $5
[user01743] has donated $20
[puppyu.u] has donated $50
[mars9843] has donated $50
[puppyu.u] has donated $100
You can’t help but smile, watching the silent competition between your viewers. Every time someone ups the amount they’re willing to drop on you, there’s dozens more who are willing to match it. You feel like you’re at auction. Who will win in the end? Usually, it’s one of your regulars, the ones with access to the private Discord, who come out on top. You’re betting on ‘puppyu.u’ tonight. He seems like he has something to prove.
No one’s quite willing to match ‘mntn3000’’s five hundred dollar starting offer just yet.
You get the feeling that everyone who regularly competes here silently agrees to just… ignore it. Everyone here spoils you, of course. But dropping five hundred dollars straight out the gate is a blatant power move that seems intent to undermine most of the others in here in one fell swoop.
But he’s quiet now. Maybe he spent all he had in one go. It happens sometimes. Rarely, but sometimes.
You’re not sure why you’re so hung up on this random user. You’re not used to being caught off guard like this. Closing your eyes so no one can see you roll them, you decide to not think about him anymore.
And you have just the thing for it.
While they spend money to achieve imagined dominance over the others in the chat, you reach just offscreen to grab your favorite dildo. It’s a fan-favorite as well. You scoot a little farther back on the bed, finally taking your fingers out of your mouth and replacing it with the head of the dildo. You sigh around it, like you’re content, grateful to have something in your mouth again. In reality, this is just so that it goes inside of you easier.
This time, you don’t make them wait.
The blunt head of the toy slips inside easily, and you fight to keep your head up so everyone can see your reaction to it. Halfway in, you give up. Head back, a visible shudder runs through your body that has the donation notifications ringing like crazy. Around this point in your little show, you’ll pay less and less attention to the chat, only focusing on the pleasure you’re creating for yourself.
But this time, something’s off.
No matter what you do, you can’t seem to find that specific angle that makes you cum. Not even playing with your clit seems to be any help. You try to relax, to see if maybe you’re too tense to feel anything, but it’s quite hard to relax when you’re this frustrated already. You’re not about to let the audience know that, but it’s discouraging. You don’t like to lie, but again, it’s all part of a performance. A fake, tailored show to sell a fantasy version of you. The one who always comes for whoever is watching, the one who is just so insatiable for each individual person watching.
At one point, you obtain false hope. You hit an angle that nearly does it for you, getting you closer than you were before to that sweet edge. It’s so close you can almost taste it, quickening your pulse and electrifying every vein in your body. There’s an ache in your wrist that is starting to become strained and uncomfortable, and your eyebrows furrow together to try and maybe will an orgasm into existence. And yet the payoff evades you completely.
You make a sharp, high-pitched noise out of frustration, which hopefully comes across as ecstacy instead. You’re not even enjoying it anymore, and your hand begins to slow down the pumps of the dildo as your fake moans increase again. There’s a trick you know to make your legs look like they’re realistically shaking from an orgasm – learned by ego-boosting one too many failed relationships and one night stands in the past – and you use it now.
Ugh.
The toy slips out of you, and you blearily toss it next to you on the bed. You let the audience watch the slowing rise and fall of your chest as your breaths even out.
What the fuck was that? You think to yourself, tilting your head back to hide your look of confusion. You’re kind of nervous to look at what people are saying in the chat, worried that they somehow caught onto the fact that you faked it. Without any proof, you conjure up images of cancellation, accusations, name-calling, every possible and yet unrealistic bad thing that could potentially happen.
Steeling yourself as best you can, you straighten and take a look at the chat.
All worries melt away at once as soon as you notice the heart emojis that flood the comment section. You’re not sure when this started, nor do you know who began the trend, but it has turned into something similar to applause at the end of a stream. A cute signal that they enjoyed the show. You smile at the screen, even laughing a little from relief. Time and time again, you’re proven to be loved no matter what.
There are a few more donations, although they’ve slowed down now that you’re done. You push your hair back, taking the time to slowly breathe in and out as you read the comments. Most of them tell you how hard you made them bust, which earns you a few more dollars. Still, there’s one username you’re stuck on that you’re not seeing. Not yet. You hope you’re not being obvious, waiting for it to reappear. Maybe with some manners and patience this time. Your eyes stay locked on the corner of the screen.
It’s after you blow a puff of air up towards your hair to move it out of your face that he reappears. Maybe your impatience was received loud and clear to him.
He only sends one word. Four letters.
[mntn3000]: cute
[mntn3000] has donated $1000
[mntn3000] has left the stream
Huh. Your spinning head almost registers that. A good thing about streaming is that you’re not exactly on a time limit. You can take as much time as you need to to calm down and regroup before addressing your audience again. Most will leave during this time, and that’s alright too. Your devoted viewers will stay, still seeking out your attention, praise, and appreciation. You always thank them for watching and of course, donating.
“There’s thousands of others you could have spent your time with tonight, so thank you for choosing me. I hope I made it worth it.”
In the middle of catching your breath, you manage a small grin into the camera. With a whispered, ‘goodnight’, and a kiss blown straight to your audience, you end the live and flop backwards on your bed. Another job well done. Another year of rent earned.
You force yourself to move after five minutes, showering, changing into new, comfier clothes and taking your makeup off in the bathroom until it’s just you in the mirror, and not the character. It’s not until you’re brushing your teeth that you realize how tired you are from that live, nearly drifting off with the toothbrush still in your mouth. Head about to hit the wall, you jerk back to stand upright and finish up quickly. You can practically hear your bed calling your name.
A text from Yeosang lights up your phone, halfway buried underneath a pillow. You pull it out and stand by your bed to read it.
[yeoyeo🌻]: another successful day at the office?
You can’t help but grin, burying yourself under the covers and texting him back quickly.
[y/n🌸]: another small fortune 🥱
[yeoyeo🌻]: still wanna hang out tomorrow?
[yeoyeo🌻]: or is the princess too tired
[y/n🌸]: stfu 😂
[y/n🌸]: yes pls i miss you :(
[yeoyeo🌻]: fine fine
[yeoyeo🌻]: i’ll be over at noon
[yeoyeo🌻]: you better be awake -.-
[y/n🌸]: goodnight pretty boy!
[yeoyeo🌻]: 🖕🏻
[yeoyeo🌻]: goodnight
Exiting the messages app, you reach over to the nightstand and grab your laptop from its perch, keen on transferring your earnings into your bank account as soon as possible. Luckily, the site you use makes it rather easy, just a click of a button, but this time around, you take a second to look at the number in the corner.
$14,601.
You whistle lowly at the sight of it. Nearly fifteen thousand dollars for thirty minutes of ‘work’. If you spend and save wisely, you’ll never have to set foot in an office for as long as you live.
Laptop set aside for the time being, you make a mental note to try and fit in some pilates tomorrow morning before Yeosang comes over. There are certain things you try to do to maintain your beauty and health, especially if the rewards look like this number. The sore muscles, cutting off sugar, and time spent trying to match your wing eyeliner are worth it. Almost… you do miss sugar quite a bit and are prone to cheat if tempted.
You quickly do the math in the calculator app to see how exponentially your bank account is about to grow once the transfer is complete. The total makes you smile ear to ear. Already, you’re thinking of more ideas, ways to keep everyone interested… but also… maybe a vacation. A first class flight to anywhere in the world seems more than desirable. Maybe tomorrow you’ll ask Yeosang if he’d like to come too. The thought excites you, making you want to stay up and look at potential destinations.
Closing out of the calculator and banking apps, you’re just about to go on TikTok to look through your ‘dream vacay’ folder, when a notification directs your eyes upward. It’s from your email, but it's no promotional message from one of the many stores you shop at, nor is it spam.
The sender is simply ‘H.J Kim’, accompanied by three words in the subject line: ‘Exclusive Collaboration Offer’.
That certainly piques your interest, although it could just be a scam. Since you don’t have an agent, you’ve learned the hard way how to filter out those who just wish to take your hard-earned – well… earned – money away from you. When you were just starting out, you had to change numerous passwords more than once. You’re on a first-name-basis with your bank. Usually, you ignore emails like this, but something draws you to it. In what you can see of the preview, the sender doesn’t use more words than he has to, and the word choice seems rather official. Not as scammy as you’re used to.
Hesitant, but intrigued at what this offer could possibly entail, you click on it to see what the rest of the email says.
__________________________
Dear Miss Y/N,
I hope you are doing well. My name is Kim Hongjoong and I am a Talent Agent with Afterdark Productions, representing Choi San. We have been admiring your work for a while now, and would love to extend an offer for a collaboration between the two of you.
If accepted, I will be more than happy to disclose more information regarding the details of the shoot as well as beginning the process of arranging transportation and accommodation. Please feel free to reach out with any questions or concerns, and I will respond as quickly as I can.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to the possibility of working together.
Just his name makes your thighs clench together under the plush comforter.
You make a noise somewhere between an exhalation and a laugh of disbelief. You reread it a couple more times, making sure you’re reading it correctly. There’s simply no way someone like Choi San knows you exist, and if he does, then how? Sure, you’re gaining popularity on cam platforms, but you didn’t think the industry on the other side of the coin would take notice. Maybe you’ve just been naive. It’s essentially the same thing but without a script or team involved. You do everything yourself — the lights, the camera, the action. The idea of even attempting what ‘Afterdark’ is known for is quite daunting. The thought of potentially meeting San even more so.
Everyone knows Choi San.
Somewhat of a respected micro-celebrity, he is currently revolutionizing the stigma around adult videos and being an adult actor. Breaking stereotypes, barriers, and backs. Impressive. It also helps that he has adonis-like features and a smile that can universally melt hearts. Very helpful, indeed.
It’s still not fully clicking that you’ve been offered a chance to work with him. Not yet. Most likely, it’ll hit you in the morning when you check your phone for the millionth time, making sure you didn’t just dream this all up in a post-orgasmic haze. Each time you reread it, the words stay the same. The name jumps out at you.
“Fuckin’ hell…” you whisper, pressing your palm to your mouth, reading the email over just one more time. That’s what you tell yourself anyway.
A collaboration… you assume that means on his turf. On his side of the industry, anyway. Your mouth dries. Are you even up for this?
A visual learner all your life, you find yourself opening a private browser and looking up a porn site you know has posted a couple of San’s videos. For research. Literally. Your thought process is to refresh your memory, imagine yourself in the actress’ place and discern whether or not you think you can handle what this offer entails. You pick the very first result after you enter his name in the search box, and settle back against your pillows, nervously biting your nails as the video begins.
It starts off like many others of its kind, a flashy montage of what’s to come – pun unfortunately intended – to entice viewers to keep watching. You skip ahead, like many do, not caring for whatever ‘plot’ has been thrown together to justify why these two hot people are sleeping together this time. Although, from the clips you do see as the video jumps ahead, inching closer to the real action, you have to admit he’s a decent actor. You stop skipping through it towards the end of their conversation, landing at the proposition and steadily rising scripted passion.
San steps closer to the actress, really getting into her space, and holding eye contact the whole time. The type that would make any girl melt. It’s not fiery or intimidating, no, it’s something much worse.
Desire.
He mumbles something under his breath that you don’t catch, too focused on how his hands wrap around her waist, pulling her in closer. What startles you is how… almost vulnerable he looks. Attentive. His head tilted down slightly, looking at her through his eyelashes, enchanting her so effortlessly as his hands gently wander. You cross an arm over your chest, eyes still fixated on the phone screen. You’re getting affected this much just watching him look at her like that? How the hell will you possibly be able to handle it in real life? The short answer is: you probably won’t.
Because the next time you skip, impatience gnawing at you to just see and know what he does, you’re thrown right into the fray.
The camera is almost cinematic, capturing precise angles where everything can be seen, the lighting low and sensual. They’re on a large bed, and San has taken the time to place one of the pillows under her head as well as her hips. A blindfold covers the actress’ eyes, but you can tell right away she’s been steadily crying through the fabric. Her hands tighten in his hair, his mouth latches onto one of her breasts, and his hand between her legs where quiet, constant, wet sounds are being drawn from. Still, he looks earnest. Genuine. Like he cares about her pleasure, and wants to make sure she’s getting just as much out of this experience as he will. At this point, you’re sure the script is thrown out the window, because the way he talks to her, so soft and sincere, praising her closer and closer to the edge, is something that no scriptwriter could come up with. No, this was pure San.
When she’s close, she tells him immediately and he changes nothing. He whispers the same praises, keeps his hand at the same pace and angle, reaching deep and curling up over and over, coaxing her body to release. The automated subtitles are no help, so you turn the volume up just a bit more, so you can hear him clearly. He must’ve been edging her because she starts begging him, trying to not pull his hair out at the roots. He simply covers her mouth with a free hand and leans over her, giving her permission to let go for him.
She shudders violently, thighs pressing into the sides of his body to prevent him from moving. He's not going anywhere, though. That infamous dimpled smile appears as he watches her come undone beneath him.
Your thighs clench. That’d be you.
His voice drifts languidly from your laptop speakers, melting your brain even further. “Yes, baby, that’s it. There you go… such a good girl.”
A girlish squeal gets stuck in your throat and you press your lips together to ensure you don’t let it out. You haven’t even said yes yet. There could be conditions you don’t agree with, payment arguments. He could be an asshole for all you know. Or this could all be a very elaborate and convincing scam.
Still, just in case it is real, and for the sake of ‘research’, you keep watching.
He kisses her chest, slowly making his way up her throat, her jaw, until he reaches her lips. He takes his sweet time, like he knows no one would dare look away. She sighs into his mouth, quiet whimpers leaving her every so often while he gently rubs her clit, just enough to keep her stimulated as she gets used to the feeling of being empty once again. You wonder what it’s like to kiss him. Your hands itch to reach for your phone and text Yeosang to tell him everything, however, you’re rather busy holding them still at the moment.
You appreciate how he doesn’t move onto the next thing immediately. Too many times have you seen other actors in his industry not giving their partner a bit of a breather after such an intense orgasm. Granted, some may like that, the overwhelming and constant stimulation, but the way San allows her to take her time, silently encourages her to follow the deeper rhythm of his breathing, and how he holds her hand and places slow, soft kisses all over her body, it all adds up to make you crave a slower pace. An intimate interaction like this.
San checks in with her quietly, and with a nod from her and another peck on the lips, he’s positioning himself between her legs. Stars in her eyes, she reaches down and strokes his length, whimpering softly. He gently brushes her hair back, admiring the look of nervous anticipation on her face. When he finally pushes inside, the two of them moan at the same time. Buried the way in, he smiles down at her before kissing her deeply. All dimples. A broken moan of his name tumbles from her lips, and you’re almost sure she didn’t realize she even said anything. She’s staring up at him like he’s a deity. Like he’s come down from heaven just for her. And she’s not acting.
One thing you know for sure: you’d be stupid to decline the offer.
You consider your mind made up.
Reluctantly exiting the video, saving it for later, you reopen your email app. Part of you wonders whether or not two in the morning is an appropriate time to email someone, but another part of you simply doesn’t care. It’ll be in Mr. Kim Hongjoong’s inbox first thing when he wakes up tomorrow. Your reply is enthusiastic yet professional, expressing appreciation for the offer in the first place. You thank him and San for taking notice of you and offer praise of his work as well. Wrapping up with the same politeness the original sender used, you sign off with your name. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a minute before adding a kiss emoji to the side of your name. Before you can second guess that choice, you send it off.
Needing to expel some of these nerves, you get up out of bed to scavenge your fridge for a well-past-midnight snack. Maybe yogurt or something. Standing in the white light of the fridge, you realize food may not be the best choice. Nothing jumps out at you to want at two o’clock in the morning, stomach already doing flips and tricks as it is. You settle on a mini carton of strawberry milk that you may or may not finish and walk back to bed a little too fast. Quicker than your usual leisurely pace.
You glance at your phone, laying face down on your bed like what you just watched on it made it shy. You want to text Yeosang so badly, to get his take on all of this, but you should let him sleep. Just because your sleep schedule is fucked doesn’t mean you have to ruin his as well. Your fingers absentmindedly tap the carton, only two sips deep in your drink. Hm.
You’re just starting to flirt with the idea of calling Yeosang anyway when you get a notification that effectively snaps you out of your thought spiral. Whoever or whatever it is has just unknowingly saved Yeosang’s REM cycle.
Not expecting a response so soon, your eyes widen a bit when you see that you’ve gotten a response back already. The quickness makes you a little wary. Scams usually are quick to respond back too.
Or, this ‘Hongjoong’ guy may have a sleep schedule quite like yours. After all, you responded rather quickly to his first email.
__________________________
Hi Miss Y/N,
Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. We are thrilled to hear that you are accepting the offer.
The next steps in moving forward are rather simple. I will ask you to fill out a form – which I have linked to this e-mail – and send that at your earliest convenience. It is your basic questionnaire, really, and a chance for us to get to know you as well as your preferences for the shoot and scene.
After you have sent that and we go over it, I would like to meet with you – either in person or through video call – for both our safety and to finalize all arrangements. If you choose to meet in person, I will gladly bring along a female member of my team in an effort to make you feel more comfortable and safe.
As always, please feel free to reach out if you have any questions, comments, or concerns. Looking forward to hearing from you again.
‘We are thrilled to hear that you are accepting the offer.’
At first, you assumed he was just referencing the production company, but the specific use of it catches and holds your attention. Did San… ask for this collab to happen? Scrolling up to reread it again, the second line of the first e-mail you were sent strikes you: ‘We have been admiring your work for a while now…’ Not just the company. ‘We’ as in…
You swallow hard, setting the strawberry milk on your nightstand and shrinking back against your pillows again. Your phone burns your eyes in the dark, but you can’t stop reading this new message. There’s so much to unpack, even though it’s so straightforward. As of right now, in regards to meeting with Kim Hongjoong, you’re leaning towards just a video call. You’re still not quite totally convinced this isn’t an elaborate prank of some kind. Maybe a weird fan who wants this to happen but there’s no truth to it. But again… you don’t get that vibe. Not from how professional this seems. And a crazy fan wouldn’t offer to bring along another woman to make you feel more comfortable, he’d insist on meeting alone, under the guise of ‘protecting our privacy’.
And if it is real… then it is really happening. Moving forward, as the talent agent said, a collaboration in the early stages of planning. With Choi San.
Dammit, Yeosang, why can’t you be awake right now, you think and you huff dramatically, burying your face in your hands. He’ll certainly get an earful of all of this tomorrow afternoon.
But you decide you need to talk this through to somebody right now. Or some people.
Even though you just went live, you’re quick to open your Discord app, not even bothering to send a warning message to tell your exclusive members that you’re going live again. This time, just for them. You know they’ll come. They always do.
Once you have your laptop adjusted and headphones on, you’re ready to go. You click the microphone button and wait.
As expected, four of them join immediately. You regularly wonder how they’re all able to drop everything to watch you, no matter what time you go live. Two others join soon after, but they rarely comment in the chat. Silent viewers with open wallets are never unwelcome here.
“Hi guys! I have big news,” you smile into the camera, reading all the messages as they pop up.
[woogoesthere]: tell ussssssss!!!!!
[fix0nmi]: 👀?
[mars9843]: what is it cutie?
[puppyu.u]: hi baby why the secret meeting?? 👀
You take a minute to let them get all their guesses out, increasing their desperation to know what you’re hiding from them. Hopefully they’ll take the news well. As far as you can tell, none of them specifically come across as the parasocial jealous type, but you don’t know for certain. However, they seemed to handle your previous collab with Yeosang pretty well. That gives you some more confidence to confide in them about this.
“I’ve been offered to do a collab with someone from…” You pause before saying the company name for dramatic effect. “Afterdark.”
You’re a little surprised by the lack of comments right away, even worried a little. The thought of them being the parasocial jealous type crosses your mind again. Especially Woo. For a split second, you worry that you may have just angered your most loyal – and charitable – fans. The abrupt absence makes your heart plummet to your stomach.
It takes a full minute before anyone says anything. The longest minute of your whole life.
[woogoesthere]: are u telling us ur collabing w choi san?!!??!?!?! :0
Leave it to Woo to ease any worry you may have. You mask your relieved exhale under a light laugh.
“Should I be worried?” you half joke.
The immediate responses in the comments are overwhelming and collective:
[puppyu.u]: yes!!!!!!
[mars9843]: be afraid, be very afraid
[fix0nmi]: he’s gonna wreck you lmao
[fix0nmi]: icw to watch 🤪
[puppyu.u]: same 😭😏😭
[mars9843]: if you could barely handle yeo………
Your confident smile fades slightly, the corners of your mouth dropping back down as you read the multiple comments confirming what you’ve been wondering.
[woogoesthere]: guys stop ur gonna scare her ㅠㅠ
You try to laugh it off, looking off camera to grab your strawberry milk again. The action gives your hands something to do as worry begins to settle in your chest. Of course, Woo tries to ease your growing anxieties in the chat as you lift the bottle to your lips, eyes still scanning the messages… or rather, the warnings.
[puppyu.u]: well it’s true
[woogoesthere]: we should be encouraging tho >:(
[fix0nmi]: yeah or else she won’t do it 👀
[mars9843]: …
[mars9843]: y/n we’re just kiddinggggg
[fix0nmi]: you’ll be fine~! >:)
[woogoesthere]: -.-
[puppyu.u]: drink lots of water beforehand!
[woogoesthere]: you pervs are so annoying
“I can do it!” You try to regain your previous confidence.
A shroud of doubt begins to creep up over your shoulders, weighing you down. You’re able to hide it well, but you go quiet. Quieter than usual when you’re live. You don’t like silences that last too long. Unfortunately, your sudden silence is noticeable.
[puppyu.u]: babyyyyyy
[puppyu.u]: don’t listen to us we’re just teasing
[fix0nmi]: haha sorry baby
[mars9843]: you’re gonna be great, pretty girl
[fix0nmi]: can’t wait to see it ;)
[woogoesthere]: you ARE gonna be great
[woogoesthere]: choi san has no idea what an honor this is fr ㅠㅠ
That last message brings your smile back, tugging at the corners of your mouth until you give into it. ‘Woo’ is right. You have to remember who the fuck you are. Choi San sought you out specifically. There’s no need to be nervous about anything. It’s a different side of an industry that you’re already accustomed to, that’s all. You just have to adapt to however it operates for one day, and if you hate it, you’ll never have to do it again. And hey, you’ll get to say you’ve had that first and only experience with San of all people.
What a debut.
Your loyal fans must notice the confidence boost you’re experiencing because they’re quick to praise it in the chat.
[fix0nmi]: there she is :)
[woogoesthere]: ugh ur too cute
[puppyu.u]: fr that bastard has no idea how lucky he is ㅠㅠ
[mars9843]: he better be nice to u >:(
“Aww, you guys are so sweet,” you giggle softly, enjoying their attention and their praises. Your nerves are somewhat settled for the time being, though you can’t promise they won’t return once you open your eyes tomorrow morning. You wonder what Yeosang will say about it.
Leaning back against your headboard, you exhale deeply – maybe even adding a little hint of a whine-like noise to keep them entertained. ‘Pervs’, as ‘Woo’ put it, indeed. Not that you minded.
You hum to yourself and mention how much better they’ve made your night, and they eat it up.
“Thank you all for your love and support. Truly.”
You talk with them for a while longer, reciprocating their interest in you by asking them about their days and what they’re doing tomorrow. One of the silent viewers goes offline, and you can’t say that you blame them – no one should still be awake at this hour. You’re not sure if you’ll fall asleep quickly after you log off, so maybe that’s why you linger here and continue to talk with them. The minutes continue to go by and you start to feel guilty for keeping them all up this late. You know it’s their choice to stay and talk, but still. Odds are that at least one of them has to be up early tomorrow morning. They won’t leave until you do.
“I’m gonna go to bed, guys. Thank you for staying up and chatting with me.” You smile, watching all of their usernames simultaneously start typing again.
[mars9843]: goodnight cutie
[fix0nmi]: night babe ;)
[woogoesthere]: aww have a good night jagi <333
[puppyu.u]: sweet dreams baby <3
[puppyu.u]: <3333
You giggle, noticing ‘puppyu.u’’s competitiveness. Before ‘Woo’ can start a war to see how many 3’s they can add to their hearts, you quickly blow them all a kiss and end the call.
The silence of your apartment comes back quickly. Naturally, so do your racing thoughts. You place your laptop on your nightstand and crawl back under the covers, hoping against hope that you can smother your thoughts with your pillow.
Your phone vibrates against your thigh and you sneak a quick glance at it, half-expecting another e-mail, only to find a Venmo notification. It’s from Woo. Your exclusive members have the username of your ‘business’ Venmo account to send you money outside of cams, if they choose to. The message he attaches to the money makes you laugh: ‘i’m not losing to puppyu.u so easily. goodnight<333333333333’
Oh, man.
Make that $14,751 now.
You wince as you notice the time in the upper lefthand corner of your phone screen. Yeosang was very clear in his text: you better be awake by noon. Knowing how late you usually sleep until, it’s not looking good. Hoping it will help, you set several alarms on your phone. Surely one of them will wake you up. You switch your phone off, refusing to check it again until tomorrow morning.
Without your phone to distract you though, all you do is replay that video you watched of San and that actress. The memory of it projects against your eyelids and you can’t look away. A shiver runs through you when you picture how his hands held her with such gentle strength, and the addictive moans he wasn’t afraid to let out. The same thought echoes until you finally fall asleep: that’ll be you.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
Against all odds, and seven missed alarms later, you manage to wake up – albeit, exhausted – around ten o’clock. Plenty of time before Yeosang is due to come over.
After you eat breakfast, you decide to spend the morning researching San, watching more of his videos, listening to interviews, stalking his Instagram, anything you can find to get to know him better. Or at least, to get a better grasp on what you should expect. Hongjoong never clarified if it was going to be just you and him at this future meeting or you, him, and San. You want to be ready.
From what you can find, you’ve come to the tentative conclusion that he appears smart, funny, well-traveled, and handsome. That last one is a given to anyone with eyes, though. It seems like he could’ve succeeded in any field of his choosing, but his candor is notoriously present and blunt whenever he gets asked why he’s gone into this profession: “I like sex. I happen to be good at it, so why not?”
You get it. Easy money.
His Instagram is mostly pictures of him in exotic locations. It seems you and him have dream destinations in mind for the future as well. Nine million followers strong – and counting – he has his comments turned off to them on every post. There is also no message option anywhere. He completely cuts himself off from being accessible. A part of you is a little jealous, but at the same time you like the closeness with your fans. It feels more intimate, it gives you a reason to be punctual and come back and care about what you do. Although some, like that ‘mntn3000’ guy, can sometimes be quite rude in the chat. You have your chat open to all, and your public Instagram is the complete opposite of San’s. Thirst traps, a highlight on your profile for song recommendations, and the ability to comment and message you. Not that you answer most of them. Most are gross, obnoxious, frankly misogynistic men who choose the most unhinged, disgusting words to express their… ‘desires’. You’re thankful for Woo and fans like him. Still… you find yourself wondering if you should limit your accessibility as well. Your popularity is rising. Maybe now is the time.
You still find yourself looking for everything and anything that has to do with him online. Everyone wants to be him or be with him. One of those guys. Of course.
You rest your head in your hands, groaning to no one in particular. After all the women he’s been with, you hope you can meet his expectations. A worthy costar. Same industry, different department.
By the time Yeosang knocks on your door at a quarter past noon, your mind is so far away he has to call you to let him in.
“Hey, sorry.” You apologize, ushering him in and locking the door behind him.
“I knew you wouldn’t be awake,” he grins, making himself right at home on your couch. “Is going live for thirty minutes really all it takes to make you catatonic the rest of the day?”
You roll your eyes, swatting his shoulder as you sit down next to him. “Shut up, it’s not because of that. Well… not exactly.”
Yeosang quirks an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on, then. What’s up?”
You pull out your phone, ready to show him the evidence to back up what you’re about to say. The original email is still unchanged as you glance down at it, which is encouraging. Another reminder that you didn’t make this all up in your head. It didn’t happen in a dream, there’s hard evidence staring you in the face.
Well, now or never. Out with it.
“I, um… I got an offer to work with Choi San.” Your voice toes the line between excitement and cautious optimism. If anyone’s opinion matters to you at all, it’s Yeosang’s.
Yeosang’s eyebrows raise at the name. “Like… the Choi San?”
“The Choi San, yes.” You nod, confirming it’s exactly who he’s thinking about.
Handing your phone over to him, email ready to be read by a fresh pair of eyes, you watch his reactions closely. You find yourself biting the side of your thumb nail, a habit you keep thinking you’ve grown out of, only to be proven wrong in times like these.
Yeosang’s face is serious as he reads it. You can tell he’s searching for any indication of this being a scam first and foremost before he digests the rest of it. Finding no blatant or well-hidden tricks, he pays more attention to the general message.
“Are you gonna do it?” He asks, handing your phone back to you. His voice holds some reservation to it that you clearly pick up on. You take no offense, though. He’s just worried about you. It’s more… public than you’re used to.
“I don’t know,” you shrug, answering him honestly. “I’ve done my research on him and already sent them an email back saying that I was interested and wanted to know more, but… do you think I should?”
You truly value his opinion. Yeosang has been such a good friend to you for the past couple of years. The two of you had met in your second year of college and became fast friends. When you moved to the city, about a year after he did, he helped you find your first apartment, got you a job, and checked in on you to make sure you knew you had a friend here. He made everything easier. He still does.
Yeosang shrugs, “Doesn’t matter what I think. If you feel confident about doing it, then go for it. If something is telling you to not do it, then don’t.”
He makes it sound so easy. Should it be?
“Yeah, but… I value your opinion.” You mumble, not outwardly saying what you’re thinking. But he reads your mind anyway.
“Y/N, it’s not gonna change my view of you if you decide to do this. If I had a problem with my best friend being a mattress actress, I would’ve told you a long time ago. Y’know… before I collabed with you.”
At this, you can’t help but laugh, knowing he’s right. A pressure you didn’t realize was weighing on you is alleviated off your shoulders, making you feel lighter. He grins as you let out a small sigh of relief, glad that he eased some of your worries. Now, to tease you about it. As best friends do.
“I’m just worried that you won’t survive the experience,” Yeosang says dramatically, covering his eyes with his arm and sneaking a smile your way.
“Stop, what do you mean?” You push him, playfully.
“You said you researched him, right?”
You nod, wondering where he’s going with this. Is there something you’ve missed? You feel like you’re the only one left out of a well-known inside joke. You try to think back to the videos you’ve seen of him. Sure, you haven’t watched his whole filmography, but nevertheless, you’d like to believe you know roughly what to expect of him when the day comes.
“Did you watch the ones he’s done for ‘Fantasy’?” Yeosang smirks.
You blink, trying to remember if you did. To be totally honest, you weren’t really paying much attention to which company was posting the videos. Just that San was in them.
“I don’t know… maybe?”
Yeosang shakes his head, already seeming to know the answer. “You’d know if you did,” he says definitively. “If you wanna know what he’s really capable of, watch some of those.”
You stop yourself from rolling your eyes, frustrated that no one will just tell you what they’re talking about. You only have one guess, that it may be due to the fact that you’ve only ever been with two guys before. They each taught you the basics, but everything you bring to your livestreams, you learned all on your own. And it’s not like you’re clueless when it comes to the different kinds of sexual encounters one can experience. You’ve watched porn before – hell, you do a type of it for a living. So why does everyone keep underestimating you? What does San possibly do to make everyone think you won’t survive him?
A part of you kind of doesn’t want to know. You don’t need to give your creeping self-doubt any more ammo. It had taken you a long time to beat it far back enough in your mind for it to not invade every time you hit a little snag in life. A resurgence would make you question everything, make you back out of this quickly. You don’t want that. No, you’re determined even more so now to see this through. To prove everyone wrong. More importantly, though, to prove it to yourself.
“Sounds like he sought you out though,” Yeosang says. His words almost make you jolt. Not only do they pull you out of another spiral, it reinforces something you were thinking in passing last night. Maybe you aren’t reading too much into it after all. “Kinda seems like this Hongjoong guy and San are fans of yours.”
You hide your face in your hands and groan, making Yeosang laugh at your rare display of shyness. It’s frustratingly unclear to you why the idea of him watching your content makes your cheeks burn so much. You’re obviously comfortable with people seeing your body and earning a profit from it, but you like the anonymity of the people watching. You simply don’t want to know. Perhaps it’s because he’s about to not be a faceless viewer anymore. Rather, a colleague of sorts.
Also, in a way, you tend to view cam’ing as more… intimate than porn. The sole focus of the audience is on you. No fake plot, no costar, no distractions. Just you, reading the chat, and existing and getting off in real time.
“Sounds like it,” you agree. “I must’ve done something he likes to pique his interest.”
Yeosang shrugs, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Or he saw the collab and this is all just an elaborate ruse to get to me.”
You’re grateful to relax enough to laugh again. “Oh, I bet.” You say, playing along. Though, part of you does wonder for a brief moment if San had watched the collab and that’s why he thought you’d be a good partner for his next project. It’s definitely plausible.
“So,” Yeosang leans back against the couch, crossing his legs, “what do you have to do now?”
Remembering the phone in your hand, you look down at it, visualizing that attachment Hongjoong sent you. Yet to be opened. “There’s a form I have to fill out, I think it’s some kind of consent form.”
He nods, “Yeah, that’d make sense.”
There’s a small silence between you that follows as he watches you stare down at your phone. You have the most recent email pulled up, analyzing it again. He watches you bite the inside of your cheek, a habit you have that comes up when you’re thinking a little too hard about something.
“Do you want me to go through it with you?” He asks, though he thinks he knows what you’ll say.
“No, I’ll do it myself. It’s gonna ask like… in depth questions,” you insinuate, almost shyly.
Yeosang doesn’t press you on it, which you appreciate. But you know he’s probably thinking there’s not much he doesn’t know about you. After all, he was fingering you to high heaven in front of a camera only a week ago. Still, he doesn’t push your privacy or your boundaries. It’s one of the many things that makes you feel safe with him.
Breezing past the subject, knowing you probably need to relieve some stress, he picks up one of the gaming controllers on your coffee table.
“Rematch?” He asks, referring to a game of Mario Kart fairly won by you, though his opinion of the event is rather different. Something to do with you ‘innocently’ bumping into him, causing him to almost drop his controller, and giving you the lead in the race. His win streak is much cleaner than yours.
“You’re on,” you agree, playfully narrowing your eyes at him as he scoots away from you on the couch.
There’ll be no ‘accidents’ this time. But maybe you’ll think of something.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
The rest of the day is light.
Little by little, the weight of uncertainty you feel fades into the background, instead transforming into unserious frustration as Yeosang beats you in Mario Kart six times in a row. You win the seventh round, but you highly suspect he let you. He had several speed boosts and red shells that would just disappear from his screen the next time you looked, wondering when he would fire one of those shells at you.
You order in, opting to stay inside and just be lazy today, and the two of you eat on the couch. When the sun eventually starts to set late in the afternoon, he takes a nap while you scroll on your phone, half-watching a K-Drama on your TV. Neither of you bring up San or the form still laying in wait in your inbox again. He wakes up around eight o’clock, yawning and stretching as he gets up to go home – he mentions that he promised his friend he’d go out with him tonight. Though he extends the offer, and part of you does want to go, you decide to be responsible and take the night to go through the form with a somewhat clearer mind than last night or this morning.
Almost as soon as Yeosang leaves, you’re back in bed and pulling everything up on your laptop. The attached file on the most recent email takes just a second to load, bringing you to a Google Form sheet, ready to be completed.
But first, you think about what he said about San. You want to know what everyone else already seems to. At least one video. Just for research purposes again.
In another tab on incognito mode, you hesitantly type in the search for ‘choi san redfantasy’ and bite the inside of your cheek as the page loads. The typical ads pop up before you’re able to see any actual content, avoiding the scams and viruses with practiced ease. Trying to not overthink it, you just click on the first video that comes up. In fact, you barely look at the title. It’s in all caps, a bunch of buzzwords and tags jammed together to get as many eyes on it as possible, but his name is always put first. That’s the seller right there. Audiences are in the market for Choi San.
There is no plot this time, at least none that you can discern. The lighting is darker, as well as the mood. There’s less build up, the action begins almost straight away after the company logo screen fades away.
Your chest constricts at the very first shot. A rather pretty woman, on her knees in the middle of a room. Her bare knees dig into the plush carpet beneath her and she looks up at the man in front of her, tilting her head up with a firm hand in her hair.
San.
“...didn’t you?” You barely hear him say to her, and you quickly turn up the volume on your laptop, rewinding the video ten seconds to hear the full question.
“You misbehaved today, didn't you?” He purrs, nodding once to give her permission to speak.
“Yes, sir.” She replies, obediently.
The hand in her hair is taken away, and yet she never takes her eyes off of him. You imagine that’s probably what she was instructed to do… but you’re starting to think a director wasn’t involved in this. Everything seems more intimate, less corporate. Like San just set up a camera in this expensive looking hotel room. A step above amateur porn.
San stalks around her, humming to himself as if sizing her up. The camera cuts to a slightly different angle, farther away, and you only just now realize that her hands are tied behind her back. The multiple static angles all but confirm your theory: everything in this video is by San’s design.
He then sits down on a rather large, black leather couch, facing her. The camera caresses his features, letting you see every detail of the tailored suit he’s wearing that fits him perfectly. The suit itself is probably more expensive than five of those couches. Wordlessly, he beckons her closer with two of his fingers. He almost looks bored. But you think bored is the wrong word… curious actually. Like he’s just taking his time, waiting for her to act first. His tempo is carefully curated and well-calculated. He reacts, even though he knows they’re both just enacting what this company wants to see. Like this isn’t just for the cameras. Every scene is serious to him, and yet it doesn’t come across as corny or too much. You wonder why he doesn’t go into acting. He seems more than able to convince people of real chemistry between himself and his co-star each and every time. And with a face card like his, you doubt he would’ve had many rejections.
Then again, you imagine it’d be rather hard to make a smooth transition into becoming a serious and respected actor after being in adult films.
She manages to make her way over to him, knelt in between his knees, waiting for further instruction. And he makes her wait. The camera cuts a couple of times, documenting the power dynamic from several angles. It’s evident a long time has passed because she keeps shifting her weight, knees never quite finding relief on the floor.
A small whimper leaves her, and it earns her a sharp smack across the cheek. You gasp at the same time she does, not expecting that at all for an action so miniscule. In almost the same motion, San’s grip returns to her hair, pulling her closer to his clothed crotch.
“Be actually useful for once, baby.” He says sweetly, like he’s praising instead of degrading her. “Earn it.”
You can tell she’s holding back another whimper, trying to be good. San guides her further down, until her face is pressed into the front seam of his tailored pants, and holds her there until she realizes what he wants her to do. Rather pathetically, she mouths at his dick through the fabric. He’s not even hard yet. No, he fully expects her to do all the work for him, including getting him ready.
While she’s… busy, he lazily takes off his watch, setting it aside and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt to just above his elbows. You’ve seen him naked about a dozen times in these types of videos, and for some reason, this is what sends an uncontrollable shiver down your spine. Almost on sight, you feel how wet you’ve become, panties starting to cling to you.
His face is stony, refusing to give away what he’s thinking. That’s privileged information. But the harder he gets, the more motivated she becomes, tilting her head to the side to attempt to wrap her lips around his length as best she can. And yet, he never says anything. No praise, no degradation. He lets her actions speak for themselves, lets it burrow into her mind on her own. Pathetic. She doesn’t bother looking up at him for reassurance anymore. He’s not giving her anything to work with.
Abruptly, he yanks her back by the hair, just to see if she makes a noise. She does. Another sharp crack against her cheek makes you squeeze your thighs together. She takes three more slaps until he stops, his hands leave her entirely and one grips himself through his pants, sighing like he’s bored. Or rather, disappointed. From what you can discern from the print against his pants, he’s only half-hard.
“You don’t want it that badly, do you?” He asks like he’s already decided her answer.
Frantically, she shakes her head, denying his assumption. “No, no sir, I do want it. Please, I want it so–”
Unfortunately for her, his mind is already made up.
San rises from the couch, picking her up into his arms easily, like she weighed nothing. The camera cuts, now facing the bed, and San lays her down onto it. He then goes about tying her down to it, on all-fours. The girl’s face presses into the pillows, muffling any noise. San ties her ankles to the bedposts, leaving her spread open for him with no chance of closing herself off. Fully exposed, at his mercy. Or lack thereof.
San then loosens his tie before wrapping it around her throat, fashioning it into a makeshift collar and leash. He tugs it once, testing its reliability. Satisfied, he lets it go for the time being, no doubt planning on using it later. For now, he stalks around the bed, admiring his work, and assessing the best way to deal with the girl tied up in front of him.
“Since you couldn’t wait and just had to touch yourself before you came to me, I’m gonna teach you some patience.”
As if the last few times weren’t enough, an involuntary sound escapes from her lips. Soon enough, her ass is red and bruised, San’s hand quick to punish her for making noise.
“Be quiet,” he reminds sternly, “or you get nothing.”
That’s good motivation. Suddenly, you feel like you can’t make a single noise either.
He disappears offscreen for a while, the camera cutting a few times to capture how the anticipation makes the girl very nervous and wet at the same time. Impatient, you skip ahead thirty seconds and San pops back into frame, holding something.
There’s no warning, no telling her what it is. Only he and the audience (you) know. He holds the vibrator wand right up to her pussy, mere centimetres away and pauses. Her toes curl in an effort to stop the rest of her body from squirming. He waits for any minuscule movement. It’s when she cranes her neck, attempting to look back to see what he’s doing, that he turns it onto the highest setting and presses it against her clit in one swift motion.
Poor thing gasps and screams at the intense, unexpected vibrations, earning her another brutal round of spanks.
“Shhh,” he hushes her softly, “be quiet. Don’t move.”
Your pulse stutters, eyes wider than they were before, and your hand starts to drift downwards, underneath your clothes, to find your clit. The relief is immediate, like scratching an itch. You work yourself up alongside her, trying to follow San’s instructions yourself. Breaths turning shallow, you press your lips together to keep from making any sounds. If you really wanted to immerse and challenge yourself, you’d grab your own vibrator from the drawer, but you can’t tear your gaze from the screen. You don’t want to miss anything, and you feel like pausing it would disrupt the experience. If this is potentially what’s in store for you, and she doesn’t get a break, you don’t get one either.
Her fists tighten and grab at nothing, still bound behind her back. You can tell she’s losing the fight to follow through with his instructions. San notices this too. He moves the vibrator up and down, grinding the head of it harder on her clit before moving it away again. You have no idea how she’s managing to hold on.
San hears it the same time you do, not a gasp or a noise per se, but a hitch of her breath, just audible enough to hear. At the same time, her legs begin to shake, out of her control to stop them from doing so.
He takes the vibrator away, switching it off.
Her toes curl again, burying her face deeper into the pillows to silence any sounds. Your hand stops dead, even though all you want to do is keep circling your clit.
“See what I have to do?” He sighs, trailing the head of the vibrator down the back of her thighs. “If you just waited for me, I wouldn’t have to do this. I wouldn’t have to waste my time teaching you to be patient.”
Damn. Have you ever heard him talk to any of his scene partners like this? The San from the first video you watched as part of your ‘research’ seems a million miles away. A completely different person.
Eventually, the vibrator is returned to her clit, humming at full power. You resume your own administrations as well. San kneads her ass with his free hand, eyes glued to her body, waiting for her to fuck up. Any excuse to take the pleasure away again. An excuse comes when she’s forced back onto the brink of an orgasm, and he switches the toy off again. But he keeps it pressed against her pussy. On instinct, her hips rock backwards, trying to chase the pleasure, and you can’t help but groan out of frustration as you take your hand away. This time, he doesn’t administer spanks to her ass, but right on her pussy. And she can’t help the high-pitched yelp that leaps from her throat. San spanks her pussy until she shuts up. You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until the uncomfortable pressure in your throat forces you to inhale deeply.
The girl shudders after the last smack but doesn’t move or say a word. You’re both rooting for her and secretly hoping she’ll screw up again, just to see what he does. Also, you want to see if he’ll actually fuck her.
Rather impatiently, you skip ahead a couple of minutes, needing to know if he’s the type to punish by leaving her empty the whole time. It takes only a second for the video to buffer and when it does, you see that he’s added another toy, keeping it pressed deep into her pussy, right up to the very base of it. The vibrator never leaves her clit. The skin of her ass is bright red and already bruising in some areas. It looks rather painful. She’s moaning but it’s muffled and barely audible – you can imagine San gagged her in some way to keep her quiet after failing over and over again. Possibly with his tie. He doesn’t move the toy at all, instead just forcing her to feel the thickness and weight of it buried deep inside of her, no doubt pressing right up against her g-spot.
If he denies her again in this state, you’ll really be scared of him.
And that, he does.
This time, she wails through her gag, her whole body locking up and then quickly deflating in defeat. But the time in between denials is no longer merciful. San waits maybe ten seconds before starting again, placing the vibrator back where it belongs.
God damn– you think, becoming wetter as your fingers find your clit again, your own pleasure building. The poor girl shrieks into the pillows, incoherently pleading with him to stop. Instead of listening to her cries, San taps the vibrator against her pussy, driving her – and you – even more crazy.
“I’m doing you a favor,” he says flatly, not caring that she’s essentially begging for mercy. “You should be apologizing for making me waste my time to teach you basic manners.”
Your mouth drops open at that. He’s so mean, and yet if you were in her position – which you may be soon – you’re pretty sure you’d start apologizing right away. But she can’t, at least not properly. Not with a gag in her mouth and her face half-pressed into the pillows. You imagine after being denied what must be nearing ten orgasms at this point, her mind is also going a bit blank.
He presses the vibrator harder against her, making her back arch. “Tell me how sorry you are and maybe I’ll stop.”
That grabs her attention. Muffled, garbled, and barely full sentences immediately tumble from her lips, on the off chance that he’ll take pity on her and stop this edging torture. Her body shudders violently, cutting off her voice entirely.
Rather surprisingly, he does let up. Both toys disappear at once, and he watches her body collapse onto the bed, burning muscles unable to hold herself up any longer. But he doesn’t let the relief stay for long. His hand twists in her hair, yanking her upright until her back is against his chest. With the other, he rips the gag out – which was, in fact, his tie.
“I’ll give you one chance to tell me the truth,” he mutters in her ear, his other hand lingering dangerously close to her sore mound. “Did you just cum without permission? Yes or no.”
A sob tears itself from her throat, knowing that she’s been caught.
San pulls her hair again, causing her to yelp again. “Answer me,” he hisses, “and don’t you dare lie to me.”
“Y-yes, sir,” she whimpers, honest.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t let her go. He just makes her stay with that feeling of guilt, the shame of being caught, and the foreboding knowledge that he’s going to have to punish her again. With his free hand, he runs the pads of his fingers through her soaking wet folds, collecting the evidence for himself. To humiliate her even further, he shoves those fingers into her mouth, pressing on her tongue. She whines around them, which he rewards by shoving his fingers deeper, into her throat. Tears flow down her face and neck, already utterly fucked out and he hasn’t even touched her himself, really. He’s still fully clothed, for fuck’s sake.
San sighs, thinking aloud, “What should I do with you, hm?”
Busy choking and spluttering around the intrusion in her throat, she can’t answer him at all. He probably doesn’t want an answer, though. You have a feeling he knows exactly what he’s going to do with her.
Once again, you’re proven correct when he lets her go and pulls his fingers out of her mouth. He watches her gasp for air and cough violently for a fleeting moment of relative peace before dragging her back towards the edge of the bed.
“Fucking useless slut…” he mutters to himself, just audible enough for her to hear. “You wanna cum so bad? Fine.”
A new toy is brought into frame, this one looking more daunting than the other two. You can tell it’s one of those two-for-one types, and your heart goes out to her. It slips inside of her easily, though it’s thicker than the previous dildo, all but confirming once again that she did cum without his permission. This time, there’s no mystery or question about what he’s going to do to her. She knows. The knowing is almost worse than the not-knowing.
He switches it on without much ceremony. She does her best to not move or make a sound, but another orgasm builds rapidly. Too fast, too soon.
For seven straight orgasms, he just watches her. He doesn’t even touch himself even though you can tell he’s hard beneath those tailored pants. Her pleas fall on deaf ears, like he’s not even in the room. You’ve barely managed to keep up with her, coaxing two weak orgasms from your own body with just your fingers and already feeling exhausted. Fuck, maybe everyone’s right…
You tap the screen to see how much more of the video is left, and your eyebrows raise when you see there’s still ten more minutes. You decide to skim through, just curious if he ever does let her have his cock.
Spoiler alert: he does not.
In reality, the only thing he changes is that he jerks himself off, getting off on her screams and pleas for him to turn the toy off, that she’s had enough. For the last two orgasms he forces her through, he adds his thumb to her clit, circling it mercilessly.
“One more, come on. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To cum?”
Through her tears and scratchy voice, she warbles, “W-want– wanted you t-to fuck me…”
He only laughs at her, and it sends such a blow to your psyche.
“Did you really think I would?”
She screams again, mixing with her sobs and choked groans as the final orgasm rips through her worn-out body. The only act of kindness he gives her is removing the toy and kissing her back, in between her shoulder blades.
He takes his time to untie her ankles from the bedposts, his hands smoothing over the skin where the rope had been. Wrecked and twitching, she curls into a ball on the bed, pussy sore and swollen. Knowing this, San drags her back down towards the foot of the bed, forcing her legs apart again. Her hands weakly try to push him away, but he ducks down, licking a near-fatal stripe up her folds, sucking harshly on her clit. Voice basically gone, her scream is broken and breathy.
That’s a habit he has, you’ve noticed. Or maybe just a signature thing. No matter what, when he’s done with his scene partner, he gives their pussy one final lick. As if he’s sealing the deal. Something they’ll feel long after the cameras stop rolling, along with the ache of their inner walls.
San chuckles, patting her inner thigh with his hand before pulling her onto the floor, back down onto her knees. He doesn't say anything more as he jerks off in front of her, aiming his cock right at her face. He lets her suck on it, much to your surprise, and he eventually comes. Some of it inside of her mouth, and the rest, he smears across her face. The final act of humiliation for her.
You slam your laptop shut.
Holy. Shit.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
You come back to the forms after a cold shower and a half an hour long pacing session in your living room.
With a somewhat clearer head, you decide to take it one question at a time.
At first glance, you can’t help but feel like you’re filling out the forms you’d normally get in a doctor’s office. It covers everything. Height, weight, age, consent for Afterdark to inquire upon certain medical history to ensure the prevention of any diseases or illnesses, and payment information. On the next page, it goes deeper, and you almost want to take another lap before you dive in and check off any of the boxes.
There’s a checklist of kinks, each one with a box to check if any are ‘hard no’s’ or ‘hard yesses’for you. You gotta hand it to Afterdark, they’re very thorough. At the very top, just above this checklist, you notice two more boxes simply labelled ‘Rough’ and ‘Gentle’.
Ah.
This must be the reason that every video with San feels different. Not just because of whatever context they provide in the beginning of the video, but he never exactly has the same go-to way of fucking every time. Except of course, that parting move he’s so accustomed to doing. With some women, he takes it very slow, gentle and caring with lots of praise, and with others, like the one you just watched, he is ruthless and mean, denying orgasms and spanking them until their skin turns an alarming shade of red. They’ve tailored their own experience with him. That makes you feel a bit better actually, gives you more of a sense of control. You’re not just walking into this with no say in what he does to you, nor will you be blindsided. Actually, you’ll have a pretty good idea, and no worries that he’ll do something you’re uncomfortable with.
The empty boxes still taunt you. Which version of him do you want?
After much consideration, you eventually let fate decide. You pick both options. Rough and gentle. Let’s see what he does with that.
Moving on, forcing yourself to breathe slower, you continue down the list of kinks. Again, it’s very thorough, even asking for locations that you’d be okay filming in. You check off ‘hard no’ on most, if not all of the ‘bodily fluids’ section of the kink list. All except creampies, crying, and squirting. You wonder if he’ll be able to make you do that. If so, you don’t want to discourage him from it. You’re okay with toys, cunnilingus, fingers in your mouth, body worship, hair pulling, hickies, clothed sex, light bondage, the traffic light system, and spanking, just to name a few. You also mean to check off a hard ‘yes’ to aftercare. Aftercare is a non-negotiable for you. One of your exes never did that for you, and it’s been a dealbreaker ever since you got out of that relationship. You dislike feeling used after-the-fact. Discarded. It’s an ugly shock to your system, one that you’d like to avoid if possible.
Double checking everything on this page, you go to the third and final page.
In the top half, there’s an interactive calendar so you can input dates and times when you’re free to do the shoot. You’re pretty much free all the time, if you’re being honest. You just have a family wedding to go to in late August, two months from now. Though you’d rather do the shoot later in the day, not wanting to risk sleeping through it with your terrible sleep schedule. So, you mark every afternoon and evening as ‘available’.
In the bottom half of the page, there’s just one last question, accompanied by a text box: ‘Tell us about yourself, and what we can do to better tailor this experience for you.’
You have to admit, you weren’t expecting this kind of question to come up. They want to know about you? Tailor this opportunity for you?
Huh.
Your mind goes blank at first. What could they possibly want to know? What are they actually looking for? There’s really no telling.
Slowly, you type out a vague summary of where you grew up, why you started doing cam-shows, and that your favorite color is purple. When it comes to writing about how they can improve on this collaboration, your fingers hover over the keyboard. Stuck. You could just straight up not say anything, or just put ‘N/A’. But your inner professional tells you to answer it. You search yourself, wondering if there’s anything that would make you feel a little more comfortable while there. You assume they’ll provide a robe for you, or something to cover you up when you’re not filming, but you’ve also heard how ‘fucking cold’ porn sets are kept. Not exactly wanting to show up with a blanket from home, you decide that’ll be your one request.
‘If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like a blanket while on set. Thank you! :)’
You double – triple – check each form page, making sure you didn’t accidentally check something off or type in your information wrong. After you confirm that everything is accurate and spelled correctly, you click on the ‘submit’ button. A ‘thank you’ screen pops up, and you quickly exit the tab, not wanting to think about it anymore. It’s out of your hands now.
But speaking of the hands it’s now in, you have to set up a meeting time with this Kim Hongjoong guy.
Right. Okay, onto the next step.
In a new email, you type out all the dates and times you’re free – you may have made yourself sound busier than you actually are – and send it off to him. Glad to have everything done, you flop back against your pillows and groan. You replay all the images you’ve seen. All the things he’s done to multiple women.
You wonder what on earth he’ll do with you.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
It’s the next day that ends up being the meeting day.
You opt for a virtual meeting, reasoning that it’ll probably be quicker and easier for both of you. From what it sounds like, being employed by Afterdark and Choi San keeps Hongjoong rather busy.
You do your makeup and hair, wanting to look presentable. It’s the shirt that gives you a headache. You’re rather unsure how professional you should look. What does someone wear to a meeting like this? You look down at your chest, trying to mentally calculate how much of it is appropriate to show, and choosing a shirt based on that. Eventually, you just pick a nice triangle lace cami. Kim Hongjoong will just have to excuse the fact that it’s summer and hot in your apartment in the afternoons. You’ve been meaning to figure out how the air conditioning works. It’s hi-tech in a way that truly baffles you. You’ll get Yeosang to figure it out the next time he comes over.
Moving your laptop into the kitchen for the natural light, you try to shake the nerves out of your hands as you walk around the kitchen island. You grab a cold water from the fridge and drink half of it before forcing yourself to sit down. The meeting is set for two-thirty, just a few minutes away. You kind of want to scream into the pillows on your couch. This will be the final stage until you actually go through with this whole collaboration. The last buffer until it happens.
In the upper right hand corner, you see an email notification from Hongjoong, providing you with a link to a video chatroom. For a full sixty seconds, you pretend you haven’t seen it yet. But when that minute is up, and you have to be an adult, you take one more sip of water before clicking on the link and sneaking a glance at yourself in the reflection of your laptop as the camera loads.
There’s a small boop sound from your laptop, signalling that the call has been connected and you brace yourself for a scam. Your hand hovers above the trackpad, ready to hit ‘end call’ at a moment’s notice. When his camera finally loads, you breathe a little easier. He’s in an office based on context clues of what you can see around him, and he’s rather handsome himself. That admittedly takes you aback. He has short, dark brown hair, round eyes, and a charming smile once he sees you on his screen. He pushes his glasses further up his sharp nose, and leans forward in his seat a little bit.
“Miss Y/N! It’s so nice to talk with you today, how are you?”
“I’m doing well, thank you. Are you the one I’ve been emailing?” You ask when he doesn’t introduce himself by name. You just want to clarify.
He laughs to break any awkward tension, “Yes, that’s me. My apologies, I’m San’s agent, Kim Hongjoong.”
“Okay, good.” You smile back, shoulders relaxing a little more. His dress shirt makes you feel a bit… well, underdressed, but when you notice that the top two buttons are undone, it makes you feel a bit better. He’s clearly not going for ultra-professional right now either. Off camera, in your lap, you play with one of your rings, giving your nervous hands something to do.
Unexpectedly, the first ten minutes are spent just making small-talk, especially after finding out you and him grew up around the same area. He asks you how you like the city, and you find yourself telling him about how much you love it, and that you never want to leave. Turns out he shares the same sentiment. It’s starting to feel less like a rigid job interview and more like a casual interaction. Nothing to be afraid of. You feel much more comfortable than you did ten minutes ago, that’s for sure.
Hongjoong eventually looks over to the side, where his desktop computer is and starts clicking around, the light reflecting off of his glasses. And you realize that it’s time to actually start talking about the collab. You fix your earring for no real reason, just to give yourself something to do.
“So, I’ve received the forms you completed – thank you for doing that, by the way – and I was wondering if you have any questions for me about them?”
You pause before you answer. Now’s the time to ask, and with the right person, too. Humming to fill the silence, you think about a good question to ask first.
Hongjoong picks up his phone when it starts vibrating incessantly, and looks at the screen for only a few seconds before placing it face down on his desk. Someone must be trying to get in touch with him, but he doesn’t bother with replying right now. You know it must be important, whatever it is, so you appreciate him keeping you the center of his attention right now.
“I guess I’ve been wondering about… like… if I check off certain boxes will we do all of that? Or…?”
Very eloquent.
Luckily, he doesn’t seem to think anything of it. “Oh, no, no. Usually what happens is we take a look at it, figure out which ones would work best together and with you and San, and take it from there. It’s just to see what you’re comfortable with and to see which direction you want this collab to go.”
That makes sense. And now that you think about it, what if someone puts a ‘hard yes’ next to something that San would check off as a ‘hard no’, obviously they wouldn’t do it. It’s a mutual agreement. They find the things that match between you two and take it from there.
“Actually,” Hongjoong says with a small grin, still scrolling through the forms on his computer. “You two are pretty similar. It wasn’t hard to match up.”
You hear it but your brain doesn’t process what it means yet.
“Oh, really?” You say, not knowing how else to respond.
Hongjoong just hums, nodding once. He pushes his glasses up again before turning back to you.
“Regardless of that, though, I wanted to also let you know that if at any point during the shoot you feel uncomfortable and want to leave, you can, and you will be paid in full, no questions asked. Obviously though, if you leave before, or if you don’t show up at all, we can’t really do anything to pay you. We have this in place because we don’t want you to feel trapped once the scene starts. Does that make sense?”
You nod quickly, “Yes, it does.”
“Perfect,” he says. “So, with your schedule that you sent me, if you’re okay with it, we can set the date relatively soon. Is this coming Friday, at six o’clock alright?”
Friday. As in… Friday, two days from now, Friday? Your mouth dries instantly. Two days from now. Is he not busy? You assumed this wouldn’t happen for a couple of weeks, at least. A delusional voice in your head tells you that maybe he cleared his schedule to be with you sooner rather than later. Oh, sure. Yeah, right.
Still, it baffles you.
And yet you hear yourself say, “Friday’s good for me!”
Well, now it has to be whether you’re ready or not. Your hands itch for your phone, needing to text Yeosang immediately, even though you know he’ll probably find your dilemma rather entertaining. You also need to book a waxing appointment and get your nails done ASAP. Maybe even a facial, too.
Fucking hell, Y/N, the things you get yourself into.
Hongjoong lights up, quickly typing something on his keyboard, scrunching his nose once or twice to keep his glasses from moving down again. A few more clicks of his mouse, and it’s done.
“Okay, perfect. I’ve got you booked for six o’clock this Friday. If you could email me where you’d like our driver to pick you up, that’d be great. Otherwise, do you have any other questions, comments, or concerns for me?”
Your lips part. Driver? Someone from Afterdark is going to bring you to the set? Your right hand grips your phone, turning it over and preparing to call Yeosang as soon as you hang up with Hongjoong.
Fuck, okay. Sure, why not?
“Oh, um–” you suddenly remember one thing he hasn’t mentioned at all. “Is there a script? Like, do I need to know any lines before…?”
Hongjoong answers right away, “Ah, this shoot will be unscripted. It’ll feel more natural that way.”
More natural. Your heart feels like a brick in your chest. To be honest though, you’re really glad there is no script. However, a rubric would be helpful as well. You nod, acknowledging that information. So it really will be like the videos you watched. That’s the experience you’ll be getting.
“Okay, cool,” you reply, desperately needing another drink of water for your dry mouth. “Thank you.”
Hongjoong smiles politely. “No problem. Alright, well if everything sounds good, we’ll see you on Friday! Thank you for taking the time to speak with me today.”
We.
Again, he’s probably just talking about the company, but Yeosang’s words from yesterday are stuck in your head. Your secret delusions and Yeosang’s smart mouth are never a good mix.
“See you Friday! Thank you.” You reply politely, the very picture of calmness and professionalism.
And once the call disconnects, you’re slamming your laptop shut and calling Yeosang to tell him everything.
He picks up on the third ring, yawning and obviously not fully awake just yet. You forgot he went out with his friend last night. Still, it’s definitely time for him to be awake now.
As expected, once you rattle off every detail of the call you were just on, Yeosang laughs his ass off.
“Oh man,” he says with an audible sigh, “you’re fucked.”
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
Part of you wishes that the driver will somehow get hopelessly lost on the way to the set.
You’re sure he’s been there multiple times before, but you pray for a random dose of amnesia anyway. It’s not that you’re second-guessing the decision – not at all – you just weren’t expecting the day to come so soon. It’s crazy how forty-eight hours now seems like no time at all. You shake out your hands as you step out of the car, and look up at the building. It’s rather unassuming, blending seamlessly into the numerous ones around it. Nothing about it screams that this is where adult films are produced. Not that you really expected it to.
The driver parks with the hazards on, and gets out as well to let you into the building via a keycard. You thank him quietly as he holds the door open for you. He must’ve told you his name, but for the life of you, you cannot remember it. He points you in the direction of the elevators, and confirms that he’ll see you later to drive you home.
Then, you’re alone. He gets back into the car and drives it around the building, to an underground parking garage you assume.
You take a deep breath in the lobby, finding the elevators quickly and starting towards them. Hongjoong said the shoot is on the eighth floor, so you press the ‘8’ button once in the elevator car.
As soon as the doors shut, the silence and gravity of what you’re there to do settles in immediately. You force yourself to take a deep breath, really dragging out how long you exhale to try and ease your heart rate. The second floor comes and goes, as does the third. But the higher you climb, the tighter your throat becomes. On floor five, you think of bailing. Past the sixth floor, already almost there, Yeosang’s custom text ringtone startles you. Glad to distract yourself, you immediately read the text.
[yeoyeo🌻]: don’t let him intimidate you, you’re the one he wanted for this
[yeoyeo🌻]: remember he’s literally just some guy and you’ll be fine
[yeoyeo🌻]: you’re gonna be great :)
You can’t help but smile, and you roll your shoulders back to stand taller. He’s right, as always. Choi San is many things, but at the end of the day, he is just a man. You have to view this as a very elaborate hookup rather than a career opportunity, just to calm your nervous system if anything else.
When the elevator doors open on the eighth floor, someone is already waiting for you on the other side.
Hongjoong.
You don’t realize until this moment how relieved you are to see a somewhat familiar face.
“Miss Y/N,” he greets, extending his hand out for you to shake, “it’s so nice to meet you in person.”
You smile warmly, returning the greeting and hoping that your handshake is up to par. Before you have time to possibly overthink such a small thing, he asks if you need anything.
“Oh, um…no, not at the moment, thank you.”
“Of course,” he nods once. “If you do need something at any time, please let one of us know.”
You assume that ‘one of us’ probably means the team of people you’re about to meet and be fucked in front of. Forcing another deep breath, you manage another easy smile and thank him again.
He motions for you to follow him, and you have to look down at your feet to get them to move. You beg yourself inwardly to get a grip and soon.
Hongjoong leads you down a long hallway, deeper into the Afterdark floorplan. You’re surprised by how nice it smells in here, like someone is burning incense somewhere. The walls are decorated with miscellaneous artworks and some awards, as well as headshots of the actors and actresses signed with them. At the end of the hallway, there are two huge double doors, and he pulls one of them open with ease, letting you walk into the gigantic room it reveals first.
When you finally enter the large set, you can instantly feel the drastic temperature drop. Just as you had been led to believe, they must have turned down the thermostat in the room, making it several degrees colder than the early summer weather outside, and you rub your arms to try and warm them up.
No more than five seconds after the two of you enter, Hongjoong is suddenly flanked by a young woman with a clipboard. A sticky note flutters as she keeps pace with you and him, and she mutters something to him that you can’t hear.
“No, that’s alright,” he says quietly, “I think he’s good without her right now, but double check for me, please.”
You keep your eyes on the floor, pretending that you didn’t hear anything, but your mind races. Who is ‘she’, you wonder? As quickly as she appeared, the assistant scurries off, past the camera and lighting crews, and over countless miscellaneous wires with practiced ease.
While the two of you walk, you’re rather relieved that no one is staring at you as you go by. You’re just another actress to them, and right now, that’s okay with you. And luckily, the path Hongjoong is taking you on is relatively close to the perimeter of the set, so you’re not exactly the center of attention right now. A part of the wall juts out, making it look like a closet, but once he opens the door, you see it’s a dressing room. Complete with vanity lights, a full bathroom, and a brand new silk robe for you to wear on set, hanging up by the door. There’s also a small, plush couch up against the wall next to the vanity that you have a feeling you will be texting Yeosang on as soon as you’re left alone.
“This is all yours for the day,” Hongjoong says, “someone will come around in a minute to help with hair and makeup, and then we’ll start.”
You nod, swallowing down as much of your anxiety as possible.
“Will you, um–” you ask before you can stop yourself. Hongjoong pauses before he heads out, waiting expectantly for you to finish your question. “Are you gonna be on set the whole time?”
His expression changes into something akin to surprise. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting you to ask anything about himself. He doesn’t answer straight away, taking a moment to try and understand why you’re asking that. You can almost see the professional within him piecing together a corporate response in real time.
“We try to limit how many people are in the room to those who are absolutely necessary. I usually stay close in case someone needs me. Why?”
You wave your hand, trying to brush everything off. “No, I was just wondering. Nevermind. Thank you!”
Hongjoong looks like he’s about to say something, but ultimately leaves you alone, gently closing the door behind him.
As soon as it clicks shut, you’re moving to sit on the couch, ready to call Yeosang, but you stop yourself at the last minute. You’re acting crazy, you do realize that. And you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll tell you the exact same thing.
Instead, to satiate your need to call him, you reread his last three texts of encouragement.
Lock in. Remember who the hell you are. Now.
You put on some ego-boosting music so you’re not just getting ready in silence, and quickly undress before hair and makeup arrive. Folded neatly on the vanity, is your outfit for the scene. A tight, cropped black lace cami, and a plaid mini skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination.
No panties anywhere in sight. No bra, either. Total and easy access.
Your lower stomach starts to heat up, already envisioning how San might go about undressing you. From what you’ve seen, rarely does he let girls undress themselves. No, he wants to be the one to do it. Like he’s unwrapping a present, just for him.
After you throw your hoodie onto the couch with the rest of your pile of clothes, you turn back to the vanity, noticing a small army of mini water bottles lined up and waiting for you if need be. You’re almost positive that if you look in the vanity drawer, you’ll find snacks as well. Maybe you can get used to this. But you’ll wait to give your final verdict after the job you came here to do is done. It’s best to wait.
You’re only waiting for a minute or two before there’s a light knock on the door. Two women wearing face masks enter the dressing room, bowing to you and introducing themselves. You try to remember their names – Youngmi, you think is the makeup artist, and Rina, the hair stylist – but your brain is elsewhere, working double overtime to try to calm you down. Luckily, the Britney Spears song in the background is doing a lot of the heavy lifting. Youngmi and Rina are quick, and good at what they do. Rina makes you laugh by scrunching her nose and singing along to the song as she brushes through your hair. Youngmi only rolls her eyes at her colleague, but it’s all in good fun.
By the time they’re done, you no longer feel like the scared outsider that doesn’t look the part. They made you even more beautiful.
There she is, you think as you admire yourself in the mirror.
You sigh in relief, feeling much more confident than before. And not only that, you feel ready. It’s not the easiest thing to turn your nervousness into excitement, but somehow, this time, you manage to do it. So many girls would kill to be in your shoes right now – or, in your skirt. You had kicked your shoes off next to the couch.
You make sure to thank Youngmi and Rina before they bring you out, not knowing if you’ll have a chance once you’re on set. With one more spritz of your perfume that you brought with you from home, and a last minute decision to bring the robe out with you, you finally follow them out towards the set. Just mere feet from where you’ll be… ‘performing’.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
As you’re walking and looking around, you start to wonder if San makes it a point to surround himself with equally beautiful people. Or maybe it’s a company requirement.
Sure, maybe Hongjoong, Youngmi, and Rina are just coincidences, but even the camera and lighting crew are arguably just as pretty. Speaking of Hongjoong, you look around, noting that he isn’t anywhere to be found at the moment. He’s probably with his talent right now.
When you’re introduced to the director, you almost say something about it. Everyone in this room is attractive. Conventionally, unconventionally, and everything in between.
“Hello Ms. Y/L/N, I’m Choi Jongho, I’ll be directing you two today.” He introduces himself, bowing politely and shaking your hand.
You bow your head and reply, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”
He offers you a chair to sit in while everyone waits for San to come out, and you take it gratefully. You don’t know how long he’ll be. Youngmi and Rina excuse themselves, heading off in the other direction together, walking with purpose. You drape your robe across the back of it, unsure if you’re supposed to give it to someone or take it with you onto the set.
“Would you like anything to drink, Ms. Y/L/N?” The director asks, noticing that you don’t have anything with you ready for any breaks.
Director Choi only refers to you as “Ms. Y/L/N.” Very professional, cordial even. Makes you feel like more than an object his star is about to fuck on screen. You’re being treated with real respect, which is a pleasant surprise in comparison to what you had expected from the porn industry.
You look around yourself, only just now realizing you didn’t take one of those mini water bottles from your dressing room like you originally planned.
“A water, please–” you start to say. As soon as the last syllable of ‘water’ is spoken, an assistant hands you one. You didn’t even see him standing next to you, much less holding a bottle. Then again, you aren’t really paying attention to whether or not people are carrying water bottles or not right now. Damn.
You try to warm up your arms by rubbing them, now that you’re virtually wearing next to nothing in this arctic-like room. Only a few moments later, a blanket is handed over to you wordlessly by another assistant, a quick bow following the action. You tilt your head down as a responding bow, shocked. You didn’t even have to say anything.
Is this what San is used to? Everything given to him at once, on a silver platter with no questions asked? You imagine every single thing handed to him accompanied by hopeful, round eyes looking at him for his approval, only to be ignored or thanked by a small nod. You’re so used to doing everything yourself, this type of treatment makes you feel… stuck up – and every fiber of your being screams at you to make sure none of the staff think that of you.
“San will be out in just a moment,” Director Choi says, but his heart isn't in it. He checks his watch and glances towards San's dressing room with nearly well-concealed impatience. It is rather late in the day, and you only just now think about the possibility that they may have been here since early morning. Maybe even shooting San with someone else. It’s entirely possible. You can imagine they all just want to get this last one done and go home. None of them would ever let that show, though. No, you have to admit everyone here is quite professional.
Your hands absentmindedly twirl a strand of hair around your finger as you zone out. At least for now, you can zone out with a blanket wrapped around you.
The air shifts just moments later.
It’s like a sudden pressure drop where everything goes still for only a second. That one second feels like a lifetime as you turn your head to see what’s going on. Though, in your heart you know exactly what it is without needing to look – it’s the arrival of the main attraction.
From where you are, leaned back in your chair, you can’t see him too well. He’s surrounded by a team that moves with him like a clump of cells, or maybe in this case, like sheep in a herd. Finishing touchups by Youngmi and Rina, an assistant by his side carrying a medium-sized leather bag and holding his coffee cup when San hands it to him, and other miscellaneous characters that float around the star. Everyone wants to be near him in some way.
Hongjoong stays at the back of it all, looking down at his phone as he walks.
The team finally disperses one by one, revealing more of Choi San to your eyes.
When San finally gets close enough to you, whatever air in your lungs is promptly sucker-punched out of you at the sight of his refreshing beauty. It’s even more pronounced in real life. You’re not entirely sure how to greet him, or what he’s used to. But you remember Yeosang’s encouragement again: He’s just a guy. Don’t let him intimidate you. You’re gonna be great.
He’s just a guy. You’ve dealt with those before. It’s just that this guy in particular is crafted like an apology for creating men in the first place. And a couple of days ago, you were watching him make a girl cry on a bed that looks quite similar to the one on set right now.
You stand up, smoothing down your skirt and standing still, hands clasped in front of you.
“Hey Jongho, sorry we’re late,” Hongjoong calls over, pocketing his phone. He side-eyes San, who bows his head in apology as he walks.
The director waves him off, clearly used to his tardiness and the apologies that follow. “It’s alright,” he says, “you’re actually earlier than we thought you’d be.”
“We need to go over the rules with her,” San says once he’s close enough to you and the director, sounding tired. You wonder if he just woke up. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt as he speaks, and catches you looking. You don’t see it when you quickly avert your eyes, but his whole demeanor changes. No longer lethargic, he becomes awake and alert at the sight of you.
Director Choi nods and grabs a clipboard from his own director’s chair. You nervously roll your ankle, hearing it crack quietly in the interim.
“Right, number one rule is consent. If at any time you want to stop, just say the word. No questions asked. Second rule is to keep all details of this shoot private, including any conversations with each other,” At this, Director Choi looks up at you. “Third rule is health and safety, but Hongjoong said you covered that with him, and when you sent in the form,” Again, his eyes flick up from the clipboard to glance at you. “Fourth is to be respectful at all times – there’s no room for ego here. And lastly, don’t look at the camera unless told to, otherwise keep the illusion.”
You go over each rule in your head before you forget. Consent, confidentiality, feel safe, be respectful, and don’t look at the camera. Simple enough. You keep your chin up, and shoulders back. You force that annoying inner voice of self-doubt to mumble the lyrics of the Britney song from earlier.
“Follow these, and we’ll have a great shoot day. We should be ready to go in just a few minutes.” Director Choi offers both of you a quick smile before he turns on his heel and walks towards the cameraman, getting everything finalized and ready to shoot. Your heart pounds underneath the robe. Hongjoong steps closer to San, muttering something to him before walking back towards the dressing room.
You’re just about to walk over to the set to get used to it and be ready to go whenever they are, when San steps right in front of you, effectively blocking the way.
Out of the blue, he crowds your personal space, and you have to really dig deep to make yourself stay put. Right where you stand. Don’t be intimidated. At the end of the day, you’re both here to do the same job, and both of you are successful in your own rights. He’s just a man, you remind yourself again.
San towers over you, his shirt opened just enough for you to see his perfectly toned and tan chest right in your face. You keep eye contact, even though all you want to do is look away. It’s much easier to be confident and independent on your own turf, but here on his, it’s more of a challenge. Still, you stand your ground. You have to if he’s going to keep sizing you up. He has been since he walked out here.
“You didn’t cum,” he says matter-of-factly.
…
Pardon? Did you hear him right? What an odd opening line to say to someone you’re meeting for the first time.
Your lips part and eyebrows furrow, rather startled. “I’m sorry?”
There’s no way you heard him correctly.
“Your last liveshow,” he shrugs. “Am I right?”
Well… yes, but– how did–?
Is this how he starts all of his conversations? With a personal accusation?
“That’s alright. We all do it sometimes,” he shrugs again. He leans down so his mouth is next to your ear and lowers his voice. “You’re not gonna fake it with me, though,” he says, and the terrifying thing is that he sounds genuine. It’s not unfounded cockiness or meaningless bravado. He means what he says in all seriousness. He says it like you shouldn’t worry about it. Like it’s a promise.
And you exhibit monumental self-control to not clench your thighs together at this moment.
Your mind races at a million miles a minute. That, you didn’t expect. Isn’t that all that porn is? Fake, overblown orgasms for the girls and endless, guaranteed pleasure regardless for the men? You’re starting to think that this may not be the case with him. You think about the videos you watched as part of your ‘research’, and a bolt of electricity zips up your spine. You never doubted that he made his costars feel good, but you know full well that a lot of porn actresses pretend that they’ve cum with their scene partner. But with him, now you know: all of the girls weren’t acting. In fact, you really doubt that they needed to fake just how good he made them feel. The last video you watched of him comes back to mind… you wonder if he’ll make you scream like that too.
Unsure of how to respond to that, you just take a small step backwards to put some distance between you two. Room to think and process if possible. But he’s relentless, and he seems to like getting up in people’s space. A mischievous glint in his eye tells you that he’s enjoying this particular encounter especially. He’s definitely the type of guy that finds it fun to make girls flustered or nervous.
You swallow hard.
“You sound rather confident,” you note, still trying your best to hold eye contact with him. To not back down or seem weak. You’re sure it’s not working. You just refuse to melt all over him, or suck up to him. Especially not when he’s the one who asked you here.
Surprisingly, he smirks. “Shouldn’t I be? I’ve done my research, I know you probably have done yours as well.”
So you were right. Yeosang, too. San has seen your content before. And not only has he seen your previous works, he was right there with you, watching your last live. Your speculation sounds a lot like confirmation now.
“Does that make you nervous, kitten?” He whispers, tilting his head slightly to the side like he’s about to kiss you. He could if he just leaned forward a couple more inches.
A little, you admit to yourself. Your heart hammers against your chest like it’s trying to push you forward, to get closer to him. At this proximity, you can easily smell his cologne and dammit, somehow it makes him even more attractive. You’re almost getting annoyed with him now. Surely there should be at least one flaw to him, something that makes him human like the rest of the world.
“No,” you lie, “I’m fine.” Arms crossed. Eyes up.
San laughs lightly, and his smile instantly becomes the most attractive thing about him so far, even if it’s at your own expense.
“If you say so,” he shrugs again.
He doesn’t move away from you, though. Not right away. His gaze lingers on your lips for a fleeting moment, which gives you just enough time to come up with a question of your own.
“So, you’re a fan of mine?”
At that, he pauses. But, he doesn’t shy away from it.
“Yeah,” he says, owning up to it immediately. He straightens back up as you nod, taking in the information. “Have been for a while now. I saw that other collab you did with that guy, it was really fuckin’ hot.”
You make a mental note to let Yeosang know he was right about that, as well. To be honest, you weren’t expecting the compliment.
“I’m– glad you liked it,” you say, clearing your throat in the middle of the sentence. You’re doing pretty well on the outside despite your nervousness beginning to rise again on the inside. San studies you once more, like he’s searching for something on you that only he can see. You step back again and turn your face away from him as you take a sip from your water bottle, taking your time to screw the cap back on.
“Mm… you’re even prettier in real life,” he says, so casually it almost doesn’t register.
You nearly swallow wrong, just barely avoiding choking on the small amount of water still left in your mouth. Luckily, Director Choi calls over to you two to start making your way onto set.
The final few minutes begin to tick down.
You don’t attempt to hide the deep breath you take, but you do try to not make it very noticeable. Placing the water bottle onto the chair you were just in, you clear your throat again.
“Any final advice or warnings for me before we start?” You ask, keeping your voice casual and light. It’s a subtle dig to him, but you mean no malice behind the words. Fortunately, he picks up on it.
“Oh, tons,” he grins, keeping pace with you onto the set. It’s almost easy to forget the cameras.
You steal a glance at him as you walk, the floor bitterly cold beneath your feet. With each step the bed gets closer and closer. Now finally getting a chance to see the set in detail, you’re pretty impressed. It’s a pretty realistic bedroom setting, complete with shelves decorated with trinkets and records, but vague enough to have no specific personality. Nobody’s going to be admiring the set design when they watch this. Still, you appreciate the effort made by the production team to make it feel real.
The lights facing you are blinding and you wince when you accidentally look right into one. Good incentive to not look that way, you suppose.
San sits on the edge of the bed. “You get used to it,” he says, nodding towards the lights.
You nod as well, placing a hand above your heart, willing it to stop racing.
Noticing this, San takes your hand and guides you to sit down next to him. You do feel a bit better now that you’re sitting. You keep your eyes down to avoid burning your retinas, and turn your head slightly towards him. He shifts a little closer, positioning his body so he’s facing you.
“Nervous?” He asks rhetorically, knowing full well that you are. He’s still holding your hand, playing with each of your fingers one by one.
“Obvious?” You reply, managing to laugh at yourself, despite your nerves.
San grins, his eyes turning into crescents, and that dimple in his cheek reappearing. “Only a little bit. But, I’ve seen worse.”
You hum in response. Being reminded of his experience, leaps and bounds ahead of yours, does nothing to help your anxiety. You just hope you can live up to the fantasy version of your own self. That’s the version of you he invited.
Where’s Britney when you need her?
You push your hair back, a minute attempt to self-soothe in some way. You only realize halfway through the action that Rina probably just clutched her pearls somewhere past the lights, cursing you for messing up her work. Oh, well. According to what you’ve seen and the information you’ve gathered, your hair’s gonna be plenty messed up anyway.
The room is starting to become a lot less crowded. Just like Hongjoong had said, only the essential people stay on set to make sure everything goes smoothly and safely. Everyone else becomes fading background noise, filtering out into the hallway you first came in from.
But less distractions means you notice the man right next to you even more.
You can feel San’s eyes on you.
It’s not an uncomfortable feeling, quite the opposite actually. The weight of it is light, soft around the edges as he appreciates how he managed to practically will you onto this set with him. You’d been sure you may be insecure around him because of his almost unnatural beauty, but… actually, having his eyes on you right now makes you a bit more confident. He’s not looking at anyone else but you. Not just looking, but admiring.
His gaze drifts down, greedily drinking in the sight of your collarbone and legs – the only skin you’re revealing at the moment. If the crew would just hurry up, he’ll be able to see more.
Fortunately, he’s never been one to wait to get what he wants. Especially not in this industry. And right now, he wants you.
“I meant it, by the way,” he says quietly, “you’re beautiful.”
Without any water to choke on, or an interruption from the director, you simply look up at him, finally meeting his eyes. There’s no trace of irony anywhere. Not in what he said, and not hidden somewhere within his features. The genuinity, and the doubling-down of the compliment takes you aback.
“Thank you… you’re quite beautiful yourself.” You compliment him back, shifting how you’re sitting to face him as well.
By now, your knee is touching his. Even this small amount of contact between you makes your shoulders tense again. You’re not sure why, but you just want to melt into him already. Perhaps due to the undeniable attraction you feel towards him.
Maybe it’s the insane sexual tension between you both, that very well could be the root cause as well.
You remember how real his scenes look… this must be how the chemistry is kindled. Starting before the cameras capture anything, it makes it all seem less like a show. And you know what? Until the director yells ‘cut’, you’re more than willing to match that energy.
His hand moves from yours to rest on your thigh, slowly, like he’s silently asking for permission to continue. When you don’t flinch or push him away, he hikes up your skirt just an inch or two higher, exposing more of your skin. The light ghost of his touch makes you freeze in place. It’s already dizzying enough to have him in such close proximity, and now adding in the electricity of his touch, it’s a whole other level. And this, you assume, is just the warmup. Getting you used to the feeling of his hands on you. It’s nice that it doesn’t feel wrong.
The lighting crew dims one of the lights and one of them loudly asks the director if it looks good on camera. Distracted, you turn back to look their way again, but San gently cups your face with his hand, making you face him instead.
He hums, looking down between your still-clothed bodies. His other hand dips under the hem of your skirt, and your breath hitches. Worrying too much about the crew still, you look back to see if this is alright to do before the cameras start rolling.
“Don’t look at the camera, kitten,” San purrs, “I believe that was rule number five.”
“Oh, shut up,” you mumble without any real bite to your words.
That smile of his returns, and the energy between you becomes even more charged. The moment right before someone gives in after holding back for too long.
San never looks anywhere else, entirely focused on you. It doesn't matter to him that there’s about twenty people still in the same room, all witnessing this ‘warm-up’ unfold. It barely fazes him. He’s experienced in this setting, way more used to it than you are. You just have to roll with it.
His hand on your face drops back down to the mattress as his wrist turns, and you inhale sharply when he lightly drags his fingers through your wet folds. He hums again, clearly satisfied.
“What’s got you this wet already, kitten?”
Your lips part to answer, but he finds your clit before you can speak. This time, you gasp quietly before you can stop yourself. Once again, you glance over at the crew, wondering if anyone is watching the two of you. You can’t see very well because of the lights and the various equipment in the way, but several of the crew and team are.
San smirks, pressing the pads of his fingers harder against your clit. “You like the attention?” He asks, following your gaze. “It’s different from your little camshow isn’t it? Now the audience is only a few feet away…”
His fingers begin to move in small circles, occasionally dipping further down to collect your wetness before bringing it back up to your clit.
“San–” you breathe, catching his wrist in a semi-firm grip. Not to move it away, but just to hold onto something. Jesus, the shoot hasn’t even officially started yet, but you’re about to beg them to hurry up so it can.
San just moves closer to you, his eyes greedily drinking in your cute expression. His voice is quieter, so only you can hear him. “Already thought about all the ways I’m gonna make this pretty cunt cum for me. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.”
Another promise.
A shiver runs down your spine, and that’s the moment the crew decides that they’re ready to shoot.
San pulls away like nothing happened, even smoothing down your skirt for you. You force yourself to breathe through your nose, steadying your pulse. You quickly look down, checking to see if your top is still on straight.
Director Choi walks up to you both for final notes. “Alright, no script so we’re mostly gonna follow your lead, just let us know when one of you needs a quick break. All three cameras are going to be rolling, and one handheld. You remember all the rules?” He looks over to you.
You nod quickly, unable to meet his eye right now. The back of your hand lifts to your cheek to check how hot it’s gotten – as if you need additional confirmation. You hope you didn’t smudge your makeup or wipe some of it off by accident, but you imagine that if it shows up on camera, they’ll stop to fix it.
“Okay, then we’re ready to go.”
San thanks him as he walks off, turning his attention back onto you. Your gaze has dropped down to your lap, breaths kind of erratic from the little show you and him just put on, and from nerves. But you manage to pull yourself together, externally at least. All you really have to do now is look pretty for the camera. You can do that. Except for the live audience, this isn’t much different to a camshow, really.
And aren’t you here for your fans anyway? Sure, you also wanted the opportunity and experience, but it’s also for your fans. The ones who supported you enough to even get noticed by Afterdark and San in the first place. You imagine they’ll make up at least half of the view count whenever this video drops. You’re performing for them. Not for the strangers in the room.
Once that clicks for you, all your anxiety melts away, freeing you to finally just… enjoy this. Why not? You deserve it.
Plus, you’re quite eager to pick up right where you and San left off just moments ago – and it seems that San is too.
His gaze becomes heavier, darker as he shifts into his on-screen persona.
“C’mere, kitten, want you on my lap to start.” He says, moving back on the bed a little more and gently pulling you towards him.
You straddle his legs, slow to sit down fully. Now slightly above and closer than before, you can’t look anywhere else but at him. His hands slowly trail up your thighs again, watching you the whole time. You stop breathing when his fingertips tease the hem of your skirt again. He can probably feel through those dress pants he’s in how wet you are. Equally though, you can feel how hard he’s getting.
Subtly, you grind your hips down onto him. The immediate pleasure of the friction against your bare pussy makes your eyes roll back. One of his hands sneaks to your hip, gripping it tightly, and you meet his eyes again.
“It’s just you and me,” he says quietly, breath fanning across your cheek.
You nod, eyes fluttering closed again as you grind into him once more. “Okay…”
Through your pleasurable hazy fog, you faintly hear someone yell, ‘Action!’.
And San stops holding back.
The hand on your hip pushes you back and pulls you in, encouraging you to keep grinding on him – and to not stop anytime soon. His other hand moves to your hair, keeping your face close to his as he finally kisses you. His lips are pleasantly soft, and he tastes like peppermint. You hope you do too, you probably brushed your teeth at least four times before the driver showed up outside your apartment building. San seems to have no complaints as he moans quietly, his hand tightens in your hair.
Your whole body feels electric, every touch amplified by a thousand. He makes out with you slow and deep, savouring the taste of you, and groans into your mouth with each roll of your hips.
San tilts your chin up to kiss your neck, hiding his face from the camera. “Never answered my question,” he whispers, barely audible so his voice doesn’t get picked up by any of the overhead microphones.
You disguise your response as a moan, “Hm?”
He licks a small stripe up your neck, right up to your ear and looks down between you. You follow his gaze, only to find a wet patch staining his pants already.
Ah.
His question from mere minutes ago: What’s got you this wet already?
“So wet for me,” he murmurs, a bit louder. It’s alright if the microphones pick that up. “Wonder why…”
It’s the knowing smirk that does it. You move to undress him first, intriguing him. He didn’t expect you to be so bold right out of the gate. But, you have an on-screen persona of your own. Now both of your characters are out to play.
In your dwindling patience, you come close to just ripping the shirt off when you fumble with one of the buttons. San finds your lips again as you push the offending fabric off of him, eager to explore his newly exposed body. But you’re next.
Both of his hands lift up your shirt until it comes off over your head, forcing you two to break apart for a moment. Neither of you wait to make up for that lost time. You drape your arms around his shoulders, one of your hands lightly tugging at the roots of his hair. At first, your whole body erupts in goosebumps from the cold air now hitting your upper body as well, and not just your arms, but you can’t blame your reaction entirely on the temperature.
San must notice how your shoulders hunch a little and how you press further into him, because he is quick to warm you up.
One arm around your waist, he pulls you closer, chests touching. The first brush of your peaked nipples against his skin makes you gasp into his mouth. He nips at your bottom lip, distracting you while his hand moves from the back of your head, down to one of your breasts. His thumb flicks over the sensitive bud there and you have to duck your head down to catch your breath for a second. You grind down onto him again, adding to your arousal tenfold.
Refusing to prolong this any longer, San suddenly flips you onto the bed, underneath him. His hand returns between your legs, fingers shallowly dipping into your entrance and circling your clit. He keeps just out of your reach, his lips so frustratingly close to yours. You glance down to watch him. The visual of his hand disappearing underneath your skirt, the veins in his arm beginning to rise and pop, and the heat of his body against yours is all starting to add up.
You tug at your own skirt, looking up at him with doe eyes. He nods twice, understanding. In no time at all, your skirt is unzipped and pulled down your legs, discarded somewhere onto the floor.
Now fully exposed, San pauses.
The tempo of the scene slows abruptly as he takes his time to look at your body, laying so prettily beneath him. He looks at your body like he’s deciding where to start first, with too many enticing options. You drag your hands down his chest, lightly scratching him and making him shiver in the process. This, you realize, is how he makes every scene feel legit. He takes his time to admire his partner, make them feel admired and wanted. You have to admit, it does work its magic. Not just for the audience, but for you as well.
He catches both of your wrists, bringing your hands together to kiss them both before guiding them down above your head.
“Keep them here,” he murmurs, kissing you once more.
You barely have time to enjoy or savor the taste of him again before he moves to kiss your neck. Eyes closing, you sigh into the feeling, wanting to commit this to memory. He doesn’t stay in one place for long, moving down to kiss your chest next. Soft, wet warmth once again wraps around your nipple and you arch your back to try and get more of it. You twist your hands in the sheets above you, keeping them anchored there just like he instructed.
San then moves further down, ghosting his lips past your stomach. You part your legs to accommodate him, and he kneels on the floor, gently pushing your legs further apart. He drags this out, just to torture you, you think. His intentions and what he’s about to do are clear, but he’s a professional at driving his partners crazy. The kisses turn to licks, right next to your labia. So tantalizingly close.
If your eyes were open, you’d see that he’s been watching you the entire time, trying to pace himself as best he can. You’re actually lucky there’s a job to do here because if it was just the two of you alone, he doesn’t think he’d be holding himself back from just taking what he wants.
To him, this is all just a chance for him to prove himself to you. To him, you’re the star. And he’s going to make sure you leave this set more than satisfied. Wanting for nothing.
But he’s not going to start until you beg him to.
His breath fans across your wet lower lips and your hands find his hair again, trying to push his mouth where you need him. You hear him laugh, exhaling through his nose before moving your hands away.
“Thought I told you to keep your hands up there, kitten,” he reminds you, with a slight warning edge to his voice.
Oh, shit, you realize all too late. The last video flashes through your mind, and he feels you tense up. He kisses your hipbone to calm you down.
“Be a good girl and keep them above your head,” he repeats his previous order.
You nod quickly, “I’m sorry–” but he cuts you off by licking a thick wet stripe through your folds. Your breath hitches, and your hands stay cemented to the sheets, to hold on for dear life.
When he repeats the action, the tip of his tongue flicks at your clit, making you see stars already.
“Oh my god…” you moan, eyes fluttering shut again.
Your hands itch to move back down to his hair, wanting to pull him closer and to push him away. You want to touch him again, but the fear of him reenacting the ‘Fantasy’ video keeps you frozen.
As expected, his mouth is just as perfect as the rest of him. The softness of his lips against your core only stokes the dull heat in your lower stomach. He alternates between focusing more on your clit, and dipping his tongue into your entrance. The most addicting part is that he’s moaning while he eats you out, like the taste of you is getting him off. You hope he lets you return the favor.
He readjusts his hands on your thighs when they threaten to close around his head, opting to push them back towards your chest. Your toes curl as he sucks your clit hard, and you can’t help the high-pitched sound that escapes your mouth. He does it again, and again, getting you louder each time.
“Look at me, baby,” he breathes, his nose brushing up against your sensitive clit as he speaks.
You whimper as you lift your head up, resting on your elbows to not strain your neck. He meets your eyes for just a second before shoving his tongue into your hole, rubbing his nose against your clit again. You cry out, throwing your head back as the pleasure increases and squirm in his strong grip. Legs shaking and breath uneven, it’s clear that you’re close. Now you’ll get to see what he has planned for you. The two boxes you checked off, ‘Rough’, and ‘Gentle’ come back to haunt you.
A moan cuts you off as you try to warn him that you’re close, but he can tell without needing to hear you say it. He’s been the cause of enough female orgasms to see the warning signs of one approaching. Two of his fingers suddenly dip into you as he sucks on your clit, hooking deep inside and prodding your g-spot over and over again.
His voice is rough and gravelly against your pussy, “Cum for me, baby. Wanna taste it.”
A bolt of electricity runs through you as you cum, shaking and moaning while it gradually subsides. The heat in your lower stomach cools off but stays simmering now, waiting to be rekindled again. You whimper, raising your head back up to look at him. He’s in his own world between your legs, gently licking your pussy and your inner thighs clean. Your core clenches around his fingers when he slowly starts to drag them out, and he smirks. He lowers your legs back down, kissing your knee and doing a quick check to make sure you’re okay to continue.
You answer that check by sitting up and pulling him towards you, kissing him even more hungrily than before. He hasn’t even wiped his mouth yet, but you don’t care. Without breaking the kiss, he follows you back down onto the bed, sucking on your tongue and wrapping a hand around your throat. Not tight enough to restrict airflow, but just enough to make your head feel light. He grinds his still-clothed erection into you, and the friction makes your head spin. You don’t know if you’re allowed to move your hands or not, but you just want to touch him so badly. You want to grip his length, make him feel just as good, taste him too.
For now, you just roll your hips up into his, moaning into his mouth.
“Want it…want you,” you mumble, parting from his lips for just a second to tell him that.
San hums, lazily kissing your jaw. “What do you want, kitten? Be specific.”
You groan inwardly, but you know he has to prolong this a little. Damn… for a while, you forgot about the reason you’re currently underneath him. You sneak a glance over to your left, seeing where the set ceiling abruptly stops and opens up to the industrial interior of the Afterdark building. He notices your focus straying, and he’s quick to act.
“Tell me,” San redirects you, blocking your view by kissing the left side of your neck and distracting you from everything else by keeping his hard-on pressed right up against your bare pussy. His voice is firmer. A small warning and reminder of rule number five.
You take a deep breath before you voice what you want, “Wanna suck your cock… please, sir.”
It’s the ‘sir’ that nearly kills him. You really have done your research, haven’t you? You know that’s what he likes to be called, especially when his scene partners are feeling extra submissive to him. Are you feeling that way already? Maybe you just really want to do this for him. San studies you for a second, confirming the latter. He can see how much you actually mean it by the way you look up at him, pleading with your eyes.
And who is he to deny you? Especially when you ask so nicely. Plus, he’s been wanting to feel your mouth wrap around his cock since he watched your livestream.
“Yeah?” He asks, biting the space where your neck meets your shoulder and pressing up against you again.
You give him your best doe-eyed look, really tapping into your innocent act. “Yes, sir.”
San helps you sit upright again and stands at the foot of the bed, starting to undo his belt. Wanting to be an active participant, you lean forward, dragging your lips down and across his abs, occasionally licking at his soft, honeyed skin. His belt hits the floor, and your hands are quick to do the rest. It’s a little hard to get the zipper down, but you manage it, successfully removing his pants. You’re just about to deal with his underwear next, but he grabs your wrist, pulling you towards him. You stumble a little as you find your footing on the floor, and let him lead you over to a chair against the set wall. It’s a better angle for the cameras, you assume. For him, he just wants to watch you do this properly. He wants nothing to obstruct his view, or the camera’s.
San pushes his hair back as you drag the final piece of clothing away from his body. You avert your eyes until the very last second, tossing the garment off to the side to join the sad little pile of discarded clothes on the floor. Now you take your time, pressing a kiss to his knee, slowly rising up onto yours the further up you move. You hear his breath shift, and you finally glance up to face his cock.
Somehow, it’s bigger than it looks on camera.
You have no idea how that’s possible – you know about the fish eye lenses and tricks the porn industry will use to make someone’s dick look bigger than it is, but right now, you’re presented with the exact opposite. It’s larger in real life. This, you were not expecting, but it is such a pleasant and welcome surprise. And of course, it’s just as pretty as the rest of him.
Both of these things combined only make you want to put your mouth on it even more.
When you delicately wrap your hand around it, he hisses at the long-awaited contact. A hand tangles into your hair, not pulling you towards him, just resting there for now. San leans back against the chair, his toned body a feast for the cameras and for you. You remind yourself not to rush, and to savor this.
Wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine, you tease him a little by ghosting your lips up his length, watching him shiver and bite his lip. You kiss the tip, and linger there for a second, acting like you’re about to put him in your mouth, only to move away, kissing his hipbone next and stroking him with your hand.
His grip tightens in your hair. Knowing he wants you to hurry up, you let go of him for a moment to spit in your hand before quickly returning to it. He groans a bit louder, head falling back a little as you gently twist your wrist, squeezing at the base of his cock.
Finally, you lick him from the base to the head before wrapping your lips around him. His other hand balls up into a fist, but that’s the only reaction he gives away for now. You relax your jaw as much as you can, trying to accommodate his size before sinking down lower. You can taste his pre-cum in the back of your throat, coating your tongue.
If you were annoyed with his apparent perfection before, you’re pissed now. How does he also taste good too?
As if to get back at him somehow, you wrap your lips tighter around his cock and suck hard, which earns you a choked moan from him. You hum around him, amused and pleased with yourself. His hand shakes slightly as he pushes your hair back, the other one in your hair starting to guide you even further down. The tip hits the back of your throat and you gag on it, forcing yourself to relax and remember to breathe through your nose.
“Fuck, baby…so good,” He groans, starting to struggle to keep his eyes open.
The visual of you choking on his cock is better than he could’ve ever imagined it to be. You don’t try to fight against him when he pushes you down or pulls you back up, simply letting him use your throat as he wishes. Even though you’re gagging and your eyes are watering, you don’t try to pull off. Not even when he shoves you down, making you fit his entire length into your throat, and holds you there for ten seconds. The longest ten seconds of your life. Your nails dig into your thighs, creating angry red crescent-shaped indents in your skin. His cock twitches in your throat and you whimper, keeping your gag reflex at bay. When the ten seconds are up, he lets you pull off of him completely to catch your breath.
You cough into your shoulder, one of your hands wrapping around him again to make sure he still feels good. San can't help but praise you, leaning down to kiss your forehead, cupping your face with his hand to make you look at him. It’s a subtle check-in moment. Nothing between you is said out loud, but he searches your face for any signs of discomfort or stress of any kind. He’s rather relieved to find none, only your glossy eyes staring back at him, lips parted and breath heavier than before. Ready to go again or continue on.
Whatever he wants.
San shivers as you gently twist your wrist again, returning your lips to the head of his dick, kitten-licking the pre-cum that still leaks out there. You hope he’ll cum in your mouth. A rare hope, as you’ve never quite enjoyed the taste of it before, but with his track record so far, you’re willing to bet you’ll enjoy it this time. To encourage this dream to happen, you spit onto the head of his cock twice, collecting some of it with your hand already around his length, and the rest with your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip.
You hear soft footsteps behind you, and naturally, your first instinct is to whip around to see who it is. Luckily, your conscience kicks in, reminding you of where you are, and you’re able to stop yourself before you can even move an inch. It’s probably one of the crew leaving the set, you figure. But it sounds close by.
As if to prove you right, soon there’s a figure or a shadow looming just out of your peripheral vision on your left, holding something. To combat every urge within you to turn around, you close your eyes and steal another kiss from San, who lazily kisses you back. He doesn’t seem to mind that your lips are covered in spit and pre-cum. Not one bit. His groans have increased the more you stroke his cock, one of his hands grips the arm of the chair in an attempt to ground himself. Harder, faster, your wrist begins to burn from exertion, but determination keeps it going. You’ll get a damn brace if you need to.
“God–” he grunts, looking down at your hand.
“Want you to cum too,” you say, looking up at him, almost pleading.
San’s eyes squeeze shut for just a moment, a full body shudder wracking through him before he is able to compose himself again.
“And where do you want me to cum, kitten?” He asks, his volume raising slightly, caressing your cheek.
“In my mouth, sir.” You reply, also loud enough for the microphones to pick up.
He all but shoves you down. You barely have time to make sure your teeth aren’t grazing his dick with every bob of your head as his hand returns to your hair, guiding your movements once again. This time, with just a fraction less of his notorious self control. You’re able to keep up easily, sucking harder whenever you’re closer to the head of it, and using your tongue as much as you can.
San swears under his breath, hissing at your previously unknown skill level. It takes every ounce of composure to not fuck your throat the way he wants to. He’d be so mean to you if you’d let him. He wouldn’t have kept himself down your throat for ten measly seconds, it would’ve been until you tried to push yourself off, desperate to breathe again. That would’ve been heavenly, to feel your throat constrict around his cock, in search of air. But not for the first scene together.
If there’s a next time, maybe that’s when he’ll let go just a little more. Show that side of him and see how you cope with it. For now though, he’s content to just enjoy the sight of you taking him in your mouth, wanting to make him cum. And you’re damn near close to achieving that.
He ignores the cameraman standing barely two feet from you, and leans back again, relaxing his body as his dick twitches incessantly in your mouth. Every time his tip hits the back of your throat, sparks of electricity shoot up his spine.
“Fuck… ah, fuck, I’m gonna cum… mmf–” San moans, head tilting back against the chair.
You don’t change anything about what you’re doing, just continuing until finally, he releases into your mouth. Just like you wanted him to. And it’s just as you predicted. The taste of it makes you want him to cum in your mouth again and again, surprisingly pleasant. Slightly bitter, yes, but not overly so. You swallow around him, not pulling off just yet. You won’t until you suck him dry, until he pushes you off from overstimulation. Maybe subconsciously, it’s because you know he loves to overstimulate his scene partners – a subtle payback for all of them. You try to hide your grin as you finally release him. Not a single drop wasted. You swallowed everything.
San looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, fighting to keep his chest rising and falling in a steadier rhythm. You lick your lips just for good measure, and he snaps.
His hands return to your face and the back of your head, pulling you towards him to kiss you deeply. You moan into his mouth as his tongue slips into yours, not caring in the slightest that can taste himself. As you straighten up on your knees, you can feel how wet you still are, and you can’t help but be a little surprised. You’ve never gotten wet from sucking dick before. If he finds out, it’ll go right to his ego, no doubt.
But before he can, there’s an abrupt, loud clacking sound to your left, and at first, you think someone must have dropped something. San makes a quiet, irritated sound before pulling away, glancing towards the director. The cameraman right next to you moves away, going back over towards the others and adjusting something on his camera. You feel slow to catch up on what’s happening, looking back up at San for help.
“We’re breaking for a second,” he explains, still out of breath.
Ah.
“Are you alright?” You ask him, without thinking. You’re not even sure why you asked that.
San blinks, processing your question as well before nodding once, “Yeah… yeah, I’m good.”
There’s a fleeting moment between you that you can’t describe. Something deeper than the scene now that you’re out of it. It’s the way he’s looking at you, void of any facade or persona meant for the cameras. Almost like he’s curious about something.
No one ever really asks him if he’s alright.
Just as quickly as the moment appears, it’s gone. You hear a flurry of movement and murmured conversations on your left as you sink back onto your heels, processing everything. Your eyes close as you try to focus on your breathing now that nothing is blocking your throat, deep inhales and slow exhales.
“You okay?” San asks as well, eyebrows furrowing in what appears to be genuine concern.
“‘M okay… honest.” You nod as you speak to emphasize that you’re truly alright. One more prolonged exhale, and you roll your shoulders back, heart-rate decelerating back to its default speed. One of your hands reaches up to massage your aching jaw.
Opening your eyes again, you accidentally make eye contact directly to his cock, still right in front of your face. It’s laying against his stomach, still slightly twitching, but… not softening. At least not as much as you’d expect it to. Surely, he can’t still be hard after coming. However, at this point, you wouldn’t put it past him to have a practically nonexistent refractory period. Might as well tack it onto the list of things he has been blessed with in life.
San runs a hand through his hair, looking over towards someone who must be talking to him. You watch his eyes follow them until you see for yourself who it is – one of the assistants that had been in his little circle when he first walked out of his dressing room. He hands him a robe, and quickly walks off. You feel a small nudge at your shoulder and find one of the other assistants – the one that had handed you the blanket earlier – extending a robe towards you. You take it gladly, your body heat crashing down again now that nothing is happening, and the frigid air conditioning reminding you why you asked for a blanket in the first place. He also gives you a water bottle with a straw poked through the plastic cap, and you drink it down gratefully.
Director Choi calls over Youngmi and Rina, and they’re quickly by your side, touching up your hair and makeup. You scoot back a little on the floor, giving San some space as his own team descends around him. Still, through the quiet rush of activity separating the two of you, your eyes stay glued to him.
Once the four hair and makeup girls leave, you hear Hongjoong from somewhere behind you. You both look towards his voice, standing near the director. A young woman you haven’t seen milling around the set before stands right next to him, also in a short silk robe almost identical to yours from what you can see of it past the lights. Your chest burns. She’s gorgeous, and seems to only get prettier the more you look at her. She looks between Hongjoong and San expectantly, as if waiting for a regular cue. Totally relaxed. You look back down at your hands in your lap, toying with the hem of your robe. It’s obvious what she’s there for. You wonder if she’s been watching the whole time as well.
But San is quick to rid you of any worries.
Actually, he seems a little annoyed as he waves Hongjoong and the woman off, before turning his attention back to you. He helps you stand up, slowly to ensure you won’t get dizzy, and leads you back over to sit on the foot of the bed. Back where you started, in your own little bubble together in front of the lights and the cameras.
Once settled again, San tilts your head up, his pointer finger under your chin, and holds it there, effectively disrupting your train of thought. He can almost see the self-doubt threatening to cloud your mind, even if you try to hide it behind your on-camera mask. He simply won’t have it. His other hand cups your cheek, making sure you don’t try to look anywhere but at him right now.
“‘M still hard for you, kitten,” he says quietly, just for you. He moves closer, his thumb running over your bottom lip. “Made me feel so fucking good… doing so well…”
You can’t help but blush at his praise. He’s so attentive, it’s a little shocking. You expected him to be, due to the videos you watched, but off-camera as well?
To thank him, you wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking on it lightly, maintaining eye contact with him the whole time. You want him to snap again. To just fuck you stupid already, to not wait for the production team to be ready. God, you just want to stop thinking and overthinking. You lean into the hand holding your cheek, humming at the comfort it provides.
One of your hands wanders between you, trailing up his thigh. You want to feel it for yourself, even though the robe does little to conceal the truth in his statement. Nevertheless, your confidence is rekindled once more when you feel him through the silk, hard and ready for you. He hisses at the contact, resting his forehead against yours for a moment or two before straightening again. A low groan from him makes your thighs clench together.
“Sorry, sir,” you whisper, grinning mischievously now that you’re the one teasing him.
San laughs once, breathy and short.
“You really have done your research on me, huh?” He smirks, watching you slowly move his robe aside to touch him properly. He tenses a little at the initial contact, but gradually relaxes again as his body gets used to it.
You shrug, playing it cool. “Wanted to see what I was getting myself into,” the corners of your mouth twitch as you slowly stroke his cock, watching for his reactions.
“And–” he clears his throat before continuing, “what do you think so far?”
Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and you’re taken aback again by his genuineness. He’s not just asking to ask or to boost a sky-high ego, he really does want to know. Still, you want to keep him intrigued. Maybe you even want him to try and prove himself to you a bit.
“Well… I’m still wet for you,” you admit, casting your eyes down towards your lap. “But I think I’ll give you a final verdict later.”
San hums, remembering the taste of you, and how wet you were for him to start. His eyes trail downwards, towards your chest, which is slowly becoming more and more revealed as your robe loosens.
“Deal,” he whispers, slowly leaning in to kiss you.
Before he can though, you squeeze his member a little harder, your thumb circling the tip, making his mind nearly go blank. San shudders and leans back on his hands, his robe also loosening little by little, revealing his chest and the top of his abs to your hungry eyes again. He steals a quick glance over to the crew, before just taking matters into his own hands.
As soon as his robe comes off, he tosses it in the camera’s direction. A rather obvious way of telling everyone the break is over. Director Choi quickly stands from his chair, shooing away a production assistant and waving another one over to collect the robes. You take yours off as well, tossing it onto his, and San eases you down onto your back, kissing you just as deeply as before.
You shiver, finally underneath him once more. The promise of what’s to come thunders through your mind. He slots his knee in between your legs, keeping you open for him. You whine into his mouth when that knee raises slightly, pressing against your pussy. You can almost hear his smirk, confirming that you are indeed still wet for him.
Well, he won’t make you wait any longer.
And just in time too, because someone over on the left shouts, ‘Action!’. You feel kind of bad for stressing out the crew this much, but you can’t dwell on those guilty feelings when San is rubbing your clit again.
“Fuck… please…” you whimper, hips grinding up in search of something else.
San moans, working himself up as he feels your pussy slicking all over his knee.
“Are they gonna stop us again?” You ask, whispering in his ear.
“They better fucking not,” San breathes, pressing one more kiss to your cheek before pushing himself up, spreading your legs further apart so he can kneel between them.
You prop yourself up on your elbows again, intent on watching. You clench around nothing as he grips himself, angling his dick down towards your pussy. Every muscle in your body locks in anticipation and impatience. Your brain goes haywire just at the sight of his cock near where you need him most, knowing he’ll stretch you out, and knowing that you probably won’t last too long with his size. Hopefully, you won’t cum as soon as he bottoms out.
San presses the tip to your hole, and you hold your breath. It’s so big, but you’re ready. You’re definitely wet enough to help get him inside without any help from spit or lube. Nevertheless, he spits right on your clit, pausing to make you feel it drip down through your folds. He taps the head of his cock against your clit a couple times, greedily watching your reactions.
And much to your despair, he doesn’t push inside just yet. Instead, he drags his cock up and down your pussy. Slowly. Forcing you to feel every inch of it, just not where you need it. Your clit is so sensitive, every time he rubs up against it, you can’t help but whine pathetically.
San hums, mocking you. “Hm? What’s wrong, kitten?”
“Please fuck me already,” you exhale, whimpering at yet another tap of his cock against your clit.
“Louder,” he instructs, not just to make you beg for it again, but also so the microphones pick it up. You’d forgotten all about them again, to be honest. “Ask me properly.”
Another shiver runs through you, and you gasp when you feel the head of his cock return to your entrance. Just barely enough so you can feel it’s there. But it’s enough motivation. You spread your legs further apart to convince him, holding them up and back by hooking your arms around your knees. Fully exposed to his eyes, open and ready to be filled.
“Please, sir, please fuck me. Want it so ba–”
Your voice is cut off by a choked noise as he finally pushes into you. Quickly, you look down, watching him breach you. All of your air is punched out of you as he stretches you out, sinking deeper and deeper, inch by inch. He takes over the task of keeping your legs apart, and he stills for a second to give your body time to adjust to him. He’s just barely halfway in, and your brain already feels like mush.
Maybe it’s a good thing because the same cameraman from before comes back, aiming the camera right at you two. Your body is so tense from the intrusion that you can’t look towards him, even by accident.
San swears under his breath, watching his cock disappearing into you as well.
“So fucking tight… god, baby…” he grunts, adjusting his knees slightly closer to your ass so he can feed you more of his length.
One of his hands tilts your chin up again, silently telling you to hold eye contact with him. His eyes flicker down only for a split second.
Then he shoves the rest of his cock inside.
A mix of a gasp and a yelp punches its way out of you. Your whole body is like a livewire. Alert, teetering on an electric edge. Your hands grip the sheets next to you, biting your lip. You can feel everything. Every inch, every vein dragging against your walls when he slowly pulls it back again. You both crave and dread the next time he pushes in, knowing it’s going to feel so overwhelmingly good.
The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You’re close to coming already.
Wide-eyed, all you can do is stare up at him as he rolls his hips into yours. Your walls flutter around him, legs already beginning to shake. There’s no hiding it anymore.
Amused, San leans down, pushing your legs back even more, deepening the stretch. He groans as your pussy contracts around him tight, wanting more.
“What, kitten? Already?” San smirks, a windfall of pride rushing through him. As if he needed any more validation for how good at this he is.
Your face burns, having been found out.
The next roll of his hips is sinfully languid, taking his time. Then, he really betrays you. One of his hands leaves the back of your thigh and he uses his thumb to rub your clit. You yelp, body buzzing from pleasure, and he takes this time to start fucking you properly, thrusting into you in a steady rhythm.
“Mm, that’s it,” he says, twisting his wrist so he can rub your clit with two fingers instead. “Let me feel it.”
You’re starting to think all you need in order to cum is for him to tell you to do it. Your second orgasm of the evening is a bit stronger than the first one because of the addition of penetration. It makes you feel very floaty once it hits, clenching around his cock in order to prolong it.
Unlike last time, he gives you no recovery period. The second he sees your eyes refocus, he’s fucking into you again. Like he never stopped. Your hands grip his shoulders, knowing you’re in for it. The tags for this future video flash through your mind, overstimulation being one. You lay flat on your back now, unable to keep holding yourself up as another strong wave of pleasure crashes into you. A third orgasm building up again.
His fingers on your clit press down harder, making tight circles over the sensitive bud. He only relents for a second, just to hook your legs over his shoulders, letting him get even deeper inside of you. Your eyes roll back for a moment, whining at the feeling. Your hands try to push at his chest, to make him stop, to make him straighten up, you’re not entirely sure yourself.
There’s no energy behind your actions, but San still subtly checks in. “Feel good, kitten?”
You choke on another moan, his cock getting dangerously close to hitting your g-spot. “Mm- I’m– good, feels s-so good.”
“Yeah? You liked coming on my cock?”
“Yes…”
“Yes, what?” San punctuates his question by ramming into you hard, unexpectedly.
You’re quick to correct yourself, “Y-yes, sir!”
“There you go,” he brushes some hair away from your face, “my good girl.”
Your body melts at the praise, replaying it over and over again as the feeling builds up higher and higher. You don’t realize until San winces that your nails started to dig into his chest, leaving some red scratch marks in your wake. As soon as you see that, you instantly take your hands away, feeling so bad that you’ve hurt him unknowingly.
But he puts them right back where they were.
And he leans down to your neck to return the favor, biting and sucking the skin there to create dark red and purple bruises wherever he can. His thrusts become more powerful, angling down into you to make you see stars. The simmering heat in your stomach is stoked with each direct hit to your g-spot. It’s getting to be more of a challenge to breathe normally like this.
Especially as your third orgasm begins to crest.
“‘M coming–” you warn him, but he knows already. He can feel it.
He hovers over you, moving his hips precisely and slightly faster. He wants to watch you again. To see you fall apart for him again. Truthfully, he already feels a bit pussy-drunk. Starting to get addicted to the feeling of your warm, wet cunt wrapped so tightly around him, coming for him so prettily. And you don’t disappoint him the third time either.
You’re loud this time, unable to control your volume. The third orgasm hits you like a truck, and it only builds higher and higher instead of gradually diminishing. You cry out, halfway through it. Something feels unfinished about it, and you’re desperate to chase it. Luckily, San knows exactly what you need.
He quickly lowers your legs from his shoulders, jumping right into action to catch this. Your legs are held back, like the previous position they were in, and he returns his other hand to your lower stomach, pressing down hard. You can feel him moving inside of you. Your head falls back and you moan loudly, suddenly feeling everything tenfold.
The sound is obscene, definitely pornographic. Wet, sloshing sounds, accompanied by your loud cries and moans fill the warehouse-like room of the eighth floor. His cock prods your g-spot every single time, building something insanely powerful that you’ve never felt before. You grab his wrist, looking up at him with slight fear in your eyes, but he doesn’t seem concerned. He’s determined, if anything.
“Good girl,” he purrs, so affectionately it makes your brain melt.
He adjusts his hand on your stomach just a little further down. At the same time that you feel him rubbing your clit again, he ducks down to suck on one of your nipples, and fireworks explode behind your eyelids. The quadruple stimulation makes you scream.
“Gonna make a mess for me, kitten? Yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock again?”
You don’t even have time to nod or reply in any way. A strong surge of pleasure smashes into you from all sides, whiting out your vision. It’s a feeling of release unlike any other that you’ve felt before, much harder than any orgasm you’ve ever had. He keeps fucking you through it until your pussy forces him out, watching your body shake uncontrollably underneath him, soaking the sheets below you, and his lower body. Now you know damn well what kind of ‘rough’ you’ll be getting from him: overstimulation. Making you cum until you beg him to stop.
San growls at the sight. It burns into his brain, and he can already say for certain that he’ll be jerking off to the memory of this later tonight and for days to come.
Just to prolong it, he taps his heavy cock against your pussy and clit again, enjoying how you try to squirm away from it.
You’re so wet, it’s audible. Every tap is loud, and a thin, stringy mixture of his spit and your slick clings to him for as long as it can whenever he pulls away. You reach for him, not knowing exactly what you want, but knowing you want him closer to you, and he obliges. He leans down over you again, slowly sliding his length between your puffy, wet folds.
A familiar, faint voice from the left is ignored totally by you and him, too busy coming down from the most intense high of your life, and him holding you through it.
An aftershock rattles you from head to toe, and you gasp when you feel it. The intense pleasure you felt gives way to sudden emptiness, and you realize you do not have anything to clench down on anymore. Though his dick is right there, dragging up and down your outer lips, it feels so far away from where you actually want it.
Thankfully, sensing your dilemma – and hearing you whine for it – he doesn’t make you wait any longer. In your post-orgasmic haze, he guides you over onto all fours, now facing the foot of the bed. Ever the gentleman, he moves your hair out of your face. However, you imagine it’s so the camera can see your fucked out, dazed expression.
His cock slips back inside of you easily, without any resistance, and the two of you groan in unison. In both relief and pleasure.
That familiar, faint voice comes back. Clearer this time, and closer as well. “San… San! We’re taking another break now.”
San kisses your shoulder blade, barely paying attention. “Okay, have fun,” he brushes the voice off, impatiently.
You’d laugh if you had any coherent thoughts or spare energy left. No, you’re a bit preoccupied at the moment, your body trembling around his cock, and so happy that he’s pushed back into you. Truthfully, you don’t even care if you’re stressing out the crew anymore. All of your thoughts are about San.
San smooths a hand up your spine, slowly pushing inch by inch into your soaked hole. He shushes you gently when you whimper, interlacing his fingers with yours when you try to reach back to find his hand to hold.
“I know, kitten, it’s okay. Just relax.”
Easier said than done.
He lightly presses your lower back, signalling you to arch it for him a little more. You nearly regret it when you feel him deeper than before in this position. Your elbows threaten to buckle, body shaking like a leaf. Yet, you still want more. Even though you’re nearing a certain point, wavering between overexertion and exhaustion, you crave more. You want to chase that feeling with him again. Make him glad he asked you to come here. Make him come back for more. So, you grit your teeth and keep yourself from face-planting into the mattress. For now, at least.
San’s powerful pace resumes in no time, stealing every breath from your lungs. Another vague, quiet plea falls from your lips, and in response, he squeezes your hips, pulling them back to meet every thrust. Your throat is raw from all the noise you’re making, and you know you’ll have to drink some tea or honey tonight to get your voice back to normal. Not this thin, broken voice you have now. Your lower back aches from staying in this position, but you do your best to ignore it.
It helps that his cock is basically in your stomach, that does a lot to distract you from a mere ache in your back. It also helps that your pussy is extra sensitive, coming three times – twice in a row without a break – and squirting for the first time. On camera, no less. Your viewers are going to lose their fucking minds. The image of your donation box on your livestreams, and your Venmo accounts skyrocketing after this video releases is motivation enough for you to want him to make you do it again.
Your back arches even more, hips grinding back against his to get more of him somehow.
Such a little natural.
“Mmm, there you go. That’s it. Keep fucking yourself on my cock, pretty girl.”
You make a noise, halfway between a whine and a moan and do as he says. Your chest grazes the sheets below you, chin buried into the mattress and arms gripping the edge of the bed in front of you.
“Fuck,” you whimper, a couple of stray tears threatening to fall. “You’re s-so fucking deep.”
San groans, increasing the pace. You yelp when you feel him smack your ass, and again when he hits it a second and third time. By the time the third strike lands, he doesn’t even give you any time to process the stinging pain he’s left behind before there’s a new one on the back of your head.
Slightly dizzy, it takes you a second to realize you’re upright, on your knees. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling at the roots, and the other rubbing incessant circles on your swollen clit. His chest presses into your back, and he moves your head to face him so he can kiss you again. Mind threatening to wipe completely, you can’t fight to hold back your tears anymore. You shudder violently, and he groans as he feels your body struggle to keep up with him. He knows you can take it, though. You’re a fighter, he can tell.
“Doing so well,” he whispers in your ear, “such a good girl for me, baby. Knew you would be. Knew I’d get this pussy to fall apart on my dick. Thought about it so fucking much…”
You whine against his mouth, tears wetting his face now as well. The blatant admission that he had thought about you like this before today goes straight over your head.
All you hear is his praise. You’re doing well. Good enough for him, like you were so stressed about being. Nothing else matters to you anymore, now that you’ve earned his approval. A proud smile creeps across your face, and he grins at the faraway look in your half-lidded eyes. You’re so far gone. Completely pleasure-drunk.
The hand in your hair tightens again and loosens, like it’s an afterthought now. Just something for him to hold onto. To keep you steady, if anything. Warm pressure building and building again in your stomach, you round your back as another shiver wracks its way through your body, making your spine tingle. His hand moves down to hold you by the back of the neck, and he slows his pace just enough to guide you back down onto the bed. This time, totally flat. Your pussy forces him out at this new position, but his other hand is quick to spread one of your ass cheeks apart, cock sliding back inside of you.
He doesn’t ease you into his pace anymore. The first brutal thrust makes your eyes roll back, and your jaw falls open. Your nails claw at the bedding, every muscle in your arms straining while you hold onto the fabric for dear life.
He’s so fucking deep. Impossibly, almost.
He may just make you cum like this, without even needing to touch your clit. He’s making you learn so much about what your body can do when in the right hands. No wonder people are so obsessed with him. He’s become so in tune with your body so quickly, just by paying explicit attention to you this whole time. It makes you really appreciate his expertise, because he could easily have just used what has worked for other girls in the past. He probably could’ve made you cum like that as well, but he tailors himself for each girl. Adapts for them. For you.
And he’s learning you pretty well. Probably read you like a fucking book.
Every precisely angled thrust punches a moan out from deep within your chest. Each sound is partly muffled by the bedding, and you try to keep quiet, not wanting to be annoying. You can’t help it, though. Not when it feels this good. Certainly not when another orgasm is building, more rapidly than the others.
You squirm under him, toes curling and nails digging into the mattress.
“I– mmf–! You’re… you’re gonna make me cum again,” you have to speak quickly before it hits you.
San leans over you, hands planted right next to your shoulders, fucking you harder. “Give it to me, pretty girl. I want every fucking drop.”
Someone dressed in all black stands right in front of you, pointing something towards you. It doesn’t register that it’s the camera guy with the handheld camera for a couple seconds. You imagine he’s zooming in, capturing everything. He must know the future audience does not want to miss a single second of how you react to coming again, and how San won’t let up on you once you do… again.
Your eyes shut tight once your fourth climax thunders through you. Pure ecstasy erupts in every vein. Euphoria clouds your brain. The sheets beneath you two become even more soaked, and you can feel your release dripping down your thighs. You must’ve been loud because your throat feels scratchy and rough all of a sudden, but your head is in such a rush that you don’t even hear anything.
San holds you by your throat now, making you keep your face up.
Just as you predicted, San doesn’t stop or slow his pace whatsoever. True to his promise that he’s ‘gonna make you feel so good’. Well, that promise is currently turning you into a limp, fucked out mess. You’ve never had this many orgasms so quick in succession before. It’s making your hormones go absolutely wild, and you cry harder, wetting San’s hand with your tears. The camera loves it.
There are some sounds near you that you can’t be bothered to discern, and you just lean into San’s hand on your throat. Fully intent on just letting him do whatever he wants to you at this point. He pretty much already is. Although, you’re not entirely sure how many more times you can cum without passing out. You hope he’ll stop before that happens. You don’t want to embarrass yourself like that.
San subtly taps your throat, getting your attention, before raising your head a little higher.
You blink stupidly up at the cameraman in front of you, eyes half-lidded and heavy, struggling to keep them open. You flinch a little when you see that there are two more people in front of you, the director included. When did everyone get so much closer to the bed? All of them, you notice, are at least semi-hard. Director Choi nods behind the camera, muttering inaudible praises. Your hands grip the sheets, knuckles turning white, and pull them up towards your mouth to muffle your screams. Out of frame, Director Choi motions for an assistant to pull the sheets down, ripping your comfort away, exposing how loud you’re being. Tears sting your eyes, both from exertion and from the intense pleasure San is giving you.
“Pussy’s so good… so tight and wet… could fuck you forever.”
Director Choi silently motions for San to keep talking like that.
San grunts, fighting to catch his breath enough to speak again. “Such a good girl… gonna make you cum again.”
And he does.
Before you even realize that it’s been simmering and building, it knocks into you sideways. This time, you can’t even scream. Your mouth drops open but no sound comes out due to your body locking up. San releases your throat, worried that you’re not breathing – and he’s right. He slows down considerably, moving your hair away from your face to check on you. Your body slowly relaxes again underneath him, one muscle at a time, and a low, guttural groan tears itself from your throat.
You can feel every inch of him dragging past your inner walls, and every slightest movement makes your pussy clench, trying to simultaneously push him out and suck him in further. Instead of continuing again, though, he pushes all the way into you one more time, and then stops.
It’s somehow both torture and a relief. You feel so fucking full, but he isn’t doing anything to continue the dull flames that engulf your lower stomach, and yet you know it’s better than being empty. He could pull out, leave you to deal with that emptiness before you felt ready. He doesn’t. Appreciative thoughts swirl around your head and you cry harder, trying to hide your tears in the sheets.
When the camera crew and director see that he’s not continuing, they call for another break. Everyone moves away, and there’s no longer a black cloud in front of you.
San doesn’t move an inch, though.
He brushes through your hair with his fingers, comforting you. He’s intent on waiting until you calm down, not wanting to push you too far before you’re ready. He knows he went a little crazy, instantly getting addicted to the feeling of you coming around his dick, and you deserve a break. As long as you need.
But you’re addicted yourself. A real glutton for the pleasure he’s given you thus far. You push back and wiggle against him, trying to get him to move again. His hands push you down by your hips, keeping them still. You whine at the denial, looking over your shoulder at him with teary, red eyes. He almost gives in.
“I know, baby. Just relax with me for a moment.”
You pout, another tear roaming down your cheek. Deep down, you know he’s right. Your body has been pleading for a break two orgasms ago. It’s high time you listen to it. You collapse, finally letting yourself relax, solely focusing on the quiet murmur of the crew off to the side, and San’s fingers running through your hair.
It’s a nice moment.
Nicer still when San litters your shoulders and back with gentle kisses, helping you calm down. Clearer thoughts slowly begin to reenter your mind, and your breaths even out, relatively back to normal. Better than the mixture of shallow inhales, long periods of holding your breath, and gasps for air. Because of the improved air intake, your head finally feels like it’s stopped swimming. Little by little, your energy comes back.
You take a deep inhale, sighing contently as you exhale it back out. Looking behind you again, you catch him already watching you.
“Hi,” you mumble, half-smiling.
San smirks, his hand cupping your cheek. “Hey, pretty girl. Feel okay?”
You nod, humming, and you subtly push back against him. The feeling of his cock pressing into you doesn’t shock your body as much as it did before. Now it’s a welcome, familiar feeling. Sought after. You really are addicted. Maybe even insatiable when it comes to how well he fucks you.
With the other hand, he places a water bottle in front of your face, the same one with a straw poked through the cap from before. You don’t bother wondering where he got it from. You have a pretty good idea. They’re always everywhere during a break.
Once you’re done with the bottle, he places it against one of the pillows, where it will no doubt be collected by a production assistant within seconds.
You push back again, trying to get him to move. You hear him chuckle behind you.
“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?”
Instead of contradicting his statement, you just nod. Why lie?
“Wanna make you cum too,”
San hums, just barely rolling his hips into yours. “How do you wanna do that, kitten?”
You steel yourself for what you’re about to do. Hoping he will let you go through with your plan, you pull yourself away from him, and he slips out of you. The emptiness hits just as hard as you thought it would, and you whimper at the initial feeling. If all goes to plan, you won't be for long.
San watches you carefully as you turn to face him on the bed, gently pushing him back against the pillows. His hands instinctually rest on your hips as you straddle him, and he looks up at you, patiently waiting for your next move. At least, coming across as patient externally. You don’t miss how his dick twitches, eager to be engulfed by your warmth again. He must feel something equivalent to the emptiness you felt when you pulled away.
You’ll fix that gladly.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the crew start to come back to their spots – lights, camera, microphones. They must have learned not to stay too far away when it comes to filming you two. You do your best to hide your grin.
San helps you line up the head of his cock to your entrance, and you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders as you slowly sink down. His eyes flutter shut, eyebrows furrowing as he exhales shakily. Following his lead, you don’t give him much time to adjust before you start moving.
You swear you hear him whimper. Just once, but you catch it nevertheless.
He keeps his eyes down, locked between you, watching your cunt swallow his dick over and over again. You bite your lip, nails digging into his shoulders as his hands become more firm on your hips. The next time you sink down, he pulls you down hard. You gasp, not expecting it, and he attacks your lips once again.
You kiss him back just as eagerly, increasing your pace. Your thighs already start to protest from the strain, but you can’t bring yourself to care or stop. Not when he’s moaning into your mouth like this. Every noise you pull out of him is pure music to your ears. A rhapsody you could hear a thousand times and not get bored of. You pull away from his lips just to hear him clearer, and he chases you. He nips your bottom lip, one of his hands slowly travelling up to knead one of your boobs again.
Breaths mingling, you shiver in his hold. His other hand dips down to rest on your ass, squeezing the flesh there as you bounce on his cock.
The heat of it all consumes you, drives you to get him to cum. You want to hear him. You want to repay him for making you cum four times, and put in just as much effort.
It’s a battle to try and ignore your own pleasure, building up for a fifth time. You’re not convinced you can cum again. However, now you’re willing to see what happens. If you faint, you faint.
You clench around him on purpose, grinding into him and rolling your hips, your gummy walls massaging his length and successfully driving him crazy. His head falls back against the headboard, and his fingers begin to leave bruises on your skin.
“So fucking good,” he hisses, “such a good girl… gonna make me cum so hard.”
The thought and image that accompanies it gives you a second wind of energy. Your hands move to his chest, and you press down as you continue to fuck him.
“Want you to cum inside me,” you beg him, hot breath hitting his neck. You feel him shudder underneath you.
San only nods, unable to speak. You lick a stripe up his neck, tasting the slight saltiness of his sweat and kissing the hinge of his jaw. Right next to his ear, you moan again, enjoying how he tenses up.
Suddenly, both of his arms are wrapped around your waist, and he sits up a little more. One of his hands presses into your upper back, supporting you as he starts fucking up into you, seamlessly matching your rhythm.
He lets out a choked moan, cutting it off by kissing you one more time before his eyes shut tight.
“Gonna cum…fuck, I’m gonna cum so deep inside you, kitten. Gonna feel me for days.”
You whine at his words, and he seems to have worked himself up further by saying it as well.
“Please, sir, need your cum inside of me. Please give it to me–”
San pushes you down onto your back before you can blink. Your legs wrap around him, and the pleasure increases for you almost instantaneously. When you look down, you swear you can see a slight bulge in your stomach. His lips attach to your neck, sucking and biting to muffle his moans as much as possible. Every sound he makes is so pretty.
He pounds into you without any more room for mercy, concentrating on coming again. And he can feel that you’re close again too.
“Cum with me,” he pants against your neck, “give me one more. Let me feel your pretty cunt cum on my cock one more time, baby.”
One more. You nod, eyelids growing heavy again. Everything is perfect in this moment. The feeling of his cock dragging against your walls, the head of it pressing against your g-spot and fanning the flames of your arousal until it engulfs you like wildfire; his soft, plush lips on your neck, his words in your ear, and his warm, firm skin under your hands.
As if that all wasn’t enough, San spits on his fingers and starts to rub your clit again.
Everything adds up to push you over the edge.
You cry out, body completely spent as you weakly squirt for him again. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, adrenaline and euphoria taking turns to run through your bloodstream. The sheets beneath you are completely soaked through. Every sense is both heightened and dulled. Exhaustion pulls itself over you like a weighted blanket.
And your climax triggers his.
True to his word, he comes deep inside of you, filling you up until it’s leaking. The additional warmth is comforting for a second, until your stomach begins to cramp a little bit. Not enough to hurt, but just enough for you to notice. You’re definitely not used to coming this much.
San shudders violently before dropping to his elbows, careful not to crush you under his weight. Both of you catch your breaths, chests heaving as you coax air back into your lungs. You tangle one of your hands in his hair, holding him close to you as you take this moment to settle down. He buries his face in your neck, small, audible sighs occasionally escaping him.
Unbeknownst to you, he’s never cum that hard before. Years of experience behind him, sure, he’s gotten close to this level, but never was able to reach it until now.
Reluctantly, he slowly drags himself out of your pussy, eyes immediately glancing down to see his cum leaking out. He smirks as he watches you fight to keep it inside, not wanting to let it go yet.
Then, like he does every single time, he ducks down to lick one more long, slow path up your pussy. Entrance to clit. A silent ‘thank you’. You whimper, legs closing when he pulls away.
“Cut! Print it.”
And he’s gone.
You feel you just got a violent slap back into reality.
What…just happened? You slowly push yourself up, with admittedly great difficulty.
Half of the staff flutter around you, while the others flock to San’s side, covering him up in his robe and starting to lead him towards his dressing room. The production assistants assigned to you don’t say much, handing you the same water bottle as before and urging you to drink it all. You watch the cameraman and the director talk, leisurely packing everything up. Just another day at the office. It’s all over just like that.
Meanwhile, you feel… stunned. Maybe even a little empty, and not just physically this time. You never thought about how aftercare is pretty much nonexistent in shoots like this. Everything is strictly business. Professional. Void of any emotion for the other ‘actor’. Still, as someone runs a brush through your messy hair, and someone else wraps a silk robe over your shoulders, you find that you cannot tear your gaze away from the direction of San’s dressing room door. Your eyes threaten to tear up, a dull yet powerful feeling of rejection blooming in your chest.
Maybe you aren’t cut out for this type of thing, no matter how many offers you receive. Not if this is how it ends, as if nothing happened. Like none of it mattered. Another notch in Choi San’s belt.
Director Choi suddenly appears in front of you, and you’re quick to act like nothing is wrong. “You did great,” he says, “thank you for your time today.”
You manage a fake smile and thank him as well, apologizing for any issues you may have caused by being impatient or loud.
He simply waves it off, “Happens more than you think. Have a good rest of your night, Miss Y/L/N. Maybe we’ll work together again in the future.”
‘Maybe’.
His words stick to you, gnawing at your skin like leeches. He truly didn’t mean to make you feel worse, you know that, and yet he really drove home just how… common you feel. Not special whatsoever after all.
You imagine going back home and going live again. The notorious four exclusive viewers will want to know how it went, and you’re going to have to tell them something. You doubt you’ll be able to lie. Woo will probably be able to tell something’s wrong.
Maybe, once this check hits, you can just disappear for the foreseeable future. If you’re astronomically lucky, everyone will forget it happened so you won’t have to relive the very tail end of it. You run a hand through your hair. You’re so fucking dramatic.
It hurts a little extra when even Hongjoong doesn't stick around to check in on you, tending to his star first and foremost. You can’t say you really blame him, though – that is his job. San should be his priority.
It’s just that you desperately wish for a friendly face, or someone to genuinely check in with you. Comfort you.
Not to be surrounded by strangers who won’t look you in the eye.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
You’re not sure what the plan is.
You don’t even know if he’s still here. But here you are, standing in front of his dressing room door like a fucking idiot. Another girl obsessed with him. Nothing new, just another number they’ll have to delete.
Even so, you want to try and talk to him. Ask him why the fuck he left in such a hurry. Your hands readjust their grip on your purse, with half a mind to swing it at whoever opens the door.
Gathering up all the courage imaginable, your hand raises in a fist, and you softly knock on the door three times.
To be honest, you’re not really expecting a response. Half of the staff are gone already, it’s unlikely that he’d want to stick around here any longer than he has to. When you checked the time on your phone in your dressing room, you were surprised to see that it’s already nearing nine o’clock. Your stomach had growled almost immediately upon seeing it. You look over your shoulder, watching the rest of the staff still here turning off some of the lights and gathering wires.
Distracted, you jump about a mile in the air when the door opens, revealing San, now also dressed and looking like he’s ready to leave. His eyebrows raise in surprise at the sight of you.
“Hey,” he says, so casually. “What’re you still doing here?”
Embarrassment hits you like a brick wall. Yep, just another girl on the callsheet that stuck around to beg him for more. Ugh.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you,” you say, already giving up on the whole idea of confronting him. Britney can’t help you now.
You start to turn on your heel, but he opens the door wider, stepping aside as if to invite you in. “No, no. Not bothering me. What’s up?”
Your mouth dries. Okay, now you got to follow through. But god… does he really not know? You wonder if this has never come up before. If all of the girls before you are just collectively tougher than you emotionally and can handle no aftercare, no follow up, nothing. You should be, too, honestly. You know what porn is and what it isn’t. It’s not exactly a dating service. Two hot people fuck each other and go their separate ways, money wired to them before their heads hit the pillow at night.
Still… you and Yeosang aren’t dating, and after your collab with him, he redressed you and cuddled you for an hour straight. He made sure you knew he wasn’t going anywhere, that the friendship is still intact. You weren’t being used.
You hesitate to step into his dressing room, and ultimately decide to just stay put. Stand your ground. You don’t want to take too long, you just need an answer.
Out with it.
“I was just wondering why you left so quickly? Did I do something to offend you in any way?”
San blinks, slight confusion clouding his face. “Oh, no, I just– I saw your form. Didn’t want to hang around and make you uncomfortable.”
Now you stare at him, just as confused. “Wait, what? What about my form?”
“You checked off ‘Hard No’ to aftercare.”
…Pardon?
No way.
He must see the bewilderment in your face because he fishes his phone out of his pocket to show you.
“Yeah, Hongjoong said…” he trails off, the light of his phone screen reflecting in his dark brown eyes. “Yeah, look.”
He holds his phone up to show you, and you step closer to it, squinting to see for yourself. Sure enough, amidst all of the other dozens of checkmarks, you accidentally fucked yourself over and selected ‘Hard No’ for aftercare. Luckily, you didn’t select one of the bodily fluid options as a ‘Hard Yes’ in your evident past confusion. You bury your face in your hands.
“Oh my god. That was meant to be a ‘Hard Yes’.” You groan. Guilt threatens to eat you alive for all your negative thoughts towards him, and the texts you sent Yeosang while in your dressing room after the fact. You’re going to have to do some serious damage control to get Yeosang to not hate him forever. It’ll surely start with a screenshot of the form you fucked up, followed by a dramatic statement of your stupidity.
San pockets his phone again, almost sheepish. He hesitantly steps closer to you, unsure of how to fix this.
“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, “I should’ve double checked with you.”
“No, no, please don’t blame yourself when it’s my own mistake.”
“Still…” he trails off, looking down at the floor.
It hits you that he’s really hurt by this. Hurt for you.
“San…” you tilt your head to try and meet his eye. “It’s alright, really. I feel much better now that I know it wasn’t on purpose or because I did something wrong.”
“I’d never do that to you, or anybody. I always stress how important aftercare is to the directors I work with so they don’t try to rush through it.” San runs a hand through his freshly-washed hair as he speaks, exasperated. You vaguely remember him saying something akin to that in one of the interviews that you watched.
Damn, he really is nice. Here you were at the start of this, thinking he’d be a cocky son of a bitch who has the world at his feet, and anything he wants within arms reach. The last two parts of that description may be right, but your assumed attitude is definitely not. Well… maybe not entirely. The cockiness isn’t used to make anyone feel small, that’s the important difference. It’s confidence, more than anything.
“I know,” you smile, trying to make him feel better. “Really, it’s okay.”
He seems unconvinced. “Can I make it up to you in some way?”
You shift your weight from one foot to the other. If you wouldn’t immediately cringe at yourself for doing so, you’d maybe ask for a hug or something. Physical contact in any way to comfort you, make you believe it. But the guilt he obviously feels is enough. The knowledge that he truly thought it’s something you were so against, and he respected it anyway, is more than enough.
“You don’t have to, San.”
“I want to, Y/N.”
Your pulse skips a beat, wondering what he has in mind. The way he said it was so final, like he made up his mind already. His phone reappears in his hand, texting someone quickly and sending it off. He then reaches into his dressing room, turning off the light after doing a quick scan of it and closing the door behind him.
“Can I walk you out?”
That, you’ll allow.
“Sure. Are you going home?” You ask, changing the subject as the two of you start walking towards the exit doors.
“Nah, not yet. There’s a gym on this floor I’m gonna go to first.”
You just nod in response, wondering how on earth he has the energy to go to the gym right now. You have a very special date with your bed for the foreseeable future. It’s highly doubtful that you’ll wake up before three in the afternoon. Truthfully, you can’t wait. Maybe you’ll sleep off some of the soreness you’re sure to have tomorrow.
“Oh, by the way, do you have an agent?” San asks you out of nowhere, right before you get to the doors.
You blink once. Twice, processing. “No…?”
Yeosang’s the only one who may even come close. He’s the one you ask before doing anything, wanting his opinion and blessing. But technically and professionally, no, you’re an independent artist as far as you’re concerned.
“I’d find one soon,” San says, glancing towards the bed, soaked through. “You’re about to get a lot of offers.”
You blush furiously, reminded of everything that transpired between you barely an hour ago. “Maybe I should just take yours.”
San groans, “Honestly, do it. I’m sure Joong could use a break from my bullshit.”
You laugh, trying to hide it with your hand. San pretends to be offended that you agree, clutching his heart in betrayal, which makes you laugh harder. The doors push open, the white fluorescent lights blinding both of you after being so used to the golden studio lights on set.
“Maybe I will let you have him,” he says, a smirk growing across his face. “It’s good manners.”
He looks at you like he knows something you don’t, and it bothers you. The word choice sounds familiar, but you can’t place it. Before you can ask, he steps closer to you, invading your personal space for the first time since being intimate with each other. You hold your breath.
“Goodnight, baby.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead before walking down towards the opposite end of the hallway, where you can only assume is the direction of the gym.
Fuckin’ hell…
You stand there like an idiot for another couple of seconds, still processing what just happened in the span of five minutes. You also try to figure out the implication behind his word choice. ‘Manners’. It bugs you so much, you know you heard something about it recently, but can’t pinpoint where or when.
The question of what he meant follows you all the way to the lobby. You press the down button on autopilot, just now remembering to text the driver to tell him that you’re ready to be picked up downstairs and taken home. From down the hallway, you hear the door to the studio swing open again – probably some of the crew heading home as well. You glance towards the stairs, not exactly jumping at the chance to be stuck in an elevator with a bunch of strangers who watched you have sex an hour ago.
But the footsteps that follow the sound of the door closing are what gives you pause. They’re hurried, and headed towards the lobby. The elevator dings behind you. You turn around just as the mystery runner comes around the corner.
“Oh! Hi, Mr. Kim–”
Hongjoong jogs over to you, catching you before the elevator doors open.
“Sorry if I startled you. San is wondering if we can arrange another collab, but this time on your livestream.” He speaks quickly, like time is of the essence.
You stutter, brain trying to connect with your vocal cords.
“What?” You ask, even though you heard and processed everything Hongjoong said just fine. You’re just wondering if you actually heard him right. Today just keeps getting stranger and stranger. More interesting, definitely.
He’s quick to repeat himself, almost pleading with his eyes for you to say ‘yes’.
At least with the emails you had some time to think everything over. Now Hongjoong is staring dead at you, waiting for the response he hopes to hear.
You can’t help it. You want to make him chase you again.
“Tell him I’ll think about it,” you say as sweetly as possible, stepping into the elevator.
You try not to enjoy the perplexed look on Hongjoong’s face until the doors close completely.
· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·
You have no idea how he does it, truly.
Everything in his world is immediate. You’re not used to it whatsoever.
Those are the thoughts you have as you step out of the elevator in your apartment building, walking up to your door. You're more than ready to throw your shit down in the kitchen and go the fuck to bed. Your phone is in the process of being fished out of your pocket, intent on texting Yeosang to ask if he's around for a debrief.
You stop dead in your tracks when you look up, about to unlock the front door. Perched tall and proud, is a beautiful bouquet of purple flowers in a glass vase right outside your door. A card is placed in between the overlapping petals, and you can’t help but gawk at the sight of it.
How the hell did he find your address?
Oh– Hongjoong, probably. Your initial creeped-out feeling vanishes. Hongjoong can just find anything for San, you’re sure.
Punching in the keycode to your door, and switching the kitchen lights on, you place the flowers on the counter, taking a second to admire them. Purple, you note. Your favorite. Again, Hongjoong must have told him, but you can’t help but smile – he really did want to make it up to you.
You pluck the small card from the flowers and read it, sitting down at your kitchen island.
Hope you had a good time today.
Sorry for being such a stupid slut </3
-San
Your smile widens, laughing and rereading it. You flip it over, and on the back is a phone number, scrawled in blue ink.
Perhaps you missed a hidden clause in the forms that makes you promise to not fall in love with him.
Warnings: forced marriage, slow ahh burn, emotional abuse, stalking, jealousy, implied violence, insecurity, yeosang is THE husband, we all want him
AN: Ok so happy belated birthday to my boy yeosang. The most prettiest, angelic mf I've ever seen. Like how can a man be so pretty and handsome at the same damn time. Also this was kinda like a prompt but I can't for the love of god find the comment. But you know who you are, thank you
Part 2 | Masterlist
“I’m not doing it.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and fast, cutting across the heavy air in the room like a blade. The study smelled like old leather and wood polish, the same way it always did when your father called you in for his lectures. But this wasn’t a lecture. This was something else. He sat behind that heavy desk, wearing the same expression he always wore when he made decisions for other people’s lives— calm, practiced, untouchable.
“This isn’t a request,” he answered, barely sparing you a glance. “It’s a responsibility.”
You could’ve laughed. Honestly, you almost did. Responsibility. That word sounded hilarious coming out of his mouth. What did he know about responsibility? The only thing he was responsible for was dragging this family name around town like it was some royal crest, acting like being respected by neighbors counted for anything real in the world.
“You don’t get to sell me off like I’m a—”
“Enough.”
Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.
“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”
You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”
It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.
“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”
You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.
“Kang Yeosang.”
The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.
“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.
Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”
Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.
“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”
For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.
It didn’t.
Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.
His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”
You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.
You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.
“I hate you,” you breathed.
But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.
“I can live with that.”
Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”
It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.
University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.
Your father barely reacted.
“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.
You stared at him. “After?”
“Yes. You’ll still attend.”
But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”
It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.
And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.
The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.
“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”
Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.
“It is now.”
Simple. Unforgiving. Final.
You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.
You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.
Come to the house.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”
It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.
By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.
His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.
“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.
“You said now.”
His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”
There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.
Then—
“There’s going to be a wedding.”
Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”
His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”
Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”
His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”
Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”
“This isn’t a text conversation.”
“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”
That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.
“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”
Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”
“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”
“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”
“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”
Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.
He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”
“Y/L/N’s daughter.”
Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”
“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”
Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.
“You’ve met her?” he asked.
“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”
“Great.”
His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”
His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”
Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”
As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”
“I know.”
And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.
Marriage. Arranged.
He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?
Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.
No, that wasn’t happening.
Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.
He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.
Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.
And the name—YN.
It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.
The kind that smiled with their teeth.
He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.
Alright.
If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.
Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.
He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.
Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.
By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.
University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.
She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.
Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.
The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.
She was just… boring.
Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.
Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.
Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.
But that was fine.
Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.
The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.
She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”
Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.
She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.
What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.
Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.
He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.
Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.
Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.
He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.
Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.
She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.
Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.
That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.
Cute.
He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.
This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.
Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.
For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.
Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.
And when that time came—
He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.
The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.
Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.
Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.
“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”
Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”
Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”
Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.
Didn’t matter.
He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.
Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.
Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.
Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.
Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.
His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.
“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”
Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”
He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.
Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.
“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.
Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”
He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”
He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”
Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.
She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.
He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.
Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.
“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”
The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”
“On?”
She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.
And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.
Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.
After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.
“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”
The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.
“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.
He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”
It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.
Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.
“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”
Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.
“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.
She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.
And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?
Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.
It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.
And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.
But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.
Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.
Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—
She was no ordinary girl.
No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.
Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.
But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.
And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.
Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.
And she looked cute annoyed.
Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.
He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.
And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.
Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.
She really didn’t want to go.
Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.
But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.
Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’
Better. Whatever that meant.
So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.
And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.
That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.
And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.
She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.
She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.
She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.
There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—
—and there he was.
Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.
Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.
He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.
You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.
“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.
Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."
You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.
Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.
You froze.
What the hell?
You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.
“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.
Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."
You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.
Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.
The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.
But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?
You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.
The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.
Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.
And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.
Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.
But then—
The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?
You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?
You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.
It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.
You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.
Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.
Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.
He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.
He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.
And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.
He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.
He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.
He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.
And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.
The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.
What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.
With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.
You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”
You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”
He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.
“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”
Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”
“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.
You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.
Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.
You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:
1. This was going to be a long day.
2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.
But you had no intention of making this easy for him.
So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.
If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.
Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.
You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.
The hell was that supposed to mean?
Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”
“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”
You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”
You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.
But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.
Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.
The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.
Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.
Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.
But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.
You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?
It felt natural.
You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.
Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.
He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’
Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.
You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.
And you did.
He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.
Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.
You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.
You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.
He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”
It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.
All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.
So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.
His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”
You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”
“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”
The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.
Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…
That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.
You didn’t know how to read menus.
Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.
Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.
“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.
For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”
And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.
“Do you want red sauce or white?”
“Chicken or beef?”
“Want dessert or not?”
Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.
And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.
Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.
It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.
He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.
While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.
Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.
It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.
And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.
It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.
But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.
“You make that?”
You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”
“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”
You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”
A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”
That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.
Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.
He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.
But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?
That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.
But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.
And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.
And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.
He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.
God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.
“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.
You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.
The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”
Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.
“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”
Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”
“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”
Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You’re the one that set me up with her.”
His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”
“She didn’t even blink.”
That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.
“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”
“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”
Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”
“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”
“Why?”
Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”
“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”
“…Soft.”
His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”
Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”
“Shut up.”
You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?
What the actual hell was wrong with him?
It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.
And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?
You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.
You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.
“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.
“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”
And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.
Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.
The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”
“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.
“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”
“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.
The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.
You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”
“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.
Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.
And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.
Yeosang noticed.
Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.
He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.
But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.
An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.
Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”
You snapped your head to him. “What?”
“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”
“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”
“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Ring size.”
“I—I don’t know!”
His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.
Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.
You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.
And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.
You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.
But Yeosang saw it. All of it.
The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.
To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.
He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”
You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”
But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.
Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”
You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.
It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.
“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.
He didn’t like that. Not one bit.
Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”
Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”
Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”
“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.
You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.
You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.
But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?
You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.
Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.
But of course he did.
Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.
You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.
You hated how warm your ears felt.
“I don’t—”
“I said pick.”
His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”
“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”
You swore your knees nearly gave out.
“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.
His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”
God help you—you almost said yes.
The wedding was hectic.
Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.
After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.
Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”
It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.
Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.
Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.
It was… knowing.
Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.
You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.
The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.
And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.
By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.
It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—
Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.
It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.
It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.
You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”
Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.
Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.
You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.
Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”
He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…
Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”
He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”
You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”
“It is now.”
God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.
“You’re annoying.”
“You married me.”
“We were arranged.”
“Same thing.”
You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.
If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.
You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.
Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”
You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”
You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”
He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would.”
It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.
You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.
Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.
“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”
You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.
“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”
Silence.
You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual—came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”
You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”
You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.
So you did.
“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”
“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”
You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.
“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”
Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.
But nothing came.
Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?
He was having a crisis.
“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”
You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.
“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.
Fine. FINE.
You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.
Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.
You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.
Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?
His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.
It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.
And the worst part?
You didn’t even know.
Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.
Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.
Perfect.
Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.
You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.
Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.
What the actual—
You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.
Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.
The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.
Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.
“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.
Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.
What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?
He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.
It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.
He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.
Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.
He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.
And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.
He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.
You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.
And there he was. Still in bed.
Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.
With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.
Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”
No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.
Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”
You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.
You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”
“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.
You blinked. “What?”
“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”
You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”
He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”
You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”
“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”
You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”
Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.
He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.
And beside it… her pink one.
Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.
He loved it.
Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.
He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?
Apparently, him.
He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.
It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.
He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.
And then—that smell hit him.
Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)
Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.
He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.
Until her.
Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.
How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.
Definitely her.
He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”
He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.
When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?
The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.
“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.
But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.
“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”
She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”
They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.
Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”
That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.
She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”
Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.
But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—
He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.
So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.
“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”
Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?
He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”
Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.
You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.
Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.
But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.
Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.
And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.
But here?
Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.
And you didn’t even know it yet.
Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.
The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.
But then there were nights like this.
Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.
Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’
He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.
He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.
You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—
Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.
Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.
The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.
He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.
You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.
But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.
“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.
Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.
“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.
His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.
It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.
With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.
You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.
And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.
As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.
“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.
He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”
You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.
But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.
“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”
“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”
And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—
He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.
You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.
But this? This was a whole new experience.
You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”
“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.
You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.
“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.
“No.”
That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.
You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.
He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.
You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.
Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”
“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”
That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.
So you didn’t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.
And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.
Just… sleep.
You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.
You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.
Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.
You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.
By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.
He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.
“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”
You blinked. “Why?”
“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.
“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.
Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.
A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.
But then…
His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.
And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.
Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.
The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.
You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.
You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.
Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”
And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.
You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.
“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”
Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.
What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.
A name and a dot. That’s all it took.
Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.
He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..
"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?
He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.
The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.
But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.
And he was losing it.
Internally.
Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.
But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.
It was after.
Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.
You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.
So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.
“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”
His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.
And then—he laughed.
That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.
“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”
Liar. Absolute liar.
And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.
Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.
It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.
It wasn’t fair.
And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.
⋆˙⟡ summary: after his recent promotion, your husband has been spending more and more time in the office, hoping to continue to climb his way up to the top of his company. you have a beautiful home, a lavish life together, and more money than you know what to do with. but in the cloud of his ambition, he’s forgotten all about the one who carried him to where he is– you.
⋆˙⟡ warnings/tags: MDNI! 18+, explicit, smut, angst, husband sannie!!, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (dont do that), multiple orgasms, sannie in a suit, good old fashioned missionary lovemaking with a side of desperation, creampie, san’s got a lil bit of a dirty mouth, mentions of separation/divorce, groveling and begging, all that good stuff! let me know if i missed anything♡︎
⋆˙⟡ pairing: husband!san x fem!reader
⋆˙⟡ author’s note: this was entirely inspired by both san being who i envisioned as kai young when i read king of pride, in combination with the plot of king of greed … sorry bout it !!! sannie would also just be absolutely devastating while groveling and begging for forgiveness, i just had to. this is my first time writing our sweet sannie, so i hope you enjoy ♡︎ i am also still relatively new to writing so any constructive and kind feedback is more than welcome! thank you ♡︎ this is also possibly my last fic post until after my wedding which is 2 months away!!!
⋆˙⟡ word count: 6,210
⋆˙⟡ read part two: here
⋆˙⟡ read it on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68984456
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The ticking of the clock is deafening in the silence of your empty dining room. You’ve been sitting across from a vacant seat at your dining table for hours now, your husband’s untouched plate of food only growing colder as time continues to pass. Your empty wine glass, and bottle, sit next to your own cold dinner, plated on your best china, the set San’s boss gifted you as a wedding present. The candles you’d lit hours ago are nearly burned all the way down, wax dribbling over the edges of the gold candelabra. Despite your withering hope and growing rage, your stubbornness has you glued to your seat, staying put until San gets home.
It’s nearly midnight when you finally hear the lock to the front door of your penthouse click, followed by the familiar sounds of him setting down his briefcase and toeing off his shoes. Your chest tightens in anticipation for the interaction you now have to have, every moment you’ve spent alone this evening, and all the ones prior, filling you with more anger and disappointment. The speech you rehearsed in your head flutters out the window, like it doesn’t even want to be here either.
“Jagiya, I’m home,” he calls out quietly down the hallway. How he knew you’d be up waiting for him, you didn’t quite know. Maybe he didn’t either.
“In here,” you reply, tapping a freshly manicured fingernail on the tabletop. You’d gotten them painted San’s favorite shade of purple this morning, although your hopes for this evening were already dwindling after he left for work before you’d even woken up. You should’ve known, given his track record with quality time as of late.
He rounds the corner into your opulent dining room and stops dead in his tracks, his eyes landing on you before registering the state of your dining table. Your styled hair, your floor length satin dress with a devastating slit up one thigh, the first pair of Louboutin stilettos he ever bought you discarded next to your chair. The corner of his mouth quirks up, his cheek dimpling.
“You look beautiful, gongjunim,” his attention turns to the table, and you watch his face fall as he registers each item before him: a beautiful meal on your best china, the empty wine bottle, the candles that go out almost on cue, having burned all the way down. “You made hangjeongsal?” His tired brown eyes find yours again, his expression somewhat unreadable. “What’s the occasion? I didn’t have anything in my calendar today,”
“Your calendar,” you scoff, your anger already getting the best of you, “I didn’t realize I needed to ask to be penciled in for dinner with my own husband,” you pick up your empty glass, getting up from your seat at the table to head toward the kitchen, suddenly feeling stone-cold sober and desperate for another drink. “It’s midnight, San, you didn’t think to call? Text?” You hear him following behind you, his socked feet quietly padding across your tiled floor.
“I forgot to call, jagi, I’m sorry,” he gives you the same excuse you’ve heard a hundred times over, and your blood starts to simmer beneath your skin. “I was pulled into a last minute meeting that ran over, and–”
“You’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” you cut him off, “forgetting.” You round your kitchen island and turn around to face him, setting your wine glass down a little too hard on the marble, it’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter. You plant your hands on the cold surface and glare at him, but he suddenly looks so small. Despite his perfectly pressed suit and carefully styled hair, the light in his eyes is completely gone, the boy you fell in love with nowhere to be seen. This job of his is taking so much of him, so much from him, and he doesn’t even realize it. He looks at you in silence, already seeming defeated. Despite his current state, you can’t stop the anger from bubbling up inside of you.
“You don’t even know what today is, do you?” Your throat tightens, your voice raising with each word. Panic floods San’s eyes as he flips through his mental calendar, which you’re sure has no trace of you in it. He approaches the island, reaching for you across it, but you step back.
“Today? I–”
Your humorless laugh interjects before he can finish his thought, as you already know he has no clue. You know he has no clue, because every single anniversary before this one, he’d send flowers. Even when you were two broke college students, celebrating monthly dating anniversaries, he would pick dandelions from the courtyard by the library, wrapping them into a bouquet with a piece of notebook paper.
“You’ve been so deep in your precious job that you left me all alone on our goddamn anniversary,” your voice breaks on your last word, all the loneliness and disappointment you’ve been feeling recently starting to overshadow your anger. Your fingernails press crescents into your palms, and you ball your fists as tight as you can.
The color drains from his face, dread filling his eyes as he looks at his precious Rolex to confirm the date.
“Jagiya, I–”
“Save it.”
He freezes, letting you have the floor, preparing for the reprimanding he knows he absolutely deserves. “You left me alone, from sunrise to sunset, on our wedding anniversary, with not even so much as a text message. All. Day. Long.” You square your shoulders as you come back around the kitchen island, fighting the tightness in your throat as you reach for the dazzling ring on your left hand. You slip it from your finger, placing it on the island between you and your husband. He looks down at it, eyes widening like you just placed a lit stick of dynamite before him.
“This,” you gesture toward the shining diamond, “was a promise. To love each other, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer.” His lower lip quivers, waiting for you to continue. “But the richer version of you is making me miss when we had nothing, San. We didn’t have any money, we lived in a studio apartment, and we lived paycheck to paycheck. But at least you looked at me. At least you spent time with me, at least you never forgot a single important day.”
He looks past you, something unidentifiable dawning over his handsome features. His face is void of any emotion, his gaze goes glassy, he looks… numb.
“I didn’t mean to let you slip away,” he almost whispers, “I just wanted–” he chokes on his words. “I just wanted to give you everything after having nothing for so long.” He focuses on your face once again, and you soften slightly at just how broken he looks. You know from his perspective he has good intentions. You know he came from nothing and swore to himself he’d never be in that place again. But you can’t back down yet, you promised yourself you’d say everything you need to.
“We’ve had everything, San,” you gesture around the two of you to the beautiful penthouse he bought after his first big promotion. “We have cleaners for fuck’s sake.”
He lets out a watery laugh, looking to the floor, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I know, not entirely necessary, huh?” He tries to lighten the mood, but when his eyes meet yours again, the whisper of his beautiful smile disappears.
“I can’t do it anymore, Sannie.” You take a slight step back, needing to put space between the two of you. Suddenly his presence feels so suffocating. You didn’t want to give him an ultimatum, you swore to never be that level of crazy, but this isn’t crazy. You just want your husband back.
“Do… do what?” He’s scared. Scared to ask you that. More scared to hear your answer.
“Sit here in my trophy case all day and wish that you were here, when you very well could be, and still keep your status with the company,” you shake your head, pushing through every voice in your head telling you to stop, that this isn’t necessary. “You work too hard when you don’t need to, and I can’t just wait here every evening and hope you decide to come home before the sun goes down.” You realize you’ve been avoiding eye contact since beginning to respond to his question, and finally bring your eyes to meet his again.
“I can’t keep feeling completely alone, just waiting for you to be here. Something has to change, or I have to leave, San.”
The silence in the air is thick. Dense. Clawing down your throat, nestling deep into your belly. Despite your better judgment and the aching in your heart, you hold his gaze. Physically, he’s looking into your eyes, but he’s looking right through you, as if he’s hoping that you’re a mirage, and the real you will come bounding into the kitchen at any given moment, bursting through the words you just spoke.
Something is his eyes changes, and his breath turns shallow, his fists clenched at his sides, as if he’s stopping himself from reaching for you.
“Jagi, please, I can’t do this without you,” his voice breaks, like the dam that’s been holding in your tears all evening. They burn trails down your cheeks. “I love you,”
“You’ve been doing just fine without me for months, San, you hardly seem like you need me anymore,”
“Fuck, y/n, I do,” he runs his hands through his hair, mussing its perfect style, “life didn’t have meaning before I met you.” He motions like he wants to reach for you, but he stops himself. “I wanted to do this to give you the life you deserve, the life we deserve. To pay you back for all the support you’ve given me for years, I just–” tears well in his eyes, his voice catching in his throat. “I went about it the complete wrong way. I was trying to work harder, climb higher, bring more home to you, for you, but–” a tear escapes, gliding down his cheek, dripping from his chin, soaking into his shirt. “I lost sight of the present, and I take full blame for that.” He sniffles, closing the distance between you and dropping to his knees in front of you.
“Please, jagiya, I’ll do better, fuck,” he wraps his hands around the backs of your thighs, fingers gripping the satin, pulling you closer to him, and you let him. He rests his chin against your thigh, looking up to you, letting his tears freely fall down his cheeks. Yours mirror his.
It’s a reflex, when you cup his cheek with your hand. It’s a reflex, when he leans into your palm and closes his eyes.
“Please,” he whispers. “There’s no me without you. I’m so fucking sorry,”
A shaky exhale flutters out of you.
“You can say that you’ll do better as much as you want, but you have to actually keep to your word,” you wipe a tear with your thumb just before it dips into his dimple. He looks up at you, his deep eyes full of regret, longing, desire. Your heart aches in your chest, begging to be held. You sniffle.
“I will do anything for you.” His grip on your thighs tightens, and he ghosts a gentle kiss over the sliver of skin peeking out through the slit in your dress. “I’ll work 9 to 5, I’ll work from home when I can, I’ll make sure my assistant schedules everything during work hours,” he kisses you a little higher, his nose pushing up under your dress slightly.
“San…” You know how much he loves you. That isn’t the question, the question is: will he put you first? Will he dial it back at the office and be happy with the life you’ve already built together? Your head is spinning at the feeling of his mouth on you. You want to forgive him and trust him, but how do you know he’ll follow through?
“Please,” he nuzzles into your soft skin, “I know you have no reason to believe me after what I’ve been putting you through.” He presses another kiss to your exposed skin, softer this time. You struggle to keep your breathing in check. He sniffles, clearing his throat. You feel his tears seeping into the fabric of your dress. “But there is nothing in this universe that can keep me from loving you. And I will do anything to remind you of that.” You let him kiss you higher, a thumb hiking your dress up further.
“Please,” he whispers. The sound of his begging makes your skin prickle.
His lips have a way of lighting your body on fire. The first time he kissed you, after walking you home from the houseparty that brought him into your world. The first time he went down on you, on his knees under the table in a private study room late at night in the library, head nestled between your legs with one hand covering your mouth. You knew you were doomed from the start – the hold he has on your body, mind, and soul – there’s no escaping it.
Even now, with the threat of separation swirling around you, all you know is his lips on your skin. Soft, sweet, tender, desperate. He lets his teeth drag across the supple skin of your thigh, his tears sticking to you, your own starting to dry on your cheeks, leaving tracks through your makeup. You stifle the moan that threatens to rip from your throat.
“Jagi…” He peeks up at you through his lashes. Lashes you’d always hoped your children would inherit.
“You have a lot to prove, and even more to make up for,” you smooth the furrow between his brows with the pad of your thumb, and he grins at you.
“Why don’t I start now?” He drops another kiss to your leg before rising to his feet, instinctively wrapping his hands around your waist. “Have I told you how beautiful you look?”
“Yes,” you whisper. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re right back on the front porch of your college apartment on the night you met. You barely knew anything about him other than his name, but he looked at you like he knew every inch of your soul from the moment he laid eyes on you.
“Well, I’d like to tell you again,” he hesitantly leans in, softly kissing your cheek. You lean right back into him, your heart melting for him, and he kisses you again, the corner of your mouth this time. “You look so beautiful, jagiya.”
He raises a hand to your chin, gently turning your head to the side, kissing the hinge of your jaw. “Although…” He kisses the pulse point of your neck, “I’m really kicking myself for not getting home before you took off those heels.” His lips ghost over your ear. “You know how much I enjoy you in heels,”
Going from angry and disappointed to crumbling in your husband's hands was not your plan for the evening, but you should’ve known yourself better than that. Maybe you both need this.
“Go get them,” you whisper.
He shoots you a knowing grin before turning to walk back toward your dining room. He returns a moment later, your Louboutins dangling from his grasp. Before you can speak, he drops to his knees in front of you once again and holds out a hand. You pick up one of your feet and he tenderly cups your heel in his palm, sliding one shoe onto your foot. You give him your other foot, bracing yourself on the kitchen island to help you balance. Once both heels are securely on your feet, he stands to his full height in front of you, drinking you in.
“I know I missed dinner, but I’m so hungry.” He takes a step closer to you, his hands gliding over the soft satin of your dress, finding purchase on your hips.
“You can heat up your food,” you choke out as he dips his head into the crook of your neck, kissing your collarbone.
“That’s not what I want,” he whispers.
You try to step back to give him a dirty look over not wanting the dinner you painstakingly prepared for him, but before you can, he’s hoisting you up and wrapping your legs around his waist.
“San!” You yelp, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling the tensed muscles of his broad shoulders. He looks up at you with determination in his eyes, turning the two of you around to walk back toward the dining table. He approaches an empty place at the massive table, and sets you right down on it.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing, Choi San?” You look into his deep eyes, any tears he cried have dried, the spark of the boy you love filling his dark irises.
“I told you I was hungry, my love,” he spreads your knees, standing between them and hiking your dress up in one fluid motion. Before you can formulate a response, he drops back to his knees in front of you.
”And I made your favorite meal for you.” You try to argue, but know it’s no use. Your breathing quickens with every glide of his hands across your skin. He slips his fingers under the hips of your delicate lace panties and slides them down your thighs. You lean back, propping yourself up on your hands, looking at him expectantly.
“You’re my favorite meal.” He grins, dimples mocking you as he slips your panties into his pocket. With that, he dives between your legs.
”Oh, Sannie,” you throw your head back as he licks into you, hands spread wide across your thighs, holding you open for him. Unfamiliar is the wrong word, because going down on you has always been one of San’s favorite pastimes, but it feels… Fresh. San has been too busy or exhausted for sex these days, and it’s been so long that this time thrums with the same energy and excitement as the first.
His tongue slides through your heat with practiced precision, the firm tip of it swirling around your clit. He groans as it swells under the heat of his mouth, sucking the sensitive bundle between his lips. Your nipples harden, peaking through your dress, the material of it making you feel all the more sensitive.
You feel a hand leave your thigh, followed by two fingers prodding at your entrance, He dips the tips in softly, just to the first knuckle before withdrawing to bring them to his lips. His eyes bore into yours as he licks your arousal from his fingers, wetting them with his tongue before bringing them back to your throbbing entrance.
“I will never,” he starts, thrusting his fingers deep inside you, “ever make you feel unwanted or forgotten ever again.” His voice breaks on his last word, and he peppers your inner thighs with kisses, setting a steady pace, easily finding that spot that makes your back arch. “I am so fucking sorry,” he whispers. Fresh tears make their way down his cheeks, spreading onto your skin as he works his mouth closer to your core.
Your heart twists, full of both love and longing, begging for his words to be true. You feel a stinging on the bridge of your nose, and a tear slips down your cheek as your husband sucks your clit into his mouth again. He weaves your thighs over his shoulders as he licks at you, and you press your heels into his back.
“Ah, Sannie,” you sob, grinding your hips against his mouth, melting into the searing heat building low in your belly. He finds a rhythm that ruins you, pumping his fingers and lapping at you like you’re going to disappear at any moment, burying his face into your heat. You run your fingers through his hair, holding his head firmly in place.
“C-close,” is all you can manage to mutter, your climax building quicker than you can process, the two of you falling into this familiar dance so easily. It’s been so long since you’ve been intimate with him like this, your body feels like embers crackling back to life into a roaring bonfire. You dig your stilettos into his back, drawing a rumbling satisfied groan from your husband’s throat.
“Come for me, jagi,” he growls, “let me hear you.” He replaces his tongue with the rough pad of his thumb, not letting the transition alter his rhythm in the slightest.
You bring your hand from his hair to his cheek, soaking in the way he’s looking at you with so much love in his eyes. It’s filthy, the way his puffy lips and glistening chin compliment the sheer obsession in his gaze. The way he’s looking at you so surely while doing unspeakable things to you.
He curls his fingers inside of you and you’re done for, your body seizing and trembling as your orgasm rips through you.
“O-Oh my—“ your brain goes numb, handing all control over to your husband. He jumps onto his feet, slowing his pace ever so slightly as he throws his free hand behind your neck to ease you down onto the table. You let it pulse through you, each wave melting you into the table beneath you. He softly rubs his thumb over your clit, drawing it out just enough.
“Good girl,” he whispers, running his hand down your sternum, over your belly. “Do you think you can give me another?” He pushes the heel of his hand firmly on your pubic bone, pumping his fingers slowly, teasing your clit.
“I think so,” you giggle breathlessly, your limbs feeling like jelly. He knows your body so well, you know he could have you coming all night long if you’d let him.
He continues his leisurely pace, watching your chest rise and fall as you catch your breath. You give him a nod, and that’s all he needs to bury his fingers deep inside you and bring his mouth to your cunt again.
“Ah!” You cry out, back arching off the table at the sudden change. He nods, grazing his teeth over your clit and growling into your core. Your hands fly into his hair again, holding him tight as you roll your hips over his mouth. He bumps your sensitive spot with the pads of his fingers with each thrust of them deep into you, using his thorough intimate knowledge of your body to his advantage as usual. He uses his free hand to gently push your thigh, spreading you open wider for him.
“So beautiful, spread out for me on our table,” he brushes his thumb over your clit while he watches you. “Let me see you touch yourself, jagi.”
He trails a hand up your soft body, fingers slipping beneath a strap of your dress, slowly sliding it down your shoulder, all while pumping his fingers in and out of you. He pulls your dress down just enough to free one of your breasts, giving your hard nipple a soft lick before kissing back down to your core.
Your hand slides up your belly, palming the soft swell of your breast before rounding your thumb and forefinger around your nipple, the wetness from your husband’s tongue making the sensation all the more delicious.
“That’s it,” he nearly whispers, his voice low and breathless. “My beautiful wife.”
He finally reconnects with your clit, setting back into a steady rhythm that he knows will have you crumbling in minutes. You writhe underneath him, rolling your nipple between your fingers in time with his persistent and practiced ministrations at your core.
You flutter around his fingers, and you feel him chuckle deeply against you. He nods again, egging you on, delivering a particularly firm suck to your clit.
“God, Sannie, I–” You feel your climax settling deep within you moments before it crashes over you, your body turning pliant, and your hearing muffles. You feel alive, in love, on fire.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, “so fucking beautiful.” He stands, letting any and all restraint fly out the window, bending over your spent form and crashing his lips to yours. The taste of you spreads across your tongue as he slides his own into your mouth, slipping his fingers out of you. You whine, feeling empty. While you feel more connected to him than you have in weeks, perhaps even months, it isn’t enough.
“Take me to bed, San,” you mumble between kisses.
You wrap your legs around his waist, hoping he’ll get the hint. He chuckles warmly into your mouth as you lock your ankles behind his back, and threads an arm beneath your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he scoops you up, keeping one hand firmly gripping your waist and the other splays wide under your ass. He squeezes your cheek before giving you a playful smack, making your cunt squeeze around nothing. Your dress is still hiked up around your waist, and your sensitive center rests firmly on his stomach, each step he takes giving you a pulse of pressure.
He carries you through your penthouse, blindly walking you to your shared bedroom. You feel a hand leave your waist and hear the doorknob turn, and he kicks the door open as he brings his lips to your neck.
“Do you remember our wedding night?” He whispers as he softly nibbles on the column of your throat, walking you across the room, toward your bed.
“Of course I do,” your voice comes out breathless. He nods, licking up your neck and pressing a kiss behind your ear.
“Do you remember how I fucked you on our wedding night?” The closeness of his mouth and the way he breathes his words straight into your ear has your skin prickling with goosebumps.
“Yes,” you gasp softly, thinking about San, who wanted you so desperately on your wedding night that he made love to you nearly fully dressed. Pounding into you deeper and harder than he ever had, tuxedo shirt open wide and pants pulled down just enough to give him access to you. He barely gave you enough time to take off your wedding dress.
“I’m feeling just as desperate for you right now as I did that night, if not more,” he taps your ass gently, and you loosen your legs around him. He gently eases you onto the floor, holding you tightly to his body until he knows you’re steady on your feet.
“But,” he loosens your dress around your waist, allowing it to cascade down your legs. “I need you to know that I love you more now than I did that night,” he kisses your forehead ever so softly. “And I will love you more tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that,” he emphasizes each string of words with kiss after kiss to your forehead, threading his fingers through your hair, holding you close to him. You rest your hands on his waist, leaning into his touch.
“We’re gonna be okay,” you whisper, a silent tear falling down your cheek. You didn’t realize how badly you needed to hear him say that.
“We are.” He tilts your head back, bringing your eyes up to his.
“I love you,” you remind him, as you bring your hands to the thin satin straps of your dress, easing them down your shoulders.
“I love you,” he replies, watching as the top of your dress inches down your chest, as you push it further and further down until it’s bunched around your hips and your breasts are exposed, nipples peaking as your husband’s gaze on you intensifies. With a final push, your dress eases over the swell of your hips and drops to the floor, pooling around your feet, leaving you fully bare.
Without his eyes leaving yours, he shrugs out of his suit jacket, dropping it to the floor behind him. He hooks a finger under the knot of his tie, loosening it to the point that he can pull it over his head. Your skin warms under his gaze, your mouth going dry as his fingers work at the buttons of his shirt, popping them open one by one, his tan chest peeking out from his crisp white shirt.
He untucks his shirt from his pants and opens it fully, and you run your hands over his warm skin, feeling each muscle beneath your fingertips. Your hands travel up over his chest, dipping beneath his shirt to wrap around his strong shoulders. He rolls his shoulders, and you help pull his shirt down his arms until it joins his jacket on the floor.
You stand there, chests heaving, silence deafening, hearts pounding.
“Make love to me, San,” you whisper.
He’s on you in a heartbeat, one hand in your hair and the other on his belt buckle, tongue tangling with yours as he works himself out of his pants, shimmying out of them and kicking them to the side.
You can’t stop yourself from trailing a hand down his body to palm his solid cock through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs. He hisses at the contact, his hand in your hair tightening. You nip and lick at each other’s lips, hands wandering and skin heating.
You squeal as he lifts you again, wrapping your legs around his waist for a brief moment before tossing you onto the bed. You giggle as you land, bouncing on the mattress and wiggling backwards until you meet the soft pillows at the headboard.
He stands at the foot of your bed, eyes dancing over your bare body as he rubs himself through his underwear, a smirk playing across his lips.
“Open your legs, jagiya.” His voice comes out low and gravely, and you obey his command. He shudders an exhale, the dark spot on his boxer briefs growing as he drinks you in. “Look at you,” he growls.
“Come here,” you beckon him.
Your mouth dries as he pushes his underwear down in one swift motion, his cock bobbing in front of him as he kicks the fabric out of his way. He strokes himself slowly, tugging his cock to the side as he stares at your center. You flutter around nothing, and his eyes darken.
He crawls up the mattress, hovering over you, arms resting on either side of your body. You let your eyes travel down his body, over his strong chest, his narrow waist, his velvety, solid cock, hanging so close to your aching cunt. Your breath catches in your throat, your core throbbing with need.
He brings his mouth down over yours, softly at first. Sweet, tender kisses, until he slips his tongue between your lips and desperation takes over. He groans into your mouth, kissing you hard, drawing your bottom lip between his teeth as he parts your legs wider with his knees.
“I need you,” he breathes.
“Take me.”
He sits back on his heels, pumping his cock as he admires you. Your hair fanned across your pillow, your puffy lips, your soft breasts. He bends over you to press one more kiss to your lips, then sits back on his heels, lining himself up with your entrance.
He notches the head inside, pumping into you little by little, inching further inside with each thrust. The feeling of him dragging in and out of you has every inch of your skin burning, a light sheen of sweat blooming across your skin. You roll your head back, eyes fluttering closed as he pushes deeper.
“Look at me,” he demands.
You peel your eyes open to meet his, his pupils blown wide as he bottoms out, every solid inch throbbing inside of you. Your mouth hangs open, letting out a whimper.
He fills you so perfectly, like you were made for each other. You were made for each other.
He draws out of you to the tip, pushing back inside even deeper than before. He holds your gaze, fucking into you slow and deep, your soft grunts and whines the only sounds in your quiet bedroom.
“Harder, please,” you meet each thrust the best you can, pushing yourself down the mattress onto him.
“Mm,” he nods, picking up his pace, fucking you faster and harder with each thrust. His brow furrows, and he bites down on his bottom lip. “Fuck, you feel so good jagiya.”
All you can do is moan, your mind going blank, the only thing running through it is how delicious your body feels under your husband. San brings his thumb to his lips, swirling his tongue around it before lowering his hand over your core. He swipes his thumb over your clit, and you melt even further into the mattress under him.
Your belly warms, and San inches further up the mattress, the new angle making his thrusts hit deep inside you, and you gasp, your back arching.
“That’s it,” he coos, “take it,”
“Fuck, Sannie,” you tighten around him and he groans, thrusting into you even harder, his thumb circling your swollen clit.
“Keep squeezing around me like that and I’ll fill you up.” You always fall apart when he starts to talk to you like this, his dirty words that he saves for the bedroom. You feel the fire pooling deep in your belly, each swirl of his thumb around your clit drawing you closer and closer to the edge.
“I need it, please,” you whine, taking everything he’ll give you. He bends over you, swiping his tongue across your bottom lip. His sweat-slicked body gliding over yours makes your head spin, and the extra stimulation of your nipples has you dancing on the edge.
“I’m gonna fuck you so full of my cum, you’ll be dripping for days,”
“Yes, please,”
“God,” his hips stutter, “come with me,”
He buries his face in your neck, biting down hard, pushing you both over the edge. A moan rips from your throat, and your body trembles as he stills inside of you, filling you to the brim with his release.
You stay in the moment for several beats, both of you trying to catch your breath and settle your heartrate.
“I love you so much,” he rolls his hips slowly as he starts to soften inside of you, peppering your forehead and cheeks with soft kisses.
“I love you,” you murmur, feeling sated and light. He carefully slips out of you, falling onto his side next to you. You stay on your back, threading your fingers between his when he rests a hand on your belly. He kisses every inch of you that he can reach– your temple, your cheek, your neck, your shoulder. You soak in the feeling of being in your bed awake together for the first time in days.
“So, now that I know what day it is and will never live it down, how are we celebrating our anniversary, jagi?” He breaks the silence, kissing your temple once more, brushing the sweat soaked hair from your forehead.
His question stills you for a moment, your nerves automatically causing you to worry what the following days will bring. How he’ll adjust his work schedule, how it’ll affect his mental health, if he’ll actually stick to his word.
“I don’t know, Sannie, it’s so late already. And you have to work early tomorrow, don’t you?” You don’t intend for your voice to come out so nervous. He strokes your hair for a few silent moments, then freezes.
He jumps out of bed, padding over to his discarded clothes. He kneels on the floor of your bedroom, digging through his suit jacket, searching each pocket until he finds what he’s looking for. The screen of his phone lights up, soft light dancing across his face.
“Are you seriously checking your phone right now? Choi San I swear, you are not out of the woods yet–”
You cut yourself off when he brings the phone to his ear, used to moving in silence when he’s taking important calls. You curse yourself for the gut reaction, but stay silent, watching him with a furrowed brow and bated breath.
“Hongjoong-ssi, it’s San.”
Why on earth is he calling his boss right now?
“I know it’s late, I apologize, but I need to let you know I’ll be taking the next two weeks off.”
You cock your head at him, trying to make out the muffled voice on the other end of the line. Hongjoong doesn’t sound upset by any means, he actually sounds quite calm. Encouraging, even.
“I will, thank you, hyung. I’m taking my wife on vacation.” He glances up at you, “I don’t know yet. Wherever she wants to go.” A shy smile, dimples peeking through. “It’s our anniversary.”
He hangs up the phone as you beam at him, your heart so full you can hardly stand it.
thinking about ... san who uses you as a pillow .ᐟ
you barely make it halfway onto the bed before SAN collapses on top of you like a wwe wrestler. “san—” you gasp, trying to fight for air as his weight sinks into you, arms already wrapping snugly around your waist.
“i missed you.” his voice is muffled against your chest, his broad shoulders nearly swallowing your frame whole as he burrows deeper like a sleepy little kitten. “couldn’t sleep right last night, because my shoulders hurt again.”
you sigh upon hearing this, threading your fingers through his dark hair, it’s not the first time he is telling you this, but you are the only person that makes it comfortable enough to endure the pain. “i told you to try sleeping on your back, or stomach.”
“i can’t,” he groans, nuzzling against your collarbone. “my shoulders are too wide, and i just keep rolling over… i almost fell from the bed.”
he’s ridiculous, like literally utterly ridiculous, but at the same you can’t really blame him for not getting a decent sleep. “so what, i’m your pillow now?”
“the best pillow,” he murmurs, pulling you closer somehow. “so soft and warm, smells like strawberry chocolate cake, and you scratch my scalp just right—ah, there, like that…” he practically purrs under your touch, muscles relaxing beneath your fingertips as you gently massage his head. his biceps flex slightly as he shifts, dragging your leg over his hip like a possessive little monster. clingy, much?
you raise a brow, not because you are not used to this, simply because it comes out of nowhere, and very abruptly. “sannie, you’re being needy today.”
“i’m always needy,” he says without shame, cuddling into your warmth, smiling against your exposed skin. “especially with you.”
rolling your eyes, pretending to be annoyed, however, your hand doesn’t stop moving through his hair, and your fingers trail down his bare arm, tracing the lines of his muscle with just enough pressure to make him twitch.
“also, i’d like to file a complaint.”
“hmm?”
“you’re making it really hard to focus on your face when your arms are out here lookin’ illegal.”
he lifts his head, a grin that reaches his eyes, even making his dimples come out of hiding. “oh? baby, do you mean these?” he flexes, just slightly, watching your eyes follow the movement.
you swat him, not hard enough, but just enough to make him stop teasing you. “san, stop that! you’re too pretty and you know it.” he laughs, before ducking back down to kiss the side of your neck: gentle, lingering, stupidly in love. “i love you, you know?”
you pause, fingers threading through his hair again. “yeah, i know, and i love you too.”
but it still hits you like it’s the first time every time. when san says those three words, you forget about everything, when you look at him, he is the only one you think about. he may be a lovesick idiot, but you are crazy in love. “and i love your stupidly wide shoulders,” you murmur into his hair. “even if they’re the reason i wake up squished half the time.”
at that moment, you felt him relax, and yes, he was asleep. san always falls asleep quickly when you are here next to him, can’t blame him, you do smell like strawberry chocolate fresh cream cake, oddly specific but that’s just san for you.
⌇warnings: lil plot, smut, explicit nsfw, hormonal mood swings, crying/sobbing, ovulation horny desperation, p in v, oral (f!receiving), discharge eating (he's a greedy boy in this!!), fingering, body worship, begging, dirty talk, light choking, creampie, overstimulation, clingy needy behavior, messy, slight bleeding post-sex, affectionate aftercare, comfort sex, teasing, soft dom/sub vibes, slow soft orgasm, casual humor, soft praise, san is so bf here
⌇tysm for all the love on my recent works, it means the world--so here's a sannie one for yall <33
The rain had been coming down for hours. You watched it trickle down the glass, grey sky split with flickers of pale lightning every so often, the house dim except for the kitchen light left on above the sink.
The sound of the storm had long since faded into background noise, white noise for the ache growing in your stomach.
It wasn’t the cramps that had started it, not really. It was the need.
You were ovulating. You knew your body like clockwork. Your skin was flushed, your nipples stiff under your shirt for no reason, and the ridiculous amount of slick between your thighs had you changing your underwear twice today already.
But that wasn’t the worst part; the worst part was how empty you felt.
Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since you last saw him. Since you’d last touched him. Since you’d heard that particular rasp in his voice when he pressed you into the mattress and told you how sweet you were when you cried.
Now he was finally coming home.
You curled your fingers around the warm mug in your hands and tried not to squirm on the couch. Tried not to think about how the crotch part of your sleep shorts was already damp. Tried not to think about how your body didn’t just miss him, it was screaming for him.
You wanted him, not just for the way he touched you, but because you needed the quiet comfort of having him near, his presence like a tether to hold you steady.
You didn’t hear the key turn, you only heard the door click open.
Then a warm voice, familiar, hoarse with exhaustion and soaked in affection.
“Baby, I’m home.”
The mug slipped from your fingers and clattered onto the coffee table, sloshing tea across the surface. You shot up from the couch without thinking, and the second your eyes met his across the living room, you ran.
San caught you mid-jump, arms wrapping around you like instinct. You crashed into him with a breathless laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.
God, he smelled like the rain, leather and laundry, and just a hint of sweat.
“I missed you,” you whispered into his shoulder. “I missed you so fucking much.”
“I missed you more,” he said, setting his bag down and squeezing you tighter. “Every day. Every city.”
You could feel it already, the tension pulling taut between you, like a bowstring straining under pressure.
He leaned back slightly to look at you. You must’ve looked a mess, skin flushed, lips bitten, your shirt rumpled and sleeves pulled down over your hands. His eyes softened.
“Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you lied. But the tremble in your voice gave it away.
He tilted his head. “Come here.”
You followed him quietly to the couch, legs shaky, throat tight. The moment he sat, he pulled you onto his lap, your knees straddling him as his hands cradled your waist.
“Tell me.”
You hesitated. “I’m… hormonal.”
His brows rose just a little.
“Not in a sad way. Just my body’s going nuts. And I’ve been alone and stressed and horny for like three days straight.”
San’s expression shifted fast. From concern to heat in a heartbeat.
“Oh,” he said, voice dipping lower.
You bit your lip. “It’s not even the sex part—I mean, okay, it is, but it’s also just how empty I feel. I keep crying at dumb things. I almost cried over a pothole earlier. A pothole, San.”
He grinned. “Baby…”
“It’s my fucking ovulation window. And it’s making me feel like a crazy person.”
He wrapped his arms tighter around you, chest rising and falling against yours. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to feel pressured after tour. You’re probably tired, and I’m just—” Your voice broke slightly. “I’m just really needy right now.”
San leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours.
“You think I wouldn’t want to take care of you?” he whispered.
You blinked at him. His eyes were darker than before, his hands sliding up and down your sides in slow, grounding motions.
“I know this body,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I know what you feel like when you’re ovulating. I can smell it on you, baby.”
You shivered, his voice was like molasses now, deep and slow.
“You’re flushed. Warm. You keep rocking your hips like you’re not even aware of it.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, humiliated by how true it was.
“Don’t be,” he said, brushing your hair back gently. “I think it’s hot.”
Your breath hitched.
“I want you exactly like this,” he said. “Soft. Needy. Out of your mind.”
He kissed your neck low, slow, and purposeful. His hand slid down between your thighs. Pressed softly.
You whimpered.
“You’re soaked,” he muttered, groaning. “Fuck. I’ve barely touched you.”
You couldn’t breathe.
“I’m gonna take care of you, baby,” he whispered. “Gonna give your body what it wants.”
You whimpered against his shoulder. The second his fingers pressed against the thin cotton of your shorts, your body shuddered.
San cupped you fully, his palm broad and heavy, and rubbed a slow circle. You felt how embarrassingly slick the fabric had gotten, and the groan that left his chest was hungry.
“You want me to take care of you, don’t you?” he murmured. “Let me make it better, sweetheart.”
You nodded.
“Need you to say it, baby.”
“Please,” you whispered. “Touch me. I can’t take it anymore.”
He laid you back gently on the couch, pulling the throw blanket under your hips to cushion you.
His lips kissed down your throat, your collarbones, your chest. Slow, slow, slower, until his fingers caught the waistband of your shorts and peeled them down.
Then there it was, the second your panties came off, San paused. His breath caught. You were dripping, inner thighs damp, the whole couch faintly scented with your arousal.
“Oh, baby…” he exhaled, sinking to his knees between your thighs. “You’re so ready for me.”
He spread your legs wide, running his thumbs through your slick, parting you open.
San dropped to his knees between your thighs like a man possessed.
He spread you open with both hands, thumbs gliding through the slick that coated your folds, wet and glossy, stringing between your inner lips and soaking the blanket beneath you.
He let out a guttural groan. “Fuck. You’re not just wet, baby… you’re creamy.”
You flushed hard, hips twitching. “I told you—ovulation makes me—”
“You think I’m complaining?” He slid one finger through your folds, slow, collecting the thick mess coating you. When he pulled it back, it glistened, cloudy, slippery, stretched like honey between his fingers.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he brought that finger to his mouth and sucked it clean.
Your stomach dropped. He moaned.
“Tastes like you need to be filled,” he growled. “Sweet. Warm. Fucking ripe.”
“San—” you gasped, breath catching as he went back for more. He dipped two fingers in this time slow, twisting, curling deep, and when he pulled them out coated and dripping, he held them out to you.
“Open,” he whispered.
You hesitated, cheeks blazing, but obeyed.
He slid his fingers into your mouth and you sucked them instinctively, tasting yourself thick on his skin.
Salty, slippery, overwhelming. San watched with blown pupils and a smirk so filthy it made your toes curl.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Taste what your body’s begging for. You feel it, don’t you? That emptiness. That ache?”
You whimpered, clenching down hard around nothing.
He licked another trail up your thigh and groaned again. “Fucking leaking for it. Dripping down your thighs like your pussy already knows what’s coming.”
Then his mouth was back on you, hot, hungry, greedy. Tongue plunging deep, lips sucking the slick straight from your entrance as if it was the first thing he’d eaten in days.
“You’re making so much of it,” he panted between licks. “You want me to fuck it all back into you, don’t you? Fill you so full it leaks out for hours?”
“Yes,” you choked, writhing. “Please—please, I need it.”
“You’ll get it, sweetheart,” he growled. “But not until I’ve tasted every drop this perfect body’s made for me.”
You broke. Your orgasm hit hard, your body seizing as you clenched around his fingers, thighs squeezing, a loud sob tearing from your throat. You could barely breathe.
The wave dragged on and on, slick pouring out of you, making your inner thighs stick to the blanket.
San kissed you through it. Soft, open-mouthed kisses across your stomach and chest as you came down. His fingers stayed inside you, slow and gentle.
“Hey, hey. I’m right here,” he murmured, tucking your head under his chin. “You don’t have to hold anything in.”
You melted into him again, boneless and trembling...
A tear slid down your cheek before you even noticed you were crying, and San brushed it away without a word.
Your body sagged forward into his chest like you’d been unstrung. Every part of you pulsing and soft, skin too tight for how much emotion buzzed underneath.
You clung to him, breathing him in. Clean sweat, worn cotton, a hint of his shampoo still clinging to the ends of his hair.
Your brain was already slipping into that hormone-drunk haze, the kind that made your ribs ache just from being held.
You barely registered when he started undressing. A shirt peeled over his head, jeans sliding low over his hips.
It was all just movement and warmth and comfort, the room spinning gently while you floated at the center of it.
By the time his clothes hit the floor, you were blinking up at him with glassy eyes, lips parted, thighs pressed together, pliant like your body had already decided what it needed from him before your mouth could ask.
But you did notice the way his cock brushed against your thigh, heavy, thick, already leaking.
You whined.
“Still want me?” he asked, sliding two fingers back into you, checking how open you were. “Still this needy, even after coming so hard?”
You nodded, voice wrecked. “Please, San. Please, I need it deep.”
He kissed your knee. “You tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You were about to promise when he pushed in. Slow, stretching, deep. You both groaned in tandem, your cunt clenching down like he belonged there. Which, truthfully, he did.
“Fuck,” he whispered, folding over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other on your hip. “You’re so tight.”
“I can’t help it,” you cried. “You feel too good. It’s too much.”
“I know, baby,” he cooed, starting to move—long, grinding thrusts that made your whole body jolt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
His pace quickened. You wrapped your legs around his waist. He fucked you deep, not hard yet, but the angle had your toes curling. Every time he bottomed out, your body tried to take more.
“You want me to ruin this pussy, don’t you?” he growled.
“Your hormones are driving you crazy. You’re clenching like you never want me to leave.”
He grabbed your throat lightly, pressing just enough to make you gasp.
“You want me to come inside you?” he rasped. “Want to feel me leak out of you for hours?”
“Yes, San—please—don’t pull out—”
That was it. His control snapped.
He fucked you harder now—loud, wet slaps of skin on skin, your moans broken and desperate. Your second orgasm hit without warning, your body convulsing, nails digging into his back, sobs escaping as he stuffed you full, over and over and over again.
He came right after, you felt it when he spilled.
Thick, hot, flooding you. His hips stuttered, voice cracking in your ear as he pressed as deep as he could and stayed there.
“Shit,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “So full. You took all of it, baby.”
You didn’t realize you were bleeding until after. Not much, just a faint smear on the inside of your thigh, red-pink and mixed with cum. San noticed it first.
He immediately slowed.
“Hey—hey, you okay?”
You nodded, you felt dazed and fuzzy, just sensitive everywhere.
“Hurts a little,” you whispered. “But in a good way.”
As he pulled out, the mess was immediate. His cum mixed with yours, leaking in thick strings down your thighs, soaking the blanket beneath you.
San paused, staring, chest heaving.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Look at that.”
You glanced down and your face flamed at the sight. The discharge from earlier, now laced with thick streaks of white, clung to your folds like your body was still trying to keep him inside.
He didn’t move for a second—then dipped back down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered. “It’s dripping out already.”
You squirmed, thighs twitching, too sensitive to do anything about it.
Then he licked it up.
One long, slow drag of his tongue from your hole to your clit, scooping up the mess like it was his reward.
You whimpered. “San—”
He moaned into your cunt. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean you up my way first.”
You hid your face in your hands, torn between embarrassment and the slow curl of heat returning to your gut.
“You’re obsessed,” you whispered.
He smirked, licking his lips. “Damn right I am. You think I could watch my cum dripping out of you and not taste it?”
He was already grabbing a warm towel, muttering apologies as he kissed your temple.
“But still, I should’ve slowed down sooner,” he said softly. “You’re so sensitive right now. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You were perfect,” you whispered.
He was careful with the cleanup. Gentle between your thighs. Talking to you the whole time.
“You did so good for me,” he murmured. “Such a pretty girl. Always so sweet when you’re all soft like this.”
You whimpered when the towel grazed your clit, and he immediately soothed you with a kiss to the cheek.
“I’ve got you, baby. Just a little more, and I’ll get you in the bath.”
Once he was done, he helped you into the bathroom, set you in a warm soak with Epsom salts, and sat beside the tub rubbing circles into your calf.
“You’re always like this when you’re ovulating, huh?” he said, smiling gently. “All needy and messy and desperate.”
“Shut up,” you muttered, flushing.
He leaned in and kissed your nose.
“I fucking love it.”
You splashed a bit of water at him with your toes, but your body was too wrecked to hold a proper pout. When he stood and started peeling off his shirt again, you blinked up at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting in. You think I’m letting you float around in here alone?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of the day and of him made the thought of being close again too tempting to resist.
He climbed in behind you, easing your back into his chest with a contented sigh. The water shifted around you both, warmer with his skin against yours.
The sound of his heartbeat against your back slowed, each thud syncing with your breathing.
His body stayed wrapped around you, chest flush to your spine, arm curved protectively over your middle like he was afraid you'd slip through his fingers.
San didn’t move right away, he just let you breathe. And you were so grateful because you didn’t have the words yet.
Your body was limp, trembling in the comedown, your thighs sticky with sweat and slick and the warm, wet mess he’d left inside you.
But your chest was tight too, overwhelmed. You blinked, and tears welled again. This time, not from overstimulation, not from pain.
Just from everything. It was too much and not enough, you missed him, needed him, you had him, and it still didn’t feel like enough.
He kissed your shoulder softly.
But eventually, the bath cooled and your skin started to prickle.
He helped you out first, wrapped you in one of his shirts, dried your legs with a towel so gentle it made your eyes sting again.
“Couch?” he murmured.
You nodded, lips too soft and sore to bother forming words. He led you there with a hand at the small of your back, settled down with you tucked between his legs again, a blanket thrown loosely over both of your bodies.
“Hey…” he murmured. “You okay?”
You nodded against the couch pillow, but your throat burned.
Then your voice cracked, so small. “I think I’m gonna cry again.”
“Oh, baby…”
He turned you gently, shifting so he could face you. One hand cupped your cheek, the other sliding up your side, grounding you.
You were blinking fast, tears falling for no reason you could name, and San just held you through it, no judgment, no questions.
“Come here,” he whispered, gathering you into his lap. “S’okay, let it out.”
You curled into him like it was instinct.
“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” you sniffled, nuzzling his neck.
“I just—everything feels so much. Like my body’s on fire, and I want you again, but I’m tired, and I love you, but I also want to scream, and—”
“I know,” he said instantly. “You don’t have to explain it. Hormones are insane. You’re feeling everything at once, and I’m just glad you’re telling me.”
You breathed shakily, nose pressed to his damp skin.
“You’re not mad?”
He chuckled, warm and breathy.
“Mad? Baby, I’m honored I get to hold you like this. I love this part—when it’s just us. After everything. When you’re all soft and sleepy and honest.”
You bit your lip, more tears spilling. “You’re too sweet to me.”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “You deserve all of this. I mean it.”
He kissed the top of your head, then your forehead, then your damp cheeks.
You curled tighter into him, arms around his neck. “Don’t leave again.”
He smiled against your temple. “You know I have to. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m here. All yours.”
You relaxed with a shaky exhale, and you felt it again.
A pulse low in your belly, a flutter of need, small but insistent.
You whimpered, shifting against his thigh. San froze, then pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed, lips parted.
“…you’re turned on again?”
You blinked, ashamed. “I can’t help it. I think my body’s just—”
He kissed you before you could finish, not hungry or desperate. Just slow, lazy, and familiar.
Then he smirked. “We don’t have to move.”
He slid one hand between your thighs, easily, your folds still soaked, slick still leaking from your entrance.
“Fuck, baby,” he muttered. “You’re dripping down your thighs. I think you really do want a second round.”
You whined, burying your face in his chest. “We can’t. I’m so sensitive—”
“Shh,” he whispered, stroking you gently. “No pressure. Just let me touch you. I’ll be soft this time. No thrusting, no roughness. Just slow circles… like this.”
He rubbed his fingers in slow motion against your clit, barely-there pressure, but enough to make your hips twitch. You squirmed in his lap, helpless, lips falling open.
Your voice was small. “That feels so nice…”
“I know, baby,” he whispered. “That’s all I wanna do. Just give you this. No more tears. Just good things.”
And he kept rubbing, gentle and warm and hypnotic. Your breathing grew heavier, head tipping back against his shoulder as he coaxed you into it.
No demands, no commands. Just yes, baby, good girl, let go for me again.
You came with a soft gasp, legs trembling, toes curling, arms still locked around his neck. This time it didn’t hurt, it just eased something. A calm orgasm, full of warmth and release.
After, he kissed your temple again. “There she is.”
You were silent for a moment—then you mumbled, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this emotionally insane and also completely at peace.”
San laughed quietly. “That’s love, baby.”
You huffed a teary, dazed laugh, then whispered against his collarbone:
“Next time you’re on tour and I’m ovulating, I might die.”
He held you tighter.
“Next time, I’m flying you out.”
You didn’t even register that you were crying until San thumbed another tear from your cheek.
“I got you,” he whispered. “That’s it. Let it all out.”
Every nerve felt raw and stretched thin under the weight of too much pleasure, too much closeness, too much him.
At some point, he cleaned you up again. Grabbed a warm cloth and murmured quiet little things like he always does.
You’re okay, I’m right here, just breathe for me, baby, as he wiped you down and slipped one of his shirts over your head. The soft cotton dragged over your hypersensitive skin like a second set of hands.
Just you in his arms, half-buzzed, cheek pressed to his collarbone as he settled the two of you into the cushions. The night air through the window was cool; his skin was warm against yours.
He curled behind you and draped a new throw blanket over your bodies, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.
“All clingy and messy and fucking desperate.”
You groaned, flushing. “Hush.”
He leaned in and kissed your nose. “My favorite love.”
His heartbeat thudded against your back, slow and steady. You let yourself sink into him, body heavy, brain soft. All of it, the wreckage of pleasure, the gentle care, the calm after, wrapped around you like a cocoon.
A few minutes passed before you mumbled, “…I didn’t even realize it was ovulation week at first.”
San tilted his head down. “You’ve been on the red zone of that app since Wednesday.”
You blinked. “You checked my period app?”
He huffed a laugh. “Babe. You made me download it so I’d stop offering you milkshakes when you’re cramping.”
“…Right.”
You reached for your phone and pulled up the app.
Sure enough: Cycle Day 17. Fertile Window.
A bubble popped up with a cutesy message: 🩷 “You may be extra sensitive, sensual, or emotionally intense today!”
You snorted. “They forgot ‘will sob uncontrollably while getting railed.’”
San peeked over your shoulder. “Oh, I’d swipe right on that.”
Another notification popped up, this time from your group chat.
woowoo:
bitch are you okay??
or just too full of dick to respond???
joongie:
at least confirm you’re ALIVE you were ghosting us mid-tour and now radio silence???
mingithingi:
when u coming back? imy
You started typing through a laugh.
you:
alive. sore. not sorry. imy2 also tell wooyoung i hope he steps on a lego
San took your phone, added:
san:
don’t worry. she’s hydrated, stretched, and fully taken care of. she doesn’t miss u mingi.
Then he tossed it back onto the coffee table and tucked his face against your neck, one hand sliding under your shirt to rest on the warm skin of your belly.
“You good?” he murmured.
You shook your head yes, “Just wrecked.”
“Wanna cry some more?”
“Dunno, maybe.”
“I got you.” He kissed your shoulder. “Always.”
The ovulation app chimed softly in the background, like it knew exactly what it had done.
