predominantly nsfw works! MDNI, 18+! please note that this blog does post & interact with dark content. i write predominantly fetish content-> dark smut, angst, tragedies. all work is original and does not incorporate nor enlist the help of AI. series are slow to update for storyboarding. credits to @v4mpblog for the amazing dividers! a lot of these are older works…but i hope you can appreciate my growth (LMAO)
artapprentice!seonghwa x muse!reader x famouspainter!yeosang
⋆.˚✮synopsis: park seonghwa is a newly appointed art apprentice studying under kang yeosang, a prolific painter who’s infamous for his intensely controversial and erotic oil paintings. when he meets y/n, yeosang’s one and only muse and object of obsession—seonghwa is seduced into a decade long affair of yearning for another man’s muse he cannot touch.
for the thrill of the hunt (m): smut, comedy, angst, fantasy/supernatural, fluff (18+) ‘☆’ [hiatus, for storyboard planning!]
ancient vampire! seonghwa & reader x poker player! wooyoung
synopsis: being an ancient vampire sucks, sometimes—both literally and figuratively.
when seonghwa refuses to feed and forces himself into a deep slumber after declaring that he’s unwilling to face the painful boredom of everyday life, you’re forced to devise a delicious plan that’s heinous enough to awaken your very mopey husband. this is why jung wooyoung— a world star poker player with not only a great mug to pair with his skills, but the world’s rarest blood type, golden blood— gets a big red x on his photo that you shoddily pin onto the wall of your dining room when your frustrated efforts at getting your husband to stop moping grow frantic. your villainous husband— not one to opt out of a well crafted game, rises to join you on this particular excursion.
the mission?
play an all stakes game of cat and mouse with jung wooyoung’s life
for the thrill of the hunt.
𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔲𝔟’𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔷 ⛧⃝ : one-shot, hard smut, dark romance-fantasy, unreliable narrator, obsession, psychological, stockholm syndrome, love triangle, pwp, BDSM 18+ COMPLETED. ‘☆’
⃝ Pairing: yandere hunter! seonghwa x captive angel! reader x guard! san
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ summary: you come to terms with your distorted desire for your captor—damning yourself to never return to heaven in favor of living in his ominous and vulgar captivity. the entanglement only complicates further when he instructs his personal guard to watch over you while he's on a mission.
—synopsis: after the sudden passing of your husband due to a fatal car accident, your memory of him is slowly deteriorating at the wake of your grief. however, as more hair raising coincidences progressively get strange, you realize you’re not only haunted by your husbands memory.
♰𖣐♰ devil’s catch (m): religious horror, suggestive, supernatural-fantasy, SMUT, series. (18+) ‘☆’ [hiatus, for storyboard planning!]
pairings: exorcist!hongjoong x psychic!racially and bodily diverse reader (some ot8 x reader but heavily focused on hongjoong. however, everyone will still be intertwined.)
synopsis: “the order” is a secret organization of exorcists blessed with special abilities dedicated to expelling higher class demons—located in a ancient crypt hidden beneath the vatican. when an exceptionally gifted child is followed by prophetic omens and falls into possession of an unclassified s-class demon—kim hongjoong, considered the greatest exorcist of the 21st century, is dispatched under the mysterious order of convincing an enigmatic psychic hiding away in a metropolis to accompany he and his team in what might be their most daunting exorcism yet.
pairing: sub professor! mingi x honor roll (college) dom student! reader
—synopsis: in which your rigid professor has a taste for seeing you after hours.
𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳: 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘯𝘦𝘰-𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘭, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘺𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘶, 18+! COMPLETED! pairing: rebel member! mingi x stripper ex! reader
—synopsis: 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙, 𝙎𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙈𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙞'𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚: 𝙂𝙤 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙗𝙖𝙧, 𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙢𝙗, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙭—𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨.
sugarcoat: 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵, 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘩, 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘺'𝘢𝘭𝘭, (evil) secret camboy with a corruption kink au, 18+
𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙩 𝙗𝙛! 𝙎𝙖𝙣 (𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙚) 𝙭 𝙄𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧
He was sweet—almost too sweet. The kind of boyfriend who said all the right things, touched you like you mattered, and smiled like he had nothing to hide. But the charm was a mask, carefully crafted to disarm. Behind the softness lurked something darker: a hidden lifestyle he documented regularly online under the pseudonym ‘ch0i-kitty’, who posted content of girls he slowly corrupted on camera, vulgar perversion and live streamed conversations about his target of choice.
You thought you were falling in love.
You didn’t realize you were being documented.
AKA In which your sweet boyfriend isn’t as sweet as you originally thought and is a pervert with a taste for corrupting girls on camera.
KEEP YOUR EYES ON ME: racer au, exes to lovers, smut, san ain’t shit fr
𝐸𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅: drabble, best friends to lovers to idiots, fluff, mutual pining, comedy. (SFW!!)
pairings: best friend! san x best friend! reader
—synopsis: choi san’s been smitten since he’s first laid eyes on you playing in the sandbox; in other words—he’s loved you for as long as he can remember. all is well until you find the resolve to try and move on from the feelings he doesn’t know you have, and he’s faced with a choice: lose the girl of his dreams forever or finally step up and end the friendship.
: ͙͘͡★ a faint signal: Cosmic nostalgia, fantasy, fluff, cosmic deities, 1980's Hong Kong, episodical. (SFW!) COMPLETED!
.͙͘͡★Pairings: Cosmic spirit/ Star child! San x Weary soul! childhood friend reader ͙͙͘͡★WC: 3.4k
͙͘͡★Synopsis: It’s the year 1982–Hong Kong’s once awe-inspiring neon lights are now a dull visage of what it once was for you in your youth. Drained and dreamless, you find yourself bawling in a telephone booth after every unanswered call, until an old imaginary friend visits you. You’re then thrusted into a strange and cosmic reality where the dreams of your youth weren’t so imaginary at all
scotty doesn’t know: drabble series. ‘☆’ 🎸⋆⭒˚ pairings: drummer!wooyoung x guitarist! reader x vocalist! seonghwa
🎸⋆⭒˚ genre: cheating, drabble series, smut, toxic relationships. this chapter starts with woo’s pov and shifts to readers pov.
🎸⋆⭒˚ synopsis: seonghwa doesn’t know wooyoung screws you in the van whenever he fucks up and wooyoung doesn’t mind cleaning up after his messes so long as you end the night with him. inspired by the song “scotty doesn’t know” by lustra.
pt ii. be quiet and drive 🎤✩♬ ₊˚.
🎤✩♬ ₊˚. synopsis: seonghwa wants bigger things but he can’t bring himself to let you go just yet. (based on the song be quiet and drive by the deftones.)
pt.iii ˚✮ cherry boy—boy toy! ˚✮ 🎸⋆⭒˚ pairings: drummer!wooyoung x guitarist! reader x vocalist! seonghwa
🎸⋆⭒˚ synopsis: after a stunt you pulled onstage, wooyoung needs you tonight—even if all hell breaks loose in the process.
I give my first love to you: short letter entry, hurt, right person wrong timing, drabble. part i. of the drabble series. (COMPLETED!) ‘☆’ (SFW!)
pairings: first love! wooyoung x first love! reader
synopsis: A mini drabble series beginning with an unsent love letter. I crafted two endings for the first drabble and to provide some vague insight for the character relationships— but one of the endings is based in an alternate universe. You, dearest reader, are free to choose who to love and what universe is entirely yours—and what love almost was.
pt.ii extended drabble, san’s ending. [green light] new boyfriend! san x reader x first love! wooyoung (SFW!)
͙͘͡★ synopsis: wooyoung may have given him his first love, but san’s never going to give her back to him.
pt.iii extended drabble, one shot—wooyoung’s ending [the last time] first love ex! wooyoung x first love ex!reader (SFW!)
͙͘͡★ synopsis: this was the last time wooyoung was halfway to loving you.
Incubus! Wooyoung x Reverend’s Daughter! Reader (Incubus Ateez mentioned)
You’ve been afflicted by distorted dreams for as long as you could remember. Ostracized by your community for your tendencies to drift in and out of delusions even while awake. All the more you’re agonized by the ravenous and erotic nature that accompany your episodes—unaware that the Devil has his eyes on you.
INK & IVORY: forbidden romance, angst, eventual hard smut, semi-slow burn, enemies/lovers/manipulative counterparts, vampires 18+ (read the warnings please!)
Pureblood! Stepbrother Wooyoung x Pureblood! Reader, Pureblood Childhood Friend! Hongjoong x Pureblood! Reader
Summary: Pure bloods are a dying breed in vampyr society—coveted, revered, and feared. When your father suddenly weds the widowed matriarch of the influential Jung family, the union is meant to strengthen alliances. But behind the flawless image of your new blended family festers something far more twisted: an illicit entanglement with your enigmatic stepbrother, Wooyoung.
He’s possessive, sharp, and impossible to predict. You're the only one who can sate his bloodlust, and he knows it. What begins as an unspoken dependency spirals into a brutal game of dominance, jealousy, and seduction. In a house ruled by secrets and power, love is just another weapon—and you’re both armed to the teeth.
"This has been great," San said as he lit a cigarette, the single spark from the flickering lighter giving him a glimpse of the omega's breasts exposed to the chilly air...so chilly that her nipples were pebbled, begging to be sucked again.
"Mhm," she purred as she crawled towards San's lap, eyes fixated on his cock that was deliciously hanging between his thighs.
He pulled away the second she reached him, a habit that came with dozens of omega conquerings over the years. He couldn't let them get attached...couldn't let himself give up the idea that there was someone better waiting to be fucked. He couldn't settle down when that thought plagued him. Better tits? A bigger cock? A wetter pussy? San wanted the best. He deserved the best.
"It's been great," he repeated as he drew in a breath, letting the tobacco fill his lungs before exhaling and covering the lavender omega scent with something stronger. "...But you need to go."
Just like all the others she pleaded in annoyingly high-pitched whimpers, tried to claw at his hand to bring him back to bed, scratching his already torn skin.
"It's not you, it's...well it is you. I'm sure you understand," he walked towards his balcony, letting the city and its voyeuristic tendencies take in his nude form as the omega redressed and scurried away through tears.
He flicked the cigarette away, hating them for the most part but finding their odor the most efficient way to get rid of omega pheromones. He watched below as it hit the concrete just before the omega...what was her name? Stephanie? Julie? Something -ie... ran away crying back to wherever she came from...he hadn't asked.
San knew he deserved better than that. Alphas like him who lived in penthouses and walked around in suits of expensive fabrics and watches of brands far superior to the seemingly-luxurious-but-surprisingly-average Rolex deserved better than an omega who mistook his gold McLaren W1 for 'Bumblebee from Transformers'. It was such a disgusting notion that he almost didn't fuck her at all...but he was bored.
He was honest though. He told her he didn't get breakfast with the omegas he fucked. He made it very clear to her that he wasn't going to fuck her ever again so she had better make this worthwhile...
Still, like every omega, she didn't take it as fact but as a challenge. And like every other needy little thing he had brought home from the club, it made the sex great...but it changed nothing. She was disposable and replaceable.
————————————————————————
San set out the next night to prowl another club. He was dressed casually in gray trousers with a white collared shirt partially undone. His watch, a brand he wasn't even allowed to speak of, donned his wrist, gleaming under the flashing club lights.
San stalked around groups of omegas, circling them like a shark to its prey. Their silly scuffed jeans and leather pants were so disgusting that he wished he could rip them off of every leg here. Where was the decorum? Where was the effort in seducing him?
One drunk omega swirled into him, his paws attaching to his chest as if to claim him. San almost felt so bad that he considered fucking him just so that he wouldn't have to embarrass him among his friends by sending him back to the group.
"Tried him last week," a seductive voice whispered over the pounding music. "Small dick."
San threw him back to his friends, watching him stumble and cling on to the next person he bumped into.
"Thanks for the heads up," San said as he turned to catch the gaze of the alpha who had warned him. Your green eyes pierced through the club lighting, pierced deep into his soul as if they were fists trying to strangle his heart.
"(Y/n)," you smirked and held out your hand.
San reached for it, nearly buckling when his skin met yours for the first time...so soft and somehow so familiar. He brought your hand to his lips, kissing the back while watching a flicker of amusement cross your expression. He was cute...
"Alphas and alphas don't work," you reminded him. It wasn't uncommon for alphas to be attracted to each other, but the blow-up when it inevitably failed was always devastating.
"Who said I was thinking about anything?" San lied. In truth, he'd already undressed you in his mind, having removed that perfect form-fitting red dress to reveal a black, lacy thong. He'd even selected the exact spot he'd bite you.
It had been so long since he'd bitten someone. If he bit an omega, it would claim them and they'd never leave him the fuck alone until the day they died... But an alpha... He could bite an alpha just to pulse them with adrenaline and pleasure. It wouldn't unite them through some invisible bond. It just made orgasms last longer and hit harder. He'd only done it once before, and he'd cum so much that he didn't just have to change the sheets but get a whole new mattress.
"Your neck..." you sighed, eyeing a small bead of sweat as it dripped down his skin.
"My neck?" he asked, confused as to why you'd brought it up.
You wondered if he realized his hands were gripping your lower back, drawing you closer unconsciously. He didn't seem to be aware of it and was instead staring at the crescent mark on your shoulder, licking his lips as he did so.
"If we fucked," you groaned lowly at the idea, your core shaking desperately after being so unfulfilled by most omegas. "I'd bite your neck."
San hadn't expected you to say that, and he inhaled in surprise, perhaps his first breath since you'd gotten into his presence. Had he been holding it this whole time? Perhaps afraid to get even the slightest whiff of your sweet vanilla and almond scent. It was so fucking sweet that it made his mouth water, and he tugged you close so that the swell of your breast was against his chest. He felt dizzy, felt like he needed something to hold on to so he could remain grounded.
You whimpered as he pulled you in, hands coming up to press on his chest, feeling his heart thumping just beneath the surface, that lusty stare trailing from your tits to your lips.
"Fuck it," you breathed and pulled him in. Your lips attacked his purposefully, never faltering for a moment in their desire to feel him. His mouth was firm and strong, just like him. His muscles flexed beneath the tight collared shirt, and you moaned into the kiss, unable to hold back.
San wasn't grounded anymore...he had floated away to some perfect world where he stumbled across you again and again throughout time as if this were meant to have happened all along.
He followed you through the crowd. The omegas parted like the Red Sea to make room for you to guide him outside. San couldn't remember the last time he let anyone lead him anywhere. He was supposed to be in charge, and yet he didn't mind it at all right now as he watched your hips sway, glancing back now and then until you reached your flat.
San only fucked people in his apartment...this was new for him, too.
You pulled him to an elevator that surprisingly began to descend beneath the ground. He eyed you suspiciously, but you answered with ease, "I keep my house key in my car. Too many omegas tried to steal it."
"Genius," San shook his head with a laugh. He knew all too well what happened when desperate omegas got their paws on his key. He'd changed his locks many times over the years just to keep them away.
Your heels clacked on the concrete floor while hurrying to the number 13 parking space. In it, a McLaren Elva. Your apartment building was all well-endowed alphas, so you weren't concerned at all about leaving your car unlocked all evening. They could afford to buy whatever you had, and if they did steal it, you could afford to replace it.
"You're fucking kidding me," San moaned, watching you open the car door and pull the key out of the cup holder.
"What?" you asked as you locked the door, smelling for the first time San's needy, woodsy musk. It was then that you saw his pants growing tighter, his hands fisting the air, clinging to some remnant of control that appeared to be long gone.
"The car," he said through gritted teeth. He wasn't angry, he was about to cum just from seeing you next to the vehicle.
You smirked and reached for his hand. "Can you believe someone asked if it was the bat-mobile?" you laughed. The elevator was still there, and in the confined space, his scent was overwhelming.
You crossed your legs, trying not to make it clear just how much you wanted him. Alphas and alphas were bad. Alphas and alphas always exploded. God you wanted to explode all over his thick, veiny length as he whimpered beneath you begging to release.
"Don't," he pleaded. "I already smell it. Don't hide." San had never heard his voice sound so needy before. It was disgustingly beautiful and when the elevator doors opened to the penthouse San was ready to mount you. He was already unbuttoning his pants and fantasizing about biting your shoulder when something snapped him out of the dream.
"Welcome home," a soft dazed voice called from the bedroom. You released his hand to walk towards the sound which came from an omega who was chained to the bed frame.
"Hi Woo," you cooed and watched his body writhe, a pearl of precum waiting to be cleaned on his tip.
"You have a mate?" San questioned in devastation. If you had an omega, surely you weren't able to fuck him, too.
"No," you murmured while petting your pet. Woo purred against your palm, such a needy little thing. "He's just my favorite."
"He's chained?" San chuckled.
"Mhm," you nodded, not seeing the problem. "I put a lot of effort into finding someone who can please me, I'm not just going to let them go."
"Him? He pleases you with that?" San judged Woo's omega cock. It was nothing compared to his lengthy member, and it was far from the biggest omega cock he'd seen.
"He does," you defended him. "And he's done so for two years now."
"Two years?" San gasped in shock. "You've kept him for two years? I catch and release my omegas."
"They're not fish, San," you put your hand on your hip, opening another gland to expose his senses to...your armpit.
San growled at the scent, forgetting all about Woo and snatching you by your wrist into his chest.
"Tell me one thing, little one," San pawed your sides, massaging them as he spoke. "If he's chained to your bed, where are we going to fuck?"
Woo howled behind you at the mere thought of someone else getting to bed you. That was his job.
"He's going to join us," you said as though it were obvious.
"Little one," San groaned in complaint. "How do you expect me to do that? I'm an alpha. Not an omega that will roll over and do tricks for you."
"I can do lots of tricks," Woo rasped from the bed, his voice making you smile.
"Yes you can, baby," you pat his thigh, the smallest of touches driving him mad. The chains rattled as he fought against his bindings, desperate to touch and please you.
"I have a knot and need you to take it," San whispered against your ear, the heat from his words spreading like ivy to your core.
"Then give it to me," you challenged him.
"I can't because you have a loser puppy in your bed," he hissed, his teeth baring offensively towards Wooyoung who didn't seem concerned in the slightest.
"Sannie," you drew his attention back to you. Charlie. Alfie. Jamie. Now Sannie, the next -ie for your list of conquests this week.
San turned his gaze to yours, eyes melting in the leafy irises that pulled him in to begin with. His hands fell from your waist to your ass, squeezing a palmful of it and feeling immediately soothed.
"Wooyoung wasn't lying. He can do lots of tricks," you muttered as you tiptoed your fingers down his chest before reaching for his zipper.
"Like filling my other hole so you have room to knot my cunt," you kissed his neck, right over the spot you planned to bite him later. "And flicking my clit while you're busy kissing me and squeezing my tits. He's very useful..." you informed him in a low, taunting voice just as his pants fell.
You glanced down, your mouth watering at the sight of his hard cock through the white fabric. There was even a small spot where precum had dampened the fabric.
San sucked in a breath and whipped you around, his finger finding the zipper of your dress easily. "Alpha females are known to have tighter cunts," he murmured. "Because they're only supposed to fuck little omegas who don't mind being chained up all day."
"Mhm," you hummed in agreement as he trailed the zipper down, his knuckle brushing your spine and making you arch for him.
"Are you sure you can even take me?" he smirked, kissing the center of your neck as the dress fell, exposing your tits to Wooyoung who whimpered mindlessly.
You turned back around, noticing San glance down with a sense of pride when he saw your lace thong that was as dark as night.
"I can take you," you vowed while pulling his shirt open and sending buttons flying everywhere.
"That shirt cost $1500," he sang, completely unbothered.
"You say that like it's a lot," you grinned before wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him.
San couldn't keep his hands off of you. He spanked your bum, squeezed your tits, and drove his hand gently over the birthmark on your shoulder. You felt the same but were much too impatient to play with him and pulled off his boxers, gasping in shock when his dick probed your clit accidentally.
"Oh fuck!" you cried, pulling away to catch your breath. He wasn't even in you yet, but it was all-encompassing. San's scent would plague your room for weeks. It was maddening and made your stomach ache with need.
He cocked his brow at your response to his dick and reached for the waist of your panties, with a dark, lustful bite of his lip. "You tore my shirt first," he growled before ripping your underwear to shreds.
Woo was squirming restlessly now that you were naked. He needed to fill you, needed to give you the cock that you loved so much.
"Your pet needs you," San glared at him.
You pet Sannie's cheek to steal his attention from the omega in your bed. "Don't be jealous Sannie. It's your knot I want tonight."
"Then go get in place so I can give it to you," he urged you toward the bed.
You never took instructions from anyone, and yet you found yourself obeying him. His deep brown eyes settled on your ass and he moved to get a clearer view of you aligning Woo's needy cock with your hole. You unwound each chain just slightly so he could reach you more, and sank down.
To San, Woo sounded even more annoying than the omegas he usually fucked each night, but he could see it in your parted lips and heaving bosom that the way he touched you really did feel nice. His hands reached to pinch your nipples and he helped you lean back against his chest so that he could kiss your neck and shoulder, just over the moon-shaped birthmark.
"Okay Sannie," you whined, hands clawing his perfectly sculpted abs to bring him in. "Your turn."
San stared at your glistening pussy, his cock growing several more inches at the sight until he was fully hard. He'd never wanted to be gentle before, never cared if the omegas were overly prepped, but as he pressed his tip against your cunt, he realized that you weren't ready...at all. You probably couldn't even fit one measly finger properly.
Your eyes pinched shut in anticipation and you whined when he filled you, sinking in until you reached the base. One of Woo's instinctively reached for your clit, rubbing circles in your little nub as your body relinquished itself to San.
"So good," you cried, lips parting in desperate cries as you reached for his neck, pulling San into a kiss, something you never did during sex.
He caved and broke his rule about kissing in bed. This was too intimate of an act, and something he usually just did to get laid, not while getting laid.
San fucked your cunt faster, his body slamming over and over into yours as you clenched around him, separating from the kiss to stare into his eyes helplessly.
"I know, little one," he murmured softly. "Go ahead and cum for me. Let me see that pretty little fucked out face."
You bit your lip, too proud to finish so soon, and shook your head.
"You first," you argued in a strangled moan when Woo kissed your neck.
San sighed and pet your cheek sweetly, watching the blood rush to your skin as he did so. "I can't. Because this is just my finger."
You gasped in surprise and sat up to see if he was lying. Sure enough, San had but a single finger in your cunt, working you up to your end so easily.
"You needed to be prepped," he informed you softly with uncharacteristically domestic kisses to your forehead. "So go ahead and cum, little one. Then we'll try my cock again."
You gave up on pride, and let the relief wash over you while you finished on his finger, writhing as he fucked you through the shaking and whimpers.
"Bet you've never seen her like that before, have ya?" San taunted Woo who tried to bite him as you came down.
Your breathing was shallow and rapid when you pulled San in for another kiss. He removed his finger and held you for a moment to let you recover before he pulled away to receive a slap on his face.
"Be nice to my pet."
San sighed...and tried to ignore the way being slapped made his dick twitch. "Fine...here pup. Have a taste," San offered his finger to Woo, teasing him briefly by keeping it just out of reach before letting him suck and slobber on it like a popsicle.
"Good boy," you kissed Woo's cheek, praising him for not biting San's finger off.
"Good girl," San added, as he aligned his cock again. "Let's try this again, shall we?"
Your heart thumped anxiously as he pressed in, just barely breaking through your walls to fit his tip when you began to cry. He was huge...the biggest you'd taken by a lot.
He pulled back, not wanting to push you, and inserted only the tip again, grunting from how tight you were and realizing there was one way he could make this better for you.
"Hold still," San whispered as he pressed a kiss to your birthmark. You turned to rub your fingers through his hair while watching him bare his teeth and sink them into your skin.
"Sannie!" you screamed, body relinquishing to him. This didn't feel right. Alpha on alpha bites were supposed to give pleasure, but instead, you felt numb and dizzy...like an omega. You didn't fight it though, finding the feeling intoxicating, and held San against your shoulder for as long as he'd let you.
Meanwhile, Woo bit your other shoulder, his bite providing nothing than general pumps of pleasure as he continued his assault on your clit.
"So good," you praised them both.
San pulled away to stare down at you. Your eyes were glazed over and cheeks pink as if drunk. Your claws came out and scratched at his back, urging him forward, so he decided to try again.
This time when his tip breached you, you moaned in pleasure, and your body opened to accept him. San couldn't stop himself and he continued sinking into you inch by glorious inch until you were filled by him.
You'd never felt someone so deep in you before and found yourself grinding between Woo and San while repeating, "Please, please..." over and over again.
"You feel perfect, little one," San grunted as he pulled back and pushed in again. He was still trying to be gentle, trying to stretch you so that it wouldn't hurt when his knot came.
"Mhm," Woo moaned in agreement. He matched his pace on your clit to San's thrusts and pinched your nipples in the way he knew you to love, with a soft brush of his thumb and a sharp tug. He'd had years to learn your favorite ways to fuck, and San was only helping you feel more pleasure so Woo didn't mind him here. He had agreed to serve your body...and if your body wanted San, too, he'd get over it.
When San's pace increased, you almost couldn't believe it. You'd been missing out on alpha on alpha fucking...
The warnings must've been passed down by alphas who wanted other alphas for themselves because this was incredible. You usually spent sex having to be completely in charge of Woo, guiding him on what you wanted that day, but San instinctively knew.
"I've gotta bite you again," he warned as his lips licked over the wound he had made. "Otherwise this knot is gonna hurt..." he said worriedly as he rushed to bite you before it came.
You felt it though amid his teeth penetrating your skin, felt the thick bulb of cum push through your walls, painfully forcing your body to stretch beyond belief. The pain mixed with the pleasure of his venom and you came again, coating the knot in your release and unknowingly helping it fit.
"You're okay," he cooed in a shaky voice as your body accepted his. He couldn't ignore how poignant your scent had gotten after two orgasms. Your sweat made it that much better. San knew he wouldn't be having a cigarette after this, knew that he wanted your smell all over him for as long as he could have it. Hell, maybe he'd let you chain him right next to Woo for all of eternity. He could live with that if the sweet vanilla and almond would burn his senses forever.
"Fill me up Sannie," you rasped desperately. You were far beyond the point of overstimulation and bordering on tears.
"Woo hasn't come yet so why should I?" San teased.
"He's waiting for permission," you told San, watching his eyes flicker to Woo in surprise at his strength. His jaw was clenched, and his mouth latched onto your other shoulder where he was biting down harshly. San realized now that your birthmark wasn't a birthmark at all, but the crescent-shaped scar of Woo's bite.
"Woo baby, you can come now," you permitted, feeling him spill into you right away. His hands embraced you closely, squeezing your tits right as he emptied his cock that had been waiting all day for you. His whimpers were loud, and somehow a huge turn-on for San despite the way he'd been annoyed by them earlier.
"Your turn," you pleaded, pulling San in so that you could kiss his neck.
"You going to bite me, little one?" he moaned at the idea, ready to fill you to the brim and pull out just to watch you leak.
"Yes," you breathed and sunk your teeth into his neck, sending your venom out to pluck every pleasurable chord in his body.
San realized right away that this wasn't a normal alpha-on-alpha bite. His mind became a black hole that could focus on nothing but the thought of you. Your crescent scars, your bright green eyes, your perfect curves that his hands were made to touch.
When you pulled back you felt it too, and San's lips crashed to yours just as he came. He spilled his pups into you in heavy, desperate spurts, cupping your cheeks sweetly in a way he had never cared to do before.
All you wanted was more of him, and your legs wrapped around his waist to keep him exactly where he was.
He pulled back for only a second to breathlessly confess, "I felt it."
"Me too," you agreed, much to Woo's dismay. He continued to hold you, wanting to remain yours, though that spot in your heart had been taken now.
"Bigger," Woo gasped in surprise as your breasts expanded beyond their usual handful.
You broke away from the kiss to watch, noticing that they'd swollen twice their normal size.
San grinned, eyes sparkling in the dark before kissing them softly, knowing they'd be sensitive right now. "You accepted me as your mate," he revealed, and pushed you up Woo's body to take his cock out.
"Mate?"
"Mhm," San murmured. "It's like being chained up like Woo...except we're chained to each other."
You smiled at the thought. "I'd like that...and I should probably relieve my pet from his duties if that's your job now."
"I suppose you should..." San trailed off, noticing the tears staining Woo's cheeks at the thought of being abandoned.
"Or maybe we can just get him his own bed. I'm sure we can find a use for him," San suggested. "And I would love to hear more about these tricks you mentioned...maybe over breakfast."
pairing: wooyoung x fem!reader
genre: smut
rating: 18+, minors dni
wc: 2.3k
summary: a stupid little game turns into messy kisses, grinding, and... a good fuck on the couch.
warnings: established relationship, couch sex, domestic smut, kissing, making out, grinding, lap sitting, riding, cock warming, praise kink, dirty talk, slight(?)begging, creampie, unprotected sex (uh oh don’t do this), needy sex, desperation, body worship(?), neck biting, finishing inside, some fluff, teasing, ect ect.
notes: guess whos back.. w a fic FINALLY holy shit its been too long and i sincerely apologize for being inactive for a while </3 college is going to be the death of me. honestly i feel like i could have done better w this fic?? every time i wrote this i was sleep depriveddd. BUT anywayssss let me know what you guys think! i also proofread as much as i could heh.
taglist: @minkisdoll @skelejor @pyuddings
do not copy, translate, repost, or claim my writing as your own
smut incoming
you sat comfortably on the couch of your living room, watching the same show you had been addicted to for weeks now. your dedicated attention was soon interrupted by the sounds of keys at your door.
you quickly jumped out of your spot and made your way towards your entrance, met with your boyfriend, wooyoung, who had just come back from buying essentials from the nearest store.
"you're back so soon baby," you tippy-toed and gave him a kiss on the cheek, winning a sweet smile from him. "let me get these bags for you"
"no no, it's alright, beautiful i got it" he made his way to the table in the middle of the kitchen, settling the bags he brought onto the surface.
"is that all?" you asked before looking outside at his car.
you looked back at him to find him with a smug look on his face while looking down at one of the items he had bought. "that's everything, babe"
curious, you walked to where he was to see what he was holding. to your surprise, he had bought a 6-pack of chapsticks.
"what's this?" you snatched it out of his hands, raising the pack of chapsticks up in the air and away from him as he started play fighting with you. "you're always losing these. you already have like five chapsticks scattered around the house... you always end up randomly finding them. and you proceed to buy six more!?" a chuckle comes out of you as you playfully push them a way.
"those flavors are so plain!" he argued while giggling at you. "just look at how many flavors this one has!"
you read the labels on the box; hersheys, bubble gum, watermelon, icebreaker, vanilla, and finally cherry.
you gave him a funny look. "they lowkey sound like they taste like ass"
"they DO NOT" he took back the package from your hand and started opening it. well.. not exactly. he was struggling. eventually, he yanked the plastic and made all of the chapsticks fly out everywhere. "... oops"
".. and how would you know?"
while picking up the remaining chapsticks on the ground, he shot back with an annoyed funny expression before smirking. whenever wooyoung smirks, you know it means trouble.
"you know what.. i have an great idea"
you squinted at him. "that can't be good"
"stop being mean"
you cross your arms. "so, what's this idea of yours exactly?"
he gathered the chapsticks in his hands and looked at you with sparkling eyes. "how about.. we play a game. i'll apply one of the chapstick flavors without you realizing which one i put, and to find out which flavor it is you have to kiss the flavor off my lips"
you paused for a moment and blinked at him. honestly, it wasn't shocking when wooyoung came up with a random dumb idea like this one.
you huffed out a laugh. "wooyoung.." you noticed how intrigued he was about it. you couldn't even lie to yourself either, the idea seemed fun. ".. i'm starting to think that the sole purpose of you buying these was because you wanted to do that challenge"
"no- well. maybe- when i saw them- ugh fuck fine yes i bought them because of this"
he grabbed you by the waist, causing a small yelp to come out of you from the sudden movement. with the chapsticks in his hand, he lead you to the couch you were previously sitting on and sat you down.
he then sat next to you, getting closer to your body and putting a hand over your eyes. "okay, no peeking baby" his touch felt warm as you giggled under his hand. you felt some movements on his side and heard a humorous lip 'smack!' come from him.
"you're having a bit too much fun already don't you think.." you eagerly wanted to take his hands off of your eyes but he didn't budge just to tease you.
"oh.. we're only getting started"
shit, you knew where this was going to lead.
"c'mere" he patted his laps, signaling you to sit on him. he didn't even have to ask you twice, you immediately swung a leg over his lap, your knees now hugging his thighs. the new position far more intimate than the first. the soft fabric of your shorts pressing against his sweats.
he finally removed his hand from your eyes, and you were met with his gaze that sparkled with mischief.
"you ready?"
you leaned in on his facem closing the small distance between you. the first press of his lips was tender, a slight exploration. but as the kiss deepened, a sweet, slightly artificial flavor bloomed on your tongue.
"bubblegum!" you declared, a triumphant smile on your lips.
wooyoung's own grin widened. "damn, you're good at this. you sure it's bubblegum? i miss your lips already. give me another kiss as a confirmation"
your cheeks flushed pink as his hands, which had been resting on your hips, slid down to cup your ass, squeezing firmly as he pulled you even closer to him. your lips slammed onto his again, this time filled with more desperation and need. after a minute, you could feel the hard line of him pressing against you through your clothes. a clear sign of how much he was enjoying his little game.
"one for one," he said, his voice a bit hoarse from the kissing. "let's go for round two."
he reached down for another chapstick. this time he didn't even try to hide which one he was getting. he twisted the base, and the scent of vanilla filled the air. he applied it generously, his lips glistening under the living room light.
"wooyoung this one's too easy" you teased, coming in closer for another kiss.
he chuckled, "maybe i want it to be easy. maybe i just want an excuse to kiss you again. you're addictive"
who were you to argue with that logic?
you leaned in to kiss him again, and this time the kiss was different. it was slower, deeper, more deliberate. the vanilla flavor was rich and creamy, coating your tongue and making you hum against his mouth. the hands on your ass now kneading the soft flesh, starting to rock you gently against the hardening ridge in his sweatpants.
the friction was maddening, driving both of you insane. a delicious tease that had a knot of heat pooling low in your belly.
"vanilla," you whispered against his lips, pulling back just enough to speak as a trail of saliva attached your mouths. when you noticed it, you whimpered slightly at the obscene sight. your noise seemed to have driven him even more crazy, you could hear him mumble a few "fuck's" under his breath.
round three was hersheys. the chocolate flavor was sweet, a little waxy, but entirely forgotten as his tongue swept into your mouth, claiming yours. the game was officially a forgotten pretext. this was just making out, hot and heavy on your couch. your hands were tangled in his hair, his grip on your hips was bruising, and the small sounds escaping your throat were getting needier with every passing second.
you saw him reach out for another tube. "watermelon-" you gasped out after he pulled away, leaving you with. you didn't even need to guess; you'd seen the green tube.
"you're cheating. i haven't even put it on baby" he accused, but his grin was anything but upset. he nipped at your bottom lip. "i'll let it slide," his grip on you tightened, making your hips grind harder down onto his throbbing hard-on.
you were grinding down on him shamelessly now, chasing the friction, your core aching with need. he was panting into your mouth, his hips thrusting up to meet yours in a desperate rhythm.
"woo, i..." you managed, your voice shaky. "i need you"
"mmmm? what was that love?"
he fumbled for the final tube, the cherry one. his hands were trembling slightly as he twisted the base. the sweet, tart scent filled the air. you watched as he applied it thickly, his lips looking plump and red and utterly irresistible. he didn't have to cover your eyes this time. you just stared at each other, the air thick with unspoken need.
this kiss was the breaking point. it wasn't a game anymore. it was pure, unadulterated hunger. the cherry flavor burst on your tongue, sweet, but all you could taste was him. all you could feel was the hard length of him pressing insistently against your soaked panties.
"sh-shit.. nghh.. cherry!" you moaned into his mouth, the word barely intelligible.
"f-fuck. i can't do this anymore. fuck the game" he grabbed your shorts aggressively, trying to pull them down as it was difficult in the position you were in. you immediately caught on and started moving— quickly trying to take off your shorts and panties while he helped you by tugging them down.
wooyoung lifted himself off the couch, tugging down his own bottoms and freeing himself from his sweats. his cock sprung free, flushed and leaking pre at the tip from the stimulation before.
"can i? please? can i please fuck into you? please- ride me baby. i'm so fucking hard" he whined, knowing your tight slick pussy was so close to his hard cock.
you didn't waste a second. you positioned yourself comfortably, your thighs wrapping around his lap.
"mmpfh.. your hand-" wooyoung moaned as you stroked him slowly, preparing him at your entrance. "so good, so good."
you sank down, a breathy moan let out in unison from both of you. you slowly began to rise, the sensation of him slipping out inch by inch before plunging back down agonizingly slow. you couldn't help the whine that escaped your throat, the friction everywhere at once, the heat pooling deep in your stomach intensifying.
"oh my- baby you're- fuck. you're taking me in so well gorgeous" wooyoung groaned, his head tilting back against the cushions, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "you look so pretty riding my cock like that" his hands gripped your waist, his nails digging into your skin as he guided your rhythm, pulling you down harder "ride me. take what you need."
he stretched you out every time you went down on him. "wooyoung.. y-you're so big"
"shit you're perfect. it's like you were made for me. made to be fucked just right, just how you like it baby.. hm? made to be fucked by me."
you moved faster, bouncing on his lap, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the quiet room. breathless kisses soon followed by the cherry chapstick that was still on both your lips, mixing with the taste of sweat and the sweet, heavy air between you. you could feel him hitting that spot inside you every time you sank all the way down, sending a spark inside you that gave you motivation to move even faster.
you couldn't think straight, only the overwhelming need to chase your release. you felt yourself throb around him, your pussy was practically swallowing his dick whole.
"i'm close," you panted, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer for a messy kiss. "wooyoung, i'm gonna cum."
his eyes were shut, suddenly fluttering as he looked at you. "you love my cock so much, don't you?" he chuckled, teasing. classic wooyoung. "don't you baby- ah!"
you placed your face in the crook of his neck and started sucking on his soft skin while moaning against it. you felt his hands around your waist tightening, almost painful at some point. then, you felt it.
"shit. shit. shit. holy fuck. holy fuck-"
you felt a sudden rush of wetness inside of you, but they weren't fluids of your own, no...
it was wooyoung.
he just came to the sensation of your sucking on his neck.
"nghfhh! take it- take it all. i missed you- i missed feeling you around me so muchmnghf"
you moaned loudly as you felt his dick throb uncontrollably inside of you, warm spurts of cum coating your inner walls, filling you up until you were completely stuffed.
you gasped, your back arching slightly as you felt the warm rush hit you deep, the sensation overwhelming and intoxicating. you could feel every pulse, every twitch of his cock as he rode out his high deep inside you, his hips jerking helplessly against yours.
your orgasm crashed through you right after his, the amount of stimulation from his orgasm pushed you off the edge.
"fuck, babe, i wish you could see yourself right now," wooyoung groaned, his head falling forward to rest on your shoulder, his breathing ragged and hot against your skin. "you feel so good. so tight around me even after cumming."
you whined, the sensitivity making you tremble, but you didn't want him to move. you felt him throb one last time before going soft, still buried inside you, a warm and heavy weight that made your head spin.
"i'm sorry," he mumbled into your neck, his voice thick with exhaustion and shame. "i didn't mean to finish so fast. i just... you were sucking on my neck like that, and you were so hot, and i couldn't hold back."
"it's okay" you whispered, your fingers tangling in his damp hair to pull him closer. "i liked it. felt... good."
wooyoung chuckled darkly, the vibration coming from his chest and against yours. "you're unbelievable. you actually liked being filled up like that?"
"mhmm, of course" you hummed, pressing a lazy kiss to his jaw. "felt full."
"fuck," he groaned again, his hands finally loosening their bruising grip on your waist to cup your face instead. he tilted your head back to look at him, his eyes dark and hazy with pleasure. "you're so beautiful when you're wrecked like this. all flushed and panting, taking my cum like a good girl."
"that's enough!" you teased, but you leaned into his touch, your lips brushing against his. "you're the one who came first."
"yeah, well," he kissed you, messy and desperate, somehow still having the same cherry flavor on his lips despite the number of times you kissed.
"who said we were done anyway? i'm not done with you yet."
ಠ_ಠwarning/content: CONTAINS BLOOD AND NON-CON/DUB-CON. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME. not proof read, stalker yeosang x fem reader, murder of readers one-night-stand done off screen but we see the body, bloody knife held to reader, blood consumption, hair pulling both ways, slapping + lip biting so hard it draws blood (sang receiving), unprotected p->v, slut shaming, reader called: slut, stupid, bitch, sick in the head. with all of that said, reader is into it. that doesn't make it any better, it doesn't make it healthy or sane. this is purely fiction and should never be interpreted as okay in real life- because it's not even okay here. but that doesn't mean we can't explore dark and dangerous topics and fantasies through fiction.
♫soundtrack♫
♡masterlist + navigation !♡
THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING. DEAD DOVE.
HATE WILL BE BLOCKED.
Blood doesn't make you queasy. Never has.
But, then again, you've never been in a situation where it really, really should.
One where it was splattered up the walls of your fling's apartment and pooling on his floor next to his unmoving body. One where it's staining the face of the man above him — the man looking right at you with a knife gripped in his gloved hand so tightly that it shakes.
But you're not queasy even still, as the man stands slowly from straddling the now dead body; eyes locked on you. Bloodshot like he'd been crying and his pupils wide with the adrenaline that shakes the blade in his clenched fist.
You recognize him, of course.
"Yeosang, right?"
He pauses, only a step closer to you.
He's been stalking you for months. Following you around like a creep. Breaking into your room. Stealing things. Taking pictures when he thinks you aren't aware.
"You should be more careful." Your voice only carries a small tremble, "it wasn't that hard to find you online."
The corner of his lips twitches up, "how did you do that?" He asks with another step towards you.
You stand your ground. Like an idiot. "You were in the background of a selfie I took a few weeks a-"
The words are choked out of you, replaced by a strangled gasp of air as his free hand pins you to the wall; tight around your throat.
"You stupid slut."
If he wasn't already half-hard from the rush of adrenaline, the familiar feeling of taking a life, he certainly is now; with that star-struck, dumbfounded look in your eyes. You don't even have the wits about you to fight him as he shoves a knee between your thighs, pressing up against your clothed heat.
Your wide eyes stare into his as he squints, trying to worm his way into your mind through eye contact alone. Your gaze slowly drifts to the body across the room — and his hand tightens around your neck.
It's then that your body decides to give a bit of fight, even though you still find yourself unnaturally calm in the face of your stalker. Your hands come up, nails digging into his wrist, gasping for air. He uses his grip to knock your head into the wall — a ringing in your ears despite the gut feeling that he was actually going easy on you.
His hand drifts to the collar of your shirt, fisting it up tightly, jaw locked tight.
"I di-" You stutter, pupils shaky as they come back to him, "I didn't think you'd kill him..."
He takes a moment, watching you. "I knew it." He chuckles, dragging the bloody knife across your exposed thigh. "I knew you were sick in the head... You did this to get my attention."
Instead of a firm answer, you just repeat yourself. "I didn't think you'd... kill him."
"Why would I let him live after he fucked my girl? Hm?" The tilt of his head feels menacing, so why do you feel yourself growing wet?
"No answer?" He hums again, "that's okay, keep your mouth shut actually. It's my turn to fuck you and if you scream too loud, someone might come knocking before we get to finish."
"What-"
He yanks you from the wall by your shirt, making you stumble. The tip of the knife presses into your back; just enough to feel it.
"Move. To the bed, now."
Your body must know what it's doing. Because you certainly don't as you start following his instructions smoothly, one foot infront of the other.
You swallow past the lump in your throat and open up your bedroom door, asking quietly, "are you going to kill me?"
"Kill you? Come on, now. You aren't that stupid."
"Then what d-"
"Show me how that bastard fucked you." He cuts you off with a shove towards the bed, "go on. Take your clothes off like the slut you are. Let me see."
You ask your body why it's listening to him so fluidly, without any hesitation. And it just responds by making you slide your pajama shorts and panties down your legs.
The blood on the knife makes your gut clench. "Don't hurt me."
"Not unless you try to run away."
It's probably not very much good to ask your stalker who holds a bloody knife, "promise?"
He probably doesn't mean it when he says, "sure. Promise."
Peeling your shirt away, it's only now — naked and defenseless — that your heart starts a new rhythm. Quicker by a beat and warm in your chest, blossoming up your neck and face as he stares unabashedly while you lower yourself onto the bed.
"Is that how he fucked you?"
You take a moment of pause to reflect on what the fuck is happening, but your body doesn't. Why doesn't it? Why are you not on the same page? Why is it spreading its legs wide and exposing your cunt?
"This." You say, quiet.
"I'll make sure to do it better. You won't remember anything other than my cock when we're done here. And if you do," he grins while dropping the knife of the bedside table before pulling his hoodie and shirt off in one go, "then we aren't done."
Your heart is thudding faster and faster as he sheds the rest of his clothes and climbs ontop of you. "Wait-"
"No," he says simply, guiding his hard length toward your wet hole. "I've waited long enough."
And while you're a good bit wet, and you had sex just hours before, it's no where near adequate preparation for Yeosang. Your stalker is well endowed to say the least.
Just the tip of it pushing inside of you makes you whine, face scrunching up and hands instinctively going to press flat on his lower stomach and slow him down.
"C'mon now," he says, shockingly soft, "be a big girl and take it. I know your slutty little hole wants it, right?"
You can't answer, biting your tongue to distract yourself from the pain as he forces himself in at a snails pace.
"Right?" He shoves in a few agonizing inches in at once, making you yelp; legs trying to close around him and only succeeding in wrapping around him, legs tangled together as you fidget.
"Please- hurts-"
"Awe," it's mock sympathy and you know it, but it still makes you feel your heart beat in your stretched cunt as he coos, "you'll be okay~"
A small mercy, really, as he reaches between you and slowly finds your clit, circling it with a steady rhythm as he bottoms out in another quick thrust that knocks the air from your lungs and leaves you screaming silently for a moment.
Your hands find their way up to his hair, holding onto the roots tightly. Eyes clenched shut, you can't see the ecstatic look in his dark gaze as he says, "play nice and I'll be gentle."
Whatever words that you were going to utter fall flat against your tongue as his lips press onto yours.
It feels gentle, almost. Affectionate. Like the core of his obsession is leaking through to give you a taste.
Your mouth opens up as his tongue grazes against it and the core is heating up, the obsession burning from the inside out; the kiss growing rougher and deeper as he cups your jaw in his hands and moves against you.
"Stupid slut," he moans breathlessly into you, "thought you'd get away with letting someone else fuck you-"
It's his turn to be cut off, your teeth trapping his lower lip and making him hiss; his fingers tightening around your jaw until you open your mouth. The metallic liquid coats your taste buds, your breathing heavy as he pulls away and glares down at you. "Don't call me that- ah!"
His hand is back around your throat, your moans and yelps coming out garbled as he thrusts harder, faster. "What did I say, hm? Play. Nice." He emphasizes his words with particularly targeted thrusts, "that's all you had to do."
Warnings: angst & trauma recovery (ptsd nightmares, fear of abandonment, emotional breakdowns), possessive/territorial behavior, jealousy, violence (home invasion, fight, injury, self-harm references, smut, rut sex, knotting, breeding kink/talk, multiple rounds, biting/marking, tail play, creampie, blood, hurt/comfort (yes it's a lot of warnings)
The apartment no longer felt like a museum of careful distance. Four months had passed since that heated night on the couch and the space had transformed into something warmer, lived-in, undeniably yours. Yet beneath the new domestic rhythm, shadows still lingered, long and sharp like snow leopard claws.
You woke to the familiar weight of Hongjoong draped across your back, his tail curled possessively around your thigh even in sleep. His breath was warm against your nape, hair spilling over the pillow like fresh powder. The first few weeks after he’d claimed you, he’d barely let you out of arm’s reach. Now it was routine: he slept pressed against you, one arm slung over your waist, ears twitching at every distant siren or neighbor’s footstep.
You shifted carefully. His ears flicked forward and a low, sleepy rumble vibrated through his chest.
"Too early" he murmured, voice gravel-rough from disuse overnight. His nose nudged the mating mark he’d left on your shoulder, a faint scar now, but one he still licked every morning like a ritual.
"Work" you whispered, threading fingers through his hair. "Shift starts at seven."
His tail tightened. "Call in sick."
You smiled despite yourself. "I can’t. Director Park already has me on thin ice."
Hongjoong’s purr faltered. He lifted his head, glacial eyes sharp even in the pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains. "Because of me."
"Because of us" you corrected gently.
He didn’t argue. Instead he rolled you beneath him in one fluid motion, caging you with strong arms. His gaze dragged down your body, lingering on the bruises and bite marks that never quite faded anymore, before he dipped his head and pressed slow, deliberate kisses along your collarbone. The scent of cedar and cold mountain air filled your lungs as he rubbed his cheek against your skin, freshening his mark.
"Mine" he growled softly, the word more habit than threat now.
You tilted your head to give him better access.
He lingered there longer than usual, tongue tracing the scar until your skin tingled. Only when your alarm finally blared did he release you with a reluctant huff, ears pinned back in displeasure.
Breakfast was a shared ritual now. You chopped vegetables at the counter while Hongjoong perched on the island stool, tail swaying lazily. He still refused most human foods, but he’d grown fond of watching you cook, especially when you let him "help" by stealing bites of raw meat from the cutting board.
Today he was restless. His ears kept swiveling toward the balcony door and his claws flexed against the marble countertop.
"Nightmare again?" you asked quietly, sliding a plate of seared beef strips toward him.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he dragged you closer by the waistband of your sleep shorts, burying his face against your stomach and inhaling deeply.
"Fighting ring" he muttered finally. "Chains. Lights. The handler with the pole… he laughed when I bit him."
Your hand found the base of his ear, stroking gently. A deep purr rolled through him despite the tension in his shoulders.
"You’re safe now" you whispered. "Here. With me."
He nodded against your shirt but didn’t pull away until the purr steadied. Small breakthroughs like this still felt precious, moments where the wary, caged predator softened into something almost domestic.
You left for work with his scent heavy on your skin. He’d made sure of it, rubbing his wrists along your arms and neck before you reached the door. A silent claim for anyone at the shelter who might forget.
The whispers started the moment you stepped into the staff lounge. "Did you hear? She actually kept the snow leopard"
"HK-0047? The one who almost killed Choi?"
"Insane. Park’s furious."
You kept your head down, pouring coffee like the rumors didn’t burn. Director Park had been watching you closer since the adoption. Surprise welfare inspections had already happened twice. The latest report on your desk yesterday had been blunt: "Ongoing concerns regarding adopter suitability for high-risk hybrid. Recommend mandatory progress evaluations."
You crumpled the memo in your fist before anyone could see.
The day dragged. Two new intakes: a pair of traumatized otter hybrids, kept you busy until late afternoon. When your phone buzzed with a message from home, your heart skipped.
From Hongjoong: Front door smells wrong. Come back soon.
He rarely texted. You’d bought him a phone months ago mostly for emergencies, but he preferred waiting by the door like a sentinel.
You clocked out early.
The apartment hallway carried a faint trace of unfamiliar scent: sterile, official. Welfare department. Your stomach twisted as you unlocked the door.
Hongjoong was waiting just inside, back pressed to the wall, tail lashing violently. His ears were flat, pupils blown wide. The moment you stepped in he pulled you against his chest, arms wrapping tight, nose pushing into your hair.
"Two of them" he growled. "Human male and female. Said they needed to assess living conditions. I let them look. Didn’t touch anything. But they smelled like the shelter. Like cages."
You hugged him back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades until the tension eased.
"I’m sorry. I should have warned you inspections might continue."
He pulled back just enough to look at you. "They asked how often you restrain me. If I’ve bitten you recently." His gaze dropped to the visible mark on your neck. "I wanted to show them exactly how you let me bite."
A tired laugh escaped you. "That would’ve gone well."
Hongjoong didn’t smile. He guided you deeper into the apartment, tail still curled around your wrist. The space looked pristine, he’d even fluffed the couch cushions, but you could see the faint gouges where his claws had dug into the doorframe while he waited.
That evening you tried something new. "Let’s go for a walk. The park across the street. After dark, when it’s quiet."
His ears perked slightly, though suspicion lingered in his eyes. "Outside?"
"You’ve been cooped up too long. Just ten minutes. I’ll stay right beside you."
He agreed, but not without first scent-marking you again, thoroughly. By the time you stepped into the elevator he’d rubbed against your sides so insistently you smelled like a walking snow leopard territory marker.
The night air was cool. Hongjoong stayed glued to your side, one hand fisted in the back of your jacket, the other flexing at his side. His ears swiveled constantly, catching every rustle of leaves and distant car horn. But when you reached the small wooded section of the park and moonlight filtered through the trees, something in him shifted.
He stopped beneath an old oak, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. His tail stilled. For a moment the city faded and you glimpsed the wild creature he might have been: hair glowing, powerful shoulders relaxed, eyes reflecting starlight.
"Smells like home" he whispered. "Not the mountains exactly… but closer."
You leaned against the tree beside him. "We could go someday. Real snow. Somewhere remote."
His hand found yours, claws carefully retracted. "You’d do that? For me?"
"I’d do anything for you."
A genuine purr rumbled out: loud, unrestrained. He turned and nuzzled into your neck right there under the trees, licking over your pulse point until your knees weakened.
Back home the mood stayed soft. You cooked together: him handing you ingredients, you letting him taste the sauce straight from the spoon. He purred the entire time, a constant low vibration that made the kitchen feel smaller, warmer.
Later, curled on the couch with a drama playing quietly, Hongjoong’s head rested in your lap. You stroked between his ears while his tail draped across your thighs.
Peaceful moments like this made the shadows feel distant.
Until your phone rang. Unknown number. You almost ignored it, but something made you answer.
A gravelly voice spoke without greeting. "Tell the snow cat we haven’t forgotten him. The raid took a lot from us. He still owes blood."
The line went dead.
Hongjoong sat up slowly, ears pinned, eyes glowing with old fury. "Who?" he asked, voice dangerously calm.
You swallowed. "Someone from the fighting ring. They know you’re out."
His claws unsheathed, digging into the cushion. The peaceful purr from minutes ago was gone, replaced by a low, warning growl that rattled the windows.
"They won’t touch you" he said. "Not while I’m breathing."
You reached for him, but he was already standing, pacing the length of the living room with fluid, predatory grace. The domestic house cat from dinner had vanished. In his place stood the fighter who had survived four years in a concrete box.
The fragile rhythm you’d built suddenly felt paper-thin.
That night his nightmares returned worse than ever. He woke snarling, claws slashing at invisible handlers, nearly catching your arm before he recognized you. The apology that followed was frantic: grooming licks across every inch of skin he could reach, tail wrapped so tightly around your waist it left faint marks.
You held him through it, whispering reassurances until dawn.
But as sunlight crept across the floor, your phone buzzed again. A message from Director Park: Mandatory welfare review scheduled for next week. Bring Hongjoong. Do not be late.
Hongjoong read the message over your shoulder, chest pressed to your back, arms caging you against the counter.
"They want to take me back" he said flatly.
You turned in his arms, cupping his face. "They won’t. I won’t let them."
His forehead dropped to yours. The purr that finally returned was shaky, uncertain.
"I’m trying" he whispered. "To be good for you. To be… enough."
"You are more than enough."
Yet as he kissed you, slow and deep, tasting of fear and fierce love, you felt the shadows lengthening. Old ghosts from the fighting ring reaching out. The shelter system closing in. The constant battle to prove that a broken snow leopard deserved the home you’d fought to give him.
Hongjoong pulled back, eyes burning with protective fire. "Let them come" he growled softly. "I’ve waited years for something worth fighting for."
He kissed the mating mark on your shoulder one last time, sealing the promise.
The welfare review was scheduled for a Thursday morning. You had spent three sleepless nights preparing: cleaning every surface until it gleamed, printing adoption papers and medical records, rehearsing calm answers to every possible question. Hongjoong watched you from the couch with flat ears and a tail that never stopped twitching.
"They’re going to take me" he said on the morning of the review. His voice was quiet, stripped of its usual growl. He stood by the window in black sweatpants and one of your oversized hoodies, hair still messy from your fingers the night before. "I can smell it on you. Fear."
You crossed the room and cupped his face. "They won’t. I have rights. You have rights now."
His laugh was bitter. "Rights." He leaned into your touch anyway, eyes closing as you scratched behind his tufted ears. "I had rights in the fighting ring too. Look where that got me."
The drive to the shelter was silent except for the low, anxious rumble in his chest. His hand stayed clamped around your thigh the entire way, claws pricking denim but never breaking skin. When you pulled into the staff parking lot, two welfare officers were already waiting, clipboard in hand, expressions professionally blank.
Director Park stood behind them, arms crossed. His gaze flicked to Hongjoong with poorly concealed distaste.
The evaluation lasted four grueling hours. They interviewed you separately, then Hongjoong. They inspected the apartment photos you’d brought, asked invasive questions about your sex life, your sleeping arrangements, how often he "displayed aggressive behaviors."
Hongjoong sat through it with rigid posture and minimal words until one officer asked if he felt safe in your home.
His eyes snapped up. "Safer than I ever felt in yours."
They didn’t like that.
At the end of the review, the senior officer delivered the verdict with clinical detachment. "Given Subject HK-0047’s documented history of severe aggression and the recent anonymous threat reported to authorities, we’re mandating a two-week observational hold at the sanctuary for re-evaluation. This is standard protocol for high-risk cases."
You argued. You shouted. You threatened legal action and called every contact you had. None of it mattered. Two security hybrids, large bear mixes, escorted Hongjoong to a transport van while he stared at you with betrayed eyes.
"Don’t" he warned when you tried to reach for him. "Don’t make this harder."
The van doors closed. You stood in the parking lot watching red taillights disappear, feeling like your chest had been clawed open.
The two weeks without him were hell. You threw yourself into work, picking up extra shifts, volunteering for night inventory, anything to avoid the empty apartment that still smelled like cedar and snow. At night you slept in his hoodie, clutching the blanket he’d claimed months ago. His scent was already fading.
When the day finally came to collect him, you arrived early. Hongjoong was waiting in the intake room, thinner, eyes shadowed. Fresh scratches marked his forearms, self-inflicted, you suspected. The moment the release papers were signed he stood, but he didn’t run to you. He walked slowly, tail low, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for another blow.
The car ride home was worse than the ride there had been.
"You chose your job" he said suddenly, staring out the window. "Again."
"I fought for you every single day..."
"But you still work there." His voice cracked. "The same place that wanted me dead. The same place that locked me in a box for years. You go back every morning like nothing happened."
You gripped the steering wheel tighter. "It’s how I can afford to keep you safe. The apartment, food, lawyers if we need them..."
"I don’t need lawyers. I need you." The last word broke.
When you reached home he went straight to the couch and curled into the corner, back facing the room. No purring. No nuzzling. Just silence.
The regression was brutal.
Over the next week Hongjoong barely spoke. He ate only when you forced food in front of him. He stopped sleeping in your bed, choosing instead the far end of the couch or the floor of the spare room. When you tried to touch him he would flinch or pull away with a low warning growl. Once, when you reached for his hand, he snapped, literally, teeth clicking shut inches from your fingers.
"Don’t" he snarled. "I’m not your tame little pet anymore."
You recoiled, heart hammering. The pale scars on your collarbone from months ago suddenly itched.
Furniture suffered. One night you came home to find the scratching post in splinters and deep gouges in the coffee table. He didn’t apologize. He simply watched you clean it up with hollow eyes.
Then the clouded leopard came back.
His name was Minho, barely nineteen, still skittish, with faded bruises from his previous adoptive family. The shelter had called you in desperation; no one else had experience with him. You couldn’t say no. Not when he cried in the carrier, ears flat against his head.
You brought him home on a Tuesday evening. Hongjoong was waiting by the door like always. The moment he caught the younger hybrid’s scent his entire body went rigid.
"No" he said flatly.
"Hongjoong, he has nowhere else-"
"I said no." His tail lashed hard enough to knock a lamp off the side table. It shattered. He didn’t flinch. "You bring him here after everything? After they took me away? You still choose them."
Minho whimpered from inside the carrier. You set the carrier down gently and turned to your snow leopard. "This isn’t choosing. He was abused. I can help him heal for a few weeks until we find a permanent home. That’s my job."
"Your job" Hongjoong echoed, voice dripping acid. "Always your job. Never me. Never us."
He stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door so hard the frame cracked.
Minho stayed in the spare room that night. You slept on the couch. Hongjoong didn’t come out until long after you’d left for work the next morning.
The jealousy festered. Hongjoong began lurking near the spare room door whenever you were inside with Minho. He would pace the hallway, low growls rumbling continuously. When you emerged smelling like clouded leopard fur and milk, Hongjoong would corner you in the kitchen, pressing you against the counter, nose buried in your neck as he tried to overwrite the scent with his own. But he wouldn’t kiss you. Wouldn’t purr. Just aggressive, desperate scent-marking that left you bruised and aching.
"You let him sleep in your arms once" he hissed one night, claws pricking your hips. "I remember. You think I forgot how that felt?"
"I was just doing my job" you whispered.
"I’m not your job?" His laugh was broken. "I’m your burden."
The fracture deepened every day.
The breaking point came on a rainy Friday night.
You returned from a long shift to find the apartment in chaos. Couch cushions shredded. Your favorite mug smashed. And Hongjoong’s phone lying on the floor with a single note typed on the screen: I’m too broken for this. You deserve better. Don’t look for me.
Your heart stopped. You ran into the storm without a jacket, calling his name down empty streets. Rain soaked you instantly. Every shadow looked like his hair. Every alley made your chest ache with terror.
You found him at the edge of the park where you’d taken that first walk months ago. He was crouched under the same oak tree, soaked, ears flat, tail wrapped around himself. His claws dug deep into the wet earth.
You approached slowly. "Hongjoong."
He didn’t look up. "Go home."
"I’m not leaving without you."
"Why?" He finally lifted his head. Rain mixed with tears on his face, something you’d never seen before. "Why keep fighting for something that keeps hurting you? I destroyed the apartment. I scared the kid. I nearly bit you again. I’m exactly what they said I was. Dangerous. Irredeemable."
You knelt in the mud in front of him, ignoring the cold seeping through your jeans.
"Because I love you" you said fiercely. "Not the safe version. Not the healed version. You. The one who survived four years in hell. The one who waited for me outside that glass every day. The one who’s terrified of losing the only home he’s ever had."
His breath hitched. You reached out slowly and cupped his wet cheek. "I will always choose you. Even when it’s hard. Even when the system tries to take you. Even when you push me away. Forever doesn’t mean only the good days, Hongjoong. It means all of them."
He broke. A raw, choked sound tore from his throat as he lunged forward, wrapping around you so tightly you could barely breathe. His face buried in your neck, fangs grazing skin without breaking it, body shaking with silent sobs. The rain poured harder but neither of you moved.
"I’m scared" he admitted against your skin, voice muffled. "Every day I’m scared you’ll wake up and realize I’m not worth the fight."
"You are worth everything."
He pulled back just enough to kiss you: desperate, messy, tasting of rain and salt. His tail curled around your waist, anchoring you to him. When he finally drew away, forehead pressed to yours, some of the ice in his eyes had thawed.
"I don’t want to run anymore" he whispered.
"Then don’t." You stroked his soaked hair. "Come home. We’ll fix the couch. We’ll find Minho a better place. We’ll fight the system together. But no more leaving."
He nodded, ears twitching forward slightly.
Back at the apartment he helped you clean in silence, though his hands still trembled. Later, after Minho was settled and the worst of the mess was cleared, Hongjoong pulled you into the bedroom. He didn’t initiate sex, just held you under the covers, body curled protectively around yours, tail draped over your hip.
"I meant it" he murmured into your hair as sleep finally claimed him. "Forever. Even when I’m broken."
You kissed the top of his head, feeling the steady rumble of his purr start again for the first time in weeks.
"Forever" you promised.
The heatwave hit Seoul like a slap. Temperatures climbed to 38°C by midday and the apartment’s old air conditioner rattled uselessly against the thick, humid air. Even with every window cracked and fans running on high, the space felt like a sauna. You came home from the shelter drenched in sweat, shirt sticking to your back, only to find the living room empty and unnervingly quiet.
"Hongjoong?" you called, kicking off your shoes.
No answer. But the scent in the air had changed: thicker, darker, laced with something musky and fever-hot that made your pulse jump.
You found him in the bedroom, door half-shut, lights off. He had dragged every blanket and pillow into a makeshift nest on the floor beside the bed. Hongjoong lay curled in the center of it, shirtless, sweat-slick hair plastered to his forehead. His ears were pinned flat, tail lashing restlessly against the sheets. The moment you pushed the door open his head snapped up, eyes glowing with something wild and barely contained.
"Get out" he growled, voice shredded.
You froze in the doorway. "What’s wrong?"
His claws dug into the mattress. "Rut. First real one since… since before the shelter." He squeezed his eyes shut, body shuddering. "It came on fast. Too fast. You need to leave. Lock the door. Don’t come back until it’s over."
You stepped inside instead.
Hongjoong snarled, low and warning. "I said get out! I won’t be gentle. I won’t be me. I’ll hurt you-"
"You won’t" you said softly, closing the door behind you. The heat in the room was stifling, rolling off him in waves. "I’m not leaving you to suffer alone for days."
He laughed, broken and bitter. "You don’t understand. This isn’t like before. This is… instinct. I’ll knot you. I’ll bite. I’ll say things-" His hips jerked involuntarily against the nest, a helpless grind that made him hiss through his teeth. "Please. I waited years in a cage. Don’t make me lose control with the only person who matters."
You knelt at the edge of the nest. Sweat already beaded on your skin. "Then lose control with me. I trust you."
His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide, only a thin ring of brown left. For a long second he just stared, chest heaving. Then something in him snapped.
He moved faster than you could track, strong hands grabbing your waist, dragging you into the nest with him. Fabric tore as he ripped your shirt open, mouth latching onto your neck with a desperate groan. The bite wasn’t gentle; fangs sank in just enough to sting, marking over the old scar as fresh heat flooded your veins.
"So mine" he rasped against your skin. "Been holding it back for weeks. Smelling you every day. Other hybrids on your clothes. Couldn’t take it anymore."
You gasped as his hands shoved your pants down, claws carefully retracted but still scraping deliciously. The air felt too thick, too hot, but his body against yours was hotter. He flipped you onto your back in the nest, hovering above you with trembling arms. His hair curtained around your face.
"Last chance" he growled.
You pulled him down by the back of his neck and kissed him hard.
That was all the permission he needed.
Hongjoong devoured you. His mouth claimed yours with bruising force, tongue sliding deep while his hands mapped every inch of sweat-slick skin. He tore the rest of your clothes away, then shoved his own sweatpants down, freeing his cock already flushed dark, leaking, the base beginning to swell with the promise of a knot.
He didn’t tease. He pushed your thighs apart and slid two fingers into you without warning, curling them instantly against that spot that made your back arch. A deep, satisfied purr-rumble tore from his chest when he found you already wet.
"Always so ready for me" he muttered, adding a third finger, stretching you. "Gonna fill you up. Gonna breed this pretty pussy until it takes."
The filthy words sent heat spiraling through you. You rocked against his hand, moaning his name. He licked the sweat from your throat, then lower, sucking hard on one nipple while his tail curled around your thigh, holding you open.
When he finally replaced his fingers with his cock, he thrust in with one powerful snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out at the sudden fullness. He didn’t pause: couldn’t. He fucked you hard and deep, hips snapping with desperate rhythm, the wet slap of skin echoing in the stifling room.
"Fuck, so tight. So perfect," he snarled, fangs grazing your collarbone. "Gonna knot you. Keep you full of me for days."
You dug your nails into his back, legs wrapping around his waist. His tail slid higher, the soft, fluffy tip brushing teasingly over your clit with every thrust. The dual sensation: his thick cock stretching you and the silky tail stroking you, pushed you over the edge fast. You came with a broken moan, clenching around him.
Hongjoong growled in triumph but didn’t slow. He fucked you through it, then flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up and slamming back in from behind. The new angle made you see stars. His chest pressed to your back, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he rutted into you with feral intensity.
By the time his knot began to catch on every thrust, you were shaking, oversensitive and pleading. He reached around to rub your clit with two fingers, purring hot against your ear.
"Come again. Want to feel you milk my knot."
You shattered a second time as his knot swelled fully, locking him deep inside. Hongjoong roared: raw, primal, grinding against you as he came in thick, endless pulses, flooding you until it leaked around his knot. The heat of it, the pressure, the way his body trembled against yours, left you boneless.
But he wasn’t done.
The rut held him for hours. He stayed locked inside you for nearly forty minutes, licking lazily at the fresh bite marks on your shoulders and neck while his knot pulsed. When it finally went down he pulled out only to flip you again, this time pulling you on top so you could ride him. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he guided you, eyes half-lidded with lust and something deeper.
"Look at me while you take my cock" he demanded.
You did. Sweat dripped down your bodies. The heatwave outside was nothing compared to the inferno between you. He came again like that, knot swelling as you ground down on him, his tail wrapping around your waist to hold you flush while he pumped you full.
The second day blurred into a haze of sex and tenderness.
He took you against the wall, in the shower (which did nothing to cool you both), bent over the kitchen counter when you tried to bring water and food. Every surface carried his scent and yours. He marked you constantly: rubbing his wrists and cheeks over your skin, licking every inch, biting fresh claims across your breasts and inner thighs.
Between waves he grew softer. He’d curl around you in the ruined nest, purring loudly while grooming your hair with careful licks. He fed you water and pieces of fruit by hand, nuzzling your stomach with something like awe.
"Want it to take" he whispered once, palm spread over your lower belly. "Want to see you round with my kits. Want a family that’s ours."
You stroked his ears, exhausted and glowing. "One day. When we’re ready. When you feel safe."
His eyes shimmered. "You make me feel safe. Even like this."
On the third morning the fever finally broke.
Hongjoong woke curled tightly around you, knot gone, cock soft against your thigh. The apartment smelled like sex and sweat and him. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, gentler now as the heatwave eased.
He stared at the marks covering your body: bites, bruises, claiming scrapes and his ears flattened with guilt.
"I hurt you" he whispered, voice hoarse.
You cupped his cheek. "You didn’t. I wanted it. I wanted all of you."
He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply. The purr that rolled through him was softer than it had been in days: content, grateful. He spent the next hour in pure aftercare: licking every mark with soothing strokes of his tongue, massaging sore muscles, carrying you to the shower and washing you gently with cool water. His hands lingered on every curve, reverent now instead of desperate.
Later, wrapped in fresh sheets on the bed (the nest had been destroyed beyond saving), he pulled you against his chest. His tail draped over your hip, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.
"I was scared you’d see the monster and leave" he admitted quietly. "The fighting ring… they forced ruts sometimes. For shows. I never wanted you to see that side of me."
You kissed his collarbone. "I love every side of you. The fighter. The scared one. The one who purred while I cooked. The one who knotted me so full I still feel you."
His purr deepened, rumbling through both of you. "I don’t want to go back to the shelter ever again" he said. "Not even for a day. I want to build something real with you. A life. Maybe… someday help other hybrids who have nowhere else."
You smiled against his skin. "We’ll fight for that. Together."
He tilted your chin up and kissed you slow, deep, no heat of rut left, only love and quiet promise.
The apartment was a wreck. Furniture scratched, sheets ruined, air still heavy with the scent of three days of claiming.
The weeks following Hongjoong’s rut were quieter, softer around the edges. The apartment still carried the faint musk of days spent locked together, but the frenzy had settled into something steadier. He touched you constantly now: small brushes of his tail against your calf while you cooked, his cheek rubbing along your shoulder when you passed each other in the hallway, fingers laced tightly even while watching television. The pale scars and fresh bite marks across your body had become badges he traced with reverent claws every night.
Yet the peace was fragile.
It shattered on a humid Tuesday evening.
You were unlocking the apartment door when Hongjoong’s low, dangerous growl rolled from inside. The sound raised every hair on your arms. You pushed the door open to find three men standing in your living room. Two were large wolf hybrids in dark suits, the third a scarred human with cold eyes and a tattoo of interlocking chains on his neck: the same symbol from the old Incheon fighting ring reports.
Hongjoong stood between them and you, ears pinned flat, fangs bared, tail lashing like a whip. His claws were fully extended.
"They broke in" he snarled. "Said I still belong to them. Property."
The human smiled thinly. "HK-0047 was one of our best earners before your little raid. Blood debt still stands. We’ve got paperwork from before the sanctuary laws changed. He’s unregistered stock. Legally ours to reclaim."
Your blood ran cold. You stepped forward despite Hongjoong’s warning growl. "Get out of my home."
One of the wolf hybrids cracked his knuckles. "Make us, little human."
What happened next was a blur of violence. Hongjoong exploded forward in a silver streak, tackling the nearest wolf with a roar that shook the windows. Claws slashed. Furniture overturned. You grabbed the heavy metal lamp from the side table and swung it hard into the second intruder’s knee. The human pulled a syringe, probably the same tranquilizers used in the old fights, but Hongjoong’s tail whipped around his wrist, snapping bone with a sickening crack.
Security from the building arrived minutes later, drawn by the noise. The intruders fled, but not before the leader spat a final threat: "This isn’t over. Court date’s already set. He’ll be back in the ring where he belongs."
That night Hongjoong wouldn’t let you out of his arms. He paced the ruined living room with you pressed to his chest, licking frantically at your neck, wrists, anywhere he could reach, as if reaffirming you were still his. His purr was fractured, more vibration of fear than comfort.
"I won’t go back" he whispered against your hair. "I’d rather die free than fight in a cage again."
"You’re not going anywhere" you promised, holding his face. "We’ll fight this. Legally. Together."
The next morning you quit your job at the shelter.
Director Park didn’t hide his relief. "It was only a matter of time. That hybrid was always going to drag you down."
You looked him dead in the eye. "He saved my life more times than you’ll ever know. Keep your cage. We’re building something better."
Legal fees drained your savings fast. You hired the best hybrid rights lawyer you could afford; an older red panda hybrid named Attorney Seo who specialized in fighting ring survivors. She took one look at Hongjoong’s records and shook her head.
"This won’t be easy. Pre-law ownership documents are tricky. But his growth, your relationship and his willingness to testify could turn it."
Preparation consumed the following month. Hongjoong’s nightmares returned with a vengeance. He’d wake up snarling, claws buried in the mattress, then immediately seek you out, curling around your body like a living shield. During the day he trained himself to speak clearly about his trauma, practicing testimony in front of the mirror while you sat on the bed offering gentle corrections.
"I was forced to fight" he recited one evening, voice steady despite the way his tail trembled. "I killed because they would kill me if I didn’t. But I never wanted it. Not once."
You pulled him into your arms afterward, kissing the tension from his ears until he purred.
Court day arrived under gray skies.
The courtroom was packed: reporters, hybrid activists, a few shelter colleagues who had quietly supported you. Hongjoong wore a simple black button-up and slacks you’d chosen together. He looked devastatingly beautiful and heartbreakingly nervous, ears twitching at every camera flash.
The syndicate’s lawyer painted him as a dangerous animal: violent history, aggression reports, the attack on you months ago. They presented old fight footage. The room murmured uncomfortably.
Then it was your turn. You took the stand and told everything: the day you’d stopped his euthanasia, the long silence after his attack, the slow rebuilding of trust, the rut, the love that had grown through every fracture. Your voice only shook once, when you described finding him in the rain ready to run because he thought he was too broken for you.
When Hongjoong took the stand, the room fell completely silent. He looked small for the first time, powerful snow leopard reduced to a survivor on a wooden chair. His tail curled tightly around his own ankle. His eyes found yours in the gallery and held. "I was taken as a cub" he began, voice low but clear. "Trained with pain and starvation. I survived by becoming what they wanted. When the sanctuary took me, they planned to kill me because I was too angry to fix. She..." He looked at you again. "She saw something else. She gave me a home when no one else would. She stayed even when I hurt her. Even when I pushed her away."
His claws flexed against his thighs.
"I’m not property. I’m not a fighter anymore. I’m hers. And she’s mine. I want to build a life with her. Help other hybrids who are still trapped. I’m asking the court to let me choose my future."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Attorney Seo’s closing argument was sharp and passionate. Evidence of the syndicate’s ongoing illegal operations was presented. Your financial records showing you’d sacrificed your career. Medical reports proving Hongjoong’s improved mental health under your care.
The judge deliberated for three hours.
When she returned, the verdict was clear. "Subject HK-0047 is hereby granted full hybrid citizenship rights. All prior ownership claims are nullified. The court recognizes the adoptive bond and recommends ongoing monitoring only for the first year. Case closed."
The courtroom erupted. Hongjoong vaulted over the barrier in one fluid leap and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck as cameras flashed around you. His purr was loud enough to drown out the noise, tail wrapped so tightly around your waist it was almost painful.
"You did it" you whispered, tears streaming.
"We did it" he corrected, voice thick.
Two weeks later you drove through winding mountain roads, snow beginning to fall in soft flurries. Hongjoong’s face was pressed to the passenger window, eyes wide with wonder. He had never seen real snow outside of grainy shelter documentaries.
The cabin you’d rented was small and perfect: wooden beams, a stone fireplace, wide windows overlooking white-covered pines. No city noise. No cameras. Just silence and wilderness.
On the third night, under a sky thick with stars, you held a private mating ceremony. No officials. No guests. Just the two of you.
You stood barefoot in the snow wearing a simple white sweater and sweatpants. Hongjoong wore black, hair loose and glowing under moonlight. He carried a small blade you’d sterilized earlier.
He went first. With careful precision he pressed the blade to his palm, drawing a thin line of blood. Then he did the same to yours. You pressed your palms together, blood mixing as snowflakes landed on your joined hands.
"I claim you" he said solemnly, voice carrying through the cold air. "Not as property. As my mate. My home. My future. In blood and snow and everything that comes after."
You repeated the words back to him, tears freezing on your lashes.
Then he kissed you: slow, deep, tasting of blood and forever. His tail curled around your leg as he lowered you into the soft snow, body covering yours. This time there was no rut frenzy, only reverence. He made love to you under the stars, slow rolls of his hips, whispered "I love you"s between kisses, fangs grazing but never breaking skin again.
Afterward he wrapped you in blankets on the cabin porch, purring loud and steady while snow fell around you.
"I want to open a sanctuary" he said quietly, chin resting on your head. "Small. Just for the ones who were like me. The ones they wanted to put down. We could do it together."
You smiled against his chest. "We will. We’ll make sure no one else waits four years behind glass."
He nuzzled your mating mark, the fresh ceremonial scar now joining the others.
For the first time since you’d met him through reinforced glass, Hongjoong’s eyes held no shadows. Only snow, starlight, and boundless future.
"Forever?" he asked, the old insecurity still faintly there.
18+ MDNI
pairing: bf yunho x afab reader (gender-neutral)
genre: smut / fluff
content warnings: pet play (puppy yunho), somno, substance use (reader vapes)
tags: sub yunho, soft dom reader, sleepy yunho, finger sucking, pillow humping, plushie fucking (ruining pudeongie for everyone), thigh fucking, hand job, nipple play, whiny & desperate, wet & messy, reader is a pervert, yunho has a big dick, yunho leaks like a faucet, yunho snores loud as hell, aftercare
summary: yunho comes home exhausted and needy after touring. his body craves your touch, even in his sleep. your puppy can't help himself, and you can't resist taking care of him.
word count: ~2.8k
read on ao3
A thundering vibration startles you awake. You’re immediately overwhelmed– something too loud is pressed against your ear, something too tight is wrapped around your stomach, and something too stiff is digging into your back. You squirm away, rolling over the Pudeongie plush in your arms and propping yourself up on your elbow. Once there’s space between you and everything, your vision focuses and your awareness returns. No, there isn’t a freight train passing by, and you aren’t being kidnapped.
Yunho is sleeping with you tonight. Your big, beautiful, bed-hogging boyfriend is finally back after a grueling stretch of touring.
He’d stumbled into your apartment at an ungodly hour, immediately dropping his heavy bags and tossing his jangling keys on the granite counter. The commotion woke you and sent you shuffling into the kitchen. He was half-naked by the time you got there– his shoes and socks discarded by the door, the first layers of his airport outfit strewn over the rungs of your dining chairs. Lit by the warm diffused glow of the lamps you kept on for comfort, Yunho barely looked real. Angelic, even after hours of air travel, hair tousled and bottom eyelids shadowed. Seeing you, he stopped unzipping his slacks and crossed the room in three strides. Cradling your head in his hands, his pillowy lips parted around your own, flooding you both with the love you’d been craving for weeks.
Another snore rips through the quiet morning air. Those heart-shaped lips are currently hanging open and spilling drool onto your pillowcase.
You curse softly. He’s so lucky he’s cute.
The faint light through your sheer curtains tells you it’s nearing sunrise. You check your phone and confirm that your alarm is set to go off in an hour. Truly the most annoying possible timing on Yunho’s part. You stick your tongue out at him and of course he snores back at you. Shining your phone screen on the nightstand, you locate your nearly drained vape. You depend on your choice substance more when your boyfriend is gone. It pacifies the scratchy anxiety that prickles under your skin in his absence. And you can indulge freely when a professional singer with virgin lungs isn’t breathing your air.
Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you start to stand but are promptly yanked back down by the back of your t-shirt. Yunho paws at you, still dead asleep and drooling, but instead of a snort a barely audible whine escapes him. That high-pitched sigh you hear only when your lover is at his softest. Your heart somersaults, swelling with tender desire.
That’s my puppy.
Outstretched arm falling slack, he lets out another tiny sound, the delicate muscles in his face twitching. His slender arm wraps around Pudeongie and tucks its yellow body tight to his chest. With a heavy exhale, he curls his large frame around it like he can’t sleep without something to hold.
At the sight of him snuggling his beloved plushie, warm oxytocin-laced blood flushes through you. Tingly sparks dance in your nerves. Your mind darts to the black leather collar at the bottom of your bedside drawer and buckles it around his neck, flashing memories of Yunho kneeling, tongue lolling, nuzzling your stomach, eyes vacant and glassy. The time he brought a headband with floppy ears home from work…
Your mouth is watering.
With a stretch that pops at least three bones, you successfully get out of bed and into the bathroom, trailing a vapor cloud through the hallway. You consider committing to the waking world, but after a quick glance at your crowded notifications you decide against it. After washing your hands, you shuffle into the kitchen, grab a cup, and set it under the water filter. You sneak a final hit of your vape while the cool water chills the glass in your palm. Sighing out the sweet taste, you make your way to your bedroom with the cup and vape clutched in one hand and your phone in the other. Nudging the door open with your foot, you open your alarm to give yourself a few extra minutes of comfort. As you draw closer to the bed, you hear Yunho huffing deep breaths into the pillow, then fabric rustling against fabric. Rhythmically. A choked little groan. Your eyes snap up from the screen.
“Oh, sweet puppy,” you gasp.
Yunho’s long, graceful legs are sprawled open over the plush. His hand grips one of Pudeongie’s paws, pressing the stuffing into a mound under the powder-soft skin of his tummy. The flushed head of his cock peeks out from the waistband of his boxers, dribbling clear fluid onto the yellow fleece. The fleece of the stuffie… that he is humping.
Like a dumb fucking dog.
Your head spins like you took a gulp of helium instead of oxygen. Like bubbles are diffusing into your arteries, threatening to lift your feet off the ground. Then blood rushes to your pussy so fast your clit throbs with the change in pressure.
You stare at him slack-jawed for an indiscernible amount of time. His eyebrows knit together in a wordless plea as his hips roll languidly. Pitiful whimpers occasionally interrupt the sleep-heavy pace of his breath. Little shudders race through his pliant body when a seam drags against the sensitive spot on the underside of his crown. When his foreskin slips back, precum gushes out of his tip into a soaked patch of Pudeongie's fuzz.
Your brain stops signalling your hands to work, so your phone hits the carpeted floor with a thud. You startle, causing water to slosh onto your chest. Nipples budding against the wet fabric, you empty your hands and yank off your shirt and shorts, focus completely locked on your pup. He needs you badly.
As you settle beside him, you wonder if this scene has played out in hotel rooms around the world. You picture your boyfriend in empty beds, desperately fucking the mattress, moaning your name. Clutching a pillow to his chest, panting, rubbing himself silly. Squirting onto the linens faster than he means to. Cheeks blazing with embarrassment when he buries the soiled fabric in the wastebasket before checking out in the morning.
You’re wet already. The musky scent of his arousal overwhelms your senses now that you are close enough to share breaths. Your fingers brush aside the layer of dark hair clinging to his forehead, and the unobstructed view of Yunho’s face steals the air from your lungs. He looks delicate– as vulnerable and miraculous as a freshly hatched butterfly. Eyelashes flutter like gossamer wings. Pink lips glisten like dewy rose petals. The pads of your fingers trace down his cheek and land on them gently. He freezes. So do you. For a moment, you worry that you’ve ruined his precious slumber, selfishly waking him from a dream he’s more than earned after exhausting himself on the road.
Then his tongue laps the entire length of your pointer finger into his mouth. He suckles, humming sweetly when your fingertip brushes his silky soft palate.
“Oh my god, baby…” you whisper, slipping your middle finger past his sloppy lips. His tongue flits against your skin as it glides effortlessly into his maw. Your thighs start clenching, squeezing slick down your vulva. You can’t fucking take it anymore. You have to touch him. You pull his underwear off, and the rippling heat of his erection warms your fingers before they even make contact. You glance down and have to bite your lip to stay quiet.
Holy fuck.
Yunho’s huge, heavy dick throbs helplessly against his quivering abs. The tantalizing friction of the fabric has rubbed him raw. A scarlet flush radiates from his crown to the middle of his shaft, his puffy tip so swollen it looks bruised. His balls look so full they might burst.
“You poor thing,” you murmur, palming his cockhead. He whimpers around your fingers.
“Shhhh, puppy. I’m helping you feel better. There we go…”
You encircle him with your fist, skin slick from his steady flow of precum. His pelvis stutters back and forth, animal instincts kicking in at the relieving pressure.
“Good puppy. That’s it, just like that.”
Gripping tighter, you slide your hand all the way to the base. His mouth falls open, releasing your fingers with a full-chested groan. Your hole clenches at the sudden deep resonance, and your hips spasm against the plush that still separates your bodies. The velvety fabric tickles your clit deliciously. Suddenly you understand why Yunho loves this Pudeongie plush so much.
Your spit-slick fingers brush against one of his nipples and his entire body shudders. Feeling his balls pulsate against your fist, you immediately release your grip, hoping to keep him wrapped in the cozy blanket of sleep. He’s so pretty like this, body melting like hot wax under your touch. Please don’t wake up.
He snorts loudly, directly in your face, and you nearly jump out of bed.
“Goddamnit,” you hiss, briefly regretting your decision to preserve his sleep cycle.
But then he snuffles his nose into the pillow, arms and legs fidgeting like a dreaming dog’s. You want him like this forever– blissfully unaware of everything except the pleasure you’re pouring into his body. Sick satisfaction squirms low in your gut at the thought of milking an unconscious orgasm out of your boyfriend.
Fuck, you need it now. Your cunt has soaked a second wet patch onto Pudeongie, who you fling in the hamper’s direction. Your fingers return to his perked up nipple, pinching and twisting slowly until he’s squirming. His eyes roll back so far that slivers of white show under his lashes.
“I could take you apart like this,” you purr into his ear. You’re not sure if your words can reach his awareness through the fog, but he shivers and pants at the sound of your voice.
“You’re so needy, Yuyu. You could cum from your nipples being played with, couldn’t you boy?”
You roll the firm bud in circles. His slit drools so much fluid that it runs down his shaft and drips onto his sensitive balls.
“My sweet boy, leaking all over my sheets. Does that feel good, pup? Oh, I know it does…”
Yunho’s hips start thrusting again, erratic and lacking something to rut into. His pathetic little whines dissolve the last of your self-control. You can’t deny him any longer. Turning your back to him, you part your thighs, clit shivering at the exposure. You take his burning hot girth into your hand and guide it between your legs.
“Oh Yuyu,” you gasp.
Tilting your hips, you drag your slick folds down his length, moaning feverishly. When your legs close, engulfing him in your softness, Yunho grunts deep in his chest. His pelvis jerks forward, eagerly resuming its rhythm.
“God yes, your puppy dick feels so good on my pussy.”
His bulging veins squish deliciously between your labia. Your hips rock in tandem with his, grinding your swollen clit against his shaft. He’s so long that even when his thrusts draw back, the tip sticks past your thighs. Drool fills your mouth as you watch his foreskin glide back and forth over his cherry-colored head. The phrase red rocket wriggles in the filthiest corner of your thoughts. Shameful lust boils in your core. Your cunt throbs.
“I’m going to make you cum now, okay baby?”
Even if he can’t hear you, you offer your voice as a lifeline. You’ll take care of your sweet boy through his dreams. Your fingers wrap around his cockhead.
“Just let it out.”
Your bodies melt together, pulses synchronizing as you surrender to animal instinct. Yunho fucks your hand with quick pumps, pathetically groaning unh, unh, unh with every contraction. He’s not even inside you, but your composure unravels like he’s buried to the hilt.
“Puppy… oh fuck me puppy, you’re such a good boy,” you babble as your vision blurs. Your pulsing lips kiss his twitching cock, both of you careening towards the edge. Your thighs squeeze tighter.
“C’mon baby, cum for me, make a mess, c’mon puppy–”
His balls clench, then his entire body locks up. Yunho returns to consciousness in the half-second tipping point of his climax.
“Hnnguh–whuh–”
Overwhelmed by the crashing wave, unable to stop the spurts of his release, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, catalyzing your orgasm. You fall apart with him, watching jets of his pearly cum spray across the sheets. His cock kicks into your clit with every squirt. You unroll your hand and flit it beneath his frenulum, determined to drain him completely. Drowning in pleasure, Yunho trembles and whimpers around a mouthful of your flesh, jaw still set.
“Shit–! Owwww, puppy oh my god–”
Your pained cry cuts through his addled thoughts and he instantly lets go.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay baby,” you reassure him, reaching behind you to stroke his fluffy hair, which relaxes him instantly.
“I know it’s too much, I know, you’re being such a good boy.”
The fluid shooting from his slit thins and runs clear. Moaning open-mouthed into the back of your neck, he rides out the dwindling waves, fingers twitching on your chest. You place your hand on top of his and lace your fingers together.
“I got you, puppy. You’re here with me.”
You lay tangled together in the afterglow– endorphins flowing, breaths slowing, heartbeats easing. His softening dick stays snuggled between your thighs, a comforting presence for your most vulnerable parts on your journey back down to earth.
“Sorry I bit,” Yunho murmurs. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just… I couldn’t…”
“Sweet boy, it’s okay,” you turn to meet his angel eyes. “I’m the one that touched you while you were sleeping.”
Your gut twists with shame as the past few minutes replay in your memory. You had plenty of chances to wake him up, ask what he was feeling, check what he wanted. But you didn’t. You liked how helpless he was. You got despicably turned on by the sight of him defiling his favorite stuffie like wound-up dog.
“I’m sorry Yunho, I– I wanted to take care of you. I shouldn’t have pounced like that, I should’ve asked, I–”
“Baby, you’re perfect.”
He kisses you gently, cupping your face with his hand. You nuzzle against it.
“It’s not your fault I sleep like a fucking rock.”
The sound of his chuckle soothes you, soaking up the anxiety seeping into your brain. A smile tugs at your lips.
“I’m only awake because you snore louder than a construction zone.”
A sheepish look dances across his face. He draws his hand back to scratch behind his ear.
“Sorry I woke you. Do you work today?” he asks.
You nod, and he pouts his bottom lip. He looks so cute you feel the impulse to scream.
“I’ll make coffee and drive you there.”
Before you can protest, he climbs out of bed, yawning and stretching as he stands. The first beams of dawn stream through the curtains, lighting his willowy figure with a halo. He bends at the waist to grab clothes on the floor, showing off the lithe expanse of his legs. He’s exquisite– a living Grecian sculpture.
The discarded plush, laying limp and disheveled, catches his eye.
“Hey, why’s Pudeongie on the floor?”
He scoops up the yellow dog and hugs it without noticing the damp patches first. Then the scent of his own arousal wafts into his senses. His eyes widen cartoonishly.
“Oh my god, was I…”
“Humping your stuffie in your sleep?” you smirk at the opportunity to tease.
“Yep, like a horny mutt. Don’t worry, you looked cute.”
Heat burns his cheeks so pink they match his nipples. Giggling, you walk over and stand on tip toe to kiss him on the nose.
“You can wash Pudeongie with all of your crusty socks from the tour.”
“You little–”
He swings the plush at you, but you evade and dart into the hallway, laughing wholeheartedly. You whip around when you reach the bathroom, and he’s behind you with a wicked grin. Pudeongie sails through the air and bounces off your face. Echoes of joy ring through your apartment as your boyfriend embraces you, naked bodies blending together seamlessly. Yunho is home, and everything is a bit more right in the world.
This is a work of fiction. Characters within are based on artist personas and do not represent real people.
teehee uh... idk what to say lol. this is really self-indulgent and lowkey embarrassing to post, but im being brave for you atiny!! kind words especially appreciated on this one :)
genre: angst, hurt w/comfort (i'm not a monster cmon), established relationship, nonidol!au
word count: 10.7k
warnings: no use of y/n, mentions of alcohol, miscommunication (again!), possessive!wooyo, soft dom!wooyo, also whiny wooyo, pronebone!!!!!, praise kink, make up sex, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap!), p in v, mating press (kinda), multiple o's, fingering, oral, felching, breath play, spit play/spit as a means for lube, creampie, cockwarming, slight choking (?), mutual masturbation, body worship, breeding kink (mentioned like once tbh), a little bit of edging, emotional sex (he cries, her kitty did too), overstimulation / lmk if i missed any!
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author's note: based on this request! i lowkey went overboard and got carried away with the makeup sex but who's going to complaing if their steak is too juicy and the lobster too buttery, yk? :p i hope you enjoy this my love @moilele <333
permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs @mourninglizzy + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))
The key turns in the lock at 1:47 AM. You’ve been staring at the clock for so long the numbers have burned into your vision, following you even when you close your eyes. The candlelight dinner you prepared hours ago has congealed on the table, the wax from the candles having melted into sad, misshapen puddles.
When Wooyoung stumbles through the door, the smell hits you first—sharp, medicinal, unmistakably alcohol—before you even see his face. He’s loosening his tie with one hand, the other gripping the doorframe for balance. He tries to toe off his shoes and only manages to get one halfway off before giving up. He lets the other one fall with a thud, then drops his battered work bag into the hallway, not caring if it blocks the door or if either of you end up tripping over it later.
“Hey,” he mumbles, not quite meeting your eyes. “What are you doing still awake?”
You don’t answer immediately. You just watch him, this man who hasn’t texted you in nine hours, who left you sitting here with a heart that sank deeper into your chest with each passing minute. The silence stretches between you, taut as a wire.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” you finally say. Your voice comes out steadier than you expected, a calm that doesn’t match the storm inside.
Wooyoung blinks, processing your words through the alcohol fog. “Sorry, we were out at the bar. The project…” He waves his hand vaguely. “It went really well. Everyone was—”
“Celebrating,” you finish for him. Your eyes drift to the table behind you, the two plates still set with the meal you spent three hours preparing. The anniversary cake you ordered sits untouched in its box, the words “One Year” now barely visible through the condensation that’s gathered on the lid.
It hits you then, with a clarity that makes your stomach drop. He doesn’t remember.
“Look, I know I’m sorry that I’m late again,” Wooyoung says, finally noticing your expression. “Things got crazy at the office. You know babe, the promotion, it’s—”
“Do you know what day it is?” you ask quietly.
He frowns, clearly trying to think through his drunken haze. “Uhh Tuesday?”
The silence that follows is deafening. You watch the realization slowly dawn on his face, the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his mouth opens then closes without sound.
“Shit,” he whispers. “Oh fuck…”
“You forgot our anniversary.” It’s not a question.
“I didn’t—”Wooyoung runs a hand through his hair, his movements still uncoordinated. “The project deadline was today. We’ve been working toward this for weeks, you know that. And then everyone wanted to go out, and I couldn’t just—”
“Couldn’t just text me? Couldn’t just call to say you’d be late?” Your voice rises slightly, despite your efforts to keep it steady. “I sat here for hours, Wooyoung. I thought something happened to you. I called your friends, hell I even called your office phone.”
“I’m fine,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, defensive. “I’m right here. Everything’s fine.”
“Everything is not fine.” You stand up, needing the distance between you. “You’ve been working non-stop for weeks. You come home exhausted, barely speaking to me, and now you can’t even remember our anniversary?”
Wooyoung sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion and frustration. “I’m doing this for us, you know that—”
“Stop,” you cut him off. “Stop saying that. I’m not asking you to quit your job, Wooyoung. I’m asking you to be present. To remember that I exist when you’re not at work.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment you see the man you fell in love with—the one who used to notice when you changed your hair, who used to call just to hear your voice. But then his expression hardens again.
“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under,” he says, his voice tight. “This isn’t just about me. It’s about our future.”
“Our future?” You let out a humourless laugh. “What fucking future? I barely see you anymore. When was the last time we had an actual conversation that wasn’t about how tired you are?”
“I’m trying to build something for us.”
“No, you’re building something for yourself and calling it ‘us’ to make yourself feel better.” The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and honest in a way that makes your chest ache. “I feel like you only love me when it’s convenient for you. When you have the time and energy.”
Wooyoung’s face darkens. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You step closer, needing him to see, to understand. “When was the last time you asked how I was doing? When was the last time you noticed anything about my life that wasn’t directly related to yours?”
“I’m under a lot of stress right now, baby.”
“We’re all under stress, Wooyoung. That’s not an excuse to disappear on your girlfriend.”
The room falls silent. Wooyoung’s shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched. You can see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, the dark circles under his eyes that have been there for weeks. Part of you wants to reach out, to comfort him, but the hurt is too fresh, too deep.
“I’m doing my best,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I’m trying to balance everything.”
“Your best isn’t good enough.” The words hang in the air between you, sharp and painful. “Not when your best means I spend our anniversary wondering if you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere because you couldn’t be bothered to send a text.”
Wooyoung flinches. “That’s not—”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” Your voice breaks. “To sit here, watching the clock, imagining all the worst possible scenarios because the man I love can’t remember I exist?”
“I do remember you exist,” he says, and there’s frustration in his voice now. “I think about you all the time. I’m doing all of this for you.”
“For me?” You laugh, the sound hollow. “This isn’t for me, Wooyoung. I never asked for any of this. I asked for you. Not this stressed-out stranger who comes home at midnight and falls asleep on the couch.”
He’s silent for a long moment, and you can see him struggling, the alcohol and exhaustion making it hard for him to find the right words. When he finally speaks, his voice is strained.
“Maybe this is the real me,” he says. “Maybe this is who I am now and you just don’t like what you see.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. You take a step back, your breath catching in your throat. You shake your head, denying the words that came out of his mouth.
“That’s not true,” you whisper.
“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung’s voice rises, matching your earlier statement, fuelled by frustration and alcohol. “Because it seems like nothing I do is ever good enough for you. I’m either working too much or not making enough money or not paying enough attention—”
“I’ve never said that.”
“You don’t have to say it. I can see it in your face every time I come home late. Every time I’m too tired to talk.” He runs his hand through his hair again, the gesture agitated. “Maybe you should just find someone who can give you what you want, since apparently I can’t.”
The silence that follows is absolute. You stare at him, unable to believe the words that just came out of his mouth. Wooyoung looks just as shocked as you feel, his eyes widening as he realizes what he’s said.
“Wait… shit no that’s not what I meant…” he starts, but you cut him off.
“You want me to leave?” Your voice is barely audible.
“No, I didn’t mean…“ Wooyoung takes a step toward you, but you back away. “I’m sorry, I’m drunk and exhausted and I didn’t—”
“You meant it,” you say. There’s no anger in your voice now, just a deep, bone-weary sadness. “Maybe not all of it, but part of it.”
He doesn’t deny it. The silence stretches between you, filled with everything that’s been left unsaid for weeks.
“I need to be alone,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang between you, a barrier neither of you has the strength to cross. “I can’t do this right now.”
Wooyoung opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already moving, already turning away from the wreckage of your anniversary night. You don’t look back as you walk down the hallway to your bedroom—the bedroom that was supposed to be shared, not a place of retreat. The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that makes your chest ache.
In the darkness of your room, you press your back against the door and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. Your shoulders shake with silent sobs you refuse to let him hear. The anniversary card you’d written him earlier sits on your nightstand, the words inside now feeling hollow and foolish.
Time passes. You don’t know how long you sit there, but eventually, you stand on trembling legs and change into your sleep clothes. The bed feels too big, too empty. You lie on your side, staring at the empty space where Wooyoung should be, and wait for sleep that doesn’t come. An hour passes. Maybe two. Your anger has cooled to a dull ache in your chest, but sleep still eludes you. Finally, you slip out of bed, needing water, needing to move.
The living room is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. And there he is—Wooyoung, slumped on the couch, still in his work clothes, one arm thrown over his eyes. Even in the dim light, you can see the tear tracks on his face, the dark stain on the cushion beneath his cheek.
Your heart constricts. Despite everything—despite the anger, despite the hurt—you still love him. You still care.
You move silently to the kitchen, filling a glass with water and grabbing the bottle of aspirin from the cabinet. Your movements are careful, deliberate, as you place them on the coffee table beside him. You don’t wake him. You don’t say a word.
Instead, you stand there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Even in sleep, his face is troubled, his brow furrowed. You want to smooth the lines away, to tell him everything will be okay. But you can’t. Not yet.
So you do the only thing you can. You take care of him, silently, the way you’ve always done. Because even when he forgets, even when he’s lost in his own world of stress and ambition, you remember. You remember the man you fell in love with, the one who’s still in there somewhere, buried under exhaustion and pressure.
You pull the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drape it carefully over him. Your fingers brush against his hair, just once, so lightly he doesn’t stir.
Then you turn and walk away, back to the bedroom that feels emptier than it should. You climb into bed alone, the space beside you cold and untouched. You wonder if this is how relationships begin to break—not through lack of love, but through all the ways people fail to hold onto each other when life becomes too heavy. Sleep comes eventually, but it’s fitful, troubled by dreams of a future that feels increasingly uncertain.
══════════════════
Wooyoung wakes slowly to the dull throb of a splitting headache and a sharp ache running down his neck. The couch digs painfully into his back, one arm numb from the awkward angle he’d fallen asleep in. For a few disoriented seconds, he just stares at the ceiling, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the apartment. Then last night hits him all at once. The argument. Your tears. The look on your face when he realized what day it was.
With a quiet groan, he pushes himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face. That’s when he notices the blanket draped carefully over him. The glass of water sitting on the coffee table beside two aspirin. His chest tightens. You took care of him anyway. Even after everything.
Wooyoung stares at the medicine for a long moment before letting out a weak, humourless laugh under his breath. “Fuck,” he mutters hoarsely, guilt crawling up his throat.
He swallows the aspirin dry before forcing himself to stand, exhaustion still heavy in his limbs. The apartment is quiet as he makes his way toward the bedroom, each step slower than the last, like he’s afraid of what he’ll find on the other side of the door. He eases it open carefully. You’re asleep, curled toward his side of the bed even though it stayed empty all night. In the soft morning light, he notices the tear tracks dried against your cheeks immediately, and something inside him caves in at the sight. His own eyes still burn from last night, raw and swollen in a way he knows mirrors yours. For a moment, he just stands there in silence, looking at you. At the woman who still tucked a blanket around him after he forgot about your anniversary. After he hurt you. Wooyoung closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening.
He closes the door to your shared bedroom and makes his way to the kitchen. He quietly reaches for his phone and silences the alarm for work before typing out a lengthy message to his boss with determined fingers. Nothing at work feels more important than this anymore.
He had to fix this.
══════════════════
Your eyes open to the empty space beside you, the pillow still perfectly fluffed, untouched. Of course he’s already gone. The realization settles in your chest like a stone. You lie there for a moment, the events of last night crashing back with brutal clarity. The forgotten anniversary. The heartbreak that ensued. The fight. The words that can’t be unsaid. You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, forcing the tears to remain at bay.
Then you hear it—the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen.
Your heart stutters. You freeze, listening. There it is again—the unmistakable sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. The one that should be empty right now. Panic rises in your throat. He’s still here. Wooyoung is still here, and you have no idea what to say to him after everything that happened. After everything you both said.
You sit up slowly, your body heavy with emotional exhaustion. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you pad toward the bedroom door. Your hand hesitates on the doorknob. What will you see when you open it? Will he be packing his things? Will he be waiting to tell you it’s over?
The door creaks as you pull it open. The hallway seems longer than usual as you make your way toward the kitchen. With each step, your anxiety grows, a tight knot in your chest that makes it hard to breathe.
And then you see him.
Wooyoung stands at the counter, his back to you. He’s still wearing the same clothes from last night, rumpled and wrinkled. His hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles. He moves slowly, methodically, as if each action requires immense concentration.
“Aren’t you going to work?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice hoarse from crying.
Wooyoung turns, and the sight of him makes your breath catch. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all, like he’s been carrying the weight of your argument with him through the long night.
“I told them I wasn’t coming in today or for the rest of the week,” he says simply.
The words hang in the air between you. You stare at him, trying to process what this means. Wooyoung never calls in. He’s the type who goes to work with a fever of 102, who works through weekends and holidays without complaint.
“What? Why?” you ask, the question barely audible.
Wooyoung sets down the cup he’s been holding. His knuckles turned white as he gripped onto the glass tighter. “I already lost enough time with you yesterday. I’m not about to just leave you here alone, again.”
The simplicity of his words hits you like a physical blow. You lean against the doorframe, suddenly weak. The kitchen table is set—two plates, two mugs, the breakfast you used to make together on weekend mornings. The silence that follows is thick with everything left unsaid. You watch as he turns back to the counter, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. There’s a vulnerability in his posture you haven’t seen in months—the confident, ambitious man you’ve been watching slip away replaced by someone unsure, someone hurting.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally, still facing away from you. “For everything I said last night. For making you feel like you don’t matter to me.” He turns to face you, and the raw emotion in his eyes makes your chest ache. “You matter more than anything, and I’ve been acting like you don’t.”
You want to go to him, to bridge the distance between you, but your feet feel rooted to the spot. “And the rest?” you ask. “What you said about me finding someone else?”
Wooyoung’s face crumples. “I didn’t mean any of that stupid shit. I was an idiot and said the most hurtful thing I could think of because I was angry at myself, not at you. What I said to you was inexcusable.” He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. “I was so terrified of failing you that I ended up failing you anyway.”
The truth of his words settles over you. You step into the kitchen, moving toward him slowly, giving him the chance to retreat if he wants to. He doesn’t.
“I don’t want someone else,” you say quietly. “I want you. Not the version of you that’s so caught up in work he forgets we exist. That I exist.”
Wooyoung’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been so focused on building a future for us that I forgot to be present in our now.” He takes a step toward you. “I’m so sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me right away or ever but—God, I fucked up so bad.”
You look at the breakfast he’s prepared—eggs perfectly set, toast golden, the smell of coffee already doing something to the tension in your shoulders. He’s always been a better cook than you. You’d forgotten that, somehow, in the wreckage of last night.
“Come here,” you say softly.
He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides, and then his arms are around you, holding you so tightly it’s almost painful. You can feel him trembling, feel the way his heart hammers against your cheek. Your face tucks just under his chin, and you feel the warm wetness of tears landing soft in your hair.
“I love you,” he whispers, the words muffled against your hair. “I love you so much, and I’m so sorry I made you doubt that.”
You hold him just as tightly, your own tears spilling over. “I love you too,” you mumble against his chest. “Don’t shut me out like that again, You know I’m always here for you.”
Wooyoung pulls back, his hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush away your tears with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. “I know,” he says. “I’ll do better for you. For us. Today, tomorrow, and however long as it takes.”
He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. “Can I show you something?” You nod.
“I got you something,” he says. “I remembered that I had a whole elaborate plan to give this to you.” He exhales, something between a laugh and a sob. “Then I got the promotion news and I just—I let that take over everything. Your gift has been sitting in my bag for two weeks while I was out celebrating myself.” He shakes his head. “I made our anniversary about me. I’m such an idiot.”
“Yeah, the biggest idiot of all time.”
He lets out a small chuckle, a hint of guilt and sadness follow the hollow laugh. A flicker of something hopeful crosses his exhausted face. “Can I still give it to you?”
You look up at him. “Of course.”
Wooyoung’s face lights up with a small, tentative smile. He takes your hand and leads you to the living room. You both sink into the couch where he spent the night, your shoulders touching. His work bag sits on the floor beside it. He reaches down and pulls out a small velvet box.
Your breath catches.
“It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, seeing your expression. “Not yet, anyway.” He opens the box to reveal a delicate silver bracelet, with a small charm hanging from it—a tiny compass.
“It’s so you always find your way back to me,” he explains, his voice soft. “Even when I’m being a complete dumbass.”
You look from the bracelet to his face, seeing the hope and fear mingled in his eyes. This is what you fell in love with—not the ambitious, driven man who works too much, but this man who’s vulnerable enough to admit when he’s wrong, who’s brave enough to try to fix what he’s broken.
“It’s beautiful,” you say, holding out your wrist.
As Wooyoung fastens the bracelet with trembling fingers, you realize that healing won’t happen overnight. There will be more conversations, more difficult moments as you both learn to balance his career with your relationship. But as his hand finds yours, the bracelet cool against your skin, you know you’re willing to try.
Because some things are worth fighting for. Some people are worth the struggle. And this man—flawed and imperfect but trying, always trying—is one of them.
“I should have called,” he says finally, his voice quiet in the morning stillness. “I should have texted. I kept thinking about it, but then someone would pull me into another conversation, and I’d get distracted, and then...” He trails off, shaking his head. “That’s no excuse.”
“No, it’s not,” you agree, but there’s no anger in your voice now. Just bone-deep weariness.
Wooyoung’s shoulders slump. He looks smaller somehow, diminished by his own guilt. “I’ve been so focused on proving myself at work that I forgot to be present here. With you.” His eyes find yours, red-rimmed and sincere. “I’m drowning, and instead of asking for help, I’ve been pulling you under with me.”
Your chest tightens at his words. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own hurt that you haven’t fully considered his perspective. “Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling?” you ask softly.
He lets out a shaky breath. “Because I was supposed to be the strong one. The one who had it all figured out.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t want you to see how overwhelmed I was. How scared I am that I won’t be enough.”
The admission hangs in the air between you. You reach for his hand, your fingers hesitantly brushing against his. He turns his palm up, letting you take it.
“I’m sorry too,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “For being so accusatory last night. For making you doubt that your best wasn’t enough. And for dismissing the fact that you work so immensely hard to provide for us.”
Wooyoung looks up, surprise evident in his eyes.
“I was angry,” you continue, “but I was also terrified. Every time you came home late without calling, I imagined the worst. And then I’d feel so stupid when you finally texted, like I was being dramatic or clingy.”
“You’re not,” he says firmly. “You were right to be worried. I’ve been a completely inconsiderate asshole.”
You squeeze his hand. “And I said things I didn’t mean. About you not loving me.” The words are hard to say, hard to admit. “I know that’s not true. I just... I missed you. I missed us.”
A tear slips down Wooyoung’s cheek. “I’ve missed us too,” he admits. “I’ve been so caught up in work that I forgot how to be a person. How to be your person.”
You shift closer to him on the couch, the gap between you narrowing. Your free hand reaches up to brush away his tear, your touch tentative, questioning. He leans into it, his eyes closing briefly.
“I’m going to do better,” he promises. “I’ve already talked to my boss about setting better boundaries. About leaving work at a reasonable hour, about not checking emails at home.” He opens his eyes, looking at you with such intensity it makes your breath catch. “You deserve more than the scraps of time and attention I’ve been giving you.”
“What if you can’t?” you ask, voicing the fear that’s been haunting you. “What if work pulls you back in?”
Wooyoung’s expression turns determined. “Then I’ll walk away. Find something else. Because nothing is worth losing you over.” He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Nothing.”
Your vision blurs with fresh tears. “I don’t want you to give up your career for me.”
“I’m not,” he assures you. “I’m choosing our relationship. Choosing you. The career is just a job. I can be replaced at any given moment but you? You’re my whole life. You’re irreplaceable.”
The words wash over you, healing some of the hurt that’s been festering. You move closer still, until your knees are touching, until you can feel the warmth of him beside you.
“I love you,” you say simply. “Even when you’re being an idiot and forgetting our anniversary.”
A watery laugh escapes him. “I love you too. I’m your idiot, though.”
Your hand finds its way to his face, cupping his cheek. His stubble is rough against your palm, grounding you in this moment. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice raw with emotion.
You nod, unable to form words around the lump in your throat.
Wooyoung leans forward slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. When his lips meet yours, it’s like coming home after a long journey. There’s relief in the touch, and longing, and a deep, abiding affection that transcends the hurt of the past weeks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your lips. “I’m so sorry.”
His kisses move to your cheek, to the corner of your eye where tears still linger. “I’ll do better,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.
You tilt your head, giving him access to your neck, where he presses soft, apologetic kisses. “I know you will,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his hair.
Wooyoung pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he says. “But I’m going to spend every day trying to be worthy of you.”
You shake your head. “You already are. You just got lost for a while.”
He pulls you into his arms, holding you against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear. His hand strokes your hair, gentle and soothing.
“I was so scared,” you admit, the words muffled against his shirt. “That we were falling apart, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”
His arms tighten around you. “We’re not falling apart,” he promises. “We’re just... learning how to be together in a new way. With new challenges.”
You look up at him, seeing the determination in his eyes. “Together,” you repeat. “That’s the important part.”
Wooyoung nods, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Together. Always.”
The breakfast he made sits forgotten on the table, growing cold. But you don’t mind. There will be other breakfasts, other mornings. Right now, all that matters is this—the two of you, holding onto each other, finding your way back to what matters most.
“I think,” Wooyoung says after a while, his voice soft with sleepiness and emotion, “that since i took a few days off we could spend more time together. Just us. No work, no distractions.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You? Taking time off? Who are you and what have you done with my workaholic boyfriend?”
He laughs, the sound warming you from the inside out. “I’ve been replaced by someone with better priorities.” His expression turns serious. “I mean it, though. We need this. I need this. To remember that I have a lot of making up to do.”
The idea is tempting. “And how would you do that, hm?”
“I could think of one way right now,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre that sends a shiver down your spine.
Before you can respond, Wooyoung stands and scoops you into his arms, his movements surprisingly fluid despite his exhaustion. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries you toward your bedroom—your shared bedroom that’s been missing his presence for far too long.
“Wooyoung,” you breathe, your heart racing as he pushes the door open with his foot. “Put me down! I could’ve walked to the bedroom too, idiot.”
“Sorry princess. I couldn't help myself,” he says, his eyes dark with desire as he lays you gently on the bed.
He climbs onto the bed beside you, his weight making the mattress dip. For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression a mixture of reverence and hunger that makes your breath catch.
“Missed you,” he whispers, his hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw. “So much.”
You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss that’s deeper than before, more urgent. His lips move against yours with a desperation that speaks volumes about the distance that’s grown between you. You can taste the salt of dried tears on his skin, feel the slight tremble in his hands as they slide down to your waist.
You fist your hands in the crisp fabric of his shirt. The buttons press sharp and insistent against your chest, and you tug at them, desperate, fumbling until the first one gives. He groans, shifting so he can help, pulling away just enough to make quick work of the rest. The shirt falls open, exposing him to the morning light, the edges of his collarbone flushed and vulnerable.
Your breath hitches—you’d forgotten, somehow, how beautiful he is like this. His body is lean but not slight, muscle hugging bone and sinew in all the right places. You drag your hand along the inside of his forearm, tracing the thick black lines of the rose inked from his wrist to the curve before his elbow. You glide over the leaves and thorns, half-expecting the tattoo to prickle beneath your touch. He shudders, eyes hooded, drinking in the sight of you devouring him.
You slide your palm up, across his biceps, his shoulder—mapping every inch, reacquainting yourself with the geography of him. His chest heaves, the faint dusting of hair there rising as you scrape your nails down to his abs. You can’t help but smile a little at how his stomach tenses, how he jerks when you reach the sensitive dip above his hips. He grabs your hand, bringing it to his mouth, kissing each knuckle in apology and in thanks. He’s trembling with wanting, with relief, and you want to swallow it whole.
You pull him closer, reaching up to slide the shirt off his shoulders. It pools at his elbows, then falls away, leaving him naked from the waist up. He presses you into the mattress, his lips everywhere at once—your jaw, your neck, the hollow at your collarbone. His hands are greedy, slipping under your shirt, seeking skin, worshipping you as if you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.
Wooyoung’s fingers curl into the soft cotton of your sleep shirt as though he’s gathering every ounce of courage in his body to peel away not only the fabric but the distance he’s put between you. The morning light filters through gauzy curtains, illuminating the swirl of dust motes in the air and casting a gentle glow over your skin. He pauses, breath catching as he drinks you in—every freckle on your shoulder, every rise and fall of your chest—before tugging the shirt up and over your head in one smooth, practiced motion. The cool air of the room grazes your bare skin, sending a shiver through you as the light catches the gentle pebbling of your nipples and the subtle flex of your stomach muscles.
He chases away the chill, warm palms gliding up your sides, fingertips tracing the lines of your ribs, thumbs circling the soft shadows beneath your breasts as if to reassure himself that you are real—solid and here.
“W-Wooyoung,” you breathe out, barely more than a tremor in the air, but it hits him like a bullet: his gaze snaps up, blown wide and hungry, jaw tensing so hard you can see the cords in his neck stand out.
“Hmm?”
He sounds dazed, already gone for you. He searches your face for a clue, a hint of what you want, even as his hands keep moving—roaming your waist, palming the flare of your hips, stroking reverent up and down your spine. You shudder, skin prickling everywhere he touches. Then, with a slow, deliberate shift, you arch your back and hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear—your last layer—and drag them down, inch by inch, teasing yourself as much as him. You kick them off, letting them flutter to the floor, and stretch out on your stomach, arms reaching above your head, pressing your cheek into the pillow. You tilt your hips up, highlighting the bare swell of your ass, lush and expectant, every inch of you primed for him. The effect is instantaneous. He groans, low and feral in the back of his throat, his cock straining visibly against the thin grey of his sweats.
“What are you doing, baby?” he chokes, voice ragged, eyes glued to the sight of you so shamelessly presenting for him.
You glance back lazily over your shoulder, lips parted, smile hazy and filthy. “Lay on top of me.” Your voice drips with need, teasing, coaxing, as your ass shifts again, the jiggle intentional, sinful.
His adam's apple bobs, eyes glued to the way you’re presenting yourself to him, pussy glistening and waiting. He sits frozen for a second, maybe trying to get his breath back, maybe just marvelling at how good you look, spread out and waiting.
“Bet."
Then he’s on you, crawling up the bed with a focused intent that sends another thrill through you. “Up,” he murmurs, tapping your hip. You lift obediently and he slides a pillow beneath you, angling your hips up off the mattress before he kneels behind you, pushes your thighs apart with strong hands, trapping your legs beneath his as he blankets your body. His heat, heavy and suffocating in the best way, seeps into your skin. Your cheek sinks into the sheets; you can smell your own slick in the air, feel the pulse of anticipation between your thighs. He leans in, lips skimming up your spine, worshipping every vertebrae, every goosebump and dimple, before he settles his weight against your back, pinning you down and making you feel tiny beneath him.
You can’t help it: you reach back, grab at the waistband of his slacks, desperate to feel more of him. Your fingers brush the rigid outline of his cock and he shudders, hips jerking, the tip already wetting a dark stain into the fabric. He lets you tug down his pants, lifting his hips just enough to help you get them over his ass, down his thighs, clumsy and urgent. As soon as they’re off, he kicks them away, a brief chill racing up your legs before he covers you again, hotter and needier than before. You’re both trembling—maybe from nerves, maybe from how badly you need each other.
“Please,” he moans, the word nearly a whimper, as you wrap your hand around the bulge beneath his boxers, feeling him throb in your grip. He’s so hard it almost hurts, and when you pull the waistband down and finally set him free, he gasps, forehead dropping onto your shoulder. His cock springs out, thick and flushed, the head angry red and already leaking.
“Jesus,” you hear yourself say, voice thick with awe. “Someone’s a little eager.” He laughs, shaky, like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t.
“You have no fucking idea.”
His hand traces your thigh, kneading your flesh, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to bruise. You feel how much he needs you in every trembling touch. He cups your ass, squeezing and spreading, and then lets his hand drift lower, fingers ghosting along your slit. You’re soaked—embarrassingly so—and he groans when he feels it, slicking his fingers through you, teasing your entrance with featherlight touches. Your hips buck back, desperate for more, but he holds you firmly in place, taking his time, savoring the way you writhe under him.
“Are you gonna make me beg?” you pant, rutting against his hand.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade, voice thick and broken. “I want to hear you say you need me.”
“You already know I do.”
“Say it anyway.” His tongue flicks your earlobe, his words vibrating in your chest.
“I need you, Wooyoung. Please.”
The words tumble out, more desperate than you mean them to, but you don’t care. You want him—need him—so bad it’s physically painful. He lines himself up at your entrance, the heat of his cock a brand against your skin. But he doesn’t push in—not yet. He grinds the tip against your folds, smearing his precum through your wetness, teasing you with shallow thrusts that never quite give you what you want. You sob into the pillow, body arching, entirely at his mercy.
“God, look at you,” he whispers. “You’re so perfect. Fuck, I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes you do.” The words are a gasp, but you mean them. Even after everything, you want to give him this.
You want to give him everything.
He’s shaking, whole body vibrating with the effort of holding back, not just rutting into you like an animal. “Is this okay?” he asks, voice so weighted with emotion it almost makes you cry. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”
“I want you,” you say, “I always want you. I want you right now, more than anything.”
He lets out a choked breath, as if you’ve released him from a terrible spell. “Fuck, yes.” He buries his face in the curve of your neck, breath hot and ragged. You feel the tip of his cock press against your entrance, stretching you slowly, inch by inch as he slides in.
The stretch is sweet, burning, perfect. You moan, the sound loud and raw, echoing off the walls of your shared bedroom. He fills you up, deeper than you remember, and it feels like coming home after a long, cold exile. You clench around him, savouring the drag, the friction, the pulse of his heartbeat through the thickness of his cock. He starts to move, slow at first, drawing out each withdrawal and thrust so you feel every centimetre, every ridge and vein. His hands on your waist are trembling, sometimes gripping too hard and then letting go, as if he’s afraid to hurt you, afraid to let go of this moment. You arch your back, pushing yourself up into him, greedy for more.
“Harder,” you urge. “Fuck me harder."
He whimpers, hips stuttering, and then sets a punishing pace, hips snapping forward to drive into you with every ounce of pent up longing he’s been carrying. The mattress creaks, the headboard smacks the wall. He’s so big, so deep, so desperate, and you love it.
“Don’t… fuck– say that shit,” he whines, his voice cracking. “Y’feel so good, so fucking tight.”
You arch back, meeting his thrusts, loving the way he loses control. His need for you is unfiltered, all-consuming, and you drink it like oxygen. He sets a rhythm, fast and merciless, hips slamming into you so hard it feels like a punishment, but you crave it, need it, want him to fuck you so hard you forget the argument and only memorise the feeling of him inside you. The slapping sound of skin on skin is obscene, even over the creaking of the bed and your shared moans, but you don’t care, don’t care if the whole apartment building hears you. Wooyoung is not gentle, not now; he’s desperate, driven by weeks of withheld affection, of loneliness and longing. He covers you, bites your shoulder, fucks you like it’s the last time, every thrust a plea for forgiveness and a pledge of eternity.
He leans more of his weight into you, his hand snaking around to your front, fingers seeking your clit. The first touch is electric—you jerk, stars bursting behind your eyes. He circles your clit with the pad of his finger, fast and hard, no finesse, just pure need to make you cum.
In a cruel twist of fate, his hips slow suddenly—the rhythm of his hips bullying yours breaking. You whimper at the loss, your body clenching around him, so desperate for more. But he pulls out completely, leaving you empty, aching.
“Look at me,” he demands, voice rough with need.
You crane your neck back over your shoulder, cheek still pressed into the sheets, and find him watching you with that dark intensity that makes your breath catch. His cock glistens with your combined wetness, the head swollen and flushed as he drags it slowly up and down your entrance, the angle making you feel every torturous inch of the tease—just enough pressure to feel but not enough to satisfy.
“Please,” you gasp, hips tipping higher.
His lips curl into a wicked smile from somewhere above and behind you. “Not yet.” He circles your clit with his slick tip before sliding back down. Your thighs tremble against the pillow he placed under your hips.
“Spit,” he commands, reaching his palm around to your mouth.
You obey without hesitation, gathering saliva that he uses to coat himself again, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room. He returns to his maddening teasing, the new slickness making his cock glide effortlessly against your swollen flesh.
“Good fucking girl,” he groans, the words punched out between ragged breaths. “Look at you—taking everything I give you.”
You’re beyond words now, reduced to desperate sounds as he continues his exquisite torture. When you can’t stand it anymore, you reach behind your body, guiding him back to where you need him most. He lets you, but only for a moment. With a growl that vibrates through your chest, he pushes your hand away and positions himself again, his eyes locked on to the way your body is so responsive to his. Then he leans down, lips pressing soft and slow into your shoulder, and you feel his breath warm against the curve of your neck
“Princess” he whispers, voice cracking open at the edges, his cock still dragging slowly and torturous against your entrance. “You can forgive me right? Shit…You can forgive your Wooyo right?”
“Yes,” you gasp, hips rolling back into him helplessly. “Yes, yess—fuck, I f-forgive you… Wooyoung, I need you so bad, please!"
Something breaks in his expression—all restraint shattering. He thrusts forward in one powerful motion, burying himself to the hilt with a sound that borders on a sob, hands clutching your hips—his grip bruising but full of desperate love. “God, you feel so good,” he croaks. “I missed this. I missed you. I missed you so fucking much.”
The force of it knocks the wind out of you, the fullness so shocking you can only moan, the sound muffled by the pillow but loud enough for him to hear—maybe for the neighbours to hear too. He doesn’t care. Neither do you.
The words degenerate into a string of curses and pleas, all dignity and composure long abandoned. You’re reduced to this: the shudder of your hips, the filthy slickness on your thighs, the way you beg for him with every inch of your body.
He’s lost to it now, rutting into you with a violence born of weeks—months—of wanting, of regret, of all the shit he’s made you both suffer through in his absence. Every motion is a contradiction, a punishment and an apology, as he fucks you harder than he ever has, hips snapping so fast you barely have time to catch your breath between thrusts. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, yanking you back onto him, fisting in your hair, ghosting along your ribs and then down to your clit. His fingers rub you with the same desperate rhythm as his cock, no finesse, just pure, animal drive to make you cum first, to make you remember what you are together.
He doesn’t say a word at first, just grunts and breathes your name into your hair like a prayer. But when you look back at him, head turned over your shoulder, you see his face twisted in something rawer than lust. Love. His eyes are wet. He thrusts in, deeper, grinding the head of his cock against the spot inside you that makes your vision white out at the edges.
“God, I missed you,” he whines, the words hitching on the upstroke. “I missed you, princess, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—” He laces his apology into every movement, every thrust, trying to convince you with the force of his body how much he means it. “No one else can have you, fuck, never anyone else, not ever, you hear me?” His hips stutter, losing rhythm, and you know he’s close, so close, but he won’t let himself finish until you do.
He snakes his hand around your throat, the gentlest squeeze, just enough to remind you who’s in control. The pressure is perfect; you arch into it, into him, hips rocking back greedily to milk every inch of his cock. He bends over you, mouth against your ear, breath hot and frantic:
“Cum for me, princess. Wanna feel you cum all over me.”
And you do, splintering apart around him, pleasure ripping through you so hard it borders on pain. You scream, you swear, you claw at the sheets, and he fucks you through it, pace relentless, never slowing, never breaking.
He’s shaking above you, groaning your name, his hand still tangled in your hair as he thrusts a few more desperate times and then comes, deep inside you, with a guttural wail. The heat of his release is almost shocking, the way he fills you leaving no doubt that he’s yours, utterly and absolutely. He stays pressed to you, sweat-slicked and trembling, for long, silent seconds, his cock twitching with aftershocks, his breath turning softer, steadier. You can feel his heart thumping against your back, the wild rhythm slowly synchronizing with yours.
He never lets you go, not even as he softens inside you. He just wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck. You can’t move, can barely breathe, but the only thing you want is to stay like this forever—his weight, his warmth, his love, every bit of him pressed into you until you forget where you end and he begins. He’s the apology and the forgiveness, the punishment and the reward, and you take every last bit of him, all over again, until neither of you has anything left to give.
You’re both gasping, boneless, ruined, but it’s the best kind of ruined—like you’ve been put back together again, better than you were before. He kisses your neck, soft now, lazy, like he can’t help himself, and when he finally pulls out, both of you whimper at the loss.
You shift, rolling onto your side, facing him. His face is damp—sweat, tears, who even knows—but his eyes are clear and bright as he looks at you. He traces your jaw with a shaking finger.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “and I’m never letting you go, you got that?”
You laugh, delirious, and pull him close, your lips finding his in a kiss that’s slow and deep, the kind that says I forgive you, I want you, I’ll never be done with you. He sighs into it, like he’s waited a lifetime for this, like he’s never tasted anything sweeter.
And then his hand is between your legs again, gentle now, and you realize he’s not done with you yet. Not even close.
But you weren’t done with him either.
“Wait,” you mumble against his lips, pulling back just enough to see his eyes. “Let me watch you.”
Wooyoung’s brow furrows, a question forming in his gaze. You slide your hand down his chest, over the damp skin, until your fingers wrap around his still-sensitive cock. He hisses, body tensing at your touch.
“Wanna see you touch yourself,” you clarify, your voice dropping to a husky whisper.
Understanding dawns across his face, followed by a slow, wicked smile that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah?” he asks, already shifting position. “You want to watch me jerk off, baby? Naughty girl.”
You nod, your own hand moving between your legs as you settle back against the pillows. Wooyoung sits up, kneeling between your spread thighs, his eyes never leaving yours as he wraps his hand around his length. He’s already hardening again, his cock responding eagerly to your gaze. You watch, transfixed, as his fingers begin to move, a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip that makes his breath catch.
“Fuck,” he groans, his head falling back slightly. “Play with yourself too, princess.”
You’re touching yourself now, circling your clit with teasing pressure, your other hand squeezing your breast. The sight of him pleasuring himself while watching you is intoxicating—his muscles flexing, his lips parted, his eyes dark with desire.
“Show me…shit," you urge, your voice barely audible. “Show me what you think about when I’m not around to suck you dry.”
He moans, his pace quickening. “I’m always thinking about you, ” he admits, his voice rough. “About your pretty mouth, your perfect tits, the way you feel when I’m inside you.” His hand moves faster now, his breathing growing ragged. “I think about making you cum—fuck, l-love thinking about watching you fall apart because of me.”
Your fingers move faster, matching his rhythm, the sight of him pleasuring himself pushing you closer to the edge. The room fills with the wet sounds of your mutual pleasure, your soft gasps mingling with his deeper groans.
“I’m c–close,” you pant, your hips rising off the bed. “Baby, I’m so fucking close.”
“Me too,” he gasps, his hand moving furiously over his cock. “God, the way you’re touching yourself—fuck, I can’t—"
“So fucking good… haah—” you whimper. “Cum with me.”
His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same desperation, the same need reflected back at you. Your fingers move faster, your thumb circling your clit with just the right pressure as you watch his hand fly over his length, his body tense with impending release.
“Wooyoung,” you cry out as the first wave hits you, your body arching off the bed.
“Oh god, yes you’re so hot fuuuck,” he groans, his release spurting hot across your stomach as he watches you come undone.
You’re both panting, chests heaving as sweat trickles down your bodies and Wooyoung’s cum glistens wet and hot across your stomach—but even as you come down, the air between you only grows thicker. His eyes linger on your face, hungry and soft all at once, and you know before he says a word that he isn’t finished with you yet. He swipes his thumb through his mess, smearing it across your skin, and then lifts his hand to your lips.
“Open,” he murmurs, voice already roughening around the edges, and you open obediently, tongue laving over his skin, savouring the salt and the faint sweetness of him.
He watches you, transfixed, and then the hunger snaps back into focus. With a sudden, fluid motion, he grabs you by the hips and guides you onto your back, landing you with a gasp and a bounce that sends aftershocks through your spent body. For a second you just lie there, limp and loose-limbed, but Wooyoung is on you before you have time to recover—his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and desperate, greedy possession. He devours you, biting your lower lip so hard you nearly yelp, but then he’s soothing the sting with a velvet-soft lick, fingers already roaming, cupping your jaw, winding into your hair, squeezing the back of your neck until you’re gasping into his mouth.
“Last one baby,” he rasps, voice vibrating right against your teeth. “Need to breed your pretty pussy one last time.”
He’s already sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses over every inch of skin—your throat, your collarbones, the peak of your tits. He bites down gently on your nipple, then flicks it with his tongue, the sensation sharp and electric and so fucking precise. He lavishes both breasts with attention, sucking bruises in places only he will see, then lets his tongue trace a hot, wet path down your torso.
He stops at your belly, swiping a finger through the sticky mess on your skin. “Look at you,” he says, voice thick with pride and awe, and you feel your cheeks flame even as you spread your legs wider for him.
He dips his head, lapping at where his cum has pooled in your navel, and you shiver at the lewdness of it, the way he worships every part of you. When his mouth finally moves lower, you’re already shaking with anticipation, your core clenching tight, desperate for more even though you should be wrung out.
He dives between your thighs, licks a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you nearly come off the bed from the shock of it. He laughs, low and dark, and buries his face in your cunt, eating you like a man starved. His tongue is everywhere. Circling your clit, plunging inside you, mixing slick and spit and the faint metallic taste of his own release. You fist your hands in his hair, grinding your hips against his mouth, shameless in the way you beg, “More, more... please, fuck, don’t stop—” and he doesn’t.
He works you with ruthless precision, two fingers thrusting deep while his tongue flicks rapid-fire at your clit. You feel the pressure build, so much faster than before, your legs trembling, your thighs clamping tight around his head. He holds you open, arms braced under your knees, keeping you spread and helpless as he brings you right to the brink and then eases off, just enough to drive you insane. He does it again, and again, pulling you apart, making you plead for it.
“Woo—” you whimper, your voice thin and shaky. “Please, please—”
He lifts his head, lips glistening, and you see the wild satisfaction in his eyes. “You’re so fucking pretty when you beg,” he says, and the praise sends another rush of heat through your veins.
“Please,” you say again, and this time he relents, sucking your clit into his mouth and moaning around it. The vibration hits you like a lightning strike and you come hard, arching your back, crying out his name so loud you know it will echo in your ears for days. He keeps going, licking you through it, not stopping until you’re sobbing with oversensitivity and shoving at his head to make it end.
He crawls up your body, cock already hard again as he rubs it against your thigh, your stomach, the sticky aftermath on your skin. He lines himself up at your entrance, and you’re so wet, so open for him, that he slides in with barely any resistance. The stretch still hurts—just a little—and he winces with you, kissing your cheek, your ear, whispering, “Shh, you can take it. You’re so good for me.”
You rake your nails down his back, desperate to pull him deeper, and he obliges, ramming into you with a force that makes the whole bed frame rattle. This time, he doesn’t pace himself—he fucks you with abandon, every thrust a fierce apology, a vow, a plea for forgiveness. “Pretty cunt was made for me, wasn't it baby?" he growls, the words muffled against your skin, and you believe him, every time.
He shifts your legs, bends you almost in half putting you into a mean mating press, and the new angle has him thrusting right against your g-spot. You claw helplessly at his arms, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps, and he just grins, sweat beading at his hairline, loving every second of your unravelling.
"'M not going to last... I'm g'na cum holy fuck Wooyoung," you moan out, feeling yourself edging closer to your own climax.
You feel him getting close—his rhythm falters, his hips jerk, his breath comes in ragged gasps. He slides a hand between your bodies, thumb circling your clit, determined to take you with him.
“Oh fuck—Cum f’me princess, make me proud.”
And you do, the orgasm ripping through you so violently that black spots dance at the edge of your vision. You scream, you sob, you babble his name like a prayer, and he follows, spilling inside you with a strangled cry. He shoves in deep, holds you there, and then collapses, pinning you to the mattress with the full weight of his body.
You lie like that for a long, breathless moment, your bodies trembling and tangled, sweat sticking you together, his cock still throbbing inside you as he pants in your ear. For a second you think he’s fallen asleep, but then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, eyes shining, lips parted as if he might start crying all over again.
He rolls you onto your side, still joined, and wraps an arm around your waist, spooning you so tight you can barely move. You reach back and stroke his hair, feeling the way his whole body melts into your touch—the tension draining from his muscles, the way his breath evens out. The world feels impossibly far away, like it’s just the two of you floating in a bed-shaped universe, nothing but heartbeats and skin and the mess you’ve made of each other.
The room falls quiet, your breathing gradually slowing in tandem. Wooyoung’s arm tightens around you, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. “Don’t move,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from use. “I’ll be right back.”
He pulls out gently, and you whimper at the loss, feeling suddenly empty. But he’s already sliding from the bed, his naked body glistening with sweat as he pads to the bathroom. You hear water running, and then he returns with a warm washcloth in his hand.
“Let's get you cleaned up yeah?” he says, his eyes soft as he kneels beside you.
His touch is reverent as he cleans between your thighs, wiping away the evidence of your passion with gentle, circular motions. The warm cloth feels heavenly against your sensitive skin, and you sigh, your body relaxing into his care.
“Better?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
You nod, too blissed-out to form words. He disappears again, returning with a glass of water that he holds to your lips. You drink greedily, not realizing how parched you were until the cool liquid slides down your throat.
“More?” he asks, and you shake your head.
Wooyoung sets the glass aside and moves to his dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer. He rummages through it for a moment before pulling out a faded blue t-shirt that you recognize immediately. It’s one of his oldest, the fabric soft from countless washes, the university logo barely visible anymore.
“Arms up,” he murmurs, and you comply, letting him slip the oversized shirt over your head. It falls to mid-thigh, enveloping you in his scent—that familiar mix of his cologne and something uniquely him that makes your chest ache with tenderness. He adjusts the collar, his fingers lingering at your neck, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“Perfect,” he whispers, his eyes warm as they take you in.
You watch as he pulls on a pair of boxers and a simple white t-shirt, his movements languid, unhurried. There’s something intimate about watching him dress—the way his muscles flex beneath his skin, the casual grace of his movements. He catches you looking and says nothing, just gives you a small, tired smile before he climbs back into bed, pulling you against him. His fingers begin to trace lazy patterns on your arm, up and down, the touch so light it makes you shiver.
“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hope you know that I adore you so much.”
You turn in his arms to face him, finding his eyes in the dim light of the bedroom. There’s something raw and vulnerable in his gaze that makes your heart ache.
“I know,” you say, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. “I love you too.”
He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I’m going to do better. I promise.”
“I believe you, I know you will,” you whisper, and you do.
He pulls you closer, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. The bracelet he gave you catches the light, the tiny compass charm glinting. He brings your wrist up to his lips and places a kiss on the charm, a silent reminder for you that’ll he’ll always be your north. No matter where you are, he’ll always be there for you.
“I’ve got you,” he coos, his voice dropping to that impossibly soft register he only uses in these moments. “I’m here, I'm not going anywhere.”
You hum in acknowledgment, too far gone for words. He softly chuckles at your sleepiness. His hand resumes its journey down your spine, each vertebra a landmark he maps with infinite patience. Another yawn overtakes you, your eyes watering at the corners. Wooyoung brushes away the tears with his thumb, his touch reverent.
“My beautiful girl,” he whispers. “My whole heart.”
A melody begins to form beneath his breath—something soft and wordless that you recognize from nights when sleep wouldn’t come, when anxiety gripped your throat. His chest vibrates with the sound, a lullaby composed of nothing but his love for you. Your consciousness begins to drift, the edges of your thoughts blurring like watercolours on wet paper. The scent of him—clean sweat and that cologne he’s worn since the day you met—wraps around you like a second blanket.
“I love you,” he whispers, his lips brushing your temple. “Happy anniversary, my love. I promise to make every one from now on better than the last.”
The words follow you down into darkness, a tether to the world you’re leaving behind. The future for the both of you still holds challenges—his career won’t become less demanding overnight, and you’ll both need to work to maintain the balance you’re rebuilding. But as Wooyoung’s arms tighten around you, as you feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, you know you’ll face those challenges together.
Because love isn’t about never making mistakes. It’s about having the courage to admit when you’re wrong, and the strength to keep trying, even when it’s hard. And as the morning light spills across the tangled sheets and your intertwined bodies, you know that’s exactly what you have—not a perfect love, but a real one.
pairing﹢jeong yunho x fem!reader
genre﹢smut. ex-bf!yunho, age gap (reader is 24, yunho is 36), themes of obsessive tendencies and stalking, jealousy, emotional manipulation, slight yandere (if you squint), corruption kink, toxic relationship, dubcon undertones but it turns consensual, cunnilingus, choking, mean dom!yunho, implied size kink/difference [the big dick yunho agenda is real], hate + unprotected sex, missionary + mating press, praising + degradation, overstimulation, orgasm control, tummy bulge, creampie, pet names (doll, babydoll, dollface, angel, pretty girl, etc), minimal aftercare.
synopsis﹢he was the only older guy you had ever dated, and you swore you would never do this to yourself again. two years of love, obsession, and control are gone, or at least, that’s what you thought. some people don’t let go or move on — he never did. so why does he walk back into your life like nothing ever happened... this time, as your professor?
word count﹢17,9k
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these are the best eleven months of your life after ending the relationship with your now ex-boyfriend. next month you're even thinking of celebrating, because it will mark a whole year. your best friends will definitely treat it like a huge occasion, just like on that fateful day when you handed them the news on a silver platter… they had never been so happy, throwing a small party just for the three of you.
YUNHO was the only older guy you had ever dated, and you swore you would never do this to yourself again. to sum it all up, the relationship turned toxic rather quickly. you almost lost all of your friends, even your two best friends, karina and yeji, who tried their very best to shove some sense into you, but you never listened, delusional enough to believe that you could change him. oh, how naive you were, that’s why you were so easy to manipulate…
apologies came in the form of very expensive gifts, things you had always wanted, or in gentle kisses and touches that slowly wandered and eventually led to the bedroom, where you ended up naked beneath his covers. you thought it was normal, since every relationship had arguments, but that’s not what this was about. it was about toxicity, extreme jealousy, possessiveness, maybe even obsession. the man was a literal freak.
karina practically did a full analysis of him, confirming what she had said the very first time you told her about the problems that occurred between you and him: "he's a psychopath." she had been direct, telling you it wasn’t okay and that you needed to break up with him. yeji agreed with her, always wanting the best for you, adding that "older men always want to date someone younger and it's not just because of looks… please be careful."
you suffered once and learned your lesson. enjoying your vacation, cocktail in hand, while the sea breeze drifts past you, the sun hot against your skin as you lounge on the deckchair, slowly tanning. of course, sometimes you still think about the past; you can’t really stop that after spending two whole years with him. yet even though everything had been bad and suffocating, there had been a good side to him too: tall, handsome, funny and somehow rich. what more could you want?
the other thing you wanted was for your parents and close friends not to find out that you had been dating someone not two or three years older, or even a year younger, but a whole twelve years older. yes, you were twenty-one when you met him, a couple of months before your birthday, through mutual friends. one gathering led to another, and before you knew it, you were dating him, convinced you had finally found the one you were going to marry, the only man who truly knew how to be a man. alas, it turned out he was just another shark in the ocean, ready to strike at its defenseless prey.
it doesn’t matter anymore, since you’re single, genuinely happy, enjoying your summer, shining brighter than the sun itself, and everyone sees you like some kind of eternal sunshine. you finally returned to yourself, only smarter this time, no longer falling for tricks or manipulative tactics. life is good when you don’t have a man bitching in your ear about the outfit you’re about to wear or asking why you were talking to some guy for too long. the waiter, if you must specify, who was simply announcing the lunch menu.
“ah, can’t believe we have to be back at university that soon…” you said, sipping from your drink while idly chewing on the straw. karina was on your left, glued to her phone, while yeji sat on your right, carefully lining up small seashells along her thighs.
“and we’re graduating this year too… but someone decided to study at a different university, breaking our teenage dreams,” karina said as she turned off her phone, glancing at you with a playful look while you rolled your eyes.
“not my fault the one you’re in didn’t have what i wanted.” you took another sip, and yeji giggled softly. “none of us dropped out though, which is an achievement on its own.”
yes, you didn’t study at the same place as them, but that didn’t stop you from hanging out, if anything, there was even more gossip to share. and so the conversations continued, all the way until you started getting ready for dinner, and then for a few more days after that, until eventually you had to go back to seoul and wish each other “good luck for the new last year.”
you really did need some luck, because you had just found out that your favorite professor had retired. you were going to miss the woman; you had been her favorite student, but all good things eventually come to an end. everyone was already sitting in the lecture room. you had heard that the new professor was someone young, but there hadn’t been time to check who exactly he was since they were still fixing schedules and systems. the only thing you knew was that tuesday at nine in the morning was your first lecture with the new professor in question.
“i think he probably used to play basketball or football, i saw him earlier and he’s really tall,” one of the boys said, and the others quickly agreed, while you remained focused on your phone, scrolling through reel after reel, meme after meme. then you overheard the girls whispering nearby, their voices a little more excited. “did you see his hands? and him in general… he’s so fine…”
the problem with having a young professor is exactly that — he was young, and from what everyone was saying, quite attractive too. the other problem appeared the moment everyone finally sat down when the door opened. a tall figure stepped into the room, his style was effortless in a way that made it impossible not to glance twice. a soft gray cardigan hung loosely over his shoulders, the thin knit falling open enough to reveal the clean white t-shirt beneath.
the muted colors helped him blend in, making him look more like a student than a teacher. slim black pants traced the long lines of his frame, the strap of a black crossbody bag thrown diagonally across his chest, and he wore simple sneakers. his black hair fell in soft layers that framed his face, the strands straight and smooth, cut just long enough to brush the tops of his eyebrows and skim the sides of his cheekbones.
you were sitting a little further back, your phone still in your hands. the room buzzed with chatter as people continued talking among themselves until the professor cleared his throat, the sound cutting clean through the noise as he prepared to introduce himself.
“hello everyone, i’m jeong yunho and i’ll be your new photography professor this year.”
your eyes widened instantly, your head snapping up so fast it almost hurt. oh no… houston, we have a problem. you blinked several times, half expecting your vision to clear and reveal someone else entirely. maybe it was just someone with the exact same name, appearance, and voice. unfortunately for you, it wasn’t. why is your ex-boyfriend the new professor? out of all the people in the capital, it had to be him who got the position.
you sat there frozen in complete shock, your mouth slightly open until your deskmate and close university friend, jeongin, gently pressed a finger under your chin to close it as he leaned to whisper, “i guess everyone, including you, just found their new crush, huh?”
what, why, and how? was this some kind of twisted karma? because if it was, you definitely weren’t the one who deserved it. your heart started beating faster, anxiety and something close to fear crawling up. could you run away? maybe copy someone else’s notes, no… you couldn’t. suddenly you wished you were studying metaphysics with karina, because that sounded far more pleasant than this.
“i’d love to get to know all of you,” he continued, smiling as he set his bag on the desk before leaning back against it, arms loosely crossed, while his gaze moved around the room. “so i’ll share a few things about myself. and don’t worry, i won’t make you do anything today. i’ll just introduce the course and explain what i expect from you.”
surprisingly hands immediately began rising with questions. meanwhile, you were still struggling to believe what you were seeing and hearing. he hadn’t changed at all, you had to admit it. he had only gotten more attractive. always taking care of himself and being unfairly pretty, making you remember how two years ago you thought about what your future children would look like... now you want to throw up. forcing yourself to keep your composure, glancing at jeongin and making a slightly grimaced face. yeah, a crush for sure, except you wanted to crush him into pieces.
“how old are you, professor?” someone from the middle rows asked, earning a few curious murmurs from the class, making yunho chuckle, “straight to the personal questions already? alright then. i’m thirty-six.”
everyone was surprised by the answer, and all kinds of reactions rippled through.
“don’t look so shocked,” he added with a small grin. “i promise i’m not that ancient.”
“are you a full-time professor?” another student asked.
“not exactly,” yunho replied, pushing his sleeves up slightly as he spoke, revealing his forearms, “i’m a professional photographer first. i mainly work in editorial and commercial photography such as fashion shoots, campaigns, exhibitions, that sort of thing. teaching is something i enjoy doing on the side, especially with students who are serious about the craft.”
“does that mean you’re going to give us easy grades?” someone joked, making him raise an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting. “absolutely not.”
the class laughed again, a little nervous this time.
“i can be friendly,” he added, shrugging lightly, “but don’t mistake that for me being tolerant. photography is about discipline and perspective. if you’re here just to press a button and hope for the best, you’re going to struggle.”
another hand went up. “so… we won’t pass easily?”
“correct,” nodding his head once. “i expect effort, creativity, and consistency. if you work hard, you’ll do amazing. if you don’t…” he paused briefly before smiling again, “you won’t pass this course by simply showing up and smiling at me. well, at least you’ll get some nice pictures out of the experience.”
more chuckles followed, but the message had landed. the atmosphere quickly became relaxed and comfortable as he answered questions with small jokes. the students were already warming up to him, clearly charmed by how easygoing he was. as you listened to him speak, watched the way he carried himself so seriously and correctly in front of everyone, you couldn’t help but wonder where exactly all that cheerful composure had been when he was with you?
“attendance is mandatory.” and then his gaze settled directly on yours, a faint smirk pulling at his lips as he stared straight into your soul, the one he had almost taken from you a year ago. “of course, if you have to be absent, it’s not a problem, as long as it doesn’t happen often. i know some of you will be at the mall with friends. also i don’t grade by email; everything you do will be shown and discussed in class.”
the entire time he spoke, his eyes kept drifting back to you. when he paced slowly across the front of the room, even when he turned to answer someone else’s question, somehow his attention always circled back. for some reason, you held his gaze instead of looking away, and the longer you stared at him, the more that fear slowly faded until all that remained was pure hatred.
jeongin leaned slightly closer to you, lowering his voice into a teasing whisper. “well there goes our plan of skipping class to eat kfc… or getting more sleep,” he murmured, nudging your arm lightly.
thank god your best friends studied at different universities, otherwise they would have dragged you straight to the administration office and forced you to drop out for real. and honestly… you were starting to think about it yourself. the worst part was that you couldn’t switch the class for anything else. great, truly amazing. you were trapped for an entire semester.
“that’s everything for today,” yunho said after a while, clapping his hands together once as he was done answering questions and talking about cameras, “i won’t keep you any longer. enjoy the rest of your morning.”
chairs scraped across the floor as everyone began packing their things, the room filling with chatter again. you grabbed your purse quickly, already standing up before most people had even processed that the lecture was over. as you walked out with jeongin, you noticed a small crowd forming around the professor’s desk. a couple of boys and girls had already gathered there, asking questions, laughing at something he said, clearly eager to stay a little longer.
you didn’t even glance his way. no goodbye, or a polite “have a nice day”, because he didn’t deserve to have one. you just kept walking toward the door, hoping that you would manage to graduate before the sudden temptation to drop out started looking a little too appealing.
“your analysis lacks depth,” yunho says, placing your paper on his desk, making you scoff, since this is the third time now that he’s returned it for edits. lacks depth, he says… well, you did as well, asshole. if you had to edit one more thing, it honestly wouldn’t be that bad to buy a gun, and no, it definitely wouldn’t be pointed at your head.
every single tuesday he calls on you far too often in class. your assignments always come back covered in detailed comments, red ink everywhere like a declared war on your academics. you swear he’s grading you harder than everyone else, which honestly seems unfair to the people who are actually doing nothing. apparently, you’re the only one being treated like a social experiment.
“and what exactly do i need to change again, professor?” you ask, grinning through your teeth, burying every thought that would probably send you straight to jail under a perfectly fake smile. you’re this close from going insane, feeling that familiar anger rise again, the irritation that always appears when you’re forced to deal with someone you can’t stand.
for the last four weeks, your life has been hell, to say the least. during lectures he’ll ask a question, several hands go up while yours remain fiddling with a ballpoint pen, and yet he always picks you. and the first time you didn’t know the answer, what followed was a casual, “it would be nice to learn things before the test, hm?” which felt like complete humiliation, because beneath that joking tone there had been something that definitely wasn’t a joke.
once you and jeongin arrived ten minutes late, which honestly wasn’t even your fault. what were you supposed to do when your friend insisted on waiting for his coffee while there was already a long line that early in the morning? of course, a comment followed: “please be on time next time.” but when someone else walked in thirty minutes late during the same lecture, there were absolutely no remarks.
that’s exactly why you always come prepared with answers and make sure you’re always on time. you know his tricks far too well. no matter how charming his smile is, how sweetly he talks, how funny and relaxed he seems… it’s just one of his many masks. karina really was right about him being some kind of psychopath.
everyone else, unfortunately, loves the new professor. they talk about his fun classes, how nice he is, and how cool it is that he’s such a professional teaching them new techniques. some of your peers even linger after lectures just to chat with him. meanwhile, you sit there thinking that your older ex should seriously consider enrolling in acting instead of photography, because the performance he’s putting on deserves ample shiny awards proudly displayed on a goddamn mantlepiece.
the whole thing has turned into some twisted cat-and-mouse game. he teases, pushes, and provokes. you glare, don't bite back, and refuse to give him the reaction he clearly wants. despite all of that, he always finds his sneaky ways to make your life a little more miserable.
here and there, he calls you to his desk after class for absolutely no reason. “you should consider approaching a different lens for your next project,” like this couldn’t have easily been written in a single email. or he’ll start explaining camera settings you already know perfectly well, dragging the conversation out while the rest of the class disappears into the hallway.
and god forbid you see him outside the classroom. the moment you notice him walking down the hallway, you immediately pull a perfect one-eighty and walk in the opposite direction because you hate this man so fucking much, you refuse to breathe the same air as him.
what’s more upsetting is that you can’t even tell anyone. because if karina and yeji ever found out that your toxic ex-boyfriend was now your professor, they wouldn’t hesitate for a second before throwing a chair at him.
what you don’t know, however, is that he requested this university job partly because of you. actually, not partly at all, he knew exactly what he was doing. even when you were still together, he knew where you studied and what major you were in, just like you knew about his photography work. of course, teaching also gave him the chance to try something different in his career. and what better opportunity than this? his unbelievably beautiful ex-girlfriend just so happened to be one of his students, completely unplanned.
and it doesn’t stop there, oh no, everything is just starting.
jeongin begins to notice a pattern, which honestly isn’t hard to miss when during class yunho asks another question. probably ten hands rise into the air, but he still chooses you. your friend leans closer to your ear and whispers, “you must be his favorite~”
you stare at the board like you want to burn it down, alongside mister pretty devil himself, who of course, happens to wear clothes that fit his figure perfectly, fuck him honestly. “if i was his favorite, do you think i’d be studying camera obscura in this much detail?”
not to mention the way he addresses you with that smooth voice, softly calling you, “miss (name).” the moment you hear it, it’s game over. you have to respond with “yes, professor,” or “yes, sir,” like some twisted academic roleplay you never signed up for. it makes you want to vomit, bleach both your eyes and your trachea. you hate his guts so much. he has always liked being in control, and now he has it again, at least within the walls of this campus. outside of it, however, he has absolutely none.
when it comes to homework and assignments, everyone else receives short feedback, brief but explanatory enough to understand their mistakes, things like: “good composition” or, “nice lighting” and even, “if you try a black and white effect, it might work better.”
your feedback, on the other hand, is practically a full essay. it could probably qualify as a documentary script because he covers everything, even the tiniest details. he has a ridiculously keen eye for things, which apparently also makes him a professional at being a complete jerk who picks on you for absolutely no reason.
“your framing… well, it’s technically correct,” he muses, tapping the printed photo with his finger exactly where he seems most dissatisfied, “but technically correct isn’t the same as emotionally effective.”
you want to throw your camera at him and shove the lens straight down his throat, as the class sits there admiring him. “wow, professor jeong gives such thoughtful feedback.”
it also happens that he’s constantly spammed with emails from students asking if their work is passable or what more they can do to improve their visuals, so eventually he announces loudly, “if anyone needs extra help, my office hours are wednesday and thursday afternoon.”
later that same day, only you receive an email: “your project concept has potential. come to discuss it.”
you go, of course, because you care about the grade. knocking on the door to his office, and he lets you in, acting like the two of you are complete strangers. the entire conversation stays professional, purely academic, every word measured, but the tension makes your heartbeat faster. after ten painfully long minutes, you finally stand to leave, and just as your hand reaches the door, he says, that same smile on his face, “don’t sabotage your own work out of stubbornness.”
almost slamming the door behind you, but you need to have self-control and not let him know that you are slowly losing your cool.
it goes without saying that the girls in the course absolutely adore him. some of them simp for him, always giggling and gossiping. “the way he looked at me today… he said he is single, so do you think i have a chance?” or “he’s literally the most handsome professor here, why isn’t my boyfriend like him?”
you almost choke hearing that, because you know the other version of him. the one who used to kiss apologies into your neck after fights. the one whose hands knew every point of your body andwho knew you better than you knew yourself. fingers that always seemed to know exactly where to press, where to… why are you even thinking about that?
during one of his lectures, yunho suddenly says something that makes your stomach twist.
“photography is about obsession. you need to want the subject more than anything else. you have to focus on it completely if you want to capture the perfect shot.”
you freeze, eyes widening slightly at his words, because you know exactly how obsessive he can be. yunho glances at you, that smug little smile appears again, and he continues the lecture as if nothing happened.
it’s almost nightfall when the young professor arrived home. he dropped onto the couch, leaving his bag on the floor beside it, his head falling back against the cushions as he stretched his legs over the small wooden table and stretched his arms up above his head.
he exhaled once, then again, tapping his thigh with his fingers in the quiet that filled the apartment. the silence didn’t last long before a small laugh slipped past his lips. he closed his eyes, and of course, you appeared in his mind again. you were constantly there, living somewhere between his thoughts and his heart, occupying space you had no right to anymore.
weren’t you just adorable? each and every time you walked into class, you were dressed better than everyone else, always prepared and looking at him with that sneer that no one else seemed to notice. not even your deskmate, the one he sometimes caught himself glaring at out of pure irritation and jealousy, though he knew jeongin wasn’t any real threat.
you were his muse, his fallen angel, the pliable doll he had once controlled so carefully until two other puppets, your dear best friends, stepped in and cut the marionette strings, ruining the entire show. you had been so kind-hearted and obedient, so sweet and perfectly made for him… but everything had ended so quickly.
yunho knew exactly how to push your buttons; it was too easy for him. he watched every little reaction, the glares you tried to hide behind forced politeness. he fed on it more than he probably should have. still obsessed with you and completely unable to let go, hiding it well enough behind the role of a professor.
you were his one weakness, the sensitive gap between two ribs guarding the heart he had, the one thing that made the control he prided himself on slip through his fingers. he had never stopped loving you, at least not in his own twisted way. goddamnit, you looked like an absolute doll today. the dress, the way your hair fell over your shoulders, the gloss on your lips. were you going on a date with someone? with who? when? where? normally he would have known already. the thought made his jaw tighten slightly, tongue pushing the inside of his cheek. if it wasn’t for the university schedule taking up so much of his time lately, he would have kept better track of things. he hoped you weren’t going on a date with anyone.
reaching for his phone, unlocking it as he opened one of the many accounts he used. your instagram appeared on the screen, and even though your profile was private, that had never really stopped him. the pretty much convincing fake account had been accepted months ago and you had never questioned it. he doesn’t just have one fake account, there are several, each with a different purpose: one follows you, the second follows your friends, the third follows men who comment on your photos.
his thumb scrolled slowly through the posts, stopping at one in particular.
you standing by the ocean with goldensunlight catching your skin, wearing that stupidly beautiful dress that he bought. the same vacation he had surprised you with, and the irony was that he had been the one holding the camera when those pictures were taken, and then his scrolling stopped when he saw you had a story posted.
you sitting across from someone in a restaurant, a glass in your hand, smiling. the caption tagged someone… jaemin? the quiet apartment suddenly didn’t feel so quiet anymore. yunho stared at the screen a little longer than necessary, his fingers tightening slightly around the phone. he decided to do his research, and within minutes, he knew jaemin’s major, his other social media, his schedule and which classes he attends.
“so you were going on dates now, huh?” his hand ran slowly across his face before he leaned back against the couch again, letting out a low breath that almost sounded like a mocking laugh. he shouldn’t care, and what’s left of his sanity knew that, but something in his chest twisted like a scalding hot knife. the truth was simple, and it irritated him more than anything else.
his home still has traces of you. your favorite mug still in the kitchen, a sweater you forgot draped over a chair, the perfume bottle you left behind on the bathroom counter. he hasn’t moved them at all, so when passing them he’ll sometimes pause, observing your belongings like they’re priceless artifacts he forever wants to keep.
a drawer in his desk contains a perfectly organized stack of polaroids. shots he took of you while you were dating, containing multiple domestic situations of you laughing on the beach, asleep on his shoulder and drooling, you looking annoyed while he teased you endlessly, you wearing his hoodie… there’s a lot, some even nudes taken during private moments when you trusted him. nothing is displayed openly, but preserved with a date written on the back, sometimes a short note, things like mine or xoxo.
as a photographer, he justifies it to himself as art. in his mind those photos were the purest versions of you, deleting them would feel like destroying masterpieces. the man doesn’t see anything wrong with it. they were taken with consent back then, and the memories belong to him, so he never questions keeping them.
though, admittedly, yunho still adds to the collection with printed screenshots from your instagram stories. blurry shots of you crossing campus, a candid photo of you mid-laughter taken from far away during a university event. he keeps a hidden folder on his computer, where inside are hundreds of photos and videos, not just from when you dated, but also recent ones.
sometimes he records his lectures for teaching review, as the university demands, and in private, he’ll rewind parts where you speak. listening again, and again, and again, so he can get off with his dick in hand, trying to chase his high from being turned on by watching you argue with him in class. she still looks at me the same way… anger is better than indifference. your hatred is still attention, and attention for men like him is oxygen.
he studies those images and compares them to how you look in class now. noticing the differences in the way you dress, how you glare at him and refuse to look at him too long… she pretends she doesn’t belong to me anymore.
also your old professor who retired? yunho knew her; she was a well-known photographer in seoul, a colleague of his whose exhibitions he had attended more than once over the years. during a gallery event, the two of them talked for a while, as she casually mentioned that she would be retiring soon and that the university needed someone to take her place. then she also mentioned that one of her best students would be graduating soon. the way she spoke about that student caught yunho’s attention immediately. the woman even pulled out her phone, scrolling through photos from one of the class exhibitions before zooming in on a familiar face — yours.
the elder woman happily explained how talented you were, the potential you had and how you were easily one of her favorites.
that was when he applied to the university, under her recommendation.
yunho finally stood from the couch and walked toward his bedroom. he opened the drawer of his bedside table, reaching inside until his fingers brushed against a familiar photograph: a polaroid from two years ago.
you were laughing in it, leaning slightly toward a cake with him beside you on your 22nd birthday. the faint lipstick mark you had playfully pressed onto the corner of the photo was still there, and he ran his thumb slowly over it. he just stared at it, placing the polaroid carefully on the nightstand beside his phone and the nightlamp. when he finally lay down under the covers, the photograph remained within reach, the faint outline of your smile visible in the dim light.
he closed his eyes, hoping, as he drifted toward sleep, that maybe tonight you would appear in his dreams.
fridays are always a godsend, especially after sitting through a lecture with the devil the day before. anything feels better after that, especially when you’re out for lunch with jaemin. sunlight spilling through the windows, soft chatter around you, and for the first time in a while you feel at ease. he insisted on paying, of course, saying something about how you “deserve to be spoiled properly,” and honestly… you didn’t argue.
he knows what you like. not in a suffocating way that feels like he’s memorized you without permission. but in a very gentle and attentive way.
“are you free tomorrow?” he asks, stealing a bite of your cake like it’s his.
“i wish,” you sigh. “i have to attend a birthday party with my parents.”
“mm,” he hums, pretending to think, though the smile on his lips gives him away. “guess i’ll have to reschedule my very important plan of kidnapping you for the evening.”
you chuckle softly, taking another bite of the sweet treat. “you’re not funny.”
“i’m hilarious,” he corrects you, lifting his index finger. “you’re just in denial.”
rolling your eyes, but you can’t hide the smile that appears on your face. the thing you really liked about jaemin was how sweet-talking and funny he was, knowing what to say at any given moment. he has this mischievous side, but he was also very loving and attractive.
“i was going to ask you to come over,” he adds more quietly, almost shy beneath the teasing. “but… another time.”
that makes you pause, because he doesn’t push or corner you. more so, never demands you to be with him and cancel any plans you have already made with someone else. it’s like an option, not an expectation. there’s no hidden trap set ahead of time for you to fall into.
“maybe next weekend?” you echo, that playful tone came as you asked him, looking at him for a moment, and then down at the already finished cake. and that’s enough for him. his bright and boyish grin returns instantly, like he didn’t just make your heart skip.
“see? progress. next thing you know, you’ll admit you like me.”
“don’t get ahead of yourself,” you warn, pointing your fork at him.
“too late, i already did.”
“jaemin–”
“what?” he leans in slightly, eyes sparkling with that same mischievousness. “you gonna hit me?”
you narrow your eyes. “if you keep talking, maybe.”
he gasps dramatically, pretending to be scared for his life, “not the man-hater queen threatening violence again.”
“i am not a man-hater!”
“you are when it comes to me.”
“you’re annoying.”
“and who is paying the bill?”
that shuts you up completely. instead of teasing you more, he just smiles, playfully winking at you, letting you have that moment.
after lunch, he insists on walking you to the mall so you can meet up with karina and yeji. it’s not far, twenty minutes at most, but he acts like it’s a whole event, a met gala of sorts, and you should be escorted like the princess you are. you walk side by side, hands brushing at first, then naturally finding each other, fingers lacing together. the weather is warm for the autumn season. leaves crunch when people pass by, cars hum in the distance, and for a while, you forget about yunho and about everything.
jaemin talks about random things like how he and jeno tried to summon ghosts as kids, jokes about what he saw online, and somehow, you’re laughing again without having to worry or trying to come up with excuses or reasons of how you can be so happy when something else gives you joy? he looks at you with adoration in his eyes and that’s what makes you feel safe.
when you reach the mall, he slows down, not letting go of your hand immediately. he lingers for a second, like he wants to say something else, then just smiles.
“have fun, man-hater queen.”
“thank you, cake thief.”
he laughs, finally letting go but not before leaving a quick, soft kiss on your cheek. “text me when you get home,” he says, and you nod, a little stunned by this bold yet sweet gesture. he walks off with a smile, and your best friends are already waiting for you inside at the usual meeting spot.
the moment karina spots you, she’s already sprinting, grabbing yeji by the wrist and dragging her along like she’s on a mission. it’s been weeks since you last saw each other, university has been kicking all of your asses, and you didn’t realize how much you needed this until now.
“(name), babe, how are you? you don’t know how much we missed you,” karina squeals, letting go of yeji just to throw her arms around you in a near-death hug. you laugh, breath knocked out of you for a second before hugging her back.
“i missed you, too,” you manage, and then yeji is right there, pulling you into her own hug, softer but just as tight. “and you don’t know what i have to tell you.”
“jaemin?” they ask in unison, already cocking their brows up.
“how did you know?”
yeji nodded her head towards the glass storefront behind you. “we can literally see you from outside.”
“he walked you here, didn’t he?” karina snorts and you don’t even deny it. that’s enough to send both of them into giggles as they hook their arms through yours, dragging you further into the mall.
the next hour follows it’s rhythm. gossip, teasing, overlapping conversations, with you telling them about jaemin and the date earlier, how attentive he is without being overbearing. sometimes you catch yourself thinking you don’t deserve someone like that. someone so patient and sweet, but karina shuts that down immediately, while yeji nods along, reminding you that the bare minimum just feels extraordinary after what you’ve been through.
what you don’t tell them… is everything else. you don’t mention yunho, not a single word leaves your mouth. it sits somewhere in the back of your mind, tucked away like it doesn’t even exist. they deserve to know, you know they do, but you don’t even know where to start, or how they’d react. and… you’re not ready for that, to lose them, so you stay quiet. maybe sometimes silence is the solution.
you move from store to store, bags slowly piling up in your hands. makeup is a priority, you’re running low, and soon enough, you’re standing in front of rows of lipsticks, testing shades against your skin. just for a second in your peripheral vision, you catch a tall figure, standing a few meters away. you turn your head, and nothing. you blink, frowning slightly. that’s… weird. you could’ve sworn someone was there.
“(name), come here, we found the new face masks,” yeji pops up out of nowhere, grabbing your arm and pulling you along before you can think about it too much. “they’re not even that expensive like everyone says.”
letting yourself be dragged away as the rest of the day passes in a blur of chatter and shopping bags. trying on clothes and spending money like you were the granddaughter of a very wealthy ceo. maybe in a past life you were rich, because right now, money seems to disappear the second it touches your hands.
by the time you finally sit down for coffee, you take a slow sip of your ice-cold drink, letting the sweetness settle on your tongue as you listen to karina and yeji talk. your social battery was starting to fade, and you were also running out of things to gossip about, content on just listening instead of talking.
for a moment, everything is fine as it should be, until you get that feeling again, like someone’s watching. you glance up, eyes scanning the space around you, but everything looks normal. people talking, walking, laughing, nothing out of place…. you shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening around your cup. probably your brain is messing up with you after the tiring day you had.
the day started on like that — him following, and you being completely unaware.
he saw you earlier and was there during the whole date. he doesn’t hate jaemin even if jealousy spikes, but he quickly calms himself down. the younger man is just a temporary placeholder, a distraction you picked up because you didn’t know what else to do with the space yunho left behind. his tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek, a habit surfacing whenever irritation starts to settle in. he already knows what to order; he’s been here before… with you. at this restaurant, same table across the room, known for its delicate pasta and overly sweet desserts you always claimed you wouldn’t finish.
it’s wrong, not because you’re laughing and enjoying yourself, but because it’s not with him.
he watches the way jaemin leans in when he talks, how quickly he smiles, casually reaching for your plate, how comfortable he acts like he’s already earned a place he doesn’t deserve. jaemin doesn’t notice the smaller things like the shift in your posture, the way your fingers tighten around your fork when you’re thinking too much, the way your eyes drift when your mind starts wandering. he sees what’s in front of him, nothing more.
yunho sees everything.
he doesn’t need to chase you. he never will. you come back on your own. anger, frustration, curiosity, it doesn’t matter what drives you, it always leads back to him. because no one else will ever know how to handle you the way he does. he doesn’t want a version of you that’s easy. he wants the one who pushes and bites back to keep the spark alive.
you think you hate him, he can see it in your eyes. hatred means you still care; you react because you are affected. indifference would be a problem. but you’re not indifferent, just confused, pretending not to see what’s already there. he missed you. not just your voice, your presence, or your body. he missed this, the way you draw him in without even trying, like a moth to a flame.
he could have walked up to you right now. say your name to strike up a conversation as your professor. what a coincidence, right? you and he in the same place, at the same time, ordering the same food. your expression would drastically change; he knows exactly what it would look like. he’s imagined it enough times, but he doesn’t move.
he doesn’t rush things anymore, learning that the hard way. you need to feel like you have space and the freedom to choose. so he waits, and that’s fine, yunho understands. after all, you’re already his… you just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.
it was getting late, and when you finally said goodbye to your friends, he’s already on the move. you don’t seem to notice how he chooses the same subway train, standing where the reflection in the window does the work for him, watching you through the blur of the passing lights and shadows.
you’re on your phone for a while, and by the movement of your fingers, you are scrolling through instagram or tiktok. then you are staring ahead, you always get like this when your energy runs out. he knows the exact moment your thoughts start drifting and when exhaustion takes over.
someone dares to look at you for too long. yunho burns holes with bloodshot eyes as the stranger looks away. the train slows at your stop, and you step out. he follows by matching your speed, always out of sight. footsteps always a few seconds behind, stops when you stop. he’s walked this path more times than you’d ever guess. yunho’s gaze moves over everything on the street: the corners, people walking and the cars passing by, the distance between you and anything that could get too close.
you reach your building and pause for a second, opening your purse for your keys. he’s already stopped, waiting for you to step inside. the door closes behind you, as he stays where he is. his eyes lift, scanning the building, counting without thinking how long it would take to reach your floor… it should be one minute and twenty-three seconds.
he waits a little longer, enough to see the second light flicker in your bedroom. it’s the same every night with him walking you back home. what if you hadn’t come back alone? what if some creep had followed you? that wouldn’t have ended well, not for them.
his shoulders finally relax as he turns away. to anyone else, that would be the end of it. just a random man on the street… even if his home is in the opposite direction, thirty-five minutes away. hands sliding into his pockets, the quiet jingle of metal breaks the silence with each step. a small cluster of keys, shifting against each other, and one tucked among them does not belong to him. his thumb brushes over it absentmindedly; it has always been there.
yunho still has a key to your place. sometimes he visits when you’re not there, and he always knows when that is. why does he do it? even the divine beings don’t seem interested in answering that, and they don’t want to interfere either. what is he doing in your apartment? nothing, he goes there when he wants to rest. he doesn’t move things around or leave signs. he just sits on your couch and enjoys the atmosphere you created.
your bedroom door stays open, so he doesn’t need to enter to know if anything has changed. he’s like a ghost, maybe a poltergeist, one that doesn't haunt by moving objects but stealing them instead.
he opens drawers sometimes. the most familiar one is always the same — the drawer with your underwear. never takes anything new or expensive, always the ones at the bottom. old pairs, the pieces you don’t think about anymore, and you wouldn’t even notice are missing.
it’s proximity, a way for him to be close to you, or for you to be close to him.
in the living room, there’s a plush toy you never threw away. he gave it to you when you celebrated your six-month anniversary. it still sits in its place, untouched and harmless-looking. except it isn’t. inside it, carefully hidden where no one would think to look, is a small camera. he watches from time to time, when he needs to. nothing invasive, just enough for him to see you when you’re home.
someone has to make sure you get home safe, even if you don’t know it, and if it has to be him, then so be it.
your father had a lot of friends, and it just so happened that your family was invited to mr. kim’s 50th birthday, an anniversary celebrated in a rather grand and luxurious way. honestly, it felt more like a wedding than a birthday… but either way, it was still an occasion for drinking. people of notoriety greeted each other left and right, laughter and chatter filling the air, until the man of the hour finally made his entrance, the one who had every right to celebrate until the very last drop and bite were gone.
“if this isn’t my one and only goddaughter?” it should probably be mentioned that this kind and ridiculously rich man was your godfather. no blood relation, but he had always been like an uncle to you. the affluent one who spoiled you endlessly as a child, giving you everything you wanted, because clearly your parents failed to treat you like the princess you deserved to be.
“happy birthday, uncle minseok!” you said, stepping forward to hug him, genuinely happy to see him. the gifts were still left by the entrance, but you always had your own little privileges. “this is for you, i hope you like it… even if you are getting old.”
inside the small wrapped bag was a simple package of marshmallows, as your mother immediately noticed, lightly tapping your shoulder. “(name), this is inappropriate.”
“calm down,” minseok laughed warmly, taking the bag from your hands without a second thought. “she knows exactly what to give someone.” he glanced at you with a grin, because this candy has become very significant during the years, something small but from the heart. “thank you, my dear. you’ll get the second piece of cake.”
the evening continued with drinks being passed around, conversations flowing about business, and whatever gossip caught your ear. at some point, your godfather rested a hand on your shoulder, “come, there’s someone i want you to meet,” he said casually, guiding you through the crowd. “a very dear friend of mine, and an excellent photographer. you might learn a thing or two.”
you didn’t think much of it at first, nodding as you followed along, heels clicking softly against the polished floor, your drink still in hand. this would be just another introduction for you to smile at a stranger. this would hopefully be someone you could form a connection with to help you in the future when you do decide to pursue a career, but just like that, everything in your body turned upside down. your entire world tilted and your pulse quickened, because of course it had to be him.
dressed like absolute sin in a suit that made it painfully obvious he knew exactly what he was doing. professional and put together… but unlike on campus, where he toned it down by being casual and relatable to young people your age, here amongst people closer to his age and high calibre, he wasn’t holding back. the clothes fit him perfectly, outlining his frame in a way that makes you force yourself not to react — masking your expression into something neutral that doesn't scream what the hell are you doing here.
“yunho,” minseok called out, catching his attention. “ah, perfect timing, indeed. i want you to meet someone.”
yunho turned, and for a split second, his eyes met yours. there it was, that familiar recognition, gone just as quickly as it appeared. his own expression of shock smoothed out instantly, slipping into that same composed mask you had grown to despise.
“this is my goddaughter, (name),” minseok continued proudly, squeezing your shoulders by the exposed skin your dress created. “she’s studying photography as well.”
you swallowed and played along, like you were meeting him for the very first time. as if you didn’t know the way his hands felt, or how his voice sounded when it wasn’t calm and controlled, the way he used to look at you when no one else was around… as if you hadn’t let him take your virginity.
“it’s a pleasure to meet you,” you said, offering your hand with a polite smile that stung like acid to hold. his gaze lingered for just a moment too long before he took it. warm and bigger than yours, soft too, just like it always has been, perfectly made to fit.
“the pleasure is all mine, miss (name),” yunho replied, smiling at you, and god, you hate how natural he makes it sound, like you’re nothing more than a stranger he’s just been introduced to. but of course, he doesn’t stop there. the pad of his thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles before he lets go.
it wasn’t awkward, more like… unsettling in a way that made your skin itch. it wasn’t just that you saw him every week at the university, no, now he was here too, at an event where you were supposed to have fun, not stand there thinking of at least five different ways to get away with his murder. your godfather, completely unaware of the tension, patted your shoulder before turning to yunho. “i’ll leave her in your care, and (name), you might want to take some photos now that it’s still not too crowded. have fun, kiddos.”
and just like that, minseok walked away, leaving you alone with the man you hated the most.
your blood started boiling like molten lava almost instantly. the fake smile dropped the second his back disappeared into the crowd, your nails digging into your palms as you inhaled slowly through your nose and you stared at yunho with pure and undisguised hatred.
"you know it's not very polite to stare." he was fixing something on the camera, or looking at photos, you didn't know, but you knew one thing, and that was that you hated him. “so, how is your project going? did you fix what i told you to?”
you stiffen for a split second, your smile tightening as you look at him, because of course he would say that here, of all places, since he just couldn’t resist torturing outside campus.
“i wasn’t aware this was a consultation,” you reply sweetly, but your tone carries that hostile warning of a bark that tells him you are about to bite like an angry dog.
“old habits,” he hummed softly, deleting a few blurred pictures.
“yeah?” you shot back, one eyebrow rising, “then maybe you should work on dropping a few of them.”
“that explains a lot.” the way he calmly answers makes you want to punch him.
“explains what exactly? you enjoying your little performance? you’re very convincing, i’ll give you that.”
“i don’t know what you mean,” he says lightly, though the way he looks at you says the exact opposite. liar. something about the way you’re talking back instead of ignoring him, clearly tells him one thing — you haven’t moved on completely.
“you still get worked up so easily,” murmuring almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.
“you still talk too much,” you snapped, and he took a step closer, enough to close some of the distance, his presence more noticeable and intimidating, and you sometimes forget how tall he actually is.
a small smile tugged at his lips because, truth be told, he was enjoying this far too much. his eyes were scanning your face, studying every reaction of the grimace you tried so hard to hide. you scoffed, crossing your arms, tapping your freshly done nails against your skin, irritation written all over, and for a moment neither of you spoke. the noise of the party faded into the background as the tension stretched like silk almost pulled to the point of tearing between you.
then yunho exhaled softly, removing the camera strap from his head, he closed the lens cap and put it back in the small bag, leaving it on the desk he evidently used for work here.
“what about we take a walk?” yunho suddenly suggests, tone light, sounding harmless and innocent. “talk a few things out. it seems like you have a lot to say.”
you should have said no. you should’ve walked straight back to your parents while ignoring him like you’ve been fighting tooth and nail to do, but somehow… you didn’t. maybe it was the tone of his voice, coaxing you with the way he said it like a suggestion, not a command, even though it somehow felt like one. or maybe it was just him, knowing exactly what to say, with just the right intonation for invitation.
“fine,” you muttered, big mistake.
he guided you through the venue, away from the main crowd and toward a quieter part of the hotel where the noise began to dull and the lights softened because fewer people meant fewer distractions. now it’s just you and him, the way he’s been craving and aching for.
then he stopped.
reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. you frowned slightly as he pulled out a cigarette, placing it between his lips before lighting it and exhaling slowly, white smoke curling between the two of you before dissipating into the air.
“you’re smoking again?”
“you’re staring again.”
“i’m judging,” you correct. “i thought you quit.”
“i did,” he agrees, “for you.”
then he takes another drag, eyes never leaving yours, but you know you were the main reason, if not the only one, for him to quit. you hated the smell and the taste that transferred once you shared a kiss. or two. or dozen… neither of you ever bothered to count.
“stress does things, work, life… you find ways to relieve the tension,” he continues after a moment, carefully choosing every word to get a reaction out of you. he shares just enough, mentioning that the workload and the pressure made him go back to this bad habit, skimming over the real reason without ever actually saying it — the break up. of course, he wouldn’t admit that to you. he never gives you the full truth, only carefully selected pieces.
and as he speaks, you find yourself checking him out. you feel steel heavy shame that you are, but you can’t help it. he looks… good. no, that’s an understatement. dressed like he stepped out of some magazine, a black coat draped over his broad shoulders, a clean white button-up tucked neatly under a fitted black vest, finished off with a loosely worn black satin tie. as much as you want to deny it, to lie to yourself, roll your eyes… you can’t. when it comes to jeong yunho, all bets are off, because he’s so fucking hot.
yunho stubs out the cigarette, pressing it into the ashtray beside him. you’re both sitting on the edge of a small staircase, tucked away from most of the guests, the noise of the party distant like background static.
then, without much thought, he shrugs off his coat and throws it over his shoulder. the movement is simple, but it draws your attention to his rolled sleeves, exposing his slim but defined forearms, his veins faintly visible under the skin. his cords of muscle hold subtle tension that make it really goddamn difficult not to look. it gives him this quiet intensity, composed on the surface but never fully restrained underneath. a wildfire raging beneath a perfectly composed surface.
you really try to look away, only to realize something else, that you didn’t bring a jacket. you’re wearing a short black dress, feminine shoulders bare, the evening air cooler than you expected. it hadn’t mattered before since you won’t stay outside the venue all night, and yet before you can even think about it properly, warmth settles around you.
snapping out of your thoughts, your gaze shifts downward to see his coat now draped around your shoulders. when you look up, yunho is already adjusting his sleeves again, completely unfazed, like the gesture means nothing at all.
“so,” he says casually, sitting down beside you on the staircase, spreading his legs slightly as he leans back on one hand, the other idly flipping his metal lighter open and closed, “graduating soon, right? any plans career-wise?”
it catches you off guard. you almost scoff, because wasn’t he the one who suggested this, the one who said you had a lot to say. the truth is, you don’t, at least not to him. now he’s the one guiding the conversation somewhere… normal. like so normal that you’re not sitting next to your ex, who is actively messing with your head.
“i’m planning to try abroad.”
“where?”
“i’m not going to tell you,” you glance at him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “don’t want you suddenly becoming my coworker.”
that earns a chuckle from him. “you really think i’d follow you that far?”
you don’t answer, because you’re not entirely sure he wouldn’t. he makes it very clear that he is not talking about your career. the silence settles again, but it doesn’t feel empty. it feels intentional, as if he’s waiting for the exact right moment to put the puzzle piece into place.
you shift slightly on the step, exhaling through your nose, trying to ignore how aware you are of him sitting so close beside you. the party noise is distant now, blurred into nothing. now it’s just the two of you, tucked away in a space that suddenly feels too small… then he speaks again.
“are you seeing someone right now?”
your eyes flick to him immediately, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of a proper answer. “none of your business.”
no reaction at first, just the soft click of his lighter opening again. the small flame appears, disappears, and flickers back to life as he plays with it absentmindedly. it’s almost hypnotic, the rhythm of it: small flame, bigger flame, gone again. he’s buying time, or making you sit in discomfort a little longer than necessary. you stare at it longer than you should, trying to steady yourself. it’s stupid, but it gives your eyes somewhere else to go and your mind something else to focus on.
he exhales quietly, then the lighter closes with a soft snap, and he looks at you.
“jaemin, right?” he says like he’s commenting on the weather. “he seems like a nice guy, but doesn’t seem like your type.”
everything in you stops, freezes like you’ve just touched a block of ice. your entire body goes still for half a second too long andyour expression betrays you before you can even think to control it. it’s shock at first, then disbelief, because you never told him a name, or anything of the sort. never even showed signs of you being involved with someone else.
your mind starts racing immediately — how does he know that? how long has he known? what else does he know?
only a few people know you’ve been seeing jaemin, and yes, you do post stories with him just like you do with the other people you trust, people who wouldn’t… your fingers tighten unconsciously around the fabric of his coat still resting on your shoulders.
“how do you know that?” your voice comes out lower than you intended. yunho tilts his head slightly, observing a reaction he already predicted, since just confirmed something he was quietly testing. a faint smirk pulls at his lips, he shrugs, leaning back on one hand as his gaze stays fixed on you.
“you’re the campus's new hotshot couple,” lies, obvious lies. you know it, he knows it, but the confidence in his voice makes it sound real. rumors, gossip, students talking, maybe someone exaggerating something they saw, but nothing that should have him perfectly informed with a name.
you don’t even realize your grip has tightened until the fabric of his coat shifts slightly under your fingers.
“relax, i’m not interfering.” but his tone says otherwise, “you can date whoever you want.”
you can't because you are mine.
yunho doesn’t move away while talking; he closes the distance slowly instead, testing exactly how far you’ll let him go before you stop him. knee brushing yours, nudging you teasingly, he doesn’t break eye contact, and doesn’t give you space to believe or question anything. because the way he says it doesn’t sound like permission, it sounds like ownership he’s pretending not to enforce.
“you lost the right to care about who i see a long time ago.”
oh?
amused by how you’re trying so hard to stand your ground, trembling just beneath the surface. it’s beautiful like that, so unfiltered and honest. aren’t you the prettiest little angel when you’re angry? when you’re fighting him, resisting him, convincing yourself you’ve moved on. it’s almost impressive, and adorable. your will is always too big for your own good, too loud to stay buried, always insisting things should go your way, even when reality bends differently once he is in the picture.
he’s memorizing it all over again with the way your breath changes when he gets too close, the way you refuse to look away even when it would be easier. your eyes are the most dangerous part of you, he decides. they’re full of everything at once — malice, frustration, sadness you pretend isn’t there, excitement you refuse to acknowledge. a fire that burns brighter than the weak flicker of the lighter between his fingers earlier. a fire that could bring him to his knees if he let it.
but he won’t, he knows how to protect himself.
he knows you better than anyone else ever has. better than those two annoying best friends of yours, than jeongin, better than jaemin, even your parents. better than the version of yourself you try to present to the world.
yunho doesn’t need to chase because he knows your anger will bring you to him. he doesn’t need to beg, either. not when pulling the right strings of your nervous system is far more satisfying, watching you unravel and logic slipping away piece by piece until all that’s left is emotion, exactly how he wants you. he doesn’t need you rational, he needs you emotional. to destabilize you until you’re reacting instead of analyzing, feeling instead of understanding, until you’re his again in everything but name.
your thoughts slow, your focus breaks, you start reacting instead of thinking… just like he planned.
it’s sudden when it happens, you grab his collar, and before he can even fully process it, you pull him in and kiss him. not what people would call romantic, it’s out of pure spite and the need to shut him up. it’s messy, all teeth and frustration and months of things left unsaid. it’s the words i hate you pressed into his mouth like a punishment.
yunho doesn’t take control immediately. he lets you bite his lip and put all that frustration finally into something tangible, lets you pretend this is just about physically shutting him up. yunho lets you have your moment of control, an illusion of victory, because he can feel you’re not over him… should the fact that he isn’t over you either be good or bad news?
only then does he finally respond, when your breath catches in that familiar way, something in him snaps as he kisses you back. the taste is noticeably bitter, ashy, and slightly stale. a trace of smoke still clings to him, dry against your tongue with that faint chemical edge, following the chemical romance between you that has no clear answer or reaction to this day, only that it is intense.
his lips part slightly against yours, the movement slow, testing. he deepens the kiss, blurring the line between hesitation and intent, one hand sliding up to your neck, fingers resting there, guiding rather than forcing. he pulls you closer, and the way your breath stutters in the gorgeous column of your throat, the way your body reacts to his body without thinking, tells him everything he needs to know.
then, just as suddenly, he stops. not pulling away completely, neither of you really wants to break it, but he’s the one who finally pulls back first. you’re left staring at each other, chests inviting air in and out in hurried paces to catch your breaths.
“you look at me like you hate me…” and doesn’t seem like you want to stop, though. “but you always looked at me like that.”
there’s something in his expression, satisfaction, like your reaction alone is enough. your breathing is uneven, lips slightly parted, and you hate how aware you are of him again: how close he is and how familiar it feels. your lipstick is slightly smudged, some of it transferred onto him, and the sight alone makes something twist in your stomach.
because you want more, but you don’t want to want him.
this is wrong on so many levels, kissing your ex out of nowhere, yet your body remembers him far too well, as it responds far too much. it’s frustrating, confusing, and addicting in a way you wish it wasn’t. what are you even supposed to do now?
“this isn’t a good place…” he says after a moment, glancing briefly toward the direction of the party before looking back at you. “…unless you want an audience.”
and suddenly it feels like the decision is yours, except it isn’t. because the way he looks at you says he already knows what you’ll choose.
by the time you are fully recovered his hand is already around yours, fingers lacing, as his grip doesn’t loosen, not once, he already knows you won’t pull away. he starts walking and you’re just following along without questioning it.
away from the crowd, into the quieter parts of the hotel, the lobby is nearly empty, the noise fading behind you as he moves straight for the elevators. he presses the button, and as if perfectly timed, the doors slide open to an empty cabin.
you step inside, and the moment the doors close behind you, the space feels smaller and tighter. mirrors line the walls, reflecting everything from every angle. no matter where you look, it’s him first and only then, you.
yunho and mirrors are a dangerous combination, because he doesn’t just want to feel you, he wants to watch you feel him and memorise the way you submit to his touch each and every time he manages to catch you. standing behind you, his taller frame hovering close, his chest warm against your back even if he doesn’t fully press himself in. still, if you lean back even slightly, he knows he has you.
his lips brush your shoulder, not quite a kiss, more like a promise of one. he makes you aware of everything — your breathing, the expression on your pretty face, how close you really are to him. one hand slides low, brushing your thigh right where the hem of your dress ends, while the other rises to your face. his soft fingers tilt your chin upward. he doesn’t need to do much to make you go insane; his voice does most of the work, not his body.
“all that attitude, and look at you now,” murmuring right next to your ear. the hand resting on your thigh doesn’t move further, and somehow you react more to what almost happens than to what actually does. as if hypnotized, trying to hold onto some sense of control, but it’s slipping fast, because your eyes betray you again. “is that really how someone looks when they want me gone?”
he doesn’t think of himself as a freak about it. he just likes watching, prefers you vulnerable like this. his eyes never leave your reflection, taking in the way your lips part, your lashes flutter, the way you try to close your eyes against how overwhelming it feels.
“don’t close your eyes, doll.” his voice is low, slightly rougher, his fingers tightening just a little on your jaw. you forgot how much you loved being called that, and how much it didn't help your attempts at resistance. “i want you to see what i’m doing to you.”
the hand on your leg slips beneath your dress until it finds the soft fabric of your panties, and you’re already so wet. his fingers press against you through the material, enough to make your breath hitch while moving in a slow and controlled rhythm as you squirm in result. your back arches finally pressing into him, and he exhales softly against your ear, completely obsessed with the sight of you falling apart in front of him.
“y-yun–” his name halfway leaves your lips in a soft whine, breaking into something breathier when he moves just right. he loves the way you say his name like it belongs in your mouth, and believe it or not, it’s already tattooed on your skin with invisible ink.
“keep looking.” his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, guiding your attention back to the mirror. your thighs tremble, and your hands clutch at his forearm. the way your body reacts instantly, the way he has literal heart eyes when you make that sound again, his dick pulsating at the sight as he leans down slightly, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “see how pretty you look like this?”
you move without thinking, pressing back against him, your legs drawing closer together as if it might help, when his name slips from your lips again, your eyes glossy, barely staying open like he told you to, he smiles faintly against your skin.
“good girl.” but being good doesn’t mean you get everything. if anything, it means the opposite, because he’s making you want it first. you feel it before you can think about it. he could push you further, make you admit things, but he knows you won’t, not yet.
a soft ding breaks through the moment. his gaze flicks up toward the numbers, 10th floor.
the doors are about to open, the risk of someone being there and catching you… and just like that, he stops. he withdraws, leaving you aching, breath uneven, your body still caught in the aftermath of something unfinished. the doors slide open, and thankfully, no one’s there. the hallway is empty; most guests are still downstairs celebrating, others are already asleep. not that he would care much… or maybe he would. yunho has never liked sharing or the idea of anyone else seeing what he considers his.
he reaches toward you again, and for a second you think… but no. his hand slips into the coat you’re still wearing, pulling out the key card from the inner pocket.
“come on, angel… we don’t have all night.” all night. you don’t even know what time it is. your purse is still downstairs, abandoned at the table with your parents, your phone out of reach, “need help walking?”
he asks, and that more than anything, pulls you back to reality. because when you glance at the mirror again, you finally see yourself properly. flushed and out of breath. your dress is slightly ridden up, your lips parted, your entire body still buzzing with heat that hasn’t gone anywhere. fuck. you’re left standing there, completely worked up, and he’s the only one who can do anything about it.
you know this is wrong, but your body isn’t listening. the empty hallway was your chance to leave, yet your feet never moved. you should have walked away, right then and there… so why didn’t you? zoning out and staring into the void of nothingness, thinking how no one can even compare and you hate that it’s still him who makes you lose your sanity. with yunho, it was never just attraction and maybe that’s the problem. you hate him. you hate this. you hate that you don’t hate it enough.
telling yourself you still have a choice, only that you don’t. because somehow, without realizing it, you’re already following him to his room. the door closes behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should, and suddenly you don’t move.
you don’t sit. you just stand there, near the edge of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the ends of the sleeves, pulling the fabric over your hands as if it might calm you somehow. your breathing still hasn’t settled, your body is still carrying everything from moments ago.
he moves further into the room as if you being here is expected and inevitable. his hand reaches up to his collar, his eyes don’t leave you, though, not once. fingers hooking under the knot of his tie, loosening it slowly, sliding it from around his neck, the fabric slipping through his fingers before he lets it hang loosely in his hand. he stands there too, looking at your posture, and the way you haven’t dared to sit or do anything at all.
his lips twitch slightly when your fingers pause for half a second, then continue. you don’t dare to talk, you don’t trust your voice right now. he takes a step closer, then another, slowly closing the space between you until it feels suffocating again, and you’re aware of him in the same way you were in the elevator.
“take a seat,” he says softly, “you don’t have to stand there like that,” and you obey.
you sit right at the edge of the bed, back straight, still clutching the sleeves, as yunho watches you for a moment longer. then, without breaking eye contact, he lowers himself not onto the bed, but down, kneeling in front of you.
it shouldn’t feel the way it does, as if he were praying to his goddess for a blessing of a lifetime. it should be unsettling, he chose this position for a reason; he wants to be right here, close enough to see every reaction you try to hide. his hands rest lightly against your legs at first, thumbs caressing the flesh as you tense, but don’t pull away.
“do you know…” fingers sliding slightly higher, tracing and craving, then there’s a pause. “how hard it was not to think about you?” not crossing any line too fast, he continued, eyes fixed on your face, “to see you every week, and pretend we are just strangers?”
his razor sharp gaze softens for what you can barely count a millisecond, before it shifts back to its sinister depths, something that looks a little too close to obsession.
“should i? or are you going to pretend you don’t want this?”
beneath the dress, fingers slipping under the fabric as he hooks into your waistband and starts to pull it down. you are leaning in just slightly, giving him the access he’s already taken. that’s all the permission he needs. the delicate lace follows, sliding down until it pools at your feet, as you gently kick them fully aside with the help of your heels.
"last chance to leave, angel... say or do something if you want me to stop.”
holding himself back, and it’s taking more effort than he wants to admit. his gaze drags over you, taking in every detail like he’s been starved of it.
you look the same. no, you like you never left him at all.
his jaw tightens faintly because god, he missed you. no matter how much time passed or how many distractions he surrounded himself with, nothing and no one helped. they didn’t look right or feel right, they simply weren’t you.
you changed, of course you did. your hair, your style, the perfume, even the way you carry yourself now, like you’ve grown into something that bites back.
but he sees through it: you are just a little sheep wearing the wolf’s head.
and he is the wolf wearing a sheep’s clothing.
something restless stirring beneath his skin, the way it creeps in, settles deep, refuses to leave. he’s been stuck on a feeling, just can't stop, once ain't enough.
his thumb presses just a little firmer, grounding himself, because he might actually lose that thin thread of control he’s still pretending to have.
“i hate you.” you say but your legs part for him. his head tilts at that, tongue pressing into his cheek, amused, your defiance only entertains him more. don’t mind him then, as he eases you back, gaze heavy on you, his hands slide firmly to your thighs, guiding you then lifting your legs to settle over his shoulders.
he looks at you like he’s about to show you what heaven feels like when its most precious and divine being finally falls from grace.
yunho loves teasing you with his words almost as much as he loves tasting you. his tongue dives in, relentless at first, exploring every twitching nerve that seems to remember him all to well, then deeper, faster and harder. he pushes in and out like he’s trying to swallow you whole, sliding in and out with perfect rhythm.
“babydoll, you’re so sweet,” he groans, licking and sucking, eyes rolling back when he finally tastes you. you're addicting. he laps up your juices, swirling his tongue on your clit. “did you save all this for me?”
his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, pressing you closer as he devours you like a meal he can’t get enough of. every moan, quiet or loud, drives him further to the sinful gates of temptation. he buries his face in you, lips and tongue hungry, mouth wet, making sure every inch of you is tasted.
“look at you, trembling for me…” he whispers, nibbling at your inner thigh between laps of your cunt. he’s relentless with the words, praising every tiny quiver, “that’s it, you’re such a good girl, letting me do this.”
god, your pussy’s perfect. can’t believe this is all his to play with after a whole year of craving you. the way he grins while teasing you, making you feel like you’re both the most desirable and most obedient thing in the world.
“you like it when i talk to you like this, hm? gonna make you scream my name before i even touch you properly,” he teases, tongue pushing deeper, fingers brushing where you couldn't even reach. every compliment and filthy line makes your body shake more, your pussy grip tighter around nothing, dripping just from his mouth and words.
he mixes praise and filth, so you’re caught between feeling worshiped and utterly used. the combination makes you desperate and completely under his control. by the time he lifts his head, cheeks wet, lips shiny with your slick, because he knows exactly what he’s done to you — and he isn’t done yet.
“mmh… yunho–” your back arches, hips rising to meet him despite yourself. you’re dripping, trembling, completely lost to the sloppy sounds of his tongue. he groans, deep in his throat, enjoying the taste of you. he doesn’t rush when he devours and dominates your senses. “fuck, you are so… hahh–”
your legs are clamping around his head as your hands tug his hair, gosh it’s still so soft to the touch. your chest heaving, voice hoarse from moaning, and yunho finally lifts his head, grinning at the mess he made glistening on his lips. wiping his mouth slowly, chuckling, because he’s left you begging without even doing too much.
“mmhm,” diving back in as his fingers brushing against your clit while his tongue plunges deeper. he just keeps going — tongue flicking, fingers circling, whispering filthy praises with every movement. “that’s it, that’s my good girl… come on, let it all out for me.”
your walls clench and your pussy gushes over his tongue, spurting uncontrollably as your legs tremble and your back arches off the surface. yunho groans, licking up every drop, smiling like the maniac he is, “god, you’re insane… look at you squirting for me.”
he doesn’t stop, still moving, coaxing out every last drop, praising you with every breath he takes. his thoughts are full of you, and soon enough, you will be full of him. “mine, you are only mine… keep coming for me, angel.”
you’ve never felt so ruined and so completely at his mercy.
“i should leave you like this,” he adds, quieter, more to himself than to you. the idea actually tempts him, letting you feel exactly how easy it is for him to get you like this. “send you back downstairs all pretty, like nothing happened…” a soft exhale followed, “...but you wouldn’t make it far.”
pulling back, but his fingers keep toying with your clit, and you’re already so sensitive from that alone. he talks dirty in that manic and possessive way of his, murmuring about how he’ll keep you in the dress and the heels, since you can’t spend the night with him… no matter how much he wants you to.
he eases your legs off his shoulders, standing up with a slow stretch, but before he can even undress, he steps back in between your shaky legs, looking down at you with that same secretive, almost warm smile. maybe it’s love, maybe it’s lust, if not both. his index finger and thumb catch your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to look at him, especially when you were trying so hard not to. how cute.
“drop the act, dollface,” he growled, his fingers slide down, big palm spreading around your throat, squeezing to cut off that long-awaited breath you wanted to take, watching you closely, eyes fixed on your lips as they start to quiver with every subtle tightening of his grip. “or do i need to remind you who you belong to?”
one moment he’s choking you, the next, he’s already stripped from the waist down, preparing you to take him.
lying on your back on the bed, with him hovering above you, one long finger slides inside you, immediately feeling how tight and slick you are as he starts to move. he watches closely, eyes fixed on the way your face twists with undeniable pleasure, all while his own cock pulses hot against your leg. a second finger slips in beside the first, and you feel the stretch right away. your walls clenching around him, creaming over his knuckles as small, broken sounds leave your throat, half cough, half whine, still trying to catch the breath he stole from you.
“there it is… i was waiting for that.” and by that, he means you being ready to take him. his thumb drags over the tip of his throbbing cock, stroking himself a few slow times, and your gaze drops — was he always this big? you’re not even sure how you’re supposed to take it… how you managed before. he’s thick, lining up at your soaked entrance, pushing your walls to their limit before he’s even halfway in, your cunt already molding around his size.
missionary is always a gamble with him, because you never know which version you’re going to get: the gentle one, the mean one, the jealous one… there are options, but you’re never the one choosing. this time, he is a meanie. a creature of extreme sadism.
all you can do beneath him is squirm and cry, clinging helplessly to every inch of him he gives you, heavy as he presses in, hitting places your own fingers could never reach. he grunts softly, hips pulling back again because you’re still not full of him, not yet. he has to carve the shape of himself into your insides, and claim you properly, like he always will.
maybe you’re already close, just from the way he moves. shallow at first, his pelvis dragging sinfully against you, making your writhing body jolt upwards on the bed. he switches between soft and controlled thrusts to slow and grinding circles, anything to ease you and help your body relax, make you greedy enough to take him deeper.
“is that all you do, cry?” yunho hisses under his breath, lips brushing wet against your ear as your nails dig into his shoulders. his cock presses right against your most sensitive spot, pulling a loud moan from you, and you think it’s too deep already, when he is not even that deep. “babydoll, be a good girl for me and take every inch, yeah? no, don’t cry now… you can handle it, because you’re mine… my pretty girl.”
your eyes sting, tears slipping free, smudging your makeup a bit. it’s been so long since you had any sexual intercourse, a whole year. you didn’t even do anything more than a few careless kisses and make out sessions with jaemin, nothing that even comes close to tonight’s carnal ravaging.
you need yunho. not just inside you, you need him under your skin, running through your dna. you hate his guts, you do, but god, he fucks you so well you can feel him in your guts.
the tears fall, catching the light like silver, as if tiny diamonds slip down your cheeks as he stretches you open again.
his fingers lace with yours, pinning your hands against the mattress as he hisses filthy praises into your ear. your sensitive cunt takes every devastating thrust, each one pulling out those wet and sloppy sounds, the kind that make you want to scream again and again until your vocal cords tear apart and you lose your voice for days as a reminder of what yunho is doing to do you. what he will always do to you. the way his cock drives fully into you sends that overwhelming urge through your quivering body, threatening to make you come undone, you’re not even sure if you want to. it’s a sensation so intense, such painfully good pressure building with nowhere to go.
you’re so cockdrunk it’s insane. you always thought you were in control, always told yourself he wasn’t a good person, but the dick was too good to let go. he fits too perfectly, like he was made just for you.
“scream for me, doll,” he groans, that husky tone rolling off his tongue and straight through you, pulling a helpless whimper from your lips. his brown eyes flick over your face, taking in every desperate expression like he’s committing it to memory, because watching you fall apart is his favorite part. his pre-cum leaves a messy ring at the base of his cock, trailing down the inside of your thighs, and maybe if he weren’t so consumed by you, he’d comment on just how desperate you look.
“yu-yunho–!” his name tears from your throat as it echoes through the room. his hips snap into yours without mercy, hard enough to leave bruises. your back lifts off the bed, arching into the overwhelming rush flooding your body. you praise and beg for him, pushing him further into ecstasy as he presses you back down every time you move too much.
“you think anyone else could handle you like this?” yunho coos, his pace picking up, thrusts growing faster and faster, until your thighs start to numb. “think anyone could love you the way i do?”
“yunho, please… ahh–” you hear yourself, like you’re outside your own body and have lost control of even your own voice. all you can feel is your nails digging into his back, your body tightening around him as you suddenly break, soaking him, your release spilling over his cock. and still his eyes stay on you, he adores your face more than anything else. it’s almost as if your reactions to the pleasure only he can give you appeal more to him than the sex itself.
“you say you hate me, but i bet you were just mad at me, yeah?”
but you’re too stubborn to admit that, refusing to give him even that much satisfaction. you close your eyes, trying to reclaim some dominance over him, but he only chuckles, bringing his hips to a stop at the fading edge of his own release.
that’s what makes your eyes snap open, staring up at him. “why’d you–?”
“i asked you a question, angel,” he sneers. one hand drifts down to your clit, rubbing slow, agonizing circles that pull a helpless whine from your throat, your head tosses back.
“p-please, yu– i can’t, i–” but your legs stay wrapped tight around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, your heels pressing cold against the heat of his body.
his other hand moves, this time settling around your throat. at first, it’s loose, enough pressure to make you notice. then it tightens as he watches everything: from the way your lips part, to how your chest struggles to rise. completely focused on how dependent you become on him for air. forcing eye contact, watching you go from stubborn to needy, leaning in close to whisper instead of raising his voice.
“tell me if it’s too much… go on.” with every small twitch or squirm, it only makes his grip tighten more, restricting your breathing while muttering praise after praise. what a fucking sadistic psychopath. “so pretty like this…can barely breathe and still taking me so well.”
pushing your limits on purpose, to remind you exactly who’s in control. he feels the way you start to struggle, your body begins to give, and only then does his grip loosen.
air rushes back into your lungs all at once, burning on the way in. your chest stutters, breaths coming out broken and uneven instead of steady. your vision blurs, tears slipping freely now, and you don’t even realize you’re shaking until he notices it first. his hand doesn’t leave your throat. it stays there, fingers still curved around it, no longer squeezing, just resting.
“there you go, babydoll,” his voice drops, softer now, but no less heavy. “breathe.”
but he’s watching you too closely for it to feel like kindness. his thumb drags slowly over the spot he pressed into, feeling the rapid flutter of your pulse beneath his touch. your lips part, pulling in air that still doesn’t feel like enough, as another broken sound slips out of you.
it does something to him. you like this, glassy-eyed and trembling, wants him to hold onto this exact version of you for as long as he can. then, without warning, he leans in. his lips press against yours. it’s not an apology, far from it. a kiss that lingers just long enough to steal the breath you just fought to get back, a quiet reminder of how easily he can take it and when he pulls away, there’s the faintest hint of a smile, because he’d do it again.
“shh, don’t cry… you know i take care of what’s mine.” still too dizzy to think about anything but breathing and kissing, your legs are thrown over his broad shoulders, his hands pushing them closer to your head to get the angle just right. he watches himself slide between your folds, then looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.
you glance down to where your bodies meet, even if every instinct tells you to pull away, but there’s nowhere to go. every movement hits heavier, deeper; your body can’t tell the difference between pleasure and pressure anymore. he drags himself all the way out at a torturously slow pace, only to push back in just as cruelly.
"s-shit… don’t move,” he groans, thrusting into you, when he finally decides to snap his hips, his pelvis pressed against yours. his fingers find your sensitive clit again, rubbing it fast to get you to cum again, throwing his head back as he thrusts one last time, before shooting his load into your aching cunt. spurts of warm cum fill your insides while you wither beneath him, all hot and sweaty, not even processing the mess both of you made under the clean bedsheets.
his cock was pulsing so hard you could feel it bulging through your tummy, filling you to the brim as you milk him dry. his palm presses flat against your lower stomach, and he actually smirks when he feels and sees the faint movement beneath, occasionally shifting his hand lower or higher just to make you lose focus mid-thought.
“you fell that, doll?”
do you feel how deep my love runs for you?
yunho looks at you like he’s completely gone, someone who operates on obsession, trying to imprint himself into every part of you, leave something behind that no one else could ever do. he’s smug about it too, of course he is. he just won in life, like out of everything in the world, he got you. fuck, wishing he had his camera right now, just to capture this exact moment. you look unreal beneath him, divine even dressed in black, an angel dragged down just for him.
his voice softens, murmuring sweet nothings under his breath as he leans in, pressing slow kisses to your cheeks, your temple, the bridge of your nose. gentler now, calming you down after everything he just put you through. a quick peck lands on your lips, lingering just a little longer than it needs to.
finally, yunho pulls out, watching closely as a small trace of him drips from you. his fingers follow immediately, sinking to keep it all in. then he pulls you up, arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against his chest, lips pressing into your hair, breathing you in like he doesn’t get enough of you, even now.
the aftercare is minimal, because it has to be. he lets you rest for a few minutes, helps you steady yourself, maybe guides you to the bathroom, helps you fix your clothes and makeup, and put your panties back on, while he dresses himself again as if nothing happened. and only now, that you’re about to leave, does he decide to act sweet.
“you good, need anything else?”
“i’ll manage, thank you very much, asshole.”
you smile through your teeth, already turning, only to wobble slightly in your heels. gee, wonder why, like you just didn't have some mindblowing sex. making your way out, you’re glowing, there’s no other word for it. a little wrecked, sure, a little unsteady, but shining brighter than the stars in the sky.
he doesn’t close the door right away, waits until you step into the elevator, as the doors slide shut and you’re out of sight. only then does he finally close it, the click echoing a little too loud in the empty room. he leans back for a second, alone with himself, because yeah, he’s an asshole, he knows that.
but you’ll always come back to him, and he’ll always come back to you.
having big gaps between classes was something you enjoyed, but sometimes hated. just like you hate everything about him. from the smug smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth to how his fingers are inside your mouth, making you gag and be disgusted by the way he does such things like he owns you — he doesn’t.
he’s your ex, the one you’ve tried so hard to forget: the sound of his voice, the way he felt under your skin. now his lips are back on your neck, sucking, kissing, leaving marks you’ll have to cover the second you walk out of his office once he’s done fucking you on his desk. you feel his thumb press against your throat, taking his time, teasing you in ways you swore you would never let him do that again, claiming you like he never left.
trying to tell him, no but your body keeps telling him yes.
you should be disappointed in yourself, letting him pull you off track like this, letting him take control when you know better. yet, with every touch and mark sends heat racing through you, clouding your mind until you can barely remember why you hate him so much. is it because he wasn’t who you thought he was… or because you still feel something for him? hating him is easier than admitting you never stopped wanting him.
you don’t want to care; you want to despise him for what he did and for who he is. but that’s slipping away when your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, eyes roll back when he slides inside of you, filling you completely, making you forget everything else. you want to resist, hold onto the anger, but you can’t. not when he’s deep inside, hitting all the spots that make you arch and gasp, his name falls from your lips even when you swore you’d never let it happen again.
“y-yunho... faster!” you choke out, hands clawing at his back, desperate and needy, but of course, he doesn’t give in that easily. yunho only slows down, teasing you, lips curling into that infuriating grin against your skin.
“angel, i told you to be quiet, didn’t i?” he murmurs, voice low and slightly mocking, “so impatient, as always. good things come when you obey… and wait.”
you are tired of waiting and being toyed with, and if he’s going to take his sweet time, then you’ll make sure he regrets it. your nails dig into his shoulders, even through his shirt, hard enough to strain the fabric and leave marks far more lasting than the lipstick stain on that secret polaroid sitting on his nightstand.
"stop being such a dick and fuck me already!" you hate him, you repeat it to yourself over and over, until his breath is hot against your neck and his hands are gripping your hips as if he’ll never let go.
and just like that, he snaps, relentless now, giving you exactly what you begged for.
his pace quickens, the plastic creaks underneath, each thrust pushing you closer to that edge, all you can think about is him, all you can feel is him. the hate melts away, replaced by a pleasure so overwhelming it almost hurts. you are so full, burning hot by how he uses your body as a canvas to paint you all white with no drops going to waste. purity and innocence, those words don’t exist for you anymore, as they are replaced with sin and punishment.
“that’s it, pretty. feels good, yeah?” he knows exactly how the two of you collide, like you’re at war with each other. it’s rough, as it drags your pride and self-respect straight through the dirt. the relationship is so damn dysfunctional, but yunho knows you better than anyone else. you don’t even realize how much he thrives on this, how easily you let him take control. he loves you like this: soft and bratty, vulnerable and entirely his.
you hope, no, you pray, that the good thing he promised finally comes, because you can’t take much more of this. when it hits, it crashes through you at the same time as him, your cries muffled against his shoulder, your chest rising and falling as all that tension finally spills out. he will take care of you, he will always look out for you because you are his most adored and precious doll, his favorite thing to hold and ruin.
a few minutes later, after he’s helped clean you up with a towel from one of the cabinets he keeps just for these getaways. you zip your pants back up, still feeling the lingering warmth between your thighs. you just hope your panties are enough to keep things from showing through. shit… you should’ve worn the black jeans.
“i only came here to give you mine and jeongin’s project, not to get creampied.”
“baby, you know you don’t have to do anything,” he says, spinning lazily in his chair. one hand clicks the mouse as he scrolls through whatever just came into his email. “you’re my favorite student, you pass without lifting a finger. your friend, on the other hand… needs to learn how to use photoshop.”
“yeah, but…”
“but what?” he glances up at you from the computer, that same knowing look settling back in. “you missed me?”
ah, your eyes betray you again. you missed him, no matter how much your ego tries to argue otherwise. after what happened at the hotel two months ago… yeah, that was all it took for both of you to realize you can’t stay away from each other. and maybe you’ll regret it one day, but not now. you’ve already decided to keep it hidden from karina and yeji. as for jaemin… yeah, he’s nice. he’s always been, but that’s all he is now, nice. you made sure you stayed friends, nothing more, and nothing less.
so you leave yunho’s office, of course not before kissing him goodbye, not that it matters much when he’ll be at your place later anyway. “don’t forget we’re watching spiderman~” like you could forget, you know the entire plot by heart at this point.
you’re wearing a sweater that’s way too big for you, one you casually told your friends you found at a thrift store. sure, if that store was called yunho’s apartment. thankfully, no one suspects a thing, not even your two best friends, because if they did… it would be over, and you’re not ready to lose them, but the heart wants what it wants.
later, you meet jeongin at the campus café, sitting across from him like you didn’t just leave your professor’s office in a completely different state than you entered it.
“innie, thank you for ordering for me too.” you smile, taking a sip of your drink, looking… brighter than usual, too happy for someone with a four-hour gap between classes.
“yeah, no problem,” he says, watching you for a second longer than usual. “also, are you… okay? i don’t know, you just seem different lately after things ended with jaemin.”
you blink, caught off guard. “huh, am i?” a small shrug follows. “i don’t know… i guess i just decided to focus on myself for a while, not on men.”
“well… whatever it is, it suits you,” he mutters, still a little unsure. “oh– by the way, what did professor jeong say about the project?”
“he said we’ve got max points secured,” you shrug lightly. “and that you’ve improved your photoshop skills.”
“really?” jeongin perks up, grinning. “well, don’t mind me if i skip next week then.”
the first part is true, the second isn’t. you can lie to everyone else, but not to yunho. it’s harmless. not everyone needs to know everything about you, not even the people closest to you. so here you are back with your toxic ex, because being stuck on a feeling means being stuck on him. if anyone found out, they’d probably kill him first… and then you.
he knows exactly what you risk every time you come back to him. this was never a temporary game, something that could end just because you decided it should. to him, it’s an inevitable cycle. he doesn’t see himself as someone you return to; in his mind, you never truly left in the first place.
he would give you everything without hesitation. tear the world apart for you, piece by piece, if that’s what it takes to keep you where he wants. but he would ruin you just as easily, because to him, being broken by his hands is still better than letting anyone else touch what he was already his.
yunho is a monster creeping in your heart. a wolf in sheep’s clothing, the kind of character no one expects to be the villain. he isn’t some bad habit; he is an addiction with no cure, letting him consume you, until there’s barely a line left between where you end and he begins. you chose to stay, considering no one plays the role better than you do. this version of yourself that looks put together, untouchable, and guarded… while slowly giving everything away to the one person who knows exactly how to take it.
you didn’t fall for a good man — you fell for the one who learned how to look like one. you keep calling it love, even when it’s nowhere close, because you can’t tell the difference anymore. and if this is what love is supposed to feel like… you don’t want to be saved from it.
thank you phoebe ( @tinyfixon ) for doing a beta read and being an amazing editor! i love you so much and i hope mingi is going to propose to you soon <3
Content Warning: ⚠️ 18+ NO MINORS. Please read content warnings of each part of this series before proceeding with reading. Each part will have different content warnings and levels of intensity.
Chapters (Classes):
Intro
Class One: Sexual Education. Mingi. Making Out For Beginners
Class Two: Sexual Education: Wooyoung. Masturbation for Beginners
Class Three: Sexual Education: Yunho. Fingering for Beginners
Class Four: Sexual Education: Seonghwa. Oral Sex for Beginners
Class Five: Sexual Education: Jongho. Vanilla Sex for Beginners
Bonus Chapter: Sexual Education: Study Session. Review with Wooyoung.
Class Six: Sexual Education: Yeosang. Sex Toys for Beginners
Class Seven: Sexual Education: San. Role Play for beginners.
Class Eight: Sexual Education: Hongjoong. Submission for Beginners.
synopsis : A clumsy runaway prince and a sharp-tongued farmer girl grow from unlikely friends to something more, but loving each other becomes complicated when duty and royalty threaten to pull them apart.
genre : slice of life, fluff, comedy, historical au, angst if you squint, romance, slow burn, royalty au
warnings : none
author’s note : i have 3 assignments due next week and im not even halfway done 😔 someone shoot me pls ❤️🩹
word count : 3.6k
The first time you met Prince Mingi, he was face-down in a muddy rice paddy screaming about frogs.
You were thirteen. He was fourteen.
And honestly, you should have left him there.
“You don’t understand,” the boy wailed dramatically, arms flailing while half-submerged in muddy water, “it looked at me.”
You stood on the edge of the paddy with your straw basket hanging from your arm, blinking slowly.
“It’s a frog.”
“It was judging me.”
“It’s a frog.”
“It knew I was weak.”
You stared at him another moment before sighing deeply through your nose.
Summer heat pressed against your skin. Cicadas screamed from the trees. The village fields shimmered gold-green under the afternoon sun, and right in the middle of it all was a very tall, very dramatic stranger who looked like he’d never worked a single day in his life.
His clothes gave him away instantly.
Fine silk. Embroidered sleeves. Boots too clean for a traveler—well, clean before the mud. A jade hairpin tucked through dark hair that had mostly fallen apart from his struggle against the “evil frog.”
A noble. Possibly stupid. Definitely rich.
You crouched by the paddy.
“Why are you in there?”
He looked personally offended.
“I fell.”
“How?”
“I was running.”
“From the frog?”
“FROM THE HORSE.”
You pressed your lips together. Then snorted. Then laughed so hard you nearly fell into the water yourself.
The stranger pointed at you accusingly. “You are cruel.”
“You’re muddy.”
“You’re heartless.”
“You’re dramatic.”
He gasped like you’d stabbed him.
“You wound me.”
You held out a hand anyway.
He stared at it. Then at you.
Then dramatically placed his hand in yours as if you were rescuing him from certain death rather than helping him out of ankle-deep water.
The second he stood, he slipped again. This time he took you down with him.
The two of you crashed into the mud together with matching shrieks.
Silence followed.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
You slowly turned your head. Your basket of freshly picked vegetables had overturned into the water.
You stared at it. He stared at it.
“You,” you said calmly, “are paying for those.”
That should have been the end of it.
A ridiculous noble boy passing through your tiny farming village.
Instead, he came back the next day.
And the next. And the next.
At first, you assumed he was lost. Then you assumed he was lonely.
Eventually, you realized Prince Song Mingi of the royal family was simply insane.
“You live like this every day?” he asked one afternoon while following you through the fields carrying a sack of cabbages incorrectly.
“Yes.”
“There’s dirt everywhere.”
“It’s a farm.”
“There’s bugs.”
“You live outside too.”
“Outside with servants.”
You rolled your eyes.
Mingi huffed dramatically and shifted the sack on his shoulder. He was terrible at manual labor. Truly awful. Somehow every task became a disaster.
The first time he tried milking a cow, he got kicked into a fence.
The first time he fed chickens, they chased him.
The first time he attempted harvesting, he cut through his own sleeve and cried for ten straight minutes because “this robe was imported.”
But he kept coming back. Tall and smiling and endlessly talkative.
You learned quickly that Prince Mingi hated palace life.
“I can’t breathe there,” he admitted once while lying across the hill beside you beneath the evening sky. “Everyone watches everything. Every word. Every step.”
You chewed on a blade of grass.
“That sounds annoying.”
“It’s awful.”
“Then don’t be a prince.”
He turned his head toward you.
“That’s not how that works.”
“Seems easy enough to me.”
He laughed.
God, his laugh was terrible for your heart.
Big and loud and warm enough to melt mountains.
“You’d overthrow the monarchy in three business days,” he said.
“I don’t know what monarchy means.”
He grinned.
“Exactly my point.”
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
The village adored him eventually.
Mostly because he was incapable of acting like royalty.
He’d sit with the elders playing cards for hours. He helped children catch fish in the river. He bought sweet buns from the market and handed them out to random people before realizing he’d spent all the money his guard gave him.
Once, he tried helping repair a roof. He fell through it.
Mrs. Choi screamed so loudly half the village thought someone died.
Mingi emerged from the broken ceiling covered in straw holding a turnip somehow.
“I found this,” he announced.
To this day, nobody knows where the turnip came from.
“You like him.”
You nearly dropped your basket.
Your best friend narrowed her eyes at you from where she sat beneath the shade tree.
“I do not.”
“You made him lunch.”
“He forgot his.”
“You braided flowers into his horse’s mane.”
“The horse looked sad.”
“You smiled today.”
You froze.
“That means nothing.”
“It means everything.”
You glared at her.
Unfortunately, she was right.
You did like him. Which was stupid.
Catastrophically stupid.
He was a prince.
You were a farmer’s daughter who spent half her life smelling like dirt and onions.
Nothing about that ended happily.
So you ignored it.
Mostly. Okay, terribly.
Especially when Mingi smiled at you like you were sunrise itself.
Especially when he remembered tiny things about you. Especially when he started bringing gifts.
Not expensive gifts. Never jewels or silk.
Just little things.
A ribbon because he noticed yours fraying. A peach because you mentioned liking them once.
A tiny carved wooden rabbit because “it looked grumpy like you.”
You kept every single one.
Hidden carefully beneath your bed.
One autumn evening, the two of you sat by the river eating roasted chestnuts.
Mingi was unusually quiet.
You nudged his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
He tossed another chestnut shell into the water.
“My father wants me back at the palace.”
You frowned.
“For how long?”
His silence answered enough.
Your chest tightened.
“Oh.”
“They’re starting marriage talks.”
You stared straight ahead. The river blurred slightly.
“That’s good,” you managed.
“It’s terrible.”
“You’ll marry some noble lady.”
“I don’t want some noble lady.”
Your fingers tightened around the warm chestnut.
“You don’t get to choose.”
“I should.”
“You’re a prince.”
“And?”
“And princes don’t marry farmers.”
The words came out harsher than intended.
Mingi went still beside you.
Then quietly—
“What if I wanted to?”
You looked at him finally.
Moonlight caught across his face.
Too soft. Too sincere.
You forced a laugh.
“You’d survive one week married to me.”
“I’d survive forever.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it now.”
Your heartbeat stumbled. He leaned closer.
“You know,” he murmured, “when I first met you, I thought you were terrifying.”
You snorted weakly.
“You cried over a frog.”
“It was a very aggressive frog.”
“It was sitting there.”
“It had malicious intent.”
Despite yourself, you laughed.
Mingi smiled immediately like he’d won something.
Then softer—
“You always laugh like that when you forget to stop yourself.”
Your breath caught.
Too close. Too warm.
You stood abruptly.
“I should go home.”
He grabbed your wrist gently before you could leave.
The touch was light. But devastating.
“You never answered me.”
Your voice came out smaller than intended.
“Answered what?”
His eyes searched yours.
“What if I wanted to choose you?”
You couldn’t breathe for a moment.
Because part of you, the selfish, reckless part—
Wanted to say yes. Wanted to tell him you’d loved him quietly for years already.
Wanted to let yourself believe impossible things.
Instead you pulled your hand away carefully.
“You should go back to the palace, Your Highness.”
The title hit him like a slap.
You saw it immediately. The hurt.
Mingi stared at you for a long moment before nodding once.
“…Right.”
He stood slowly.
For the first time since meeting him, he bowed formally.
Prince-like. Distant.
It made your stomach ache.
“Goodnight,” he said quietly.
Then he walked away.
You were miserable afterward. Truly unbearable to be around.
You snapped at chickens. Burned soup twice.
Accidentally dumped an entire basket of peppers into the river because you kept replaying that stupid conversation in your head.
Your mother finally grabbed your face one morning.
“If you sigh one more time,” she warned, “I will marry you to the blacksmith.”
You looked horrified.
“The one with the nose hair?”
“Yes.”
You burst into tears immediately.
Your mother sighed deeply.
“Ah,” she muttered. “So it’s serious.”
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
Weeks passed.
No Mingi. The village felt wrong without him.
Quieter.
You hated how much you noticed.
One evening, while gathering water from the well, you overheard traveling merchants gossiping nearby.
“The prince returns to court this winter.”
“They say the king favors Lady Han.”
“Poor boy looks miserable.”
“Royalty never marries for love.”
You carried the water home in silence.
That night, you cried so hard your pillow ended up damp.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
Winter arrived harsh and fast.
Snow blanketed the fields. The village slowed beneath icy winds and gray skies.
Then one morning—
“HE’S HERE!”
You dropped the potatoes you were peeling.
Children sprinted through the village shrieking excitedly.
Your heart immediately betrayed you.
No. No no no.
Absolutely not.
You marched outside trying very hard not to look eager.
Then froze.
At the village entrance stood a royal procession.
Guards. Horses. Banners.
And in the middle—
Prince Mingi.
Dressed properly this time in dark royal robes lined with fur.
Beautiful. Infuriatingly beautiful.
The villagers bowed quickly.
You didn’t.
Mostly because your body forgot how to function.
Mingi’s gaze found you instantly.
Then lit up. Actually lit up.
Like he’d been waiting only for that.
He stepped forward.
Then immediately slipped on ice.
Chaos erupted.
A guard lunged for him.
Another screamed. A horse panicked.
Mingi windmilled violently before crashing face-first into a snowbank.
You stared. The whole village stared.
Slowly, Mingi lifted his head from the snow.
“…I meant to do that.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His eyes widened slightly at the sound. Then he grinned.
And suddenly it felt like no time had passed at all.
“Why are you here?” you asked.
Mingi sat at your family table devouring stew while your parents watched him with poorly hidden fascination.
“Official royal business.”
“You’ve been here three hours and challenged six children to snowball fights.”
“They were threatening.”
“They’re eight years old.”
“They lacked honor.”
Your father barked out a laugh.
Mingi looked extremely pleased with himself.
You tried not to smile. Failed horribly.
And Mingi noticed immediately. Of course he did.
He always noticed everything about you.
That night, he found you outside feeding the animals.
Snow drifted softly around the barn.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said.
“I’m feeding chickens.”
“At midnight?”
“…They’re hungry.”
Mingi snorted.
You refused to look at him.
Because if you did, you’d cave instantly.
And you couldn’t afford that. Not with him.
Not when he belonged to another world entirely.
“I missed you,” he said quietly.
Your chest hurt.
“You shouldn’t.”
“Too late.”
Silence settled between you.
Then—
“They chose someone for me.”
You froze.
Lady Han. Of course.
Something sharp twisted inside your ribs.
You nodded once.
“Congratulations.”
Mingi stared at you. Then laughed softly in disbelief.
“You think I came all the way here for congratulations?”
“What else would you want?”
“You.”
The word landed heavily between you.
You finally looked at him.
Snow clung to his dark hair. His cheeks pinked from cold.
And his eyes—
His eyes looked devastatingly earnest.
“Mingi…”
“I told them no.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“I refused.”
“You can’t refuse the king.”
“Turns out you can if you embarrass him publicly enough.”
Horror filled your face.
“What did you do?”
“I may have climbed out a window.”
“You WHAT?”
“And there may have been a horse involved.”
“Mingi.”
“And possibly a goose attack.”
You stared at him in absolute disbelief.
“…A goose attack?”
“It was protecting the gate.”
“That sentence doesn’t even make sense.”
“It was a very patriotic goose.”
You covered your face.
“Oh my god.”
Mingi laughed.
Then gently pulled your hands down.
His smile faded into something softer.
“I meant what I said.”
Your breath caught.
“I don’t want them,” he murmured. “I want you.”
The barn suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too close.
“Mingi…”
“You know what my advisor said when I told him?”
You shook your head weakly.
“He said marrying for love is reckless.”
You swallowed hard.
“And?”
Mingi stepped closer. Snow crunched beneath his boots.
Then closer still.
Until you could feel warmth radiating from him in the freezing night.
“I think,” he whispered, “falling into a muddy rice paddy because I was losing a fight against a frog was reckless.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“I think coming back afterward was reckless.”
“Mingi—”
“And I think falling in love with you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Because this was real.
Impossible. Terrifying. Real.
“You’re an idiot,” you whispered shakily.
His smile turned brilliant.
“Probably.”
“You’d ruin your life.”
“Only if you reject me.”
“Mingi.”
He reached up carefully. Slowly.
Giving you every chance to pull away.
Instead you stood frozen as his fingers brushed your cheek.
Warm. Gentle.
“You know what the worst part is?” he murmured.
“What?”
“I don’t even think I started loving you gradually.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“I think it happened the moment you called me stupid in a rice field.”
You burst out laughing. Then accidentally started crying immediately after.
Mingi panicked.
“Oh no.”
“You made me emotional.”
“I can fight the king but I cannot fight tears.”
“That’s your problem.”
“Please stop leaking.”
You laughed harder through tears.
Mingi looked desperately relieved.
Then softly—
“Can I kiss you?”
Your entire brain stopped functioning.
“…What?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for years.”
“Years?!”
“You’re very distracting.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
You stared at him.
At his nervous smile. At the way his hands trembled slightly despite all his joking.
And suddenly you realized—
Mingi was scared too.
Not of kings. Not of court politics.
Of you. Of your answer.
That realization melted something inside your chest entirely.
So you grabbed the front of his robe and kissed him first.
Mingi made a startled noise against your mouth. Then immediately kissed you back like he’d been dying to.
Warm despite the cold.
Clumsy at first because he smiled halfway through it.
Actually smiled into the kiss.
An idiot. Your idiot.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathless, Mingi looked genuinely dazed.
“…Wow.”
You laughed shakily.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“I forgot every word I’ve ever known.”
“That explains a lot actually.”
He grinned suddenly. Then scooped you clean off the ground.
You shrieked.
“MINGI—”
“I HAVE POWER NOW.”
“PUT ME DOWN.”
“NEVER.”
He spun once in the snow before promptly slipping again.
The two of you crashed directly into a snowdrift.
Silence. Then your horrified whisper:
“You dropped me.”
Mingi emerged from the snow looking deeply offended.
“I fell with you romantically.”
“You threw me into ice.”
“It was a gesture of affection.”
“You concussed me.”
“You look beautiful.”
You stared at him. Then burst into helpless laughter.
Mingi joined instantly.
Loud. Bright. Completely ridiculous.
The kind of laughter that made your ribs ache.
The kind that felt dangerously like happiness.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
Unfortunately, dating Prince Mingi was a nightmare.
Not emotionally. Logistically.
For one thing, he kept sneaking into your house through the window instead of using the door.
“Why are you like this?” you hissed one night while he climbed inside covered in snow.
“The window feels more romantic.”
“You fell into the cabbage basket.”
“The cabbages attacked me.”
“YOU attacked the cabbages.”
Another issue:
The villagers knew immediately.
Not because either of you confessed. Because Mingi looked at you like a man who’d gladly start wars for you.
Subtle he was not.
At the market he carried everything for you while smiling stupidly.
At festivals he followed you around like an oversized puppy.
Once, during dinner at your house, your mother asked him to pass the salt and he handed her an entire bowl of soup because he was too busy staring at you.
Your father watched this disaster silently before muttering:
“He’s not very bright.”
“He’s trying his best,” your mother replied sympathetically.
“I’m sitting right here,” Mingi complained.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
Spring came gently.
The fields bloomed green again.
And somehow, impossibly, Mingi stayed.
The palace protested constantly. Letters arrived daily.
He ignored most of them.
One afternoon, you found him lying in the grass beside the fields holding a royal scroll above his face dramatically.
“What now?”
Mingi groaned.
“My father says I’m disgracing the bloodline.”
“That sounds serious.”
“He also said my handwriting looks desperate.”
You snorted.
“Can I see?”
He handed over the scroll reluctantly.
You read silently. Then immediately started laughing.
“Mingi.”
“What?”
“You signed this ‘Farmer Prince Mingi.’”
“I was making a point.”
“You drew a chicken beside it.”
“The chicken symbolizes freedom.”
“The chicken is wearing a crown.”
“Royal freedom.”
You laughed so hard you nearly fell over.
Mingi watched you with that same soft expression he always wore nowadays.
Like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
Eventually he spoke quietly.
“You know… I used to think love would feel grand.”
You looked at him.
“What does it feel like then?”
He smiled slowly.
“Like home.”
Your chest nearly exploded.
So naturally you threw a carrot at his head.
Mingi yelped dramatically.
“Violence!”
“You were being emotional.”
“You kissed me in a barn.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“…Shut up.”
He laughed for five straight minutes.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
The king eventually visited personally.
Which was horrifying.
The entire village panicked.
People screamed. Children hid.
Mrs. Choi fainted directly into a cabbage patch.
And you—
You contemplated death.
“Mingi,” you whispered violently while fixing your clothes for the eighth time, “your father is the KING.”
“Yes.”
“THE king.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you calm?!”
Mingi shrugged.
“He loves me.”
“You climbed out a palace window.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“You insulted royal marriage negotiations.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“You started a goose incident.”
Mingi paused thoughtfully.
“…Okay that one might still be sensitive.”
You groaned into your hands.
The king turned out to be terrifying.
Tall. Sharp-eyed.
Dressed in intimidating dark robes.
He studied you silently across your family table while the entire village collectively held its breath.
Then—
“So,” the king said calmly, “you are the girl who made my son abandon diplomacy.”
You nearly choked. Mingi looked offended.
“I abandoned diplomacy long before her.”
“That is true,” the king admitted.
Then his gaze returned to you.
“And what exactly do you see in him?”
You stared.
Then very honestly answered:
“He’s funny.”
The king blinked.
Mingi looked delighted.
“You hear that? I’m funny.”
“You fell through a roof.”
“It was charming.”
The king rubbed his temples slowly. For one terrible moment, silence filled the room.
Then unexpectedly—
The king laughed.
Not politely.
Actually laughed. Deep and helpless.
“You truly are impossible,” he muttered at Mingi.
Mingi grinned proudly.
“I learned from you.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
Everyone stared in shock. Including you.
The king noticed immediately. Then sighed dramatically.
“My son,” he said dryly, “has spent four years writing letters about you.”
Your head snapped toward Mingi.
“FOUR YEARS?”
Mingi looked alarmed.
“Father.”
“He once described your laugh for three entire pages.”
“MOTHER OF GOD,” Mingi whispered in horror.
The king continued mercilessly.
“He compared your temper to a territorial goose.”
You burst into hysterical laughter. Mingi buried his face in his hands.
“I trusted you.”
“You wrote it in official royal stationery.”
“You said nobody reads those!”
“I lied.”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
And when you looked at Mingi again—
Red-faced. Mortified.
Still looking at you with endless affection—
You realized something quietly. You could do this.
Maybe the future would be difficult. Maybe court nobles would gossip. Maybe people would sneer at the farmer girl beside the prince.
But Mingi would stand beside you through all of it.
Laughing. Falling into disasters. Loving you loudly without shame.
And somehow that made impossible things feel survivable.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
The wedding happened a year later.
It was supposed to be elegant.
Royal. Refined.
Instead—
Mingi ripped his ceremonial sleeve climbing over a fence because he “wanted to see you early.”
A horse escaped. One of the ministers fell into the fountain.
And during the vows, Mingi got emotional and cried first.
“You’re crying,” you whispered.
“No I’m not.”
“You literally are.”
“These are royal tears.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“They’re expensive.”
You snorted so hard the priest lost his place.
The ceremony dissolved into chaos for approximately ten minutes.
Your mother nearly disowned both of you. The king looked exhausted.
And Mingi—
Mingi looked happier than sunlight.
When the ceremony finally resumed, he took your hands carefully.
Warm. Steady. Real.
Then softly—
“I know I’m reckless.”
You smiled.
“That’s true.”
“And dramatic.”
“Very true.”
“And occasionally attacked by birds.”
“Constantly true.”
The guests laughed quietly.
But Mingi only looked at you. Like nobody else existed.
“But if I had to live every lifetime again,” he whispered, “I think I’d still fall into that rice paddy.”
Your eyes stung immediately.
“Even with the frog?”
“Especially because of the frog.”
You laughed through tears.
And Mingi smiled like he’d just been handed the whole world.
Maybe he had.
Because when he kissed you, warm and sweet and grinning halfway through like always—
It felt a little like destiny.
Or maybe just two idiots finding each other in the mud.
Jeong Yunho is the human equivalent of a system crash. A 6’2” wreck of stuttered sentences, fogged-up glasses, and nerves he can’t outgrow. He has spent his first year of college trying to be invisible. He’s a tactical genius on screen, but on campus, he can barely survive a three-word greeting without his voice cracking. He tries to start a Gaming Club in a basement that smells like dust and dump.
When a pack of “Mean Girls” turns his recruitment drive into a public execution, you step in. You lie. You improvise. You claim you’re his pro-tier controller—his star recruit.
Now you learn the hard way: Rule #1 of saving a cute nerd from bullies is this—don’t claim you’re an expert in a game you’ve never played.
➢ gamer!yunho x fem!reader | ➢ collage au, romance, strangers to lovers, slice of life | ➢ mdni, bullying, emotional manipulation & deception, substance use | ➢ ~21k | ➢ this is my humble contribution to LIVE ALIVE! collab, dear @sungbeam thank you for letting me be a part of this! ♡ | ➢ disclaimer: i am not a gamer!! i played Valorant like three times so please bare with any mistakes!! after all it’s just for fun!! | ➢ part one out of three
The floorboards groaned under Yunho’s socks as he carved a frantic circle into the small room. He looked frayed—ashy blonde strands of hair standing up in jagged peaks where he’d clawed at them for the last half an hour. His tall shadow flickered across the wall, momentarily eclipsing Seonghwa, who lay sprawled like a discarded coat across the duvet. “We have to jump on this, hyung,” Yunho snapped, his voice tight, vibrating with a caffeine-edge. “The internship panel won’t even look at me if the ‘Extracurricular’ section is a desert. High marks don’t mean a thing when everyone else is out here saving the world on weekends.”
Seonghwa didn’t move, save for the rhythmic motion of his jaw. He was focused on a bag of mango jellies, the scent of artificial fruit heavy in the stuffy air of Yunho’s bedroom. He popped another one into his mouth, the plastic crinkling like a slow-burning fire. “I hear you, Yunnie. I really do.” Seonghwa’s voice was muffled by the gummy candy. He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracking a hairline crack in the plaster. “But what’s the pitch? We’re ghosts on this campus. We don’t have a network, and you can’t exactly launch a club with two guys and a half-empty bag of sweets.”
Yunho stopped mid-stride, his chest heaving. He looked down at his best friend, his hands twitching at his sides. “We don’t need a network yet. We just need like... five names and a mission statement.”
Seonghwa finally looked at Yunho, his expression skeptical as he swallowed. “You’re visibly shaking, sit down before you go through the floor.”
Yunho’s socks hissed against the wooden floor with every sharp turn of his pacing. “We don’t need a crowd. We need a list. Five names only and a faculty advisor who’s too tired to read the fine print.” Yunho stopped, his reflection flickering in the darkened window. He looked gaunt in the yellow light of the desk lamp, his fingers digging into his scalp again. “Professor Shin said my resume looks like a blank sheet of printer paper. ‘Technically functional, but nobody wants to hire a void,’ he told me. A void!”
Seonghwa sat up, the plastic bag of jellies crinkling. He swallowed, the sugar coating scratching his throat. “So you want to start a... what? A hiking club? We both hate stairs. A film circle? You fall asleep during the opening credits.”
“A— ” Yunho tripped over his own tongue, the momentum of his panic outstripping his vocabulary. He lunged toward the bed, knees hitting the mattress with a heavy thud that sent Seonghwa’s phone sliding toward the crack between the wall.
The door to the room creaked open, the rusted hinge screaming. Mingi stood there, one headphone hanging off his ear, a half-eaten convenience store kimbap in his hand. He looked between Yunho’s frantic posture and Seonghwa’s sugar-dazed expression. “Are you starting a cult?”
Yunho spun around, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, slick with a fine sheen of nervous sweat. “Mingi. You’re exactly the third person I was looking for.”
The navy haired boy took a slow, cautious bite of his kimbap, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “I feel like I should leave.”
“No, no, stay!” Yunho blurted, the words tripping over each other and coming out in a jagged, high-pitched heap. He lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Mingi’s red hoodie with white-knuckled intensity. The fabric felt rough and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. “You’re perfect! You’re… you’re non-affiliated!”
Mingi’s deep hum of confusion was a rumble that seemed to settle in the very marrow of Yunho’s bones. He stared at Yunho’s hand on his sleeve, then back at Yunho’s face, his eyes tracking the frantic twitch of the taller boy’s eyelid. “Man, your eye is doing that thing again. The glitchy thing.”
“I’m not glitching, I’m innovating!” Yunho squeaked, his voice cracking like dry parchment.
Seonghwa groaned, the sound muffled as he shoved another mango jelly into his mouth. “He’s lost it, Mingi. The internship panel broke him. He wants to invent a personality before Monday so he doesn’t have to put ‘Good at Valorant’ as his primary life skill.” Seonghwa sat up fully then, his brown fringe a mess around his face. He looked at Mingi, his eyes softening with a weary, beautiful sort of pity.
Mingi shifted his weight, his heavy boots clunking against the floor. He looked down at his kimbap, then back at the duo. “A club for what?” he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. The wood groaned under his weight. “I’m not doing anything that involves physical labor or... talking to girls. Or boys. Or people in general.”
Yunho’s chest puffed out, his spine straightening until he was a full, looming 6’2” of confidence. He adjusted his glasses with one trembling finger, the plastic clicking against the bridge of his nose. “It’s... The E-Sports and Strategic Digital Coordination Union.”
Seonghwa paused, a mango jelly halfway to his lips. “That’s just a fancy word for a gaming club.”
“It’s a prestigious organisation, hyung!” Yunho’s hands began to fly, sketching invisible monitors in the stagnant air. “I’m talking high-level tactical analysis. We provide a space for competitive excellence. The university will see ‘Leadership’ and ‘Team Management’ on my resume. They’ll see a Captain!”
Mingi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-choke, the scent of the kimbap’s sesame oil wafting through the air as he doubled over. “A gaming club? Yun, we’re in university, not fifth grade. Are we gonna have juice boxes and snack time after we lose a round of Roblox?”
“I am a Radiant rank! I have a sixty-percent win rate!” Yunho’s voice cracked on the last syllable, a sharp sound that betrayed his nerves. He lunged to his computer on the desk, the fans whirring to life like a jet engine. The glow of the RGB keyboard splashed neon violets and electric blues across his pale face, making his eyes look wide and manic. “Look! Look at the stats! I’m literally Top 200, I’ve spent 4,000 hours mastering utility lineups and macro-rotations. If I can IGL four randoms against pro players, I can lead a campus organisation!” He turned back to Mingi, his expression pleading, his fingers twitching. “Please. Just let me put your name down. I’ll buy you the deluxe kimbap for a month. The one with the double tuna.”
Mingi paused, his jaw working as he chewed, the saltiness of the dried seaweed sharp on his tongue. He looked at the frantic, giant nerd in front of him, then at Seonghwa, who was now slowly licking sugar off his fingers with a look of utter resignation. “Double tuna?” he finally stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made the air feel suddenly heavy.
Seonghwa finally sat up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders to reveal a rumpled oversized sweater and grey sweats. “I don’t even know what ‘utility lineups and macro-rotations’ are,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice a smooth, grounding contrast to Yunho’s frantic energy. “The last time I played with you, I spent the entire round following you around and shooting at… whatever was moving. And then my gun started making that sad click noise, so I assumed it was tired.”
Yunho’s head snapped up. “That’s—hyung, that’s because you ran out of bullets. Guns don’t have infinite ammo!”
“They do not.” Yunho jabbed a shaking finger at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. “You sprayed thirty rounds into a wall because the wall ‘looked suspicious’ and then, mid-fight, you started panic-staring at the floor like the bullets were going to grow back.”
“I thought it was like… Mario Kart,” Seonghwa said carefully, as if trying not to offend the concept of ammunition. “Like you just keep going.”
“It’s not Mario Kart!” Yunho hissed. “So then you picked up some random gun off the ground—because you had to—and you asked me if it was the ‘loud one’ or the ‘pointy one.’”
Seonghwa’s expression stayed serenely blank. “Well, they all look like… gun-shaped.”
“They are all gun-shaped,” the words were filled with nothing but pain. “But they’re different guns. Different fire rates. Different recoil. Different—”
Seonghwa waved a hand. “I didn’t want to be picky. I just grabbed the first one that fell out of a man.”
Yunho made a strangled sound. “And then your aim—hyung, your crosshair was doing figure eights. You were shooting walls. You were shooting the sky. You were shooting me. Repeatedly.”
“By mistake! I was trying to be supportive,” Seonghwa said, utterly unbothered. “In Animal Crossing, when someone looks stressed, I give them a gift. I thought I was giving you… covering fire.”
“YOU BLINDED ME,” Yunho snapped, eyes wide. “You hit me with your ‘blue ice balls’—”
“They’re pretty,” Seonghwa offered.
“They’re called Slow Orbs! And you used them like confetti!” Yunho’s hands flew up. “You threw one at spike. You threw one at a door we weren’t even pushing. You threw one at the ceiling because you said you wanted it to feel ‘wintery.’ And then you asked why you couldn’t throw more.”
Seonghwa frowned, offended on a philosophical level. “Because it should come back. It’s my power.”
“It doesn’t come back in the same round!” Yunho said, voice cracking. “Most abilities are one-time use, and you have to buy them before the round starts. You forgot to buy them. Half the game you were just—just a guy with a gun and no abilities because you spent all your credits on a ‘pretty’ pistol and then abandoned it in a corner because it clashed with your gloves!”
“It was clashing,” Seonghwa tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Fashion is a form of leadership, too.”
“And the agent you picked—” Yunho continued, clearly spiralling, “—you didn’t even know what they did. You used your ultimate because you said the button looked ‘important’ and then you immediately walked away because you got distracted by a plant texture.”
Seonghwa considered that. “It was a very nice plant.”
Yunho’s voice jumped an octave. “Then you found the Spike—”
“The beeping backpack,” Seonghwa corrected immediately.
“—and carried it to spawn to ‘meditate’ because it sounded anxious!” Yunho screamed, burying his face in his glowing keyboard. A series of random ASDFGH keys appeared on his screen. “That wasn’t a backpack! That was the objective! We lost the game because you were roleplaying a pacifist florist!”
Seonghwa shrugged, a tiny, elegant smile playing on his lips. “I just don’t think you should be in charge of an organisation if you can’t handle a little ice and some flowers, Radiant Rank.”
Yunho froze, his forehead still pressed against the keys. The mechanical switches clicked rhythmically under the weight of his head. Slowly, he peeled his face off the keyboard, a faint grid pattern from the keycaps imprinted on his cheek. “A… pacifist… florist…” Yunho whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Hyung, they have guns! They have knives! They have limited ammo. They have economy management. There is no ‘meditation’ in Valorant. There is only the grind.”
Seonghwa hummed a soft, melodic tune—the Wii Shop theme, Yunho realized with a jolt of horror—and reached for his Nintendo Switch on the nightstand. “If you say so. But while you were ‘grinding,’ I actually managed to cross-breed a gold rose today. It took a lot of discipline. Far more than clicking on heads.”
Yunho stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “You’re comparing a Top 200 Radiant peak performance to… to gardening?”
“I’m just saying,” Seonghwa said, his screen lighting up with the cheerful jingle of Animal Crossing. He didn’t even look up as he delivered the killing blow. “In my game, everyone likes me and the island is thriving. In your game, you just spent ten minutes screaming at the screen about a backpack and explaining to your Vice President that bullets are finite. Who’s the real leader here?”
Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream and wasn’t quite a sob. He abruptly spun his chair around, slammed his headset on, and aggressively queued for a match. “I’m going in,” Yunho barked, his eyes narrowing as the MATCH FOUND sound boomed through the room. “I’m going to IGL this team into the dirt. I’m going to show you leadership!”
“Don’t forget to hydrate,” Seonghwa chirped, his thumbs happily clicking away at his Joy-Cons. “And try not to get mad at the ice balls this time. It’s just a game, Yunnie.”
“IT’S NOT A GAME, IT’S A CAREER!” Yunho roared, just as the loading screen popped.
Seonghwa only sighed, tilting his head. “So dramatic. He’d never survive a Bowser level in Super Mario.”
The room was a cacophony of clashing digital worlds. On one side, the high-octane thwip-thwip of tactical utility and the aggressive, metallic clack of Yunho’s mechanical keyboard; on the other, the soft, whimsical tinkling of Seonghwa’s island paradise. Mingi stood frozen by the doorway, his half-eaten kimbap forgotten in his hand. He looked like he’d walked into a glitch in the simulation. His eyes darted from Yunho—who was currently whispering into his mic with the intensity of a bomb squad technician—to Seonghwa, who was humming while digging a hole for a digital tree.
“I... I think I’m having a stroke,” Mingi finally said, his voice sounding too dramatic, cutting through the Animal Crossing theme. “I am standing in a room with a 6 ’2” tactical mastermind, and a man who just admitted to committing international digital terrorism because the bomb was ‘anxious.’ What is happening? Why are we even like... alive right now?” He gasped loudly, then finally dropped onto the edge of Yunho’s bed, the springs groaning in protest. He buried his face in his free hand, his silver rings catching the neon glow of the keyboard. “Yun, look at me,” Mingi pleaded, his voice dripping with theatrical despair. “Look at your life! You’re queuing for a match at 11 PM on a Tuesday to prove a point to a guy who thinks a tactical shooter is a fashion show! You’re Radiant! You’re the 1%! Why are you letting the ‘Pacifist Florist’ over there get under your skin?”
“Because he’s wrong!” Yunho barked, not taking his eyes off the screen. His glasses were fogged up at the edges from his own heated breath. “He’s fundamentally undermining the integrity of the competitive ladder! He’s—SHOOT HIM, JETT! SHOOT HIM!”
Seonghwa didn’t even flinch at the shouting. He just tilted his Switch screen toward Mingi, a serene smile on his face. “Look, Mingi-ya. I got a new hat. It has a little sprout on top. Doesn’t it make me look approachable?”
Mingi stared at the tiny, pixelated sprout. Then he looked at Yunho, who was currently biting his lower lip so hard it was turning white as he clutched his mouse. “You guys are insane,” Mingi whispered, his drama levels reaching a fever pitch. He flopped backward onto the bed, limbs flailing, nearly kicking the empty bag of jellies onto the floor. “I’m the only normal person in this circle! I’m the only one seriously worried about the charter! We can’t start a gaming club if the Vice President thinks the objective is a Zen garden and the President is a hair’s breadth away from a literal cardiac arrest!” He sat up abruptly, his eyes wide. “Wait. If we start this club... do I have to play? Because I swear to god, Yunho, if you put me in a match and Seonghwa throws a ‘gift’ at me, I’m going to throw myself off the campus library roof. It’ll be a whole scene. I’ll make it very aesthetic and tragic.”
Yunho somehow died in-game—a crisp headshot that echoed through his headset. He slumped in his chair, the neon light making his ashy hair look like a halo. He slowly turned his head to look at Mingi, his expression completely hollow. “Mingi,” Yunho whispered, his voice cracking. “The Jett just told me I have ‘no rizz’ and muted me.”
Mingi snatched the headset, the plastic frame creaking in his large grip. He didn’t put it on; instead, he held it out like it was a piece of contaminated evidence. The muffled, tinny sound of a teenager screaming about “utility” leaked into the room, a sharp contrast to the peaceful clink-clonk of Seonghwa’s shovel. “No rizz?” Mingi looked at Yunho, who was currently trying to disappear into the mesh of his gaming chair, his ears a glowing, fiery red. “I’ve seen you trip over your own feet while standing still. I’ve heard you say ‘you too’ to a vending machine. But I will not let a twelve-year-old on the internet say you have no rizz!”
“I was just—the comms were cluttered!” Yunho squeaked, his hands fluttering toward his fogged-up glasses. He looked like he wanted to crawl into his own PC tower and live among the wires. “I’m a tactical leader! I don’t need ‘rizz’!”
Mingi tossed the headset back onto the desk with a heavy clatter. He stood up, stretching his long limbs until his knuckles brushed the ceiling. A smirk, sharp and teasing, pulled at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the wreckage of the two “leaders” before him. “Right. Good luck with that, Captain,” he chuckled mockingly. He reached out and ruffled Yunho’s hair, intentionally messing up the peaks Yunho had been stressing over. “You’re a genius behind a screen, but out there? In the hallway? You can’t even look the librarian in the eye without your voice doing that little flip.”
“It’s—it’s an efficiency tactic!” Yunho stammered, his face heating up until it felt like his skin was going to melt his glasses. “Minimal eye contact saves... saves social energy!”
“Sure it does.” Mingi turned toward the door, pausing to point a finger at Seonghwa, who was still happily planting bushes in his digital paradise. “And you. Vice President of Flowers. If you’re going to be the ‘face’ of this club, try not to tell people about the ‘anxious bombs.’ It’s bad for the brand.”
Seonghwa blew him a distracted kiss, his eyes never leaving his Switch. “The brand is empathy, Mingi-ya. You should try it sometime.”
Mingi let out a sharp laugh and pulled the door open. The rusted hinges gave one last, dying scream as he stepped out, “You guys still need two more names for that charter,” he called back, his voice echoing. “Two more people who are willing to be led by a guy who glitches in public and a florist who commits war crimes. Good luck finding those unicorns! I’ll be at the convenience store if you decide to give up and just become full-time losers!” The door clicked shut, leaving the room in a heavy, neon-blue silence.
“He’s right,” Yunho whispered, the “system crash” finally reaching its peak. “Hyung... who else is weird enough to join us?”
Seonghwa finally put his Switch down, his expression turning thoughtful as he looked at the door. “Well... I did see a guy in the library yesterday who was trying to fight a printer. He looked pretty motivated.”
Yunho groaned, his head hitting the desk with a soft thump.
The library didn’t smell like books; it smelled like a dozen overheating processors and approaching deadlines. Yunho marched toward the printer bay with his spine fused into a rigid, trembling line, clutching his flash drive like it was the last hope for humanity. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were darting—left, right, checking the corners of the stacks—expecting a flank from a disgruntled librarian or, worse, a peer who might actually make eye contact. He reached the printer. Every shuffle of a sneaker against the floor sounded like a gunshot in his ears. His palms were so damp the flash drive nearly squirted out of his grip like a wet soap bar. “Focus, Yunho,” he hissed under his breath, a whisper that barely escaped his throat. “Check the angle. Execute the print. Clear the site.” He slid the drive into the port. The computer let out a cheerful ding that felt like a flash bang to his frayed nerves. On the screen, “his recruitment asset” bloomed in neon violets and electric blues—a masterpiece of digital authority. It looked like the login screen for a professional tournament. It looked like someone who had their life together.
Then, he clicked Print.
The machine didn’t hum. It choked. A wet, mechanical gurgle echoed through the quiet of the library, followed by the shrill, rhythmic scream of a red light.
[PAPER JAM. OPEN TRAY 2.]
Yunho froze. His breath hitched, fogging his glasses into two opaque white discs. He was blind, trapped in a public space, and the hardware had just staged a coup.
“Uh… excuse me?” The voice was smooth, casual, and utterly terrifying. Yunho spun around so fast his neck made a sound like a dry twig snapping. A student stood there, hip cocked, holding a stack of neatly stapled essays. They looked... functional. They looked like they had never felt the cold sweat of a botched social interaction in their entire life.
Yunho’s throat didn't just lock; it welded itself shut. He stared at the student, his 6’2” frame looming over them like a skyscraper that was about to be demolished. He tried to summon a word—any word—but his internal server was timing out. “I— I’m—” He produced a sound that was less a syllable and more the noise a laptop makes when it’s overheating. His hands tightened around the creased, jammed poster that was slowly being spit out of the machine’s maw like a piece of chewed gum.
“It’s jammed,” the student said, their voice dripping with a pity so sharp it felt like a knife-edge to Yunho’s chest. They reached past him—their arm brushing his sleeve, a contact that sent a literal jolt of electricity through his nervous system—and yanked the paper free. The poster was ruined. A jagged, diagonal scar ran through the word Coordination. It looked less like a prestige organisation and more like a ransom note.
“Thank you,” Yunho croaked. The student lingered. They were waiting. This was it. The perfect time for mission recruitment.
“Do you play games?” his brain shouted. “I think I’m dying,” his mouth felt.
“Do you…” Yunho began, and then his voice did a spectacular, triple-axel flip into a high-pitched squeak.
The student’s eyebrows shot up. “Do I…?”
The printer saved him from the final blow by letting out a long, mournful beep.
[OUT OF PAPER.]
Yunho didn’t just flinch; he practically performed a crouch. “Yes. Paper. Right. Objective. I mean—sorry!” He turned and fled. He didn’t walk; he pathfound the quickest route to the exit, clutching his mangled poster to his chest like a shield. His phone buzzed. A lifeline from the only other person on the planet who understood his specific brand of insanity.
Hwa Hyung: Did you die? Also I bought more mango jellies.
Yunho stared at the screen, his vision blurring. He was the human equivalent of a blue-screen error, standing in the middle of a library while students swirled around him.
Yunho: Not dead. Printer jam. No recruits. Emergency.
He hit send. And then, because his motor functions were officially offline, his fingers turned into wet noodles. The phone slipped. It didn’t just fall; it performed a graceful, mocking arc before slamming into the tile floor with a sound that echoed through the quiet library like a thunderclap.
A dozen heads turned.
Yunho stood there, 6’2” of pure system failure, looking down at his cracked screen.
“Reset,” he whispered to the floor. “Please... just... reset.”
The library’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a persistent, droning hummmm that matched the static frequency currently vibrating through Yunho’s skull. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. His sneakers were practically fused to the linoleum, and his phone—his poor, shattered lifeline—lay face-down on the floor like a fallen soldier.
An hour.
The sun had shifted outside the high, narrow windows, casting long, mocking shadows across the room. Students had ebbed and flowed around him like a tide, some casting confused glances at the towering, blonde statue clutching a mangled piece of paper, others just assuming he was part of some niche performance art piece. Yunho’s eyes were fixed on a specific scuff mark on the floor, his breathing shallow, his internal processor stuck at 99% completion on a task titled: Recover_Dignity.exe. His glasses had long since cleared of fog, leaving his vision sharp enough to see the microscopic dust motes dancing in the air. He felt like he was floating in a void, a soul trapped in a high-refresh-rate nightmare where the “Exit Game” button was grayed out.
The silence of his catatonia was suddenly shattered by the rhythmic, elegant click-clack of loafers. The scent of artificial mango and lavender fabric softener hit the air before the person even spoke. “Well,” a smooth, melodic voice sighed, vibrating with a mix of genuine concern and a hint of suppressed laughter. “I see the recruitment mission went... exactly as predicted.” Seonghwa stepped into Yunho’s vision. He looked like he’d just stepped off a runway, his hair perfectly swept back, his oversized knit sweater hanging off one shoulder with devastating grace. He looked down at the shattered phone, then up at Yunho’s frozen, pale face. “Yunho-ya,” Seonghwa said softly, reaching out. His cool fingers brushed against Yunho’s wrist. “The library is closing soon. Unless you’re planning on becoming the ghost of the printer bay, we should probably move.”
Yunho’s eyes slowly flickered. The “system crash” began to resolve, but the hardware was still glitching. He blinked once, twice, and then his head creaked toward Seonghwa like a rusted hinge. “Hyung,” Yunho whispered, his voice a dry, jagged husk of its former self. “The... the printer... it was a trap.”
“I know, Yunnie. Technology is a cruel mistress,” Seonghwa cooed, bending down with agonisingly slow grace to retrieve the broken phone. He inspected the spiderweb of cracks on the screen. “You really did a number on this. It looks like it’s been through a fight.” Seonghwa tucked the phone into his pocket and took the crumpled, scarred poster from Yunho’s death-grip. He looked at the neon gradient and the diagonal crease. “It’s actually quite aesthetic. Very... post-apocalyptic.” He moved to stand directly in front of his friend, taking both of the younger boy’s hands in his. “Mingi is waiting at the cafe across the street,” Seonghwa lied—Mingi was actually currently complaining about Yunho’s “dramatic disappearance” while eating a second blueberry muffin, but Yunho didn’t need to know that. “He says if you don’t show up in ten minutes, he’s going to register the club himself and name it ‘The Yunho Stutters a Lot Society.’”
That did it. The mention of Mingi’s chaotic interference acted like a hard-reset. Yunho’s spine snapped back into its 6’2” glory, and his eyes regained a flicker of that Radiant-rank focus. “He wouldn’t,” Yunho gasped, his voice finally returning to its normal frequency. “He doesn’t have the paperwork. He probably doesn’t even have his student ID on him!”
“He has a pen and a dream, don’t test him,” Seonghwa tugged Yunho toward the exit. As they walked—Yunho stumbling slightly like a newborn giraffe whose legs were still being calibrated—he looked down at Seonghwa. The older boy was smiling, that tiny, serene smile that always made Yunho feel like the world wasn’t actually ending, even if his “no rizz” status was now officially campus legend.
“Hyung?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Can we... Can we go the back way? So nobody sees the guy who stood in the library for an hour?”
Seonghwa squeezed his hand, his eyes sparkling under the library’s dimming lights. “Of course.”
The sun was a warm, heavy weight against your eyelids, the kind of heat that made the world feel blurry and kind. After a winter that had felt like an endless loop of grey slush and biting winds, the spring air was a gift—smelling of damp earth and the faint, sweet drift of cherry blossoms from the quad. You were sprawled across the wooden slats of the bench, your head tilted back, letting the Vitamin D sink deep into your skin until your bones felt soft.
The distant hum of the campus was just background noise—until it wasn’t. The rhythmic, frantic thump-thump-thump of heavy sneakers hitting the pavement began to override the chirping of the birds. It was followed by a sharp, melodic sigh that sounded far too elegant.
“Yunho, please, your legs are three miles long. Slow down before you break the sound barrier!”
You cracked one eye open, the sudden light stinging after the blissful darkness. Two figures were silhouetted against the blinding afternoon sun. One was slight, moving with a fluid, feline grace, his oversized knit sweater catching the breeze. But it was the other one who caught your attention. He was massive—a 6’2” wreck of ashy blond hair and frantic energy. He was clutching a piece of paper to his chest like it was a sacred relic, his glasses sliding so far down his nose they were barely hanging on.
“I have to find a spot, Hwa!” the tall one barked, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “A high-traffic area with low-judgmental density! If I don’t post this in the next five minutes, the momentum is gone!” He stopped abruptly, right in front of your bench. His shadow fell over you, instantly stealing your warmth. You looked up, squinting. From this angle, he looked even taller, a looming skyscraper of nerves. He was staring at the bulletin board directly behind your head, but as his eyes traveled down, they landed right on you. He froze. It was like watching a computer program hit a fatal error in real-time. His pupils dilated behind his fogged lenses, and his mouth fell open just enough for you to see his bottom lip tremble. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but his feet seemed to have forgotten how to function.
The shorter one in a beige sweater stopped beside him, crossing his arms like he needed the pressure to keep himself from dissolving. “Oh. Hi,” he said, and then immediately cleared his throat like the word had gotten stuck on the way out. “Sorry to interrupt your... nap.”
The tall blonde boy let out a sound like a strangled bird. “I—uh—we—post!” He thrust the paper toward the board, but his hand was shaking so hard the flyer was blurring when you looked at it. It was a neon-violet mess with a giant, jagged crease running through the middle. Before he could pin it, a gust of wind snatched it from his trembling fingers. The paper fluttered through the air, performing a mocking, graceful arc, before landing right on your lap.
You looked down at the flyer. It was covered in aggressive, messy handwriting in the margins that definitely wasn’t part of the original design.
“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”
You looked back up at the tall boy. He was now a shade of red that you didn’t think was biologically possible. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust right there on the path. “I’m—I’m—I’m—” he stammered, his voice doing a spectacular, agonising flip.
You didn’t just look at the flyer; you took your time, your thumb smoothing over the crease that ran through the words Strategic Digital Coordination. Then, your eyes drifted to the margin. To the messy, black-inked betrayal of someone’s handwriting. “Leader has no rizz but is good at clicking heads...” You felt the heat of the sun on your skin, but the heat radiating off the boy in front of you was ten times more intense. You slowly looked up, the paper crinkling in your hand. You didn’t say a word. You just tapped your finger against the “no rizz” comment and raised a single, questioning eyebrow.
It happened in stages. First, the taller boy’s eyes widened until the whites were visible all the way around his irises, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks behind his glasses. Then, his mouth, which had been hung open in a frozen “O,” began to twitch. The vivid crimson of his cheeks didn’t just stay on his face—it surged downward, staining his neck, disappearing under the collar of his hoodie, and rising up to the very tips of his ears. He looked like a pressure cooker seconds away from a catastrophic failure. “I—it—he—Mingi—that’s—not—” He produced a series of choked noises that weren’t even syllables anymore. He tried to reach for the flyer, but his arm stopped halfway there, his hand spasming in mid-air before he jerked it back to his side as if he’d been burned.
The shorter boy made the mistake of meeting your eyes for a second. His expression did that same tiny, fatal stutter—like a screen trying to load a page on bad Wi‑Fi. The amusement drained right out of him, replaced by a polite, blank panic. His ears flushed pink. He opened his mouth like he had a line ready. Nothing came out. “Oh dear,” he managed finally, but it came out too soft, like he was apologising to the air. He stepped back half a pace, shoulders lifting as if he could physically make himself smaller. His fingers twitched at the hem of his sweater, an idle, nervous fidget. “I think he’s reached his limit. Yunho-ya? Are you still with us?”
Yunho clearly wasn’t. The 6’2” tactical genius had officially left the chat. His knees buckled just a fraction, his height dropping by an inch as his entire posture slumped. His glasses chose that exact moment to finally lose their battle with gravity, sliding down the bridge of his nose and hanging precariously off the tip. He didn’t even push them back up. He just stared at you, his eyes glazed over, his brain having successfully completed a total system shutdown to protect itself from further trauma. He was a statue of defeat, looming over your bench in the warm spring sun.
The Hwa guy, or whatever the tall one, Yunho, called him, stared at the flyer like it had personally attacked him. He reached down to pick it up, then hesitated, like touching it would make the situation more real. When he finally took it from your lap, his fingers brushed yours for the briefest second, and he flinched like he’d been hit with a static shock. “Um.” He swallowed. His throat bobbed. “So.” Another pause. His eyes darted anywhere but your face: the bulletin board, the path, the sky, the violent amount of sunlight. “If you… if you don’t mind.” He cleared his throat again, the sound too loud in the open air. “Do you play games? You don’t have to. That’s not— it’s not mandatory. This is— it’s just a club.” He shoved the flyer toward the board with a jerky motion, like he was trying to pin his own dignity up there with it. “And if you don’t, that’s fine too,” he added quickly, words tumbling over each other. “We can— we can find someone else. Or we can disband. Immediately. Right now. We can pretend this never happened.”
Before you could even open your mouth, they retreated. Yunho made a strangled noise—half apology, half evacuation order—already stepping backward like the ground in front of your bench was wired to explode. “S-sorry. Sorry for— for being here. Bye.” The word came out too fast, too high, and then he was turning, shoulders hunched like he could fold his frame into something invisible.
The other boy didn’t let it get any worse. His hand snapped around Yunho’s wrist with gentle, practiced efficiency, and he tugged. “Sorry,” he echoed, the syllable soft and polished, like it had been ironed. He didn’t look at you for more than a heartbeat. “Have a nice day.” And then he dragged stumbling Yunho away down the path.
The air felt suddenly, jarringly still after the frantic energy of them vanished. The click-clack of loafers and the clumsy scuff-thud of retreating sneakers faded into the distance, leaving only the scent of expensive, floral cologne and the lingering warmth of the sun. You sat still for a second, your fingers still tingling from where the brown haired boy hand had brushed yours. You looked down at your lap, expecting to find the flyer, but then remembered he had pinned it—or rather, shoved it—onto the board behind you.
The quad was back to its normal, sleepy spring rhythm. A couple of students walked by, laughing about a lecture, completely oblivious to the fact that the human equivalent of a system crash had just suffered a total hardware failure right on this very spot. You felt a strange, fluttering curiosity in your chest. They were so... much. Absolutely, catastrophically weird.
You stood up, your joints popping after being sprawled on the bench for so long. You turned around to face the bulletin board, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off the glass casing.
There it was. It was pinned lopsidedly, one corner already fluttering in the breeze because Hwa had been too flustered to line it up properly. The flyer looked even more tragic up close. The giant crease across the middle made it look like it had survived a war, and the aggressive handwriting was shouting at everyone who walked by.
“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”
Beneath it, in neat, technical print, was a Discord handle for an interest meeting that was scheduled in two days.
Your eyes trailed down to the bottom of the board. There, lying in the grass beneath the pins, was something they’d dropped in their frantic retreat. It was a small, plastic bag, still half-full of yellow, translucent squares. Mango jellies. You picked up the bag. It was warm from the sun, smelling cloyingly sweet and artificial. You looked down the path where they had disappeared. They were long gone, probably hiding in some dark corner of the student lounge trying to figure out how to change their identities and move to a different country.
You looked back at the flyer. “Need 5 names,” it said. They didn’t just need a member. They needed a miracle. Or at least someone who could hold a conversation without blue-screening.
The air was crisp, that biting spring wind nipping at your skin, but you didn’t mind. You leaned against the cold stone of the terrace wall, the familiar scent of tobacco smoke swirling around your head before being swept away by the breeze. You watched the quad through a hazy veil, your eyes narrowed. Down by the main path, you noticed the tall boy from a few days ago—Yunho, was it? He’d set up a rickety card table, his flyer taped to the front with too much Scotch tape. From up here, he looked like a giant trying to hide behind a blade of grass.
Then, you saw them. They didn’t walk; they prowled. A trio of girls whose coordinated outfits were as sharp as the insults they dealt. You felt a wave of cold disgust wash over you. You had the misfortune of sharing a few classes with them. They were—to say the least— annoying, mean in that practiced, effortless way—the kind of people who looked for blood everywhere. You watched as they circled the table. The leader, Seoyun, a girl with hair so polished it looked like she just left a hair salon, plucked a flyer up and laughed. The sound was high and brittle, carrying across the quad like a physical strike. Yunho’s reaction was visceral. You saw his shoulders hike up toward his ears, his frame trying to fold itself into a smaller, less noticeable shape. He reached up, his fingers trembling as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table, the plastic groaning under his weight.
“Wait, is this for real?” Seoyun sneered, her voice loud enough to make a passing group of freshmen stop and stare. “The ‘Strategic Coordination Union’? Is that a fancy name for ‘I have no friends and my breath smells like energy drinks’?”
Yunho’s head bowed. He tried to speak—you saw his jaw move, saw the frantic way he swallowed—but the system crash was in full effect. “I-it’s… it’s a p-professional… we have a r-ranking…”
“Oh my god, it stutters,” another girl, whose name you couldn’t remember, giggled, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. She leaned over the table, poking at a small figure Yunho had placed there for decoration. “Do you think if we keep talking, he’ll actually burst into tears? That would be such a vibe for my story.”
The disgust in your chest boiled over into a sharp, white-hot heat. You took another drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing bright, before walking down the stairs.
“‘Strategic Digital Coordination’?” the third girl drawled, her laughter a high, brittle sound that made your jaw ache. “Is that what we’re calling it now? It’s a gaming club for losers who can’t hold a conversation. It’s actually embarrassing.”
Yunho’s head dropped, his chin hitting his chest. He looked like he was trying to implode.
“It’s tragic, honestly,” the leader interrupted, her voice dropping into a register of fake, disgusting pity. She looked him up and down, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Look at you. You’re, what, six-two? And still managing to look like you’re asking permission to exist. You can’t even say one full sentence. Do you practice being embarrassing, or does it come naturally?” The other two girls erupted into giggles, the sound echoing off the walls. Yunho’s face didn't just turn red; it went a deep, bruised purple. He looked like he’d been slapped. His hands began to shake so violently the table rattled, and he squeezed his eyes shut behind his fogged-up glasses, his entire frame trembling with the effort not to cry. Seoyun stepped toward the rickety table. She reached out, her manicured fingers snagging the collar of Yunho’s oversized flannel. She yanked him forward, forcing his frame to hunch awkwardly over the plastic table. The legs of the table groaned, a sharp, plastic screeech that set your teeth on edge. “Six-two and you’re trembling because a girl touched your shirt?,” she hissed, her voice loud enough to draw a crowd of whispering onlookers. “It’s pathetic. You’re so useless.” She leaned in, her voice dropping into a register that made your skin crawl. “All that height, all that potential... and no one is ever going to fuck you. Not even for a pity fuck. Who would want to deal with a guy who probably stutters in bed as much as he does in the hallway? You’re a waste of space.”
Yunho looked like he was physically choking on his own shame. He tried to pull back, but his motor functions had completely stalled.
Then, Seoyun took it too far. With a lightning-fast motion, she reached up and snatched the glasses right off his face.
“Hey! Give them—!” Yunho’s voice broke, a high, desperate sound. Without his lenses, his eyes looked wide, glassy, and utterly terrified.
“Oh, look,” she mocked, holding the glasses high above her head like a trophy while her friends giggled. “The gamer is blind now. What are you gonna do, hm? Cry? Or are you just gonna stand there like a statue while I—” She didn’t finish. With a cruel, casual flick of her wrist, she dropped them. The glasses clattered across the pavement, the lenses hitting the concrete with a sickening clink that felt like a bullet to your chest.
Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t even a word—just a raw, strangled sob of pure humiliation—and started to sink to his knees to find them, his hands groping blindly at the dirty ground.
The heavy soles of your Dr. Martens hit the pavement with a rhythmic, menacing thud-thud-thud, each step echoing the white-hot rhythm of the pulse in your neck. You took one last, deep drag of your cigarette, the smoke hot and biting in your lungs, and flicked the butt directly at Seoyun’s feet. It sparked against the concrete, a tiny explosion of orange embers that matched the fire behind your eyes.
You didn’t just intervene. You crashed into their little circle like a wrecking ball.
When the glasses hit the ground with that sickening sound, you saw Yunho’s soul shatter along with them. He was folding, collapsing into himself, his large hands trembling as they looked for the glasses. Seoyun reached out to kick the glasses away, her mouth open to deliver another filth-ridden insult about “pity fucks,” but you were faster. You stepped into her personal space, the scent of well-worn leather and stale smoke drowning out her sugary perfume. Without a word, you brought your hand up and slammed it into her shoulder. You didn’t just shove her; you launched her. She flew back a good three feet, her heels skidding on the pavement until she hit the dirt, her two friends shrieking as they scrambled to get out of your way.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you pathetic, bottom-feeding bitch?” Your voice wasn’t quiet; it was a roar that silenced the entire quad. You stepped over the table, your fishnets snagging slightly on the plastic edge, and loomed over her. You flexed your fingers, your long black nails catching the sunlight. “You think because he’s quiet, he’s a target? You think because you’ve got a high-end concealer on, no one can see how fucking ugly you are on the inside?”
“You’re—you’re assaulting me!” Seoyun shrieked from the ground.
“I’m teaching you a fucking lesson,” you barked, leaning down until you were inches from her nose, your heavy eyeliner making your gaze look even angrier. “Touch him again. Say one more goddamn word about what he does or who would fuck him. I dare you. I will drag you across this campus by your fake-ass extensions until there’s nothing left but a grease stain. Pick up the glasses. NOW.”
She scrambled. It was a frantic, undignified crawl. She snatched the cracked frames from the dirt and thrust them toward you, her whole body shaking. You grabbed them, the metal cold against your skin, and stood up straight, your leather jacket creaking as you squared your shoulders. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” you snapped.
They didn’t wait. A click of heels cut through the heavy silence of the quad. But Seoyun hadn’t gotten far. She’d turned back, her ego unable to swallow the humiliation of being shoved in public. Her friends hovered behind her, waiting for her lead. She tipped her chin up, her eyes raking over your Dr. Martens, your fishnets, and your heavy eyeliner with a sneer that was more defensive than dominant. “Whatever,” she spat, her voice trembling just enough to betray her. “You’re the same kind of loser he is. You just wear it louder.”
You didn’t flinch. You took one slow, deliberate step forward, the leather of your jacket creaking like a warning. “Wrong,” you said, your voice a low, razor-clean growl that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. Without breaking eye contact, you jabbed a thumb toward the 6’2” wreck of a boy behind you. “I’m his star. You heard me.”
Seoyun’s mouth curled into something ugly. “Oh my god. What, are you his girlfriend now? Is that the only way a freak like him gets a pity-save?”
You let out a laugh—a sound that had no humour in it, only teeth. “No,” you said, leaning in until you were close enough to watch her pupils shrink. “I’m his pro-tier controller. His star recruit. The kind of player who doesn’t just win games—I end careers.” You let the silence hang for a heartbeat, watching the sweat break on her forehead. “And if you ever touch him again,” you continued, your voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal purr, “or if you even think about opening that mouth to say that shit again, I will drag you so hard across this campus they’ll think you got hit by a fucking truck. I’ll make sure the only thing people remember about you is the way you looked when I was done with you.” The girl’s expression didn’t just flicker; it collapsed. The “mean girl” mask shattered, leaving nothing but a terrified student who realized she had finally stepped in front of a real monster. “Go,” you said, the word flat and final. “Before I change my mind and make this genuinely embarrassing for you.” She didn’t wait for a second invitation. Seoyun turned on her heel, her “backup” stumbling over each other to follow.
The adrenaline was still humming in your veins, making your hands itch for another fight. You stood motionless for a second, chest heaving, watching the retreating backs of those three girls until they were nothing but a bad memory and a faint scent of perfume. Slowly, you turned back to the wreckage of the recruitment table. Yunho was still frozen. He was standing there in pure shock, his hands still hovering in the air where he’d been trying to shield himself. Without his glasses, his eyes were wide, blinking rapidly, looking incredibly soft and vulnerable against the harsh sunlight. He looked at you—at your scuffed boots, your leather jacket, the unapologetic sneer still ghosting on your lips—and he didn’t say a word. You stepped closer, the leather of your jacket creaking. You reached out, your long black nails glinting as you held out the cracked glasses. “Here,” you said, your voice still rough and low with leftover rage. “One of the lenses is fucked, but they’re still in one piece.”
Yunho’s hand shook as he reached for them, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact was like a live wire. He flinched, his face turning a shade of red that looked physically painful. He slid the glasses back on, the spiderweb crack bisecting his vision, and finally looked at you properly. “You...” He choked on the word, his voice cracking spectacularly. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Y-you... just... you shoved her.”
“She deserved a lot worse than a shove,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. You kicked at a fallen flyer with the toe of your Martens. “You just gonna stand there and let those bottom-feeders talk to you like that? You’re twice their size, for fuck’s sake.”
Yunho flinched again, his shoulders hunching as he looked down at his boots. “I-I... I don’t... I’m not good at... people. T-talking. It’s hard.” He looked back up at you, his eyes shimmering with a mix of terror and absolute, unfiltered awe. “N-no one has ever... done that for me. Ever.” He looked at the rickety table, then back at you, his expression shifting into something frantic and desperate. He lunged for a crumpled clipboard that had survived the scuffle, holding it against his chest like a shield. “I—I’m Yunho,” he squeaked, the word coming out an octave too high. He was shaking now, a tremor running through his massive frame. You introduced yourself without breaking the eye contact. “I’m starting... a club. For... for gaming. Competitive gaming.” He looked at your heavy eyeliner, your fishnets, and your “don’t fuck with me” aura, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to run away. But then, he stayed. He planted his feet, his jaw tightening even as his hands continued to shake. “You’re... you’re really cool,” he whispered. “And... and I think you dropped this.” He reached down, picking up your lighter that must have fallen from your pocket. He held it out to you, his fingers trembling, his eyes searching yours behind his broken lenses.
You took the lighter from his shaking fingers, your black nails grazing his palm. You tucked it into your pocket, eyes narrowing as you watched him.
It was starting to sink in. The word Pro-tier was echoing in his head, overriding his fear, his shyness, and the humiliation of the last minutes. “You—you really…” Yunho gripped the clipboard so hard the plastic groaned. “You said you’re a controller… You said it to her face.” He took a step toward you, his frame finally unfolding. He was still blushing, still stammering, but his eyes were suddenly burning with an intensity you wouldn’t expect from him. ”What—what’s your rank? Are you Radiant?” he squeaked, his words starting to tumble out faster and faster, a waterfall of gamer-jargon fuelled by pure adrenaline. “I—I’ve been looking for someone for my team with that kind of... of aggressive spacing! Did you see how you took that space? You cleared the site! You didn’t even hesitate, you just—you just executed!” He began to pace in a small, frantic circle around the broken table, his hands gesturing wildly as if he was explaining a map strategy to a ghost. “If you’re a controller... if you can click heads like you just shoved her... oh my god.” He stopped, looming over you again, his breath coming in short, excited huffs. “Do you play on high-sens? You look like a high-sens player. Your movements are so—so flick-heavy! Please tell me you have a decent headshot percentage.” He thrust the pen at you, nearly poking your chest in his excitement. He was a mess—a gorgeous, stuttering, 6’2” mess—but for the first time, he wasn’t looking at the floor. He was looking at you like you were the final piece of a puzzle. “Sign it!” he pleaded, a manic sort of grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sign the charter. I don’t care if you’re scary. I don’t care if you smoke! Mingi smokes too! If you can play like that... we’re going to be unstoppable. We’ll make them all eat their words. Please. Just tell me... who’s your main?”
You looked at the pen, then at the “Member 4” slot on the crumpled charter. Behind that spiderweb crack in his glasses, Yunho’s eyes were wide and shining—not with tears anymore, but with a frantic worship. To him, you weren’t just the girl who had dog-walked his bullies; you were the legendary player who was going to save his failing dream.
Yunho kept looking at you like an excited puppy who’d just seen a leash, all trembling hands and too-bright eyes, like he might start wagging his entire body if you gave him one more second of attention. You should have told him the truth. You should have said you didn’t even have the game installed, that you only knew the words coming out of his mouth because your roommate, Wooyoung, treated Valorant like a religion and wouldn’t shut up about it. But Yunho was holding the pen out like it was a lifeline, and after what those girls had said to him, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut him down with something as small and stupid as honesty.
Viper.
The second the name left your lips, you wanted to swallow it back down along with the smoke still stinging your throat. You hadn’t even thought about it. It was just a memory of Wooyoung screaming at his monitor at 3:00 AM, something about “toxic screens” and “lineups” while you pounded on the wall telling him to shut the hell up. You bit down on your lower lip, your eyeliner masking the “oh shit” moment happening behind your eyes.
The reaction from Yunho was visceral. He didn’t just freeze—he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His mouth fell open, and for a second, the stuttering stopped completely. Then, he let out a sound that was less a word and more of a high-pitched, strangled whistle. “A... a Viper main?” he squeaked. His voice didn’t just flip; it broke into a dozen different pieces. He looked down at your long black nails, and you watched him swallow so hard his Adam’s apple practically did a backflip. In the game, Viper was a cold, commanding scientist in a skin-tight suit. Looking at you in your leather jacket, looking like you’d just come from a riot, the resemblance was... unfortunate for his heart rate. “You... you play the chemist?” he clutching that clipboard to his chest like it was a shield against his own feelings. “She’s—she’s one of the hardest agents! She’s... sophisticated. D-dangerous. You have to be so... in control to play her.”
Oh, I’m in so much trouble.
Internally, your brain wasn’t just panicking; it was a full-blown room on fire. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you screamed at yourself behind your cool, “unbothered” expression. Who is she?! you frantically demanded of your memory, trying to scrape together every late-night rant you’d ever heard from your roommate. Wooyoung—that loud, chaotic menace—usually spent his nights screaming at his dual monitors while you tried to study. Think, think! You remembered him yelling something about “Mommy Viper” while slamming a peach flavoured Red Bull. You remembered him complaining about a “poison cloud” and something called a “snake bite” that apparently didn’t involve actual snakes. Most importantly, you remembered him mooning over her voice—how she sounded like she was bored of everyone’s existence but would also kill them without blinking.
“I—I have a lot of... respect for Viper mains,” Yunho stammered, his ears glowing a luminous pink. “I mean, I think her kit is... very balanced. And her—her voice lines are—I mean, her strategy is very... intense.” He was lying through his teeth about the “strategy part.” Everyone on the server knew Yunho’s desktop wallpaper was a high-res fanart of Viper looking down at the camera. And here you were, smelling like smoke and looking like you were ready to decay anyone who crossed you.
“She’s the Queen of the Pit, you don’t understand!” Wooyoung had wailed once while you were trying to sleep. “She’s scary, she’s smart, and she makes everyone feel like they’re suffocating!” And now, looking at Yunho—who was literally staring at you like you’d just cured every known disease—you realized you’d accidentally stepped into the most dangerous role of your life.
“Please,” he pleaded, his voice soft and desperate. “Sign it. We need a Viper. I need a Viper.” You looked at the clipboard, but all you could think about was the absolute, ruinous devotion in Yunho’s eyes. He wasn’t just recruiting a teammate; he was recruiting his literal idol.
The pen felt heavy in your hand, like a weapon you didn’t know how to safety-check. Your brain immediately started screaming. What was the line? Ugh, Wooyoung would always say it was the hottest thing any agent ever said—he’d rant about it for hours while his neon-green keyboard light bathed the dorm. And then it hit you, clean and sharp, like a bullet you didn’t see coming.
With a sharp, aggressive flourish, you scrawled your name. The ink was dark and bold, cutting into the paper just like you’d cut through those bullies. You handed the clipboard back, fingers lingering against his for a second too long, and leaned in. “They call me a monster,” you purred, the words vibrating low in your throat, mimicking that bored, lethal rasp you’d heard coming from Wooyoung’s speakers a thousand times. You tilted your head, your smirk growing razor-sharp as you looked at him through the spiderwebbed crack in his glasses. “Shall I prove them right?” You almost cringed at yourself, the internal embarrassment hot enough to melt your make-up, but you forced your face to stay ice-cold. If you were going to commit to this lie, you had to commit all the way. You couldn’t just be the girl who saved him; you had to be the chemist he was currently daydreaming about. Keep it together, you told yourself. Don’t blink. Don’t apologise. What would a ‘monster’ do? You let a slow, icy smirk crawl across your lips, even as your stomach did a nauseating somersault.
Yunho didn’t just freeze; he looked like his soul had been physically yanked out of his chest and replaced with high-voltage electricity. His eyes blew wide, his pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises. The crimson flush didn’t just stay on his cheeks—it raced down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his T-shirt. He let out a sound that wasn’t even human—a tiny, strangled wheeze that sounded like a tea kettle reaching its breaking point. “V-Viper...” the word was barely a breath. He was trembling so hard the clipboard rattled in his hands. The “Gamer Persona” was fighting a losing battle against the “Massive Fanboy,” and the fanboy was currently screaming in a language only gods and nerds understood. To him, the pixels had just stepped out of the screen, put on a leather jacket, and threatened him with a good time.
Holy shit, it worked, your brain hissed, even as your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He actually thinks I’m her. I’m going to hell. I’m literally going to hell for this. You didn’t give him time to recover. You reached out, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw for a split second—a touch so brief it could have been a hallucination, but it made him flinch like he’d been burned. It was the final killing blow. Yunho practically jumped out of his own skin. He looked down at you, his chest heaving, his breath hitching in a way that made it clear he’d forgotten how to use his lungs for anything other than worship.
“I—I—” he fumbled with the clipboard, nearly dropping it twice before he managed to pin it against his chest. “Discord! I need—we need—to coordinate the... the lobby! The server! I have a private channel for the SCU—the Strategic Coordination Union—and I... I need to...” He stopped, blinking rapidly. He looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe, let alone how to operate a smartphone. “I don’t have... I mean, I have a QR code! Somewhere!” He began frantically patting down the pockets of his jeans. He looked like a giant puppy trying to find a lost bone while on a sugar high. “Wait, no, it’s—it’s on the flyer! The one those girls... they...” He looked at the ground where the crumpled, dirty flyers lay, and his face fell for a split second, a flicker of that earlier hurt returning. But then he looked back at you—at Viper who had just claimed him—and the panic returned tenfold. “Just—just tell me!” he squeaked, holding his phone out with both hands as if he were offering you a sacred relic. His hands were shaking so hard the screen was a blur. “What’s your username? I’ll—I’ll add you! I’ll make you an Admin! I’ll give you a custom role! It’ll be neon green! Like—like your... like the pit!”
The username. Your brain went into a full-blown emergency lockdown. What the fuck is my Discord username?! You usually only used it to send Wooyoung memes or tell him to turn his volume down. You blurted it out, praying to every god of gaming that it was correct. Yunho’s thumbs flew across the screen, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in sheer concentration. He hit ‘Send Friend Request’ with a flourish that was almost cinematic. When his phone chirped with the confirmation, he let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. “I'll send you the link at 8:00 PM. We’ll run a warm-up.” He was beaming now, the trauma of the bullying completely overwritten by the sheer, geeky ecstasy of having a Pro Viper on his team.
“Don't be late,” you warned, putting on your best cold-voice one last time as you began to back away. “I have a very low tolerance for... technical difficulties.”
“I’ll be early!” Yunho shouted after you, waving his phone in the air as you walked away. “I’ll be there at 7:30! I’ll be there forever!”
The second you turned the corner and hit the shade of the wall, you collapsed against the brick, your lungs finally burning with the air you’d been holding. Your hands were shaking so hard you almost dropped your phone.
“Wooyoung,” you hissed into a voice note, your voice trembling with pure panic. “You have four hours. If you don’t teach me how to play your game and be a ‘toxic scientist’ Viper by dinner, I am telling everyone you still sleep with a nightlight!”
Your phone buzzed against your hand with such violence you nearly jumped out of your skin.
[1] New Discord MentionServer: Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL)
Channel: #general-tactics
Golden_Retriever_Yunho: GUYS WE HAVE 4TH MEMBER! SHE SIGNED IT!!! I’M LITERALLY SHAKING. SHE CALLED HERSELF A MONSTER. MINGI, SHUT UP, SHE’S GOING TO BE OUR VIPER AND IF YOU ANNOY HER I WILL PERSONALLY UNINSTALL YOUR LIFE.
FixOn_Mingi: lol. i’m scared but also... i’m sat.
“Oh, I’m so dead,” you whispered, sliding down the brick wall until your thighs hit the gravel. “I am a dead person. I’m a corpse.”
Your phone erupted. Wooyoung wasn’t just replying; he was calling. The second you hit ‘accept,’ his voice blasted through the speaker. “A VIPER MAIN?!” Wooyoung screeched, and you could practically hear him falling off his gaming chair. “YOU? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE WASD KEYS ARE! YOU ACCIDENTALLY OPENED THE CALCULATOR THREE TIMES THE LAST TIME YOU TRIED TO PLAY MINESWEEPER!”
“Shut up!” you hissed, clutching the phone to your ear like a weapon. “I had to! He was getting bullied by those three girls, they broke his glasses, and he looked like a kicked puppy. Then I signed the charter and—oh god—I did the voice—the monster line I always hear from your speakers!”
“Wait, wait, wait—hold on. Pause. Full stop,” Wooyoung’s voice dropped from a screech into a sharp, nosy hiss, like he’d just smelled drama in the air. You could hear the frantic squeak of his gaming chair as he scooted closer to the mic. “Who are we even talking about? Since when do you care about the general public? Last week you said men were a ‘distraction from your sleep schedule’ and you meant it with your whole chest.”
You squeezed your eyes shut so hard you saw stars. “It wasn’t about caring. It was about him getting publicly mauled like a wounded deer, and me being biologically allergic to injustice.”
“Uh-huh,” Wooyoung said, drawing the syllable out like he was tasting it for poison. “So you shoved his bullies into a different zip code, lied about being a Viper main, and then role-played a femme fatale voice line at a campus nerd. On purpose?”
You opened your mouth to defend your honour.
He cut you off immediately, his voice climbing an octave. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you actually… ovulating right now? Because the last time your hormones hit that level of insane, you tried to hit on me and I am still severely traumatised! I still see your ‘come hither’ eyes in my nightmares, and let me tell you, they were terrifying! Are you literally in heat for a nerd right now or what is actually happening?!”
“I was NOT in heat!” you snapped, your face turning a shade of red that rivalled Yunho’s earlier meltdown. “And I did NOT hit on you, I was just being—"
“You were being a menace to society!” Wooyoung shouted, deeply offended. “You looked at me like I was a snack-sized bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and I had to lock myself in the bathroom for two hours! And now? Now you’re out here in the wild, using ‘Mommy Voice’ on a nerd who probably looks like he’s never even seen a woman before! It’s predatory! It’s shameless! I’m reporting you to the campus authorities!”
“I was saving him from bullies!”
“By claiming his soul?!” Wooyoung cackled, the sound of his keyboard clacking like a machine gun in the background. “Girl, you didn’t save him, you claimed him. You hit him with the Viper line! That poor boy is probably currently writing your name in his notebook with little hearts around it while he shakes like a leaf. You’ve ruined his life, and frankly? I’m proud. But also, I’m calling a priest.”
“He’s… tall,” you said, the word coming out like a confession of a crime.
Wooyoung gasped so violently he actually smacked his mic. “TALL? Oh my god. Of course. Your type is ‘could carry me to safety’ even though you literally bite people when they try to help you.”
“I do NOT bite people!”
“You bite the air when you’re mad, it counts! Okay. Tall. Glasses. Nervous. Is he rich? Is he sad? Does he look like he needs a hug? Because that’s your kryptonite. You see one pathetic little tremble and suddenly you’re Mother Teresa in heavy eyeliner and a leather jacket.”
“I wasn’t being Mother Teresa!” you hissed, pushing off the brick and starting to pace. Gravel crunched under your boots, sounding like it was being punished for your sins. “They took his glasses, Woo. Like cartoon villains. And he just… stopped. Like his body got unplugged.” There was a beat of silence. Not the teasing kind. The rare, dangerous kind where Wooyoung’s actual brain engaged.
“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping. “Yeah. That’s… actually trash. I’d have kicked them too.” The softness lasted exactly two seconds. “But also,” he added immediately, “you should still be arrested for what you did. ‘They call me a monster’?” He made a choking, gagging sound. “WHO ARE YOU? A Wattpad villain? EXO member? I’m calling the police. The crime is terminal cringe.”
“Shut up!” you yelped, mortified all over again. “It just came out of my mouth! Like vomit! Like a demon possessing my vocal cords!”
“A demon named Mommy Viper,” Wooyoung sang, his voice dripping with glee.
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, feeling the cold metal of your rings against your skin. “I don’t even know what she does, Woo. I just remembered you screaming about her at 3 AM.”
Wooyoung’s inhale was sharp and delighted. “Oh, baby. This is my Super Bowl. This is my villain origin story.” In the background, you heard the familiar click-clack of his mechanical keyboard, the aggressive thunk of his desk drawer opening, and then—like he was summoning a ritual—an energy drink cracked open. Tshhh. “Step one,” Wooyoung’s voice suddenly calmed in a way that made your skin prickle. “You are going to stop pacing like you’re about to fight God. Step two, you have four hours. Four hours to become a toxic scientist with commitment issues. And you’re going to do it because I refuse to let you die of embarrassment on a Discord server.”
You made a strangled noise. “It’s called ‘Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL).’”
“Everything about this is provisional. Your self-control. Your dignity. Your ability to keep a straight face when you see him again.”
“Woo,” you said quietly, staring at the notification on your screen like it was a live grenade. “He’s going to want to… play. With me.”
Wooyoung’s voice softened, just a fraction. Not gentle—he didn’t do gentle—but less jagged. “Then we make you good enough to not get exposed in the first round.”
“And if I do?”
“Oh, you will,” Wooyoung said cheerfully. “But you’re going to get exposed later, after you’ve already emotionally imprinted on the tall nerd boy and he’s already given you a custom neon-green role. We’re playing the long con, Viper.”
“What if he’s… like… actually nice?” you muttered.
Wooyoung made a loud, wet gagging sound. “Oh my god. You’re in heat. I’m hanging up. I’m calling a vet.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Too late! I’m already Googling the nearest 24-hour animal hospital!” Wooyoung was fully committed to the bit now. “I’ll tell them I have a rabid Viper main who needs to be tranquillised and put in a cage before she flirts a 6’2” puppy into a coma!”
“I am going to actually murder you!” you hissed, finally reaching a bus stop, your travel card trembling as you tapped it on the reader. “I’m coming in. If I see one TikTok of a golden retriever on your screen, I’m snapping your keyboard in half.”
“Oh, you’re so scary when you’re feral,” he cooed, his voice dripping with mock-terror. “Listen, I’m sending you a link. Click it. It’s the ‘Viper Voice Lines’ compilation. Listen to it until you can say ‘Come here’ in a way that makes me want to file a restraining order. And for the love of God, stop blushing! I can hear your face getting hot!”
“I’m hanging up now,” you muttered, leaning your forehead against the cool glass of the window.
“Wait! One more thing!” Wooyoung’s voice turned deathly serious, dropping into a dramatic whisper. “If he asks about your ‘lineups,’ just look him dead in the eye and say ‘I don’t need a map to know where to strike.’ It means absolutely nothing and it’s a total lie, but he’ll probably fall to his knees and offer you his firstborn son.”
“You are a menace to society,” you breathed, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat.
“I am your only hope, Monster,” Wooyoung sang. “Now get in here. We have a reputation to build and a tall boy to accidentally-on-purpose traumatize.” The line went dead, leaving you seated with the hum of the bus ringing in your ears and your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You looked down at your phone one last time. A new message was sitting there, glowing in the dim light.
Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Hi. Sorry. I forgot to ask. Do you... do you prefer the Phantom or the Vandal? I want to make sure I buy the right skins for you to use when we swap.
You stared at the message. You didn’t even know what a Phantom was. It sounded like a car. Or a ghost from the opera.
You: Surprise me.
You sent it, your thumb trembling. It was the only “Viper-coded” thing you could think of.
The apartment was no longer a living space; it was a high-stakes command centre for two men who had completely lost their grip on reality. Yunho was practically glowing. He was standing in the middle of the kitchenette, staring at a piece of toast as if it held the secrets to Viper’s heart. “She’s real, Viper is real,” Yunho breathed, his voice swinging wildly between a reverent whisper and a panicked squeak. “She’s real. She’s not just a collection of pixels and voice lines. She wears Dr. Martens. She smells like tobacco and—and justice. She shoved that girl so hard!”
Seonghwa was sitting on the edge of the sofa, a microfibre cloth in one hand and a bottle of lens cleaner in the other. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last hour. He was meticulously trying to polish the smudge off Yunho’s broken glasses, but his eyes were narrowed in deep suspicion. “Yunho, she smells like smoke,” Seonghwa muttered, his voice full of protective fret. “And she was aggressive. From what you just said she’d probably been in a street fight. And I still remember her eyeliner from the other day... It was so heavy. How can you trust someone whose eyes you can’t even see properly? And look at these frames! They’re spiderwebbed! We have to go to the optometrist or you’re going to get a migraine.”
“I don’t need eyes where we’re going!” Yunho shouted, throwing his arms out. “She’s a pro-tier! She’s a Viper main! Do you know what she said to me? She looked me dead in the eye—the broken lens side—and she said, ‘Shall I prove them right?’ I nearly died. I actually felt my soul leave my body.”
From the corner of the room, a loud, muffled thud sounded. Mingi, who had been sprawled across his gaming chair with his headset on, suddenly ripped his ears off. He spun around, his jaw practically hitting his knees. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide with a very specific, very desperate brand of terror. “Wait, back up. Did you just say... a Viper main? Who quoted the ‘Monster’ line?”
“Yes!” Yunho beamed, tripping over a stray power cord in his excitement.
Mingi’s face went completely pale. He looked at his second monitor, where a high-res wallpaper of Viper stood in her emerald-green gas. Then he looked at Yunho. Then he looked at the door as if he expected you to kick it down right now. “No way,” he whispered, “No. Way. That’s—that’s the dream! Yun, if she’s actually a pro Viper... I’m trash. I’m literally garbage beneath her boots. You realise she’s going to eat us alive, right?”
“I want her to!” Yunho yelled, completely unhinged. “I mean—tactically! I want her to lead!”
Seonghwa stood up, holding the cracked glasses out like a peace offering, though his face was a mask of pure worry. “This is a disaster. You’re both in love with a girl who sounds like she’s going to set the apartment on fire. Yunnie, please, put these on. At least see the girl clearly before you give her your social security number.”
“I don't need to see!” Yunho cheered, grabbing the glasses and sliding them on, the crack splitting his vision of the room into fragments. “8:00 PM, boys! The Queen is coming to the Pit, and I haven’t even vacuumed!”
Mingi scrambled to his feet, suddenly frantic. “Vacuum? Screw the vacuum! Hyung, help me find my good jersey! The one that makes my shoulders look broad!”
Seonghwa just sank back onto the couch, buried his face in his hands, and whispered a silent prayer for their sanity—and their internet bandwidth.
“I’m going to marry her,” Yunho announced proudly, his voice reaching a frequency that made the nearby windows rattle. “I don’t care if she’s a monster. I’ll be her monster-husband. We’ll have a green-themed wedding. Everyone will have to wear gas masks. It’ll be aesthetic.”
“You met her an hour ago! She shoved a girl! She threatened to drag someone across the pavement! She probably has a criminal record!”
“She has a vision!” Yunho lunged for a notebook and began scribbling frantically. “I need to know her favourite map. If it’s Bind, we’re honeymooning in Morocco. If it’s Icebox, I’m buying a puffer jacket. I’m already looking at engagement rings—do they make them with miniature poison canisters? Is that a thing? Mingi, look it up!”
Mingi wasn’t looking anything up. He was currently having a spiritual experience in his gaming chair. He had draped a green hoodie over his head like a cowl and was staring at his reflection in his darkened monitor. “I’ve decided,” he whispered, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely delusional. “I’m going to be her loyal guard dog. I’ll be the one who dies for her. Every round. I’ll run into the line of fire just so she can get one extra kill. We’re going to be a power couple, Yunho! You, me, and the Goddess of the Pit!” Mingi yelled, spinning his chair around.
“That’s a throuple! That’s a completely different team comp!”
Seonghwa could hear the sound of his own blood pressure rising. “She is a girl with a cigarette and a bad attitude,” he moaned into his palms. “She is going to join the server, realise you two are barking like stray dogs, and she’s going to delete us. She’s going to delete our whole lives.”
“She’s a pro-tier!” Yunho squeaked, ignoring his hyung entirely as he started practicing his ‘cool gamer voice’ in the microwave door reflection. “‘Welcome to the team, Viper-nim. I’ve prepared three different site-executes and a bouquet of black roses.’ No, that’s too much. ‘Hey, Queen. Ready to decay?’ Yes. That’s the one.”
Mingi started doing push-ups in the middle of the living room. “I have to be in peak physical condition,” he gasped between reps. “What if she wants to 1v1 me? I have to have the stamina to lose gracefully!”
“THE GAME IS PLAYED WITH YOUR HANDS, SONG MINGI!” Seonghwa screamed, finally snapping. “PUT YOUR DAMN COMPUTER GLASSES BACK ON, SIT DOWN, AND PRAY SHE DOESN’T REALISE WE’RE ALL IDIOTS!”
But it was too late. The delusion had taken root. In their minds, the wedding bells were already ringing.
You slammed the door behind you with a force that made the pictures on the wall rattle, your boots thudding against the hardwood as you sprinted toward the living room. The apartment smelled like spicy ramen and Red Bull. “WOOYOUNG!” you bellowed, the panic finally boiling over. You rounded the corner into the living room, and the sight stopped you dead. Wooyoung was slumped in his $500 ergonomic gaming chair, back-lit by the neon violet and acid-green glow of his dual monitors. He was wearing his oversized hoodie, his black hair a chaotic mess where he’d clearly been tugging at it in anticipation. He didn’t even turn around; he just held up a single, dramatic finger while his other hand flew across the mechanical keyboard in a blur of click-clack-clack-clack.
“Don’t speak,” he commanded, his voice tight with focus. “I’m in the middle of a clutch. If I die now, it’s a bad omen for your entire fake career.” A second later, a loud, metallic SHINK sounded from the speakers, followed by a frantic cheering noise. Wooyoung threw his hands up, spun the chair around with a violent kick of his heels, and levelled a look at you that could have withered a cactus. “You,” he said, pointing a half-eaten pocky stick at your face. “You are the harbinger of my demise. Look at you. You’re practically glowing. You look like you just committed a felony and enjoyed it.”
“I’m in a crisis!” You collapsed onto the beanbag next to his desk, burying your face in your hands. “He’s... he’s so earnest. He’s 6’2” and earnest and I’m a liar!”
Wooyoung leaned back in that stupidly expensive chair, one knee bouncing with rhythmic, caffeinated energy. The neon from his monitors carved hard edges into his face, making him look like he’d been rendered in the same high-stakes engine you were about to embarrass yourself in. He looked you up and down, a slow, theatrical scan that felt like a character inspection. “Oh,” he said, his voice syrupy with a judgment so thick you could drown in it. “So this is what we’re doing tonight. We’re doing panic-romance cosplay. We’re really committing to the bit.”
You dragged your hands down your face, the cold metal of your rings dragging against your skin, and made a noise that was half groan, half prayer. “It wasn’t romance. It was—it was triage. Battlefield medicine, Woo.”
“Sure.” He clicked his tongue, his eyes glittering with delight. “Medical emergency. You had to administer CPR with your mouth. On his self-esteem. Very heroic.”
“I didn’t—” you snapped up, then immediately deflated. “I didn’t administer anything.”
Wooyoung raised his brows, his grin stretching wide enough to show teeth. “You literally said, in your best ‘Mommy Viper’ voice—” he deepened his tone into a velvety, gravelly imitation that made your skin crawl, “They call me a monster. Shall I prove them right?”
You grabbed a throw pillow off the beanbag and hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder with a soft whump and fell to the floor like it was ashamed to be involved. He didn’t even flinch. He just smiled wider, like you’d fed him exactly what he wanted. “Don’t do that,” you hissed. “Don’t repeat it. It sounds worse when someone else says it.”
“It sounded like a war crime when you said it, too,” he corrected. “Okay. Tell me everything again. From the top. But this time, don’t downplay it. I want the unedited director’s cut. I want the part where the 6’2” puppy looks at you like you’re his owner.”
You folded your arms so tight your leather jacket creaked. “I am not doing this.”
“Then I’m not teaching you how to use a Snake Bite,” he said, instantly businesslike. He spun his chair back to the screen. “Good luck telling Mr. Golden Retriever that your ‘toxic screens’ are actually just you running into walls.”
The silence lasted exactly two beats before your pride crumbled. “…He looked at me like a puppy,” you muttered, the confession tasting like ash.
Wooyoung slammed a palm on his desk like he’d just won the lottery. “YES! That’s the juice! Okay. Continue.”
You glared. “He was getting bullied. They took his glasses. Like cartoon villains.”
Wooyoung’s expression sharpened for half a second—real irritation, real disgust—before the chaos reasserted itself. “Okay, no. That’s actually vile. That’s ‘getting shoved into a locker in a 90s movie’ behaviour. I’d have bit them too.”
“I didn’t bite them. I shoved one of them. And then,” you prompted yourself, your voice going small, “he looked at me like I was a limited edition collectible that just dropped.”
“The tall nerd looked at you like you were a limited-time mythic skin,” Wooyoung corrected, then pointed at you like a prosecutor. “And then you lied. You lied right to his face. You said you main Viper. You, a woman who thinks a ‘ping’ is the sound a microwave makes.”
“It just—came out!” you said miserably. “It was either that or admit I didn’t play and then he’d feel stupid for asking, and he’d already had his glasses broken!”
“Ah.” Wooyoung’s tone went mock-soft. “So you committed identity fraud out of compassion. You’re a saint. A saint in a push-up bra and combat boots.” He sat back, hands behind his head, looking blissful as the green light from the monitor bathed him in a villainous glow. “God, you’re so insane. I love this for us.”
“You’re not helping.”
“No, I am helping,” he corrected. “I’m helping by bullying you into competence. That boy has already gotten attached to you. If you load into a game and stand there staring at the floor like a baby deer with a concussion, he’s going to lose it. You’ll kill him. His heart will actually stop.”
“I don’t stare at the floor!”
Wooyoung’s eyes widened with fake offence. “You stare at the floor professionally! Last month you walked into a door because you were mad and refused to look at your surroundings!”
“That door started it.”
“It was a push door, you psycho!” Wooyoung exhaled through his nose, trying to keep it together. He failed. His laugh cracked out sharp and loud, and he actually had to wipe his eyes. Then he snapped his fingers and spun back to his monitors, suddenly all business. “Alright, Monster,” he announced, opening Valorant with the gravitas of a general. “Sit. Hands on keyboard. No, not like you’re about to perform surgery. Like you’re about to commit a felony.” You slid onto the floor beside his desk, back against the sofa, and eyed the keyboard like it might bite. “Stop looking like that. WASD won’t hurt you.”
“The last time I tried, I opened fourteen menus and a calculator.”
“That was iconic,” he said warmly.
You groaned. “I hate this.”
“You love this! You’re in your little ‘I did something stupid and now I’m emotionally invested’ era.”
“I’m not emotionally invested.”
He turned slowly in his chair. The silence was lethal.
“…He asked what skin I wanted,” you confessed, your voice barely a whisper.
Wooyoung’s face did something violent. He clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “HE ASKED ABOUT SKINS? ON DAY ONE?”
“Yes,” you snapped, defensive. “Isn’t that a normal thing you gamer people ask?”
“That’s not ‘normal,’ that’s a dowry!” Wooyoung shouted. “That’s offering you resources! That’s—oh my god—he’s nesting! He’s building you a little green toxic pit to live in!”
“It’s not like that!”
Wooyoung stared at you, deadpan. “What did you say?”
You froze. “I told him to surprise me.”
He pointed at you again, his finger inches from your nose. “You. Told. Him. To. Surprise. You. That is the Viper equivalent of saying ‘I’m yours, do what you want with me.’”
“I PANICKED.”
“You didn’t panic,” he said, voice dripping with delight. “You purred through text.” You made a sound that could’ve been a scream if you had any dignity left. You shoved your face into your knees. “Look at me,” Wooyoung ordered. You peeked out. He held up two fingers. “How many brain cells do you have left?”
“None. They’ve all evaporated.”
“Correct.” He patted your cheek twice. “Okay. We do not have time for shame. Shame is for people who don’t have a Discord match at eight. Now, hit me with the line. In your Viper voice. Like you’re bored. Like you’ve never once apologised in your entire life.”
You swallowed. “This is stupid.”
“Say it.”
You inhaled, forced your shoulders down, forced your face into ice-cold stillness. “They call me a monster.”
Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Wait. Okay. That was—unfortunately—very good.”
“Shall I prove them right?” you added, your voice dropping into that lethal, bored rasp.
Wooyoung made a noise like someone witnessing a masterpiece. “Oh my god. You’re actually evil. And now? Now we’re going to learn how to throw a smoke so you can be evil with evidence!” He clicked into the practice range. The screen filled with targets. “Alright, W-A-S-D. Try not to hit my desk like it owes you money. You’re Viper. You slither. You don’t stomp.” You set your fingers down. You pressed W. Your character lurched forward like a drunk baby. Wooyoung slapped his desk and cackled. “YES! That’s it! That’s my girl! That’s my pro-tier controller! Look at you go!”
“STOP,” you snapped, trying to correct. You slammed into a wall.
Wooyoung wheezed. “A NATURAL. A GODDESS. THE QUEEN OF THE PIT HAS ARRIVED AND SHE IS CURRENTLY STUCK IN A CORNER.”
“Wait.” You froze, your character currently spinning in circles on the screen because you’d accidentally sat on the mouse. “Wooyoung. Look at me.”
Wooyoung stopped cackling long enough to wipe a tear from his eye. “I’m looking, but I don’t see a pro-player. I see a girl who just tried to ‘shoot’ a tree.”
“You’re going to play,” you said, the realisation finally coming to you. “I’ll be on the Discord call. I’ll have my mic on. But the screen? The gameplay? That’s all you.”
Wooyoung’s eyes widened. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, radiating pure, unholy energy. “A Ratatouille play? You want me to be the little mouse under your leather jacket pulling the strings?” He slammed his hands together. “Y/N, that is diabolical. That is fraud. That is... the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Can you do it?” you asked, leaning in. “Can you play on your PC while I talk to them on my laptop?”
“Can I?” Wooyoung scoffed, “I can play Viper with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. I’ll make you look like a god. I’ll hit shots so clean Yunho will think he’s hallucinating!” He paused, pointing a finger at you. “But you? You have to keep the act up. If I get a Triple Kill, you don’t cheer. You don’t giggle. You stay cold. You stay... bored.”
“I can do bored,” you whispered, trying to channel the ice in your veins.
“And,” Wooyoung added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, “if I clutch a 1v4, you have to say something so toxic it makes their toes curl. None of that ‘good job team’ trash. I want ‘Don’t get in my way again.’”
[Voice Channel] Strategic Digital...
Golden_Retriever_Yunho is in the channel.
StarHwa_04 is in the channel.
FixOn_Mingi is in the channel.
“They’re in,” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. You put on your headset, adjusting the mic until it was hovering right by your lips.
Wooyoung settled into his chair, his expression going dead-serious. He cracked his knuckles, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his dark eyes. “Alright, Monster. Hide your screen. Open your mic. Let’s go make a puppy fall in love with a lie.”
You clicked ‘Join.’ The silence in the channel was immediate. You could practically hear the collective sharp intake of breath on the other end.
“...Hello?” Yunho’s voice came through, sounding of pure, unadulterated nerves. “V-Viper? Are you there?”
You looked at Wooyoung. He gave you a sharp nod, his fingers already dancing over the keys as he loaded into the lobby. You leaned back, hooded your eyes, and let out a long, slow sigh—the sound of someone who had better things to do than exist. “I’m here,” you rasped, the tone low and dangerous. “Don’t make me regret it.”
On the other end of the line, you heard a muffled thump—the distinct sound of Yunho’s forehead hitting his desk—and a faint, wheezing moan from Mingi.
“She’s here,” Mingi whispered, sounding terrified and delighted. “Hyung, she’s actually here. I think I’m going to faint.”
Wooyoung’s fingers moved like they were possessed—clean, lazy arcs on the mouse, taps that sounded bored even when they were lethal. He loaded you into a custom lobby with the practiced ease of a magician making a coin disappear: fast enough that no one could see the trick, but smooth enough to feel like an insult.
Yunho, on the other end, made a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a prayer. “O-okay. Great. Custom. Yes. Uh—what map do you want?”
You leaned closer to the mic, letting your voice go low, flat, and unimpressed. “Anything.” The silence that followed was immediate and devotional.
“Anything,” Mingi repeated, his voice hushed like he was standing in a cathedral. “She said anything. Hwa, she’s literally the main character.”
Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound tiny and careful. “Yunho-ya. Pick one. Before you actually pass out.”
Yunho’s laugh came out strangled. “Right. Yes. I’m—sorry. I’m picking. I’m fine.” You could hear the lie cracking over. On screen, Viper stood in the agent preview, all sleek confidence and emerald poison. Wooyoung selected her with a flick that looked like pure contempt. Yunho’s voice went even quieter. “You’re… actually locking Viper.”
“Obviously,” you said.
Mingi made a low, wounded noise. “I would die for you.”
“Don’t say that,” Seonghwa snapped immediately.
“I’m not saying it like a threat!” Mingi rushed, his voice jumping an octave. “I’m saying it like—like… a service. Like customer support. I am at your disposal, Queen.”
Wooyoung’s laughter hit the mic by accident—a short, sharp cough of amusement that was far too masculine to be yours.
Yunho froze. You could hear the sudden stillness in his breathing. “Who was that?” Your spine went rigid, Wooyoung stopped moving so abruptly even Viper’s idle animation looked like it was waiting for permission to breathe.
Seonghwa’s voice slid in, quick and protective. “Yunho. Don’t be weird.”
But Yunho didn’t back off. He never did when the strategy felt off. “It sounded like… a guy,” he said, the words measured and dangerous. He was holding an angle now, his mental crosshair trained right on the centre of your lie. “Is someone there with you, Viper?”
You let the pause stretch. One beat. Two. Long enough for the panic to rise. Then you said, bored to the bone, “My roommate. He’s not involved.”
A long, shaky inhale on Yunho’s mic. Then, quieter: “Okay.” He sounded like he was pretending not to care, but the air in the call had shifted. The ‘Golden Retriever’ had just tilted his head, sensing a stranger in the yard.
Mingi, trying desperately to stop the server from imploding, blurted, “Yeah, okay, cool! Roommates are normal! I have roommates! Like… Seonghwa and Yunho. And shadows. And my own crippling student debt!”
“Please stop talking,” Seonghwa muttered.
Wooyoung started the warm-up. The first shot cracked. A headshot. Clean.
Yunho inhaled so hard it whistled. “Oh my god.” Another headshot. Another. A string of taps that sounded like an execution.
Mingi’s voice went reverent again. “She’s farming. She’s actually harvesting their souls.”
Wooyoung leaned closer to your shoulder, his eyes bright with unholy chaos, and mouthed: Say something toxic. Now. Your mouth went dry. You forced the voice back into place. Cold. Controlled. “Keep up.”
There was a small, broken sound from Yunho’s mic—the sound of someone trying to swallow their own heart. “Y-yes,” he breathed, immediate and automatic.
“I’m going to throw up,” Mingi whispered.
“Great,” you said, flat. “Do it off-mic.”
The match was pure chaos. Wooyoung was playing like a possessed demon, flicking the mouse so fast the screen was a blur of green smoke and headshots. Meanwhile, you were leaning into the mic, delivering lines that made Yunho and Mingi lose their minds. Your eyes were glazed over, staring at a monitor that had become a fever dream. You watched a tiny digital woman in a gas mask sprint while the world exploded around her. Wooyoung was a frantic, blur-motion mess next to you. His fingers were dancing over the mechanical keys like he was playing a Mozart concerto at 2x speed. Every time he clicked, a loud CRACK echoed, followed by a little skull icon popping up. You had no idea what was happening.
The round timer bled out in the corner of the screen, but Wooyoung was bleeding the bots out faster. His fingers were a blur of violent, efficient motion—the only sound in the room was the rhythmic, aggressive clack-clack-clack of his mechanical keyboard.
“Last one,” Yunho said, his voice tight with a mix of awe and pure adrenaline. You could hear the desperation in his mouse-hand through the mic, the way he was trying to sound captain-like and failing miserably under the weight of his own crush. “We’ll—uh—we’ll run one more execute. A-site. I’ll entry, you wall, Mingi trades. Seonghwa… Seonghwa, you just… vibe.”
“Strategic contribution: vibes,” Seonghwa echoed flatly, sounding like a man who had already accepted his fate.
Mingi made a strangled noise. “I’m contributing my life insurance policy. I think my heart just did a backflip and died.”
Wooyoung’s fingers hovered over the keys, his eyes darting to you with a manic grin. You leaned closer to the mic, hooding your eyes, and let your voice go low, flat, and lethally bored. “Stop talking,” you rasped. “Start moving.”
Yunho’s sharp inhale hit the channel like a stun grenade. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
On Wooyoung’s screen, the world was an emerald blur. A wall cut vision. A cloud bloomed with the lazy precision of someone who had done this a thousand times and hated everyone involved. Yunho tried to follow the plan. Mingi tried to follow Yunho. Seonghwa tried to follow the minimap, walked into a corner, sighed, and corrected himself like the wall had offended him personally.
Then, Wooyoung swung. Tap. Tap. Two skulls flashed on the screen. A third followed instantly. The kill banner hissed.
“Holy—” Mingi’s voice cut off into a breathy, hysterical wheeze. “She’s—she’s—Yunho, I’m going to file a formal complaint with God. This isn’t fair.”
Yunho’s mic crackled with the sound of frantic movement. “I—okay—okay, we’re up! Site is clear! Plant, plant, plant!” You watched the spike go down. You watched the last bot step into the poison like it owed you money. Wooyoung ended it with a flick so fast it barely looked real.
VICTORY.
Silence reigned in the Discord. It was the kind of silence usually reserved for witnessing a miracle or a car crash.
Then Yunho spoke, his voice sounding like it had been ripped out of a very small, terrified body. “That was… perfect.”
Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound of a man trying to reboot the universe. “Yunho-ya. You are being weird again. Your breathing is audible.”
“I’m not being weird!” Yunho protested immediately—the verbal equivalent of tripping on a flat surface. “I’m being… appreciative. Professional. Captain-like!”
Mingi whispered, his voice thick with reverence. “Captain-like. Sure, buddy.”
Wooyoung elbowed you lightly, a silent, chaotic go on. You made your voice colder. Sharper. The kind of tone that made people sit up straighter even through cheap headsets. “If you’re done worshipping,” you said, “schedule the meeting. Get your five names. And fix the comms. I don’t work with amateurs.”
Yunho choked on air, and the sound of him hitting his forehead against his desk filled your ears. “Y-yes. Yes. We’ll do that. Absolutely. Tonight.” A frantic, high-stakes pause. “Also—uh—do you… want to queue? Like, an actual game? Not customs. If you’re… if you’re not busy. If you’re not going to—you know—delete us from your life.”
Mingi exhaled like a man walking toward a guillotine. “Queueing with her is how people die, Yunho. I’m not ready to meet my maker.”
Seonghwa’s voice went soft, a warning. “Yunho. Don’t push it.”
You glanced at Wooyoung. His grin was pure criminal intent, his fingers already hovering over the ‘Queue’ button. You turned back to the mic, leaned in, and let the lie take its throne. “Queue,” you said, your voice a silken threat. “One.”
Yunho made a sound that was half victory-yelp and half cardiac event. “O-okay! Okay! One! One is good! One is—yes! Loading now!”
The lobby clicked. Match Found.
On the other end of the line, Yunho whispered like he was praying to a Goddess he didn't quite understand. “Welcome to the team.”
The campus cafe was a circle of hell. It smelled of burnt espresso and the metallic tang of wet umbrellas, the air thick and humid from too many students crammed into a space designed for half their number. You sat in the corner booth—the only quiet spot you’d managed to snag by sheer intimidation—and stared down your third cup of coffee. It was lukewarm, the surface of the liquid filmed over with a depressing sheen. You hated lukewarm things; they felt like indecision.
That was when you saw him. Jeong Yunho was impossible to miss. He moved through the crowd like a lighthouse in a storm, a head taller than everyone else, his blonde hair a messy, ashy halo where he’d clearly been stressing at his scalp. He looked like a deer caught in high-beams, clutching a paper bag and a volume of manga tucked tightly under his bicep.
His eyes scanned the room, desperate for a square inch of table space, until they landed on you. For a split second, the tactical genius who led your group through the trenches of the server—glimmered in his gaze. Then, reality hit. His eyes widened behind the spiderweb crack in his glasses, his ears turned a vivid, violent shade of pink, and he immediately whipped his head toward a ‘No Smoking’ sign, staring at it like it contained the secrets of the universe.
You rolled your eyes, the movement sharp and impatient. On the server, he was a frantic, commanding presence. Here? He looked like he wanted to phase through the drywall. “Jeong Yunho!” The name didn’t just leave your mouth; it cut through the cafe’s roar like a sniper round. A few freshmen at the next table jumped, nearly sloshing their lattes.
Yunho froze mid-step, his shoulders hiking up to his ears as he squeezed the paper bag until it crinkled. Slowly, like a man walking toward a guillotine, he turned back. “Oh! Hi—hey. Is it ‘hi’ or ‘hey’?” His voice cracked, pitching higher than anything remotely “Captain-like.” He stumbled forward, long limbs suddenly clumsy in the cramped space. “I didn’t... I didn’t see you there, Viper. I mean—Member Four. I mean... Hi. Or hey. Whatever you prefer.”
“Liar,” you said flatly. You didn’t move your bag from the seat; you just gestured with a sharp tilt of your chin. “Sit. Before someone else tries to take this table, and I have to bite them.”
He slid into the booth, his knees immediately knocking against yours under the small table. The contact was electric—the heat of his jeans searing against your skin. He recoiled as if he’d been hit with a taser, a frantic, “Sorry, sorry, so sorry,” tumbling out of his mouth as he tried to tuck his frame into the tiny space.
“What’s in the bag?”
He blinked, his long lashes fluttering behind his lenses, then slowly pulled out a bagel. A plain bagel. No cream cheese, no golden toasted edges, no life. Just a beige circle of misery. “A bagel,” he stated.
You stared at the dry bread, then up at him, your eyes narrowing. “A plain bagel? No toppings? Are you a Victorian orphan or a psychopath?”
Yunho let out a small, startled laugh—the sound was rich and warm, the first glimpse of the boy you actually knew from the server. “It’s efficient!” he defended, a spark of playfulness dancing in his eyes. He lifted the book slightly. “I don't have to worry about getting cream cheese on my manga. And it‘s... it’s comforting. Quiet. Like a reset for my brain.”
“You’re weird,” you muttered, but you took a long, judgmental sip of your coffee to hide the fact that your pulse was starting to sync up with the frantic rhythm of his.
“And you’re addicted to caffeine,” he countered, voice dropping an octave, gaining a sliver of that server confidence as he leaned in just a fraction. He noticed the two empty cups, and his gaze softened, trailing up to the dark circles under your eyes. “Are you okay? You look like you’re ready to delete the entire campus if someone breathes too loud.”
“I might,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching despite your best efforts. You leaned forward, bracing your chin on your hand, letting the Viper mask slip just enough to let a predatory, teasing light into your eyes. “But honestly? It’s hard to stay grumpy when you’re sitting there looking like an adorable puppy in a cute sweater.”
Yunho had just shoved a massive, ambitious hunk of dry bagel into his mouth. Then, he froze. His eyes blew wide, the pupils expanding until they nearly swallowed the iris. For a heartbeat, there was total silence. Then, his lungs remembered they needed oxygen, and his throat remembered it was currently occupied by a dense ball of un-toasted dough. “—Guh?!” He started hacking, a frantic, wet wheeze that sounded like a vacuum cleaner sucking up a sock.
“Oh my god,” you deadpanned, watching as he flailed, his long arms nearly knocking over your third coffee cup. “Don’t die. The Captain dying of a bagel-related injury is not the lore I signed up for!”
“I—cough—I’m—wheeze—” Yunho grabbed his water bottle, his fingers fumbling so hard he nearly dropped it into his lap. He took a desperate, undignified gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. He finally managed to swallow, letting out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp. “You...” his eyes watered behind his cracked lenses. “You can’t just... deploy compliments like that! That’s a violation of the Geneva Convention!”
“It was just an observation,” you said, your voice dropping back into that silken purr, though your heart was currently doing a drum solo against your ribs. “You do have a very... symmetrical face. Even with the broken glasses.”
Yunho looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He leaned back so hard the back of the booth groaned in protest. “Symmetrical? Symmetrical is for geometry! I’m—I’m a mess! I have bread crumbs on my One Piece!” He frantically brushed at the pages of his book, his movements jerky and chaotic. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to destabilise my mental state so I’ll miss my skill shots tonight.”
“Is it working?” you asked, tilting your head.
Yunho went quiet, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention from the industrial lighting. “Why are you being nice to me?” he asked, and the humour was suddenly gone.
You didn’t answer immediately. Your eyes were locked on his hand—the one pointing at you with that trembling, accusatory finger. Up close, without the barrier of a glowing monitor, his hands were… ruinous. They were massive, his long, elegant fingers spanning half the width of the table. You could see the faint, rhythmic pulse in the blue veins tracing paths over his knuckles, stretching taut under his pale skin. His hand was shaking—just a fraction—a sign of the absolute system crash you were causing him. It made your stomach do a slow, heavy roll. You wanted to see if those hands felt as warm as they looked. You wanted to see if they’d go still if you covered them with yours. You wanted to fell them against your—
Your stomach dropped.
No, not metaphorically. Not the cute little flutter people wrote poems about. This was a full, violent plunge like your organs had missed a step on the stairs and decided to take the rest of you with them. Heat rolled up your throat, sharp and humiliating, and for one terrifying second you couldn’t tell if it was adrenaline or nausea or something worse—something soft—curling in your ribs. Get it together. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. You were supposed to be the cold thing. The monster voice. The leather jacket. The girl who could shove a bully three feet and keep walking. But the way his fingers shook and the way his voice went honest on that single question—Why are you being nice to me?—hit you so clean it made your brain stutter. Oh no. Oh no. This was the exact moment you realized you weren’t playing a bit anymore. Your body had already made a decision without asking you. And now you were sitting here, staring at his hands like a starving person, while panic clawed up the inside of your chest because wanting things was a liability and you were suddenly, catastrophically aware of how much you wanted this one.
“Nice?” You finally spoke, your voice dropping into that low register that usually sent Mingi into a panic. You reached out, slow and deliberate, and used your index finger to gently, slowly push his trembling hand down until his palm was flat against the cold laminate of the table. His skin was like a furnace. The contact sent a jolt of pure static through your fingertips. “I’m not being nice, Yunho,” you whispered, leaning in until you could see the way his pupils flared, swallowing the honey-brown of his irises. “I’m being observant. There’s a difference.”
Yunho’s breath hitched but he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers twitched under yours, his large palm instinctively trying to cup your smaller hand. “It feels…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that was distractingly masculine. His voice was now, a voice of a man who was very, very aware of the girl sitting across from him. “It feels like a trap. Like you’re waiting for my guard to drop so you can… delete me.” His eyes darted to the coffee-stained napkins. “I mean… girls don’t usually… talk to me. Not like this. I mean—it’s not like I don’t like girls! I do! I really do! It’s just—the efficiency—the social energy—it’s just—” He cut himself off with a strangled noise.
You stared at him for a long, flat second. The cafe’s humidity seemed to condense right in the space between you, making your skin feel tight and your coffee-fuelled heart thrum. “Breathe.”
He did not. His lips parted, but no sound followed. His gaze flicked to your hand—where your fingers were still casually draped over his—like it was a grenade with the pin pulled. Then his eyes jumped to your mouth, then away so fast the movement bordered on physical pain. His shoulders hiked another inch, his massive frame trying to crawl into the sanctuary of his oversized hoodie and vanish into the cotton.
“Oh,” you muttered, unimpressed, though your own pulse was starting to hammer against your ribs. “So that’s where we’re at.” Yunho’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. A tiny, pathetic noise—something between a wheeze and a whimper—escaped him. You leaned back in the booth, crossing your free arm over your chest, your expression carved into something bored and sharp. The Viper mask settled over your face like a habit. Like armour. Like a bad decision you kept making on purpose because the alternative—being vulnerable—was a “Game Over” you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to deliver a presentation,” you said, your tone dropping into that lethal, low-register rasp. “Just breathe.”
His fingers twitched under yours. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint, rhythmic tremor of his large knuckles. “D-do you—” he started, then immediately failed. His voice snapped up an octave, betrayed him, and then vanished entirely into the steam of the espresso machine.
You sighed, slow and dramatic, like his software was personally inconveniencing your day. “Captain. Your brain just alt-tabbed.” The effect was instant. Yunho made a sound that should not have come out of a human being—a high-pitched glitch of a gasp. His mouth opened. Nothing. He shut it. Opened it again. You watched him quietly implode, chin propped in your palm, observing him. “Mmm,” you hummed, deadpan. “It still runs on the ‘Captain’ trigger. Good to know.” His hand finally jerked—too fast, too clumsy—trying to pull away from the contact, but your finger pinned him down with casual, precise pressure. You dug your nail slightly into the skin of his wrist, right where his pulse was thumping. He froze, his breath hitching so hard his chest hit the edge of the table. You leaned in just enough to make the air between you feel electric. “You’re allowed to like girls,” you said, sounding almost bored, though you were tracking the way his pupils flared. “You’re also allowed to talk. Without apologising for existing every three seconds.” Yunho swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the table as if the wood grain could save him. You clicked your tongue, “Look at me.”
He tried. It was the saddest, most beautiful attempt at bravery you’d ever seen. His long lashes fluttered, his gaze landing somewhere near your shoulder before drifting toward your eyes like it had to cross a literal battlefield to get there. “I’m—”
You lifted a brow, your thumb starting a slow, ruinous circle over the back of his hand, feeling the prominent veins under his skin. “If you say ‘sorry,’ I’m going to bite your bagel.”
His head snapped up, genuine horror masking the blush for a split second. “D-don’t—! It’s dry! You’ll choke!”
You let the corner of your mouth twitch. Not a smile—just a crack in the ice. “Efficient.”
Yunho stared at your mouth like it had committed a federal crime. His fingers—still trapped under yours—curled involuntarily, his large palm seeking yours, wanting to hold on even as his brain told him to run. “I… I do like you,” he blurted. He looked like he wanted to eject his soul from his body and haunt the cafe instead. “Not like— I mean— as a person— and also— the utility— and—” He stopped as he realized he was rambling.
You tilted your head, eyes narrowed, voice dry as his sad bread. “Pick one sentence and finish it, Captain.”
Yunho’s throat bobbed. He took a breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as he finally met your eyes. “I like you,” he said again. Smaller. Realer. Without the stutter.
You held his gaze, your expression still grumpy, still sharp. But your thumb did something traitorous—it dragged, once, slowly, over the edge of his knuckle like you owned the right to touch him. “Yeah,” you said finally, as if it didn’t matter. As if it wasn’t making your heart feel three sizes too big for your chest. “I figured.” You leaned in further, so close the scent of his woodsy cologne mingled with your stale coffee. “And for the record? If I wanted to delete you, Yunho, I would’ve done it already.” You let your gaze drop to his mouth for one, lethal second. “So stop flinching like you’re about to get patched out of existence. It’s annoying.”
Yunho didn’t just smile; he beamed. It was like someone had flicked a switch and flooded the dark cafe with pure, unadulterated sunlight. His entire body seemed to expand, his shoulders dropping from his ears as he let out a shaky, relieved laugh. “Copy that, Member Four,” he chirped, the stutter completely gone, replaced by the giddy energy of a man who’d just secured a legendary drop. He grabbed his dry bagel and took a massive, triumphant bite, looking like he’d just won the World Championship.
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and standing up. The Viper mask was back on, sharp and cold, but as you turned to walk away, you stopped. “Enjoy your bread, Captain,” you called out over your shoulder.
You were slumped on the sofa, a condensation-slicked bottle of beer dangling from your fingertips.
“You’re doing it again,” Wooyoung was sprawled in the armchair opposite you, his legs draped over the side. He popped the cap off his second bottle with his teeth—a move that was 100% for drama—and leveled you with a look that was way too sharp for someone three beers in.
“Doing what?” you muttered, taking a long, defensive swig of your beer.
“The stare. You’re looking at that bottle like you’re calculating its trajectory into someone’s skull.” Wooyoung leaned forward, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. His dark eyes glittered with the kind of mischief that usually ended in a campus-wide scandal. “Is it the Captain? Did the Golden Retriever finally trip over his own oversized paws?”
You let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. “Woo,” you said, your voice cracking just enough to be pathetic. “I’m fucked.”
Wooyoung’s entire aura shifted. He didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t say it would be okay. He let out a cackle—that loud, high-pitched, signature siren-wail that echoed off the kitchen tiles. “I KNEW IT!” He practically teleported to the sofa, shoving your legs aside to claim the spot next to you. “Tell me everything. Did he cry? Did he stutter? Did he do that thing where he looks like he’s trying to swallow his own tongue because you breathed in his general direction?”
“He bought a plain bagel, Woo. A plain bagel.” You stared into the amber liquid of your bottle, feeling the heat of the memory creeping up your neck. “And I touched his hand. To pin him down. And his pulse… It was frantic. And he said he liked me.”
Wooyoung gasped so loud it was practically a theatrical performance. He grabbed your shoulders, shaking you until your teeth rattled. “He confessed?! On campus?! In broad daylight?! My son! My giant, clumsy son finally levelled up!”
“It was not a confession!” you shrieked, your face heating up so fast you were worried you’d trigger the apartment’s smoke alarm. You clutched your beer bottle like a weapon. “He just! He likes—he didn’t mean it like that! It’s the team dynamic! It’s... it’s professional respect!”
Wooyoung didn’t even blink. He just stared at you, one eyebrow arched so high it was practically receding into his hairline. He took a slow sip of his beer, then let out a dry, mocking pop of his lips. “Professional respect,” he repeated, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to drown the entire campus. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘HR-approved professional boundaries’ like pinning a 6’2” man to a cafe table and making him swallow a dry bagel whole.”
“I was stabilising the situation!”
“You were mark-marking your territory!” Wooyoung barked a laugh, slamming his bottle onto the coffee table. He leaned in, his eyes narrowed into twin slits of pure malice. Wooyoung’s cackle didn’t fade—it echoed, like he was trying to make the universe itself understand how right he’d been. “You’re fucked,” he repeated, delighted, dragging the words out like he was tasting them. “Monumentally. Astronomically. Biblically.”
You tightened your grip on the bottle until it slicked your palm. “Shut up.”
“Oh, I will not,” he was far too happy, pointing at you like you were a whiteboard in a lecture he’d been waiting to teach all semester. “I knew this was coming. I smelled it. I felt a disturbance in the force. The second you said ‘he bought a plain bagel,’ I knew your brain was doing that thing it does when you see something pathetic and your maternal instincts wake up like a sleeper agent.”
“I don’t have maternal instincts,” you snapped.
Wooyoung leaned back, propping his feet on the coffee table with the confidence of a man who had never once experienced shame. “Right. Sure. You just have… what do we call it… feral spring hormones and a violent allergy to tall men who apologise to a mailbox.” You made a strangled noise and took another sip, purely to have something to do with your mouth other than confessing crimes. Wooyoung watched you over the rim of his beer like a predator with a PhD. “Oh my god,” he breathed, eyes widening with theatrical awe. “Look at you. You’re doing it!”
“Doing what,” you said flatly, even though you already knew you were losing.
“The defensive drinking,” he nodded like a disappointed coach. “The ‘if I swallow enough beer, my feelings will dissolve’ technique.” You flicked a glance at him, trying to weaponise boredom. It didn’t work. He looked like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to glance at him so he could start a powerpoint. “Okay. Timeline. You touch his hand—”
“I didn’t touch his hand,” you cut in. “I—pinned it. For emphasis.”
Wooyoung’s mouth fell open in a silent scream of joy. He slapped his knee once, hard. “FOR EMPHASIS,” he repeated, losing his mind. “Oh my god. That’s worse. That’s not casual. That’s not ‘haha friendly.’ That’s dominance. That’s territorial. That’s you going—” he deepened his voice into an obnoxious, smoky imitation, “—no. stay. be still.”
“Don’t,” you warned, staring at your beer like it might provide an emergency exit.
He did it anyway, because he hated you in the way best friends do. “And then,” he continued, relentlessly, “he said he liked you.”
“He didn’t say it like—” you began.
Wooyoung held up a finger. “No. Don’t. Don’t you start that ‘professional respect’ propaganda again. I’ve seen you be professionally respected. You don’t spiral for hours and drink like you’re trying to erase a memory.”
You swallowed, jaw tight. “I’m not spiralling.”
“You are spiralling,” he said gently, and somehow that made it worse. Then his face snapped right back into menace. “And you know what the root cause is?” You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, because silence was safer than whatever his mouth was about to do. Wooyoung pointed at you, triumph blooming. “Female hormones.”
“Oh my god.”
“OH MY GOD, YES,” he exclaimed, thrilled. “You’re in your ovulation-phase villain era or whatever. Your body’s like, ‘Find tall mate. Acquire golden retriever. Bite anyone who interferes.’”
“I’m not in anything-phase,” you hissed.
Wooyoung leaned in, whispering like he was telling you government secrets. “You’re in the ‘I’m going to pretend I’m above romance while actively aching for it’ phase.” You kicked at the coffee table. His boots didn’t move. Neither did his confidence. He took another sip, eyes never leaving yours. “Listen. You can deny it all you want, but I have evidence.”
“What evidence,” you said, instantly regretting giving him a prompt.
Wooyoung started counting on his fingers with nauseating precision. “One: you saved him. In public. Two: you lied to protect his feelings. Three: you role-played a voice line at him. Four: you touched him. Five: you’re sitting here drinking and saying you’re ‘fucked’ like he’s a disease and not a boy who bought bread and looked at you with sad eyes.” You went still, bottle halfway to your lips. Wooyoung’s expression softened for half a beat—something sharp and sincere under all the mischief. “He’s nice,” he said, quieter. “And you’re not used to that. You’re used to loud. You’re used to mean. You’re used to people who swing first so you can justify swinging back.” Your throat tightened. You hated that he could do that—drop one line that hit clean, then immediately go back to being insufferable. Because he did. He sat up straighter, the softness evaporating like it had never existed. “But,” he said brightly, “the good news is: if this is hormones, it’ll pass.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s the good news?”
“The bad news,” he continued, grinning wider, “is if it’s not hormones, then you’re actually catching feelings, and I’ll have to watch you become… domestic.”
“I will not become domestic,” you said, disgusted.
Wooyoung gasped. “You’re right. Sorry. Not domestic. Just… compromised.” You made a noise like you wanted to throw the bottle at his head but cared about the deposit. Wooyoung leaned back again, smug as sin. “Oh. You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re literally overheating,” he said. “You look like an Internet Explorer running twelve tabs and a guilt complex.”
You covered your face with your free hand. “Wooyoung.”
“Yes?” he said sweetly.
“I’m going to kill you.”
He hummed, pleased. “That’s fine. But first you’re going to tell me if the Captain’s ‘I like you’ sounded like ‘I like you as a teammate’ or like ‘I like you and I’m about to implode because you exist’.”
Silence.
Wooyoung’s grin sharpened. “Ohhhhh.” You lowered your hand just enough to glare at him. He didn’t gloat. He glimmered. “It was the second one,” he whispered, like he’d just uncovered buried treasure. “It was the second one and now you’re panicking because you can’t decide if you want to run or bite.”
“I don’t bite,” you muttered.
Wooyoung looked you dead in the eye. “You bite emotionally.” You just stared at him. He stared back, unflinching, then lifted his beer in a tiny toast. “Welcome to being a person,” he said, mean and fond at the same time. “It’s disgusting. You’re going to hate it.”
You took another sip. “I already do.”
Wooyoung nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now drink your beer, God knows you need it if you’re going to keep up the scary act while he’s being a literal ray of sunshine. I’m all ears, tell me everything. And if you leave out details, I’m calling him ‘your boyfriend’ until you combust!”
family comes first, and your sweet brother yunho’s not above doing whatever it takes to remind you. he won’t lose his girl again… especially not to his fucking best friend.
pairing: yunho x f!reader x mingi
length: 28.8k
genre: whole lot of drama, fluff, angst, smut, stepcest
warnings under the cut, read them all!!! 18+ MDNI
notes: officially the longest fic to my name, and it’s all because i wanted some evil yunho myself…😩 this is literally my baby, and i hope you all enjoy as much as i did writing <3 as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!
warnings: stepcest, alcohol, jealousy, manipulation, kinda stalking, dubcon, infidelity, light violence, yunho is crazy, mingi isn’t, smut; fat cock subby mingi, long dick dommy yunho, hand/blowjob, nip stim, fingering, pussy eating, overstimulation, some pain, un/protected sex, taking the condom off.
“YOU SERIOUSLY WON’T VISIT?”
you huff in annoyance, kicking through the pile of clothes on his floor in search of your own. your phone vibrates where it’s tucked under your arm, your father making it a point to keep calling without a second to spare in between until you answer. soobin can see this happening from his bed, knows the rush you’re in from your father honking the horn outside, and has still decided to beat the dead horse a little more for good measure. or maybe just to push your buttons, as he so often enjoys to.
“no. i’m done with this shithole for good.” you grumble, tugging your panties up your legs. “wanna ask me one more time before i go?”
your phone settles, then begins to buzz right where it left off. at least all your stuff is already packed for the move — you wouldn’t be surprised if soobin scattered your clothes around his room while you weren’t looking, just to delay you from leaving as long as he could.
he hasn’t quite accepted the fact that leaving this town behind includes him, too. then again, in all the years living here, you haven’t been able to peel him off from your side — not for any longer than a few months before he was begging you to take him back.
soobin’s been a good consistency, as far as things go. you’ve never quite made your bed in this place though. sure, you graduated high school, made what friends you could, tolerated a dead-end job. but you could never quite shake the feeling that it was all just for.. biding time. waiting, for any divine intervention; that someday your life would find its way back to how it was. back to your home.
it’s why you never even bothered with furthering your education here. there’s only one college you’ve ever had intentions of enrolling in, and they’ll be seeing you in the fall once you’re all settled back into the city.
ever since your dad admitted to being back in contact with your stepmother, you knew it was only a matter of time. ‘just as friends’ he’d said, like every ex ever before taking another shot at being together. like soobin when you tell him you’re not emotionally available at the moment.
he’s a good guy, soobin. just not your forever guy. you only kept him around so long because his presence reminds you of home.. for whatever reason. you never quite figured that one out.
fully dressed and texting your father a passive aggressive ‘On my way!’, you finally glance at the boy fidgeting on the bed. at your attention, soobin stands and engulfs you in a hug.
you think you catch a sniffle into your shoulder, and you pat his broad back. it’s the last time he’ll ever be comforted by you.
“miss you already.” he murmurs into your neck, placing a timid kiss on the skin before you pull him away by the scruff of his hair. so much for breaking up with him a whole month in advance before the move…
you regard him with a bittersweet look. “i can’t promise that i’ll stay in touch.”
he already knows this, as he knows that you never really fell for him the way he did you. you left your heart in your hometown.
soobin squeezes you again, while he still can. “nothing i’m not used to.”
that gets you to laugh. your phone vibrates restlessly once more, and you pull away, knowing you’ve overstayed far too long. you give soobin one last, fond glance before shutting the door on your way out — meeting your father parked out front with the window down, scolding you.
you just roll your eyes. you don’t want to stay in this town for any longer than he does.
you doze off in the passenger seat as you watch the scenery go by — town buildings blending into country hills. the trees change in colour, the breeze shifts in smell. there’s a smile carved onto your face, knowing that the worst is finally over.
──
your stepmother pounces on your father as the front door opens. for a brief second there, you were worried that this was all a ruse so she could beat his ass (he’d deserve it). it’s just a very rough hug though, into an even rougher kiss that has you groaning as you turn away.
“seriously..” you grumble, legs aching too much from the cramped car trip for you to deal with this right now.
you stepmother coos, turning her affections to you as she brings you in for a firm hug. “it’s good to see you again too, baby.”
you squirm over the nickname, feeling even more like a kid as she smacks her lips on your cheek and fusses over you — your hair, your clothes, how your body’s grown into a real lady. even after years apart, a good chunk of that without contact, you’re still her baby.
she turns back to your father, asking something or rather about the drive, and there’s this strange twist in your chest. it’s startling, seeing them interact casually like this again. the last time you were here she was throwing a box of his belongings on the front porch, screaming that she never wanted to see him again.
forgiveness is a virtue — a generous one considering what he did, then dragging his daughter into small town purgatory with him. what matters now is that he’s been forgiven. you can only hope he doesn’t forget what for and fuck the whole family up for a second time. once is enough, you think, and twice is a girl group.
what sounds like a stampede coming from inside the house has your head snapping up — and in an instant you lock eyes with your stepbrother as he flies down the stairs. you nearly fall backwards as yunho leaps to reach you, his long arms catching you as they swallow you into a hug.
he cries out your name, holding you to his chest with a big, helpless smile.
“yunho.” you sigh in relief, breathing him in and hugging him back even tighter.
you squeal as your feet are lifted from the porch, yunho picking you up and spinning you around. “baby’s home!”
you both keel over with laughter as he puts you back down, feeling like a weight is physically being lifted off your shoulders now that you’re reunited. life just hasn’t felt right since you had to leave him in this city.
yunho squeezes you a few more times for good measure. lithe fingers cradle your face as he pulls away, height looming over you even as he bends to be closer to face level — and there’s a silent moment where he just smiles at you, pupils dilated with pure bliss. you can’t help but smile back. he’s grown so much, and yet hasn’t changed at all. still the handsome yet nerdy boy that was glued to your side throughout your youth.
“i missed you.” he sighs, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek — dusted a faint pink from how breathless you are after being lifted and spun in circles.
you giggle, feeling like a giddy kid just being in his presence again. his happiness has always been contagious. “you too.”
your stepmother swoons over seeing you both still acting so close, like nothing ever pulled you apart. yunho takes the bag from your shoulder, then gives your father a side hug before asking for the car keys, insisting he’d carry your stuff to your room. as you race each other down the front steps, you just overhear your stepmother mutter something to your father — something about yunho changing.
you don’t dwell on it as the boy in question runs around you like a dog with the zoomies, teasing you all the way into the house, laughter on your tails as you ascend the stairs.
while your father’s belongings had been uprooted from the house until there was no trace of him left, your bedroom was mostly kept intact. it felt wrong, yunho said, when you had nothing to do with the whole debacle. you cringe, knowing your early teen years are preserved there. a small part of you feels a pang of guilt — there was always a place for you here, if you ever came back.
it’s such a massive comfort, how easily you and yunho fall back into rhythm. when your father first broke the news that you’d be moving back in with them at the city, you felt scared. you’d have to confront the fact that after all these years, you hadn’t reached out to your own brother. god if you hadn’t considered it, tiring yourself out thinking of every possible way it could go wrong.
you did your best to make peace with the fact that you really had no right. it was your father who ruined everything, and you let him take you with him when he left. making that first contact was just beyond you.
you can already feel yourself healing, years worth of rumination and doubt lifting from your shoulders as yunho helps you unpack your boxes. his phone in the corner playing soft music as a backdrop to your chatter and banter. you almost feel jittery with the excitement of actually being home, of having your family back — and you can tell yunho’s even worse off than you are.
he doesn’t despise you for the years of silence. in fact, yunho even admitted that he too was reluctant to reach out. unsure if you wanted nothing to do with him, if you’d rather not face those painful memories. you’re just two people with a lot of love for each other, afraid to risk hurting one another.
now, your face hurts from smiling, stomach hurts from laughing — right until it cuts through your voices with a grumble. you don’t even get to protest before yunho’s tugging you out of the room, swinging his car keys around a finger as he insists that lunch is on him.
“so, do i get to know where you’re kidnapping me to?” you ask once you’re buckled into the passenger seat, yunho turning the keys in the ignition.
he chuckles, reaching an arm around the back of your seat. you sort of freeze, and his lip quirks at you before he’s looking over his shoulder, reversing out of the driveway.
“cafe fossoway,” he replies, hand lingering over the backrest before he retracts it, resting it on his thigh. you gulp, getting a hold of yourself. “they’ve got this apple pie that i think you’d like.”
you roll your eyes at the corniest callback ever. as a kid, your blushy, full cheeks would often get compared to two lady pink apples. there’s also the fact that you’d absolutely demolish an apple pie when your stepmother would make it at home with her very own recipe.
yunho’s smile deepens when he notices the clash of confusion and annoyance in your face. you can’t help but smile too, passing over the urge to make fun of him for holding onto such an old memory. for years, those memories were all he had to keep you close.
“i’ve been meaning to ask,” you start, and he hums to show he’s listening. “are you still friends with mingi?”
“yes.” he says. succinct.
before you can even think further on the topic — about how curt his reply was about his own childhood best friend — yunho’s quick to change it. and without realising it, the conversation steers back into being solely all about you.
“you keeping in touch with any of them?” yunho asks, after you admitted that you kept uneventful friendships back at the town. kept being too strong of a word, really. you never made an effort to put yourself out there. you didn’t care to when you felt more like a squatter instead of a permanent resident.
“nope. before i left, i made it clear that i wanted to cut ties with the place for good.” you frown. “there’s nothing there for me. never was.”
yunho hums.
“what about soobin?”
your neck cracks as you whip it to him, eyes blown wide from the shock.
“what?” is all you can say, wondering how the hell he even knows that name.
yunho’s face drops a fraction, as does his composure. it feels like you’ve just caught him slip up and you both know it. it’s not lost on you, how he grips the wheel tighter.
“eomma would show me your father’s facebook posts.” he says, then gives you such a calm glance that you question if you overreacted. “he’s your boyfriend, right?”
you sigh. where to start?.. then, you shrug. not worth it.
“it doesn’t matter anymore.” you mumble. eager to talk about literally anything else, you narrow your eyes at him. “what about you?”
he huffs, playing along. “what about me?”
“no girlfriends?” you smirk, “boyfriends?”
yunho just laughs it off. “no, no. my studies have been the top priority.”
you nod, taking note of how he skirted around actually denying it — and how your stomach drops a little over the thought of him dating but not telling you. you reason that he might still feel awkward, you’re only hanging out after years of no contact after all. a small (large) part of you just hopes that he’d be honest with you, regardless of how ‘close’ you currently feel.
silence falls between you, for the first time since you got back into the city hours ago. your eyes catch on yunho’s fingers, drumming on the wheel to the beat of the song playing through his car — and it’s when you notice that the music he put on is all nostalgic, released back in the years that you were still living with him.
you almost snort over the realisation. he’s being so sappy.
the car comes to a halt at a red light. yunho pulls the hand break up, taking the chance to glance at you. the moment lingers — his eyes raking over your body, really taking you in. your curious gaze meets his heavy one, and his expression softens with a smile.
“you look different.”
you raise a brow. “bad different?”
“no,” he says in a low, husky drawl that sends an odd shiver up your back. “you look good, baby.”
you squirm in your seat, trying to rid yourself of the unwelcome feeling under your skin. “i’ve grown out of being called that.”
yunho makes an amused hum, missing the light change to green as he looks at you instead. “says who?”
says me, you think. you hate how the nickname makes you feel — but only when it’s coming from him. your stepmother didn’t get this reaction out of you earlier. it’s just… it’s weird. it wasn’t always, but after all this time, it is.
you don’t want to burst his bubble though, not when he’s grinning so brightly, chuckling to himself at your small pout. maybe it’s on you.
maybe it’s because you’ve forgotten how to receive genuine love, not duck and weave or just stomp it out before it can spread. maybe it’s because you’ve spent years hopping from one guy to the next, that you can no longer comprehend an existence of emotional intimacy removed from the presence of desire.
you’ve missed yunho more than you thought.
you’re so deep in your own head that you hadn’t even realised the car had come to a complete stop — not until yunho’s reaching over your body, clicking to free your seatbelt. his own still buckled.
“come on,” he grins. “i heard your stomach rumbling during california girls.”
“shut up.” you roll your eyes, opening the passenger door — only for yunho to practically jump out of his own seat and step outside first, sprint round the front of the car, then shut your door.
just to make a show of opening it for you, other arm stretched as he beckons you out. it works when he gets you to laugh, shoving at his shoulder as you get out.
you enter the cafe first, yunho behind since he held that door open too. the employee looks at you for only a split second before her eyes flit over your shoulder — face lighting up as she spots yunho. must recognise him, you assume.
that same face crumples as you both reach the counter, yunho looming at your back, and she realises that you came together.
the employee — karina, her name tag reads — acknowledges you with a half-smile before turning her full attention back to yunho.
“the usual?” she coos at your brother, and you so wish that your stomach would rumble on command so you could rudely interrupt her.
“yeah. dine-in.” he replies absentmindedly, not even sparing her a glance as he leans his head over your shoulder, pointing to the menu. “tell her what you want, baby.”
karina’s mouth twitches into a scowl, and there’s a surge of pride in your chest. you try not to sneer as you tell her your order, intentionally asking for the apple pie yunho recommended, knowing he’d give an excited reaction and pull the employee’s scowl even deeper.
“alright. are you paying for your girlfriend too?” she drones, with a little bite in the word.
you can only laugh, taken aback — but yunho’s voice never comes to correct her. you shoot him a confused glance, and yunho’s just.. staring at you. face scarily still, eyes burning with something you can’t recognise.
“…uh, he’s my—”
“yeah.” yunho cuts off, pulling his phone from his pocket. “i’m paying.”
you stay glaring at him as he taps the card machine, completely unbothered like that wasn’t awkward as fuck.
karina disappears into the kitchen afterwards, leaving you both to find a table yourselves — and that’s when you slap yunho’s arm.
“what the hell was that??”
that same, satisfied grin finds its way to yunho’s face. the face of a man who regrets nothing. he just shrugs, and you’ve got half a mind to chew him out in this public place. it wouldn’t be half as embarrassing at whatever just happened with karina.
yunho’s quick to distract you, taking your hand as he leads you to a corner booth. instead of sitting in the seat across the table, yunho chooses to slide in right next to you, shoulders bumping.
the moment manages to pass by, no thanks to yunho, and you both fall back into your endless stream of conversation. it’s easy — comfortable.
the girlfriend thing does creep back in and you cringe each time, but you try not to let it sour the mood. you reason that it must’ve just been a shitty attempt at teasing you on his part. you’re bound to butt heads like this when you spent the latter half of your formative years separated.
people change. you tell yourself to loosen the fuck up and just enjoy this precious time with your brother.
──
are you really settled in if you’re not getting shitfaced at a housewarming party?
granted, this party was not thrown with the purpose to housewarm, nor is it even yours — but yunho had dragged you along all the same. said his classmate was throwing it, that it could help you feel welcomed back home.
after some quick greetings and dapping up between dudes at the front door, yunho had led you through the house — arms wrapped around you from the back, his chest gently nudging you through the crowd of tipsy bodies.
you’re interrupted a few times on your journey to the kitchen, girls and guys alike calling out to yunho to catch up with him. he’s quite popular, your brother — and yet, not a single one of his friends knew he had a sister.
you’ve been the one to properly introduce yourself; you didn’t want to risk another karina situation. the guys’ eyes had widened in shock, while the girls’ frowns had lifted in relief. you know it must look confusing, with how he’s been protectively hugging you from behind. especially if yunho hadn’t so much as mentioned your existence to any of them over all those years — which, you’ve come to realise is the case.
you’re sober and bored, just standing here and spacing out while these strangers chat up your brother like old chums. in all your thoughts about his friends, your mind finds it way back to mingi — where he must be, what he’s up to. he might be the only one who knew of yunho’s sister, considering the fact you three did grow up together.
which makes it all the more odd that yunho hasn’t even so much as said mingi’s name since you’ve been back.
you make a mental note to pry the information out of him when you’re both tipsy.
however, once you both finally reach the kitchen and yunho hands you a drink — you’ve gotten so impatient that you just chuck it back, wincing as the liquor burns your throat. yunho’s quick to fill it to the brim again, eyes sparkling at you. satisfied.
yunho finds you both a nice, cozy spot in a chiller corner of the house; away from the weed smoking in the garage and the drunk dancing in the living room. you’re sat on a couch as you watch some others play beer pong — giggling with each word yunho murmurs into your ear, your cup consistently full.
you’re drunk enough that you’re leaning into him, seeking out the warmth of his body. you feel at home with his arms wrapped around you, fingers drawing shapes on the bare skin of your back.
“do you know what a lick, sip, suck is?” yunho asks, lips pressed to your hair. you don’t even realise.
you purr, playful. “in what context?”
“yeah, don’t tell me that.” he warns, pissed off you’d even suggest that to him, but your mind’s too hazy to catch it. yunho gives you a slice of lime (when did he get that?), holding a tequila bottle up in his other hand. “we’re doing shots.”
you squeal, clapping excitedly as you sit up, pulling yourself off his body. you miss the way yunho readjusts the front of his pants, before he reaches for the stack of plastic shot cups on the coffee table.
you chew on the lime absentmindedly as yunho pours two shots — one halfway, one to the top. he hands you the full one but you don’t mention it, just eager to feel the burn of tequila and more of the floaty bliss that follows.
“hold your hand out,” he tells you, and you follow. you giggle in surprise when his tongue darts out, licking a stripe on your palm. he then goes over it with a salt shaker, the grains sticking to your skin.
“yuyu’s turn.” you tease, grabbing his hand yourself and running your tongue over it. you laugh at the shock on his face — far too drunk to recognise the way his eyes burn into you, the way his pupils swallow all the light.
his adam’s apple bobs in a harsh gulp. “ready?”
you nod, interlinking arms with him. yunho shifts closer — or maybe he pulled you — his heavy breath tickling your lips. you don’t even think twice about the proximity, happy to just tilt your head back and pour the shot down your throat. you take it like a champ, smiling through the liquor’s sting while yunho winces. he turns away, reaching for his drink on the coffee table to chase this shitty tequila.
while he’s wondering how drunk you must be to not even flinch, you can’t help but frown at how he left. you liked how close he was sitting, how you could count every freckle on his face. it made you feel comfortable and giddy and that’s all you want right now. you miss the warmth of his arms hugging you, pulling you in tighter whenever a guy would look at you too long.
you want yunho back, so you grab him. he makes a surprised noise as you kind of fall forward into his chest, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. you like how good he smells, the way the cologne hits your brain with the alcohol and leaves it swimming.
“you’re so cute.” he coos, pinching your cheek. you make a small whine and he rubs at your back, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “aw, baby. i’m here.”
your body really likes it when he calls you that.
“yuyu,” you giggle, cheek pressed to his chest as you tilt your head up at him. even in your bleary state, the intensity he’s sending you with just the look on his face hits you square in the stomach. it churns and you know it’s not from the alcohol. (or, well, it wouldn’t help.)
“i need to go find a bathroom.” he tells you softly, and you pout at him.
“just pee your pants.”
he strokes your hair with a chuckle, so entirely endeared with you right now and how you’re clinging to him. yunho doesn’t care if he has the alcohol to thank. it’s like a dream come true.
“i’ll try not to be long. stay here for me, yeah?” you nod, but that’s not good enough. his smile drops a fraction, tone serious. “don’t go anywhere without me.”
“okay..” you mope, and yunho basically pries you off his body. your fingers stay holding his shirt as he stands, and he pulls it off with a snicker, leaving a sweet peck on your hair. “be quick!!”
you watch yunho as he leaves the room, how people’s heads turn to stare and how they shift like they want to approach him. you know — he’s tall, he’s hot. you felt that same shock when you saw him run down the stairs this morning. but, you can’t help how your chest twists with.. something like jealousy. this sudden desire to make a point that he’s yours. what do they know about him? he’s your brother, he only wants to hug you and hang out with you alone.
you slap your cheek a little when you start getting too ahead of yourself. you’re so gone that you didn’t even register the contact, so you give yourself a few more slaps for good measure.
you just barely catch someone saying your name. you blink, the room spinning around you, until your vision comes into focus on a pair of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.
“long time no see.” the blonde one chuckles, bringing your sloshed ass in for a tight hug. you kind of just ragdoll in her arms, recognition slowly dawning as your train of thought lags severely behind from the present.
“yuuuqi?” you slur out, face splitting into a grin so wide it hurts, whipping your head at the other. “minnie!”
“you wasted bitch.” minnie pulls you in for a hug too, your heart swelling at seeing them both again.
briefly, you wish you were sober so you could appreciate this reunion properly, but you probably need the liquid courage right now. even if you’re acting a mess, at least you’re not conscious enough to remind yourself of how you thought your friendship died out from the distance and convinced yourself that they were better off if you ghosted them, or whatever bullshit…
“wanna go dance?” yuqi wiggles her brows at you, and you nod frantically. yunho nothing but a distant memory as you let them whisk you away from the couch and lead you through the hallways, thumping music growing louder. giggling and gaggling, swearing you need to catch up some time, asking where the hell you’ve been. you’re really happy and you don’t feel as alone as you did on that couch.
you reach a room that’s not quite the dance central (living room), but it’s packed enough that you’ve all had to stop and step to the side for all the crossfaded people stumbling out from the garage, the scent of weed fuzzy in your senses.
you catch the eye of one guy in particular — tall, dark-haired, and you’re instantly drawn in. his red eyes meet your dazed ones as he jumps to the music and tries to hype you up. he grabs your arm, attempting to pull you to him. you giggle, swaying your hips along, before yuqi pulls you back and chews the high asshole out.
you don’t understand all the ruckus as surrounding people start turning their heads and hollering, wondering what the hell is happening. you just want to dance, and you want to drink some more. why have yuqi and minnie stopped here?
someone’s saying your name again — only this time it’s deep. you sober up just a tiny bit from being startled, and then you sober up a bit more as that someone steps in front of you. towers over you.
mingi.
you’re so shocked that you can’t even react. it’s been an entire lifetime since you last saw mingi. you missed him so, so, so bad.
“we found her really drunk downstairs,” minnie says from your right.
yuqi rubs at your arm, which you can’t even feel. “we can stick around, y’know. help.”
“it’s alright,” mingi replies, brows drawn in concern as he looks at you with the prettiest boba eyes, saying your name gently. “you feel okay?”
“mingi..” you mumble out, your eyes suddenly welling up from how fucking overwhelming this feels.
he shifts in panic as you’re one blink away from sobbing. you know he won’t reach for you out of reluctance, so you do it yourself as you fall onto him, weakly bringing your arms up in an attempt to hug.
“i got you,” he whispers, carefully placing his hands on your shoulders. he can’t bring himself to hold you fully, not while you’re so.. gone. he mumbles something to yuqi and minnie, and by the time you bring your head back up, you don’t even realise that the girls left. in fact you forgot they brought you here in the first place. all you can think right now is mingi, mingi, mingi.
“do you wanna go somewhere quiet?” he asks you, so gently that you want to cry all over again. he’s so sweet. you missed him.
you nod, sobering up each second that mingi’s hands hold you. suddenly your throat feels too dry, your head aching.
he gives you a soft smile, noticing your discomfort. “let’s get you some water, too.”
“water would be fucking amazing.”
mingi huffs a laugh, keeping an arm slung over your shoulder in case you start to stumble, leading you through the bodies cramping the room. “it’s good to see you again,” he calls you by your name, but you find yourself expecting ‘baby’ instead. the yunho effect, you guess..
where is yunho anyway?
that train of thought hightails as mingi carefully sits you down against a wall, his big hands swallowing your waist. you sink into the carpet, dazedly observing your surroundings as mingi walks off to find water, making an effort not to stray too far. there’s a few boys playing pool on the table in front of you, a couple surprisingly not making out where they’re sitting on bean bags in the corner. you briefly wonder how fucking big this house must be for all these different rooms.
“here.” mingi gives you a bottle of water — which you only realise is a big and heavy 2 litre bottle when you nearly drop it from your hands. it looked normal sized when he was holding it.. “eomma told me that if you don’t want a hangover, you need to drink the same amount of water as you did alcohol.”
“i might piss myself.” you grumble, twisting the cap.
mingi chuckles, a low gravelly sound that you really fucking like. “if you do, i’ll give you this to cover up.” he says, tugging at his hoodie.
you don’t say anything in return as you sip from the bottle, conscious that you’d only be able to let out a pathetic sob. you’ve forgotten how it feels to receive this much effortless kindness from a person — from someone as dear to you as mingi.
he apologises for the seating situation, mentioning that he wasn’t expecting the bean bags to be taken as he sits down right next to you: ass on the carpet, back to the wall. a polite amount of distance between your shoulders. it’s not as comfortable as the couch, but you do find comfort in the fact that mingi gave you space. not just smothering you with touches because you’re drunk and he can.
safe to say, the fog’s starting to clear from your head.
mingi doesn’t push or pry. he’d be well within his rights to, considering you basically dropped off the face of the earth. for a few solid minutes, you both sat there in silence as you sipped from the bottle, his eyes flicking over every so often to check on your progress. it’s you who speaks up first, and his whole face lights up at the sound of your voice — at how he can tell you’re there again. only somewhat, since you’re still drunk, but you’ve reached a good level of awareness now that you’re not chugging a consistently full cup of liquor.
“did you ask the girls to find me?” you ask tentatively, trying to make it sound playful. you’re sure it’d be stupid and probably rude to ask how he’s doing and what he’s been up to. if you were a better friend, you would’ve made that effort to keep up with him while you were gone.
mingi shakes his head. “honestly, no. i uh, already saw you when you came in.”
your chest twists a little in guilt. how could you not have seen him? he’s not exactly easy to miss..
mingi notices how your face drops, and he goes on: “i wasn’t gonna come tonight, but,” he glances away, coy. “i found out you moved back.. was hoping i’d run into you.”
mingi doesn’t mention that your brother hid that fact from him. that when he noticed mingi actually ended up coming to the party, he intentionally shielded your line of sight with his body; then whisked you away downstairs so mingi wouldn’t know where to find you. when he saw you with the girls and not your brother, he knew he had to take possibly the only chance he was gonna get.
thank god your father has a habit of oversharing on facebook. he can’t believe that’s how he found out you’re back — not through his own fucking best friend. it’s hardly surprising though. mingi can’t even feel disappointed anymore. he’s too used to this shit.
all the anger leaves through his nostrils in a sigh as he looks to you — noticing your soft, almost shy smile over the bottle. your cheeks faintly dusted a baby pink, which mingi assumes is from the alcohol. it’s not.
“can i ask how the town was?” he asks, very gently, and you know it’s because he doesn’t want to accidentally upset you.
even if you’re mentally present enough to be thinking clearly, the amount of alcohol still warm in your system loosens your tongue — and you start to speak without a second thought.
“honest answer? not great.” you swish the water around in the bottle. try to focus on that instead of your immense sadness. “i’ve never felt so alone in my life. i.. lost myself for a bit. doing what i could to cope.” doing who you could, really.
mingi’s heart tears in half hearing that. wishing he could’ve just gone with you, left behind this city to stay by your side. it pumps a beat harder with anger too, just thinking of what the fuck your father was up to if he wasn’t the one being there for you. he’s quick to reel himself back in though — not his family, not his business. what would he know about how a father should act?
the boy next to you is silent, but it’s not in a judgemental way. rather: understanding. it’s why it all just comes tumbling out.
“i fucked around a bit, to be honest. there was this one guy actually, soobin,” you hiccup, throat tight with a near sob just mentioning him. “we were on and off for ages. well, it was all me. i’d always leave him and he’d always wait for me to come back. we didn’t even have that much in common or get along well, he just..” he reminded me of someone. he looks so much like— “..made me really happy.”
“i’m glad you had someone, at least.” mingi replies, ignoring the pain in his chest at how he wished it was him. “how’s it been with yunho?” he asks, but he really doesn’t need to know. mingi’s certain that his asshole of a best friend is over the moon that you’re back in his death grip. you love your brother though, so; and he just wants to distract you from the pain you’re remembering.
you nod quickly, hoping the tears in your lashes will dry up. “good. it’s been really good. i enrolled in his college so we’ll be going together in fall. he’s been helping me unpack, took me out for lunch at cafe fossil gay or whatever.”
there’s that pain in mingi’s chest again — jealousy — but he distracts his own body with a smile at your silliness.
“funny story actually,” you say humourlessly, “the girl working there thought i was his girlfriend, and he didn’t even say anything! just let embarrass myself and then laughed it off after.”
“yeah.. well, i’m not surprised.”
“what do you mean?”
something shifts in mingi’s expression. he looks like he’s picking his words carefully. “yunho didn’t tell you?”
“huh? oh so clearly he’s told me nothing. what is it?”
mingi sighs — you don’t know the half of it. his eyes trail off, staring at a stain on the carpet. his lips press into a firm line like he’s willing them to stay shut. he almost looks.. afraid to say the wrong thing. like he’ll get in trouble.
you laugh, confused. “why do you look genuinely scared? c’mon, spill. did my brother get up to some crazy shit?”
after your admission that you were sleeping around as a means of coping, mingi can’t help but think that yunho was doing something similar. it was a really dark time for both of them..
he doesn’t want to drop such a bombshell on you though; doesn’t want to be selfish and damage a relationship that’s so dear to you. not his family. so mingi does what he does best and shoves it down. down, down, all the way down so it won’t resurface until he’s lying in bed, unable to sleep.
“look, i’ll say this: he’s not that same nerd you knew. he still is, in a way, but.. he’s well known with the girls. straight after you moved away actually, some of your friends were having a go at him.”
“what?! not yuqi and minnie..?” mingi nods, and you gasp so loud that a few heads turn. “those bitches!! they never said anything about that. oh my god, i said i would have brunch with them on the weekend..”
“and you’re not mad at yunho?” mingi asks, though he’s not one to talk. he’s been mad at yunho for years but still hasn’t found the strength to just.. cut him off.
“i don’t want to hear that shit from my brother.” you laugh it off — confused at the twist in your chest over the thought of yunho sleeping around while you were gone. you’re surprised he basically hid it but, then again, he only really seemed interested in talking about all things you.
“don’t get me wrong: yunho never stopped talking about you. he really missed you.” mingi clarifies, leaving out the parts where yunho blamed him for the fact that you were gone. took his anger out on him with words he couldn’t forget if he tried.
you can sense this, how he’s picking and choosing from what he really wishes to say. “but..?”
mingi exhales. he must be drunker than he thought, or maybe it just feels good to let it all out, because he answers honestly.
“but i’m worried. that he’ll change. he took losing you really badly.. i don’t know if it’s for better or for worse that he has you again.” he turns his body to face you fully, and you shift closer. listening, encouraging. “i think he’s so crazy protective because—” mingi stops himself with a gulp. he almost told you something that you really should never have to know. “—he only ever had his mother growing up. then he gets a sister.. he’d do whatever it takes to protect that, y’know?”
“that makes sense.” you say, feeling an odd pang in your heart for yunho. you know he loves you, but it’s confronting hearing it from an outside perspective. however, staring at mingi — noting how withdrawn his energy became since you started talking about this — that feeling slides into concern. “aren’t you still best friends? why do you sound so.. scared of him?”
“things are different now.” mingi says with a faraway look in his eyes. “he’s different, when you’re around.”
you both leave it at that. you don’t know if your heart can take any more revelations, and mingi doesn’t know if he can keep withholding the ones that matter from you.
“you should crawl through my window one of these nights.” you suggest, and the smile mingi gives you has your face burning up all over again.
it’s kind of ironic: mingi used to do that when you were kids, since yunho would insert himself into every hangout and sulk that he was being ‘left out’. now, you’re saying it as a comfort — that your friendship with mingi can exist again, just as it did before.
“i could take you someplace far away?” mingi adds with a chuckle. yet another callback, to how you’d often sneak out as teens and explore the city together — much to the disapproval of your father (and much to the utter rage of your brother).
“i’d like that.” you smile, before digressing: “anyways, that’s enough about me. did you get busy at all?”
you wiggle your eyebrows at him suggestively, and mingi gives a shy laugh, glancing down. “ah, no.. nothing worth telling. i know a few girls’ favourite colours and that’s about it.”
there’s a reason mingi could never quite fully commit himself to relationships — they all paled in comparison to what he really longed for. and, well, that reason is sitting right next to him, laughing her ass off and calling him bitchless.
“did they all break it off after you told them yours is ‘cement’?” you snort, patting his arm.
“something like that.”
he can’t even find it in himself to feel embarrassed, so caught up in how your whole demeanour brightened and he barely even had to try. you’re like helium to him — his heart soaring in your presence. too much and he won’t be able to come back down.
“oh, i haven’t laughed that hard in a bit.” you rest your head on his shoulder, sentimental. “i’m so happy i have you back.”
mingi gulps, the simple gesture lighting a flame in his chest.
“me too.” he replies. though you don’t even understand how deep it runs.
your head perks up, recognising a familiar and very beloved beat thumping through the walls. it’s one of your favourite songs — and suddenly, your urge to dance is very much back.
you look to mingi, and he’s already looking at you, grinning helplessly. he doesn’t hold himself back now that you’ve had almost the entire bottle of water, and so he offers you his hand. you take it, leaping up and practically skipping as mingi leads you out of the room.
you finally end up in dance central, the living room: the crowd of bodies stumbling and shoving now that it’s almost the early hours of the morning, everyone well having drunk their weight in alcohol.
mingi sort of just stands in front of you as you dance to your heart’s content. he sways with you, but makes no move to get any closer than this. not if it’s what you want. and you do.
so, you grab his wrists, lead his hands to sit on either side of your waist. mingi’s lips part a little in surprise, and you just pull him in, resting your own hands on his shoulders. he looks a bit like a lost puppy. you can tell he’s fighting the instinct to let go, which makes you smile that much harder when he doesn’t.
you feel good. you’ve reached a chill, fuzzy stage of drunk. you and your best friend are reunited, you’re dancing together, and his body’s warm where it presses against yours. you hadn’t realised before, but mingi’s definitely started taking up the gym — evident with how solid and big his frame is in comparison to yours. in fact, you hadn’t even realised how close your bodies had gotten, but the last thing you want is to move away. you feel so at home.
mingi keeps himself almost hunched so his face is at level with yours. you notice how flushed his cheeks are, how uneven his breathing is and how sweat beads at his hairline. how he keeps gripping your waist tighter to angle you away — until you shift your hips too much while dancing and find out why. he’s hard. you felt it prod your thigh, and how he sighed out when you brushed against it.
you try not to get carried away in your own head. mingi’s your best friend — you know he’s probably just really excited to see you again, plus the adrenaline from dancing and all that. at the end of the day he’s just a man. the fact he doesn’t make a move should speak for itself, right? you’re only dancing. it doesn’t have to mean anything.
but, all the energy mingi’s sending you with just his eyes, all the heat radiating off of his body and sinking under your skin. you.. kind of wish it does mean something.
the sound of glass breaking rings through the air. you flinch, head whipping to the source — and your eyes lock onto yunho immediately. he’s looking directly at the space where your body presses against mingi’s, a half-broken bottle in his hand, rage aflame in his face.
panicking, you turn back to mingi, and before you realise it he’s shoving you. you stumble back with a gasp as another shatter cuts through the music, louder. glass erupts at mingi’s feet, and you realise he was moving you away from it.
“get the fuck off my girl!”
yunho’s shout is the only warning before he’s shoving through the crowd and getting in mingi’s face, roughly grabbing him by the shirt collar, his bloodied hand staining the fabric red. your stomach sinks at the sight of your brother yelling in your best friend’s face, looking like he’s two seconds from colliding his fist with mingi’s jaw.
it all happens so quick, and it’s broken apart just as quickly — the two men being pulled in opposite directions. it takes a few more to get yunho to let the shirt go, continuing to cuss mingi out as he’s forcefully held back.
once he’s let go, mingi doesn’t even think before he’s walking to you, making sure none of the glass hit you.
you risk a glance at your brother as he’s being walked out of the room, and the look on his face makes you sick to your guts. he looks betrayed.
you’re on the verge of tears as mingi ushers you out, wanting to cry from the embarrassment and the guilt. he manages to find you both a quiet space in the cramped laundry room, and you all but crumple onto the ground once he shuts the door.
at this level, you inspect his legs — if he’s hurt. it looks like the glass only scraped the leg of his jeans, thank god.
“what even happened?” you ask him in such a timid voice, teary eyes staring at yunho’s blood on his collar.
“he, uh.. he threw a bottle at me.” after he saw us together. mingi doesn’t say it, and you don’t either, but you both know it. “i’m sorry i shoved you. are you hurt?”
mingi takes a weary step closer, and you frantically nod your head in hopes that he’ll back off. mingi’s proximity burns like acid right now — knowing your brother’s out there hurting because you didn’t go with him instead.
you swallow down a painfully large knot in your throat. your entire face stings from holding back tears. yunho’s always hated being left out, but you thought he would’ve grown out of it by now. you try not to think about how he called you his girl and not, you know, his sister. in fact, you shove it so far down in your brain that you know for certain you won’t remember it once you’re sober.
mingi stays standing, lingering like a kicked puppy. he keeps gulping as if there’s more he wants to tell you. but he doesn’t.
you flinch at the sudden knock on the door. mingi gives you a sad glance, wishing he could just hug you or make any of this feel better, before sighing and opening the door.
a much shorter man with bright orange hair steps in, tipping his head at you in greeting.
“i didn’t have anything to drink so, i’ll be driving yunho home.” he says to mingi, then turns to you. “uh, hey. i’m hongjoong, by the way.”
you greet him back and give him your name, and his eyes widen a fraction. “oh, you’re—” he cuts himself off, mingi’s eyes burning into the side of his head. “yunho’s sister. right?”
“yeah...sorry about all that.”
“eh, it’s not my house.” hongjoong shrugs. “hey, since i’m taking yunho anyways, did you want to come with?”
“—i don’t know if that’s a good idea right now,” mingi interrupts. he checks for your reaction, in case he overstepped, but you agree with him.
“damn… you’re really leaving me to deal with an angry yunho all by myself.” hongjoong heaves a sigh. he daps mingi up, then looks between you both. “i’ll see you later. get home safe, alright?”
once hongjoong steps out, you speak up: “i should probably head home.”
there’s no use now that you’ve sobered up and the mood is sour. mingi nods, having expected it.
“i’ll buy you an uber.”
all eyes are on you as mingi leads you out of the house. you curl into him from the shame, and he does what he can to shield you with his arm.
mingi waits with you outside on the curb. neither of you fill the heavy silence between you. when the uber pulls up, he’s already saying his goodbyes when you impulsively pull him into a hug.
“let’s see each other again soon?” you mutter into his chest.
you want mingi to know that this night with him still meant the world to you. that you’ll hold tight on to the memories you’ve made, hoping you can remember in the morning.
mingi doesn’t let go until you do. for a fleeting second, you consider leaving with him, asking the driver to redirect to his place.
but after your eyes catch on his bloodied collar — you don’t. instead, you spend the entire uber drive home holding back tears, thinking only of yunho.
──
you slip into the house quietly, toeing your shoes off by the door. the lower floor’s cloaked entirely in darkness, save for the light pouring in from the kitchen.
you follow the pull that leads you there, and in turn you find yunho: shoulders hunched as he stands by the kitchen island, accompanied by a bottle of whiskey in his hand — bandaged.
“is that a good idea?” you ask, deliberately keeping yourself separated on the other side of the island.
yunho hums lowly, finger circling the rim of the bottle. “don’t have a lot of those lately.”
“is there something bothering you?”
he’s dead silent, unashamed in how he looks at you with such force in his eyes. you almost feel compelled to step forward, or maybe for your knees to buckle from the pressure.
“yes.”
ignoring the flutter in your chest, you press on. “do you want to talk about it?”
there’s an intentional pause, charged with static. you feel the way the tension curls under your skin, spreading goosebumps across the surface. the sound of yunho taking another swig of the bottle is loud in the heavy silence before he puts it back down and rounds the island. you resist the urge to nervously fidget as he approaches, stopping to stand right in front of you.
yunho’s mouth twitches, almost as if he’s holding back a grimace, before he speaks.
“i know you don’t want to hear this, and i know you don’t want to believe it — but you should listen to me. the last thing i want is for you to get hurt.” he sighs, running a hand down his face like you’re stressing him out. “you need to stay away from mingi.”
“what?” is all you can say. this entire night has flipped everything you knew about these two on its head — they’re best friends. they were before you ever came along. what the hell happened while you were gone? “yunho, where is this coming from?”
“please, trust me.” yunho grabs your hands, the gauze coarse on your skin. “he’s not who you think he is, baby. i’m trying to look out for you. i won’t stand to see you hurt by him.”
you’re wedged between a rock and a hard place right now. your system’s just started coming down from the alcohol, leaving your head swimming with periodical throbs, and yunho’s just… sprung this on you, like this doesn’t confuse you even more after the whole broken bottle incident.
you still have vivid memories of yunho being a possessive little teenaged shit. he always used the family first excuse, rubbed it in mingi’s face whenever he could. a reminder that you’re his sister before you’re anything to anyone else.
you’ve always thought he was just a sensitive young man, feeling weird about sharing his baby sister with his best friend — another equally hormonally confused boy.
clearly, he never grew out of it.
you can’t take a word of it seriously. mingi’s never once pushed your boundaries or made you uncomfortable, and after all these years you’d think yunho would have accepted this fact. mingi’s just not like that. yunho though… he’s got it in him.
really, you don’t know where his limit is anymore — seeing as he so readily threw a glass bottle at his own best friend, and over a harmless dance!
“why didn’t you tell me you’d fucked my friends?” you fire back, leaving no time for him to recover. “you could’ve, in the car when i asked. but you didn’t. why?”
yunho’s fingers twitch around yours, knuckles tightening until you wince. the way his eyes darken nearly scares you.
“who told you?”
“...they did.” you lie. “they’re my friends.”
“no, they didn’t.” he says, the certainty in his tone making you shrink in on yourself.
yunho knows for a fact that they’d never tell on themselves — not out of fear of you, but of him. because they promised him they wouldn’t tell you. and they know better than to break that.
“it was mingi, wasn’t it?” he tilts his head, and you miss the way he inches closer. he smirks at your answer in silence. “this is what i’m saying. he’s trying to get between us.”
“but why hide it? why’d you do it in the first place, yunho??”
you can’t even pretend to not feel upset about it. he’s your brother, it’s none of your business who he slept with; especially if it’s your friends you barely kept in touch with. but it hurts you and you can’t think too hard about why, because you’re not ready to face that just yet.
yunho lets out a heavy sigh, and it’s then that you notice he’s gotten right in your face, his breath fanning your lips. his face is serious, as it has been all night — but now, his eyes are full of.. sadness.
“because i missed you.”
the admission has a shiver rolling down your spine. the lack of shame in his voice, the intensity burning in his eyes. the idea that your brother fucked your friends, because that was all he had left of you.
you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that.
“they were mistakes, okay?” yunho cradles your face. so softly, and your anger dissipates. “you’re back now and i don’t want to lose you again. not to anyone, not him. you got that?” he waits for you to nod. “i love you, baby.”
you don’t have the strength to say it back. not with your stomach in knots.
yunho leans in, close enough that he can taste the way your breath hitches. he lingers, the tip of his nose just grazing yours, and your heart skips a beat. or perhaps it stopped for one.
you’re worried. you’re worried that he’ll kiss you, and you’re worried that you don’t know what you’d do if he did.
perhaps the taste of your panic was too sour, since yunho does not kiss you. on the lips, anyways. but he gets very close. on your cheek, dangerously close to your mouth; he leaves a kiss with his lips pressed to the skin for far too long. it’s tender, too intimate, and confusing — the way your body reacts to it.
yunho takes his leave for bed, ascending up the stairs; gaze never leaving you, you’d imagine. you weren’t game enough to look back.
you don’t breathe until you hear his door shut. and when you do, you’re immediately hyperventilating. breath coming out in panicked spurts that take over your whole body.
you consider going to yunho. now that he’s back in your life you have someone to comfort you, and you have a choice to not cry alone. but the mostly sober brain of yours knows that's a dangerous mistake waiting to be made. you know you shouldn’t, and you don’t linger on the why.
you even think about crawling into your stepmother’s bed, let her hug you like she did when you were a kid. her baby. but your father’s in there and you don’t want to disturb them.
in the end, you just take a swig of the bottle yunho left out. it tastes horrible. almost as bad as the bile when you inevitably vomit all this back up in the morning.
then, you crawl into bed, and you cry with no one but yourself to hold you. just like you did every night for the first year of moving away, wishing for your family to be back together.
just like now, despite getting exactly what you wished for.
──
true to your word, you and mingi have started to see each other more often, and yunho doesn’t even pretend to be okay with it.
you didn’t take a word he said to heart. it’s as if nothing ever even happened that night, save for all your fond memories with mingi instead.
you hadn’t realised how much you’d missed him until you got him back — slipping in to fill the void that was perfectly shaped for him.
mingi’s been driving you all over town, revisiting each spot you frequented as teens. your favourite restaurant that went bankrupt, the local arcade that’s long since been renovated, the flea market that’s somehow still kicking. midnight runs for greasy fast food, stargazing in playgrounds, hotboxing his car in parking lots. doing everything together, even when you’re doing nothing at all.
“would you still love me if i was a chicken?” you asked him once, a joint burning between your fingers into the cool night air. you passed it to mingi, who took a puff while deep in thought.
“of course. i’d build you a luxury coop, and make gourmet omelettes with your eggs.”
“...what the fuck?”
“damn guess i’ll just go die.”
you can’t remember the last time you felt this free, where each day came this easily. just thinking of being in mingi’s presence is enough to bring a helpless smile to your face — knowing that there’s so much love in your heart, and that he’ll return every little bit of it. no pressure, no uncertainty. no lies.
who would’ve thought that having a genuine friend is enough to restore your sparkle.
yunho, spiteful, talked your stepmother into getting a family plan on life360. “baby goes out so often now,” he’d said, barely hiding his sneer. “i’m not always there to keep her out of trouble.”
and so, now your parents have your location on demand, putting your daily hangouts with mingi on halt. you’d be in a world of trouble if they saw how often you’re out and about, how late you come back, all while your loving brother is left alone at home. or worse, yunho would show up to the function and break down the door then break mingi’s legs.
they still think you’re attached at the hip, see. they’ve got no idea that you’ve been avoiding yunho like the plague after he smashed a bottle that cut his own hand in jealousy. jealousy, what a funny fucking concept when you’re siblings. what’s funnier is that your parents wouldn’t even blink, if anything they might defend him. because that’s just always how he’s been when it comes to you — or rather, you with mingi.
of course, you just bypass this by bringing the girls along, yuqi and minnie. they post you on their socials often but leave out mingi (because they’re single and don’t want other men getting the wrong idea) and you know yunho’s falling for it, considering mingi is still unscathed and you continue to see him. every single day.
that doesn’t mean yunho won’t punish you for ever breathing in mingi’s vicinity. he’ll kick your ankle under the dinner table when you’re on your phone, knowing you’re texting him. he’ll barge into your room without apologising, hoping to catch you with mingi and have an excuse to finish what he started at the party. he’ll follow you around the house like a clingy dog and basically corner you into spending time with him, in hopes that you’ll feel too bad to leave him for mingi. but, you still do. you have been. and it’s driving yunho up the fucking wall.
he’s continued his agenda to get in your head, but to no avail. you’re not buying a second of his shit. you’ve even started arguing often like true siblings, cat and dog fights. of course, it’s never about mingi, but it really always is. you’re not actually all that upset at him for leaving the toilet seat up, or him at you for not doing the dishes when it’s your turn. you’re both mad, and the sole reason is the fact that he’s not your person anymore. that you can get your happiness just fine from people who aren’t him.
your stubbornness has reached a point where he’s started lowly sneering reminders at you around the house. “do you have no self respect?”, “don’t come crying to me when you see i was right.”, “i can smell him on you, baby. it’s disgusting.”
you just smirk in the face of each one of his insults, unbothered with a full heart and content soul. yunho’s losing it each day you come home after midnight, quietly creeping to the bathroom like you can wash off the evidence of your betrayal. walking around the house during the day as if you’re not just biding the time for when you can go throw yourself at his best friend again.
you, on the other hand, are not too worried. blood runs thicker than water or whatever, you’ll be in this family shit for life. you know you’re not going to lose yunho — he wouldn’t let that happen. so you’re sure as fuck going to fight tooth and nail to not lose mingi either.
what an extremely stressful first few days back it’s been.
[you] let’s be chickens together
[minki] gobble gobble
[you] that’s a turkey?
[minki] omw in 5
that’s how you found yourself sat passenger in his car, parked in front of some playground that you both had a 2am mcdonalds dinner on, just word-vomiting as you rant about your brother’s behaviour these last few days. mingi nods along, quietly listening.
“i just wish he’d suck it up! we’re grown ass adults now! my only friend can’t be my brother. can you imagine how he’d be if i got a boyfriend?” you scoff, head falling back into the seat.
mingi chews on his bottom lip. nervous. “family will always come first though.”
you look at him wildly. “uh?— nuh uh. i’m stuck with him for life. the friends that i chose are more important to me.”
he’d smile at that, if only his guts weren’t twisting inside out at this conversation.
“i don’t want to get in between you and your family.” mingi murmurs, solemn. eyes cast to his shoes since he’d crack open if he dared look at you instead.
it’s confusing you, the fact that he’s slightly siding with yunho; especially because you can tell that he doesn’t really believe that. it’s not even that he thinks it’s what you want to hear either — because you so obviously don’t — so, what gives?
it just makes you think. wonder, if yunho’s got dirt on mingi that he holds over his head. if there’s any truth to what yunho’s saying.
you wonder at times, yes. but you don’t believe any of it.
──
it was good. it was really, really good and it was great. it kept getting greater. then it just got… fucked. so fucked. you can’t help but wonder where it all went wrong.
your eyes are red raw as you stare at your phone, willing his name to pop up in a notification with each blink you suppress. you’re curled up in your bedsheets and your own tears that won’t quite come. you don’t know if you’ve been here for hours, or perhaps it’s been days. time has blended together in a dull slog ever since you realised that mingi’s been ghosting you.
it began with slower replies, cancelling plans and sad excuses that you never believed but accepted anyways. then, you went a day or two without hearing from him — mingi answering your string of worried messages with a single, dry response before finally going awol on you.
you don’t understand. you were so unbelievably blindsided. you’ve been having so much harmless fun together. did he feel pressured by you? did you scare him away by getting too attached, too fast? did he worry that this was steering into something he didn’t want with you?
oh god. oh god. you got so comfortable with having mingi back, you’ve completely forgotten how it feels to lose him again. loneliness hurts twice as hard as it ever did, since you were convinced you’d never have to live a day of that feeling being familiar again. you don’t know how you ever got through this — constantly wrapped up in loneliness like a blanket, only peeling it back during brief encounters with meaningless men. mingi’s presence had the same effect, yet you never had to give and he never wanted to take. he just.. loved you.
or so you thought. stupid. so fucking stupid.
you’re so deep in your own rumination that you don’t hear your door creak open, yunho quietly slipping in and trying not to skip in joy as he crosses the room to your bed.
“oh, baby,” he coos at you, sitting on the edge of the mattress where you’re curled up by your phone. he grabs the device — slyly tapping it to check that mingi hasn’t texted — before putting it on your bedside table, away from reach. “what’s the matter?”
you sniffle, pulling the blankets up over your pyjama top that leaves little to the imagination. “period.”
yunho tuts, stroking your hair from your face, fingers caressing your cheek. “did you want me to get you anything?”
get the fuck out, you want to say. but the gentle touches he’s giving you, the comfort of his presence.. it’s enough to stop your wallowing if just for a moment. despite yourself, you feel at ease. you’d almost ask him to hold you, but you don’t want to stroke his ego anymore than this.
yunho, however, already knew well what was going on. the truth of it.
you’ve been on your period for days at this point; he saw the wrappers in the bathroom bin, and even caught you putting your heat pack in the microwave, rolling your eyes at him as he passed by. it explains why you’ve done a complete 180 on him this past week — but also why you haven’t fucked mingi just yet.
see, yunho went through your room. he thoroughly rummaged through it after you moved out, making sure no corner or crevice was unfamiliar to him. he still does so, and often since you’re never home; checking for any sign that you’re fucking men who aren’t him. he found condoms in your bedside drawer and nearly threw up on the spot before realising that it’s an unopened box.
your friends owed him big time after they didn’t hide their.. relations well enough, resulting in mingi finding out and you in turn. to earn his forgiveness, they pried out the details of your spicy sex life over cocktails at a girls night — and upon learning everything (or everyone) you did back at the old town, it occurred to him that you’ve been using sex like a salve. like a drug even.
it’s good news, knowing that any intimacy between you is like giving a cigarette to a smoker in withdrawal. it’s also bad news, because if he’s not quick enough, you’ll jump into the arms of the next man you can think of.
the box of condoms in your drawer, combined with your ongoing period, is like a ticking bomb. if it’s just a matter of waiting, then yunho knew he was close to running out of time before losing you forever.
so, the only way to go about it was to confront mingi.
to put it simply, yunho told his best friend to fuck off. he’s failed in all his efforts to get you to cut him off, but when in doubt, he can always bet on threatening mingi.
“i finally have my family back,” yunho had guilt-tripped. “when will you stop trying to tear us apart?” he even brought out the big guns: “she’s recovering from a sex addiction, you know. stop taking advantage of that.”
yunho saw the way mingi was looking at you on the dance floor that night. he knows what he wants. he saw it in the men who checked you out at that party. he sees it everyday when he looks in the mirror.
he made it clear that this would be the last straw. mingi’s got to back off, or yunho is telling you everything. and just the threat of that, looming over his head, was enough to send mingi running with his tail between his legs. now, you’re all yunho’s, to have and to hold.
he’s not a fool — yunho’s only gone to this extent because he knows he’s got an actual shot. you can pretend the opposite all you like, but he’s seen the boys that you give yourself to.
he’s been silently following your socials for years, studying every guy you’d soft-launch and post proudly before scrubbing their faces from history. rinse, repeat. that is, until you found soobin.
yunho laughed out loud the first time he saw soobin’s face on your profile. he damn nearly thought it was himself there. tall frame, dark hair, soft features. if you squint, it really looks like you’re kissing your own brother. and what’s more: you kept this one around for quite a while. on and off, if your sporadic cleansing and dumping of couple photos was anything to go by — but what matters is the fact that you clearly favoured this one much more than any of the others. you may have even loved him.
and he just so happens to look like yunho, of course. what more confirmation does a guy need?
it’s all the reason he needs to splay his fingers across your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him. all the tension taut inside him channelled into the way he’s gazing down at you, thumb softly swiping over your bottom lip.
“anything i can do to make you feel better?” he whispers, so soft you could miss it.
previously forgotten memories from that night at the party flash like a siren through your head: yunho staring at you like he is now, his arms wrapped around you, face inches from yours. the shot of tequila, the tongue on—
“no.” you almost gasp, pulling back from his grasp like it burned you.
yunho’s still for a moment — internally in shock that you just rejected him — before he smiles. composes himself. “okay.”
yunho dusts off nonexistent lint from his shirt, needing to occupy his hands while they’re buzzing with the thought of just reaching out and grabbing you.
“another friend of mine is hosting a party tomorrow night.” he digresses, hoping to wipe your memory of whatever the fuck just happened. “san, it’s his birthday.”
you nod, following along, and yunho lets out the breath that he’d been holding — beyond relieved that you’re not chewing him out for being a disgusting pervert.
his smile shifts from forced to hopeful. “if you’re feeling any better, did you want to come? we had so much fun at the last one.”
he neglects to mention the dramatic ending with mingi, the dubious tension after getting you drunk, the way his hands wouldn’t come off your body for more than two seconds at a time.
but whatever, right? all’s good and well again, considering mingi fucking ghosted you like none of it ever mattered.
that night, how you were acting with yunho was weird, but you’re not recoiling. rather…confused? you know that you didn’t hate it. in fact, across your scattered memories, you can tell that you were having so much fun.
who knows, maybe you might run into mingi there. give him a piece of your mind.
“we could go.”
yunho wishes he could hug you. he would’ve, if this past week’s events hadn’t happened. but the way he just beams at you holds the same sentiment.
maybe you didn’t choose him today. but, that just means he has to put in the work, so that the next time he offers — he knows you won’t turn him down.
──
well, how funny is that. not only did mingi show, but it seems like yunho was fully aware he would. the moment you entered to greet the birthday boy, your eyes had found mingi before you could even register it.
if he wasn’t already at the forefront of your mind, you might have missed him entirely — with the way yunho had subtly stepped into your line of sight, then pointed at something else to distract you. you realise then, it’s what he must’ve done at the first party. you were just too wrapped up in him to notice.
mingi had cast you one sad, lingering look when you first walked in, and that was it. he’s ignoring you. even cutting his conversations short and walking off each time you happen to stumble into the same room. yunho’s indifferent to his best friend’s suffering; if anything, you might think he’s enjoying it. you haven’t seen him smile and laugh so hard like this in quite some time. you’d think it was his own birthday.
subsequently, yunho hasn’t left your side once. he won’t repeat that mistake. he deliberately waited for you to get dressed first, just so he could coordinate his outfit to match yours. he’s been showing you off to all his friends, unashamedly calling you baby in front of them, keeping a hand on your back or arm around your shoulder at all times. it’d be suffocating, if only you weren’t so hollow.
you’re fresh out of fucks to give. they can think what they want to — in fact, you hope they assume you’re dating, just so it can reach mingi. what would he care anyways right? family first and all that stupid shit he cares so much about.
….you might be drunk.
yunho hasn’t been outright shoving drinks in your hands like last time, but he has been pouring you one each time you ask. which, you don’t know how many it’s been at this point. you can only hope he’s been keeping track.
on that thought — you shift where you’re sitting in his lap, tilting your body to face him.
“yuyu,” you drawl, patting his arm so he releases the hold he has around your waist. “i think i need to pee.”
“you think?” he laughs, poking his cheek with his tongue. he knows you need to, because he’s been counting your drinks.
yunho leans back on the couch, eyes raking over your body for a split second — how it’s angled on top of him like this — before his arms fall away. he pats your back and helps you stand up, hand falling dangerously low.
“lucky i know where the bathroom is this time.” he whispers lowly, leading you there.
if he didn’t still think you were on your period, you’re convinced yunho might have tried to sit in there with you — say some excuse like you need help to not fall over, you can’t hold your own hair back if you vomit. he’s really.. pushy with boundaries like that. you don’t know if it’s just because he’s close with his mother, or he wants to be that close with you. he’s always been a physically affectionate person, but you’re too old for it to not raise eyebrows now.
you all but push yunho down the hallway so he doesn’t stand right outside the fucking door — where he conveniently gets swept up by san and his boyfriend wooyoung, drunkenly professing their love to your brother before attempting to hump him 0.2 seconds after. you narrowly escape from the chaos and duck into the bathroom, then nearly fucking scream from the jumpscare of someone already standing in there.
and with your luck, it’s mingi.
without a second thought, you’re kicking the door shut and flipping the lock, taking up space until he’s walking back into the counter. practically cornered.
“what the fuck is your deal?!” you whisper-shout, aware that yunho’s still down the hall and will tear the door off its hinges if he gets a whiff of mingi in your vicinity.
mingi raises a hand, trying to stop you from walking too close, but you just press yourself right against it. he visibly melts at touching you before pulling it back, brows furrowed. “you can’t be here..”
“oh, so you can talk?” you snap, while he just looks at you like a kicked puppy. “you better have a damn good reason..”
“there is no reason.” his voice cracks, as if his body can’t even pretend to lie. “i just think it’s better off for both of us if we stop—”
“you don’t believe that.” you cut in. he doesn’t even protest. “say what you mean, mingi. what happened?”
he shakes his head once. then again, firmer, like he’s trying to tell himself no. “i won’t get in between your family anymore.”
there’s that stupid excuse again. you roll your eyes, heaving a tired sigh. “why do you suddenly care about that so much?”
as if on queue, there’s a knock at the door — yours and mingi’s stomachs dropping in unison at the sound of your brother’s voice.
“you okay in there, baby?”
you take immediate note of mingi’s face: horror. he’s fucking horrified. big, glossy eyes silently pleading with you. that’s when the understanding dawns.
“yeah,” you call out. “be done in a sec.”
there’s a moment of silence before he responds. you’re listening closely, waiting for the sound of receding footsteps, and you realise he must be listening in on you too.
“alright.”
at last, yunho backs off — and with a newfound certainty, you hone in on mingi. his pale-stricken face floods with blush as he leans further back onto the counter, you standing nearly between his legs.
“it was him, wasn’t it?” you whisper. “did he… say something to you?”
mingi almost goes to shake his head again, before something inside him visibly crumbles. he shuts his eyes with a shaky breath, and nods.
that makes you frown. your heart hurts for mingi, despite how upset he’s made you these past few days. you really should have seen this coming. yunho’s never taken kindly to sharing.
tentatively, your hands find mingi’s, and he lets you — your fingers curling around his broad palms. he sighs in relief, allowing himself to softly hold your hand back.
“it won’t work, mingi. i’m not going anywhere. not again.”
his lip twitches, face burning from guilt and something a little more. he tried to stick to his resolve, really tried. mingi was barely strong enough to ghost you in the first place — but now you’re here in front of him, telling him everything he’s wanted to hear… god help him, it’s all going to come tumbling out.
“it killed me to push you away.” he croaks out, throat almost choked up with a sob.
your affection for mingi wells up inside, sharp and hot, compelling you to reach out and cup his face.
“then stop doing it, dummy.” you urge him. “i want my best friend back.”
mingi nuzzles into your hand, his dazed eyes falling to your lips before he shuts them, face screwed up as if he’s in pain.
“this is dangerous.”
he shudders when your thumb strokes his cheek, just brushing the edge of his lip. your body weight leaning against his thigh, faces not even a breath apart.
“what do you want?” you ask him, his cheeks burning under your palms.
mingi’s eyes flutter open, looking at you like a deer in headlights. the prettiest brown eyes confessing what his mouth is too shy to. he reaches for your top, pinching the fabric while he works up the courage. his mind is blanking, too overwhelmed with the disbelief that this is really happening.
after years worth of bottling up all his feelings for you, gritting his teeth while yunho dangled you in front of his face, knowing he’d never be able to get between that. at least, not until he danced with you at that party. the fact you left with him and not your own brother showed mingi, for the very first time, that he could compete with yunho. it’s why he had the courage to ignore the looming shadow of his best friend’s fury each time he’d hang out with you. it’s why he even bothered showing up tonight, knowing that yunho would bring you along to show off in front of mingi. it’s why he lingered inside this bathroom after hearing your voice outside, hoping you’d find and confront him.
and here you are.
he can’t find the right words to express any of this — so he just pushes himself to lean forward until his lips find yours.
it’s a ghost of a kiss, a barely-there press of his lips before he’s pulling back, his inner conflict evident in his longing eyes.
“you,” he whines out, “all i’ve wanted is this, you.”
your heart cracks wide open, and everything you’ve told yourself not to feel for your best friend comes spilling out. mingi really loves you, you can tell by the way it pours through his gaze. the way your reflection in his eyes is twice as beautiful as how you see yourself.
you don’t hesitate before kissing him back, leaning your whole body into him. you swear you felt his heart jump in his ribcage, just so it could match the beat of yours.
mingi whimpers into the kiss, his hands softly holding your waist while yours sit atop his fluttering pulse. it’s not even that heated, but you’ve never felt so fucked up from a kiss before — a deep, intimate kiss. your mouths moving together slowly, flushed bodies pressed close together. you’re like tequila: mingi can only bear little sips, too much and he’ll be a goner.
your tongue swipes at his bottom lip, testing the waters, and mingi encourages you with a soft hum. you lick into his mouth, and a whine resounds from his throat.
he’s working you up so quickly with nothing but slow kisses. you reel yourself back in with each urge to rush this, wanting to savour the moment. revelling in all the adoration mingi’s pouring into each soft swipe of his tongue against yours.
despite your best efforts, you can’t help yourself to rolling your hips, desperate to be as close as possible — mingi letting out a deep groan as you rub against his boner. after a moment to collect himself, he’s gently pulling you back by the waist, since the last thing he wants is for you to feel pressured.
what you do want though, is him.
“mingi,” you say, running a hand down his chest. he lets out a sort of stifled whimper as a reply. “let’s leave.”
he nearly gasps as your fingers creep down to his stomach, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, before stopping at the waistband of his pants. his length throbs under the fabric, silently begging for your touch.
“but, you can’t..” he pouts, staring directly at your hand, how it sits just above where he wants it most. your response is a kiss, and he’s nothing but putty in your palm.
“i don’t care about anything else.” you tell him, channelling all your certainty into your eyes so he can see it. “i want you, mingi.”
that does it. he already knew he was done for when you cornered him in here — hell, the day that you moved back — but there’s no more fighting it now. what yunho doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?
mingi nods, giving himself over to you, and your sweet smile at him makes it all worth it. you kiss him again, just for good measure.
“did you drive?”
“yeah.”
“then let’s get out of here.”
you barely open the bathroom door as you squeeze your way out, yunho running up to you the second you stepped a toe outside. you’re not even putting on an act when he notices how flushed and out of breath you are.
“did you fall in?” yunho chuckles, his smile dropping a fraction as he glances at the crack in the door.
thankfully, he’s easy to distract as you hug him, whining about ‘how sick you suddenly feel’. his attention is yours again as he fusses over you, and you take the chance to close the door — shielding mingi on the other side.
yunho whisks you away, saying that it was about time for the cake. you dare a glance over your shoulder, locking eyes with mingi as he quietly nudges the door open. he smiles softly at you, a cute contrast to how he’s readjusting the front of his pants. you smile back just before rounding the corner.
you stand with yunho’s arms wrapped around you amongst the circle of friends surrounding san, drunken tears in his eyes as he scream-sings along to happy birthday. the party cheers for him as he blows out his candles, pulling wooyoung into a sloppy make-out right in front of the cake.
yunho bends down to kiss your cheek, gently rubbing your tummy as he asks, “will you have cake, baby?”
in your peripheral, you just catch mingi’s broad frame shouldering his way out of the room, pretending like he’s pissed after overhearing that. yunho’s lip curls into a smirk, and you know it was on purpose.
“actually, um,” you worm your way out of his grasp, acting like you’re nervously fidgeting. “i’m sorry, i was too embarrassed to say anything before.. i had, um, an accident.” you wait for yunho to prompt you to go on, his hand rubbing at your arm to comfort. it burns like acid. “i need period stuff. i couldn’t find anything in the bathroom.”
your stomach twists with how genuine his concern is, sighing and rubbing at his forehead like it genuinely stresses him to see you suffering.
“did you want me to drive to the corner shop? get you something?”
you shake your head, portraying yourself as not wanting to be an inconvenience. “it’s okay. yuqi’s around, i just wanted to ask her if she has anything.”
yunho’s eyes go slightly dim at how you turned down his offer, favouring the help of someone else — a disloyal friend, at that. but he reels himself back in, softening the bubbling anger as he strokes your hair.
“okay. don’t go too far.”
“i’ll try not to,” you reassure him, not forgetting the cherry on top: “thanks, yuyu.”
the lie tastes like bile as you leave him there, walking through the crowd and pretending to scan the house for yuqi until you slip out of yunho’s line of sight — and then out of the room.
you take the back door, stepping out into the night as you round the side of the house and veer off to the cars parked in a row across the street; meeting mingi where he leans against the hood of his.
you practically run to him, letting him scoop you up in his arms and press his lips to yours like he misses you already. one kiss turns to two, and two into standing there for a minute, panting as your mouths move together. mingi has to pry you off of him before he just lets you take him on the asphalt, blushing as you giggle over the pitch in his pants, back like it never left.
as you slide into the passenger side, you decide to turn off your location on your phone, then set it to do no disturb. you’re not going to let anyone get in the way of this.
──
“so, your mother isn’t home?” you ask, quietly slipping into the bedroom.
mingi enters behind you and flicks the light on, shaking his head shyly. you take the chance to scan around his room, recognising what he’s kept the same and noticing what he’s added: new posters on the wall of anime he’s watched over time, trinkets collected from various museum visits, stray dumbbells in the corner from whenever he began working out.
relatively tidy for a man’s space (and one with his attention span), which you can only assume is because he avoids run-ins with bugs at any cost. it makes you giggle: remembering all the times you’ve found a cockroach right in this room, while mingi screamed and begged you to catch it for him.
oh, you love him. you love this scaredy cat, who has snuck you away from your crazy guard dog of a brother for a second time now, just because you asked.
your brother…
you try to push it out of your brain. you can’t be thinking of that right now, not while mingi’s standing here, wanting you just as badly as you want him. he’s anxiously fiddling with his shirt, looking so unsure of himself now when his tongue was in your mouth not even half an hour ago. cute. he’s so damn cute.
you step to him, smiling at how his breath audibly hitches when you cup his face. you’ve got no intentions of holding back now: pressing your front flush against him, feeling how his body tenses under the contact. static coursing under the barriers of clothing. as if you’re waiting for permission, he nods in tiny, and it makes you giggle.
“sorry,” he murmurs. “i’m nervous.”
“don’t be.” you reassure him, and he sighs as your thumb traces his lower lip.
“how can i not? you’re so pretty.”
you shush him with a gentle peck. “then show me.”
at that, he leans down to kiss you for real, inhaling through his nose like you’re the air he breathes. you understand why he’s been so shy as his length pokes your thigh, already half-hard. he must be so excited, and it has your heart fluttering — then soaring as he whimpers softly into your mouth, his tongue tentatively sliding against yours.
your phone thuds when you let it drop to the carpet, giving mingi your full attention as both of your hands roam the expanse of his back. you want to feel the hard work he’s spent at the gym yourself, so you hike your hands under his shirt, palms sliding along the ridges of muscles. mingi’s breath quickens, goosebumps racing across his skin. his body’s always been sensitive, and with how desperately he’s wanted you, it’s dialled up to the absolute worst. he wouldn’t want it any other way.
you keep kissing, almost innocently, for a while. deep, slow, deeper. it’s reverent as his tongue explores your mouth, while he ignores his length quickly growing in his pants. now that you’ve let him kiss you once, mingi just doesn’t want to stop giving them to you, entirely addicted to your tequila lips. you ignore every urge to just shove him to the wall, to rip his clothes off and go to town on him. this isn’t like any other sex you’ve had — mingi isn’t like any other guy you’ve known. he’s your best friend in the whole wide world. you love him, and the kisses taste even sweeter knowing that he loves you back just as much.
mingi’s being very polite, letting you grope at his back and hips while his own hands refuse to flinch from your waist. you can tell how much each of your touches affect him — the evidence quite literally throbbing into your thigh — but you know he won’t make a move without you outright telling him you want it. so, you do it for him.
you guide mingi to the bed with a gentle push, following as he sits on the edge and then planting yourself down in his lap. when you connect your lips again, the kiss is undoubtedly more heated — your ass pressed to his boner, your hands threading through his hair. worked up, you tug at the strands, earning a deep sexy grunt from mingi.
he’s very vocal as he just takes the hurried kisses you’re giving him, his head craning back from the force of your lips and the grip of your fingers. it’s turning you on like crazy, especially with how you can tell his length’s grown noticeably yet he makes no move to pay it any mind. a guy of his size, letting you lead this and for him to follow.
“god, i want to ruin you,” you mutter, and mingi just whimpers, his eyes going wide as saucers when you give an experimental roll of your hips.
he’s big, you can tell. a dick that size, this hard? it’s all the more impressive that he restrains from bucking up into you or holding you in place to grind against — rather melting as you rut yourself against his lap. pushing his head up into your hand, prompting you to tug it again, and mingi just moans over the light sting combined with the heavy pressure against his cock. he’s so perfect, you can’t believe it.
the friction burns with the fabric but it burns good, your pussy practically buzzing with the impatience to feel him inside you. you think you even catch him twitch in his pants, his mouth struggling to keep up with your kisses as he lets all his pretty moans spill without shame.
mingi suddenly pauses your ministrations as his hands still you by the hips — only, he’s not strong enough to stop you, as you just continue slowly. it feels even better too, the slow drags allowing you to really feel the shape of him under the fabric. mingi stammers, focus torn between his own words and how pretty you look on top of him like this.
“what do you want to do?” he feels the need to ask, gauging how far you want to go. you can’t help but adore how cute he looks with his lips puffy from all the kissing.
you smile, twirling a strand of his hair. “you.”
mingi eyes flutter shut, still in disbelief that any of this is actually happening. you really want him the same as he’s wanted you for as long as he can even remember.
wanting to speed things up a bit, you slide yourself back on his lap, sitting on his knees and exposing the beautiful impression against his pants. for a second, you almost just beg him to stick it in now and fuck you into the mattress, but you know mingi wouldn’t let that happen. he probably wants to take his time, make sure you feel even better than him.
you pull your dress over your head, and mingi’s starstruck as he admires your body in the simple lace underwear set, blush flooding his face. then, it’s his turn, and he almost rushes to help you tug his shirt off.
yep, he definitely works out. in awe, you trace his toned chest and stomach, nails scraping just by his nipples — and his abs flex from the sensitivity.
he huffs, coy. “i’m ticklish..”
so he says… curious, you kiss at his neck, keeping your eyes on the way his tummy tenses, his pelvis doing tiny rolls into the air like it’s missing your heat. wanting to grant him the relief he deserves, your fingers curl around his waistband, and he takes the hint to lift his hips. in one motion you drag down both layers of his pants and boxers, exposing him down to his thighs where you’re sitting.
mingi groans in relief as his cock bobs free: flushed red, weeping, and painfully hard. you blink, examining the size in comparison to your body, wondering how it’s all going to fit. he’s big, and thick too. maybe the girthiest you’ve been with. definitely the prettiest. you don’t know how to tell him that he has a pretty dick without sounding like a bad porno, so you’ll have to just show him.
you reach a hand out to him, your fingers not even meeting your thumb as it wraps around the base. mingi studies your hand around him, looking astonished at the sight. you’ve got no idea how many times he’s imagined this exact picture before him. his body trembles as you spit directly on his cock, your hand chasing it as you tug up to the tip, precum dribbling over your knuckles.
you give a few strokes to coat his whole length in the slick, mingi heaving above you as he watches. your fingers tighten, and he throws his head back with a deep grunt as your wrist twists, stimulating the entirety of his length as you pull at him.
your mouth waters just looking at him, how fucked up he is over nothing but your fingers. a size like this is a waste if you’re not sticking it anywhere.
so, you stand from his lap and drop your knees to the carpet, prying his legs open to accommodate you. mingi looks like there’s not a thought left in his brain: mouth falling open at the sight of you kneeling, cock barely fitting in your hand, breasts spilling from your bra.
he braces himself as you pull his pants and boxers the rest of the way down, planting his hands behind him on the mattress. he already knows he’ll need something to hold on to.
“you’re big, mingi,” you beam at him, licking your lips.
he blushes at your words. “if it’s too much, you don’t have to take all of it..”
“i want to.”
mingi lets out something like a pained groan, his length twitching in your palm. “you’re gonna kill me.”
“i did say i want to ruin you.” you remind him, rubbing his frenulum with your thumb. it’s just too easy to want. he’s so vocal, and sensitive, and pretty all over. briefly, you wonder how much experience he has, considering he admitted to having no luck with dating. you don’t want to ask though — your heart just breaks at the thought of anyone else having your best friend like this.
you want to claim him so thoroughly, he won’t be able to remember there being anyone else.
you leave a kiss on his tip, pre smearing your lips like a gloss. mingi covers his face, whining.
“i’ve thought about this a lot...”
“really?” you ask him, intrigued. “how often?”
“it’s so embarrassing.”
“it’s not.” you intertwine a hand with one of his, coaxing him into revealing his face, now beet red.
“i had to stop myself from kissing you each time we’d hang out.” mingi admits. “i wanted to make a move so, so bad. i was just scared.”
“don’t hold back now,” you blink up at him, lining your mouth up. “okay?”
mingi’s not sure if he got out a nod, since he’s immediately throwing his head back as your lips wrap around the head of his cock without warning. you take him down inch by inch, his cock pulsing in the heat of your mouth, causing him to shudder each time your teeth scrape the soft skin.
you’re determined to fit him all in, holding your breath as you focus on opening up your throat. mingi’s leaking so much pre that you almost mistake it for cum. your cheeks already ache from the effort of stretching around his thick size, but it’s not enough to deter you — not with mingi whining so prettily above you, his knuckles white as they fist his bedsheets.
your lips finally reach the base, nose buried in his groin as your mouth envelops his entire length. you pause to let him breathe for only a moment, before you’re hollowing your cheeks and sucking. you draw out a long, pained moan from him as your throat constricts around him.
you start to bob your head, forgetting to inhale any air as you focus on sucking him into your mouth as tight as possible. the noises are filthy, wet squelching filling the room with all the drool and precum running down his length. you must’ve sounded worrying down there, since mingi’s pulling you off of him, his cock popping from your mouth.
“breathe.” he tells you, looking no better himself. he’s completely flushed down to his chest, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. “i can’t feel good if you’re not breathing.”
you pout at him. out of spite, you stretch your lips around him again, but stopping at the tip. mingi’s adam’s apple bobs as he watches you, and you want to suck a hickey onto it after.
you gently suck, like a lollipop. opening your lips to run your tongue over the tip, switching to quick kitten licks as you stare directly into his eyes. you make it a point to audibly inhale and exhale for him to prove that you’re breathing.
“can i deepthroat you again yet?”
he gulps. “...yeah.”
without hesitation, you’re plunging back down, eagerly filling your mouth with his cock until you nearly gag on it. you pick your pace back up from where you left off, his tip fucking the back of your throat with each bob. you alternate between running your tongue over the underside and swirling it at the tip, and mingi is gone. he died and went to heaven sometime during your question. you really know how to make a guy fall in love. he almost doesn’t want you to stop, but otherwise—
“oh, fuck!” mingi moans, trying to push your face away while his hips pull back at the same time. you stare at him, confused; understanding what happened (or what almost happened) as his flushed cock jerks violently right in front of your face.
“i’m sorry,” he breathes out. “i’m sorry, i was gonna cum,”
you just smile at him, unphased. you run your fingers gently over his length, tracing a vein on the underside, and he lets out the most gorgeously wrecked whimper.
“w-wait, i’ll seriously cum if you do that,”
you stop only because of how panicked he sounds. a shame — you really wanted him to cum in your mouth.
mingi notices your slight frown and pulls you up, sitting you back on his lap like a doll. “come here.”
he kisses you, licking into your mouth that still tastes like him. you give him a messy kiss before pulling back, aiming straight for the jugular as your lips latch to the skin. still sensitive, mingi shudders as you suck a patch of bruises onto his neck. you run your tongue over his adam’s apple, and the way it bobs in a moan has your head fucking spinning.
you can feel how wet you are. he could probably slip right in. it’d sting, no doubt, but it’d be worth it. mingi must be able to read your mind, since he places a gentle hand on your inner thigh, giving you puppy eyes.
“can i?”
as much as you want to jump straight into sex, you nod. because each way he touches you is full of so much love, you're willing to wait. and you know he might even get more out of this than you will.
mingi’s fingers trail down to your panties, his eyes going wide as he feels the wet patch that’s formed. like he can’t believe he’s affecting you just as much as you’re affecting him.
he lifts you and lays you down on the bed, crawling over your body. he looks to your face for permission as his fingers tap your bra, and you give him another nod, helping him unclip it from behind. you discard it somewhere on the floor.
mingi’s entranced with your bare chest. he gently cups a breast with his hand, giving a tentative squeeze, looking to you. again, you nod, cracking a smile at how nervous he still is, even after you put his whole dick in your mouth.
“i want you to touch me, mingi.” you say outright for him, and he drops his head to your chest, chuckling.
when it rises again, the look of love so potent in his eyes nearly knocks the wind out of you.
“you are so fucking pretty.”
taken aback by the cuss, you gasp as he kisses your nipple, cupping your other breast with his free hand.
he licks and sucks at the bud, keeping the other occupied as he rolls it between his fingers. he then switches between the two, showing equal love to each breast, and it has your pussy twitching. you could probably cum like this. you’d let him do it, too.
you almost protest as he moves off, trailing kisses down your stomach, all the way until his chin nudges your groin. mingi rises from the bed, and he gets down on his knees, exactly like you did for him.
he pulls your panties down your legs, eyes honed in on your glistening pussy between them. chucking the garment wherever your bra landed, you spread your legs for mingi to sit between, propping your thighs on his shoulders.
he looks amazed at how wet you are, and you can understand how he nearly came so quick with you down in the same position. he’s so goddamn pretty.
mingi raises his hand to you, and prods only a single finger at your entrance. his thumb finds your clit, and he presses it so perfectly as his finger slides in, you could cry thinking about where he learned this from. he cusses under his breath as your wet warmth envelops his finger, and he pulls out to immediately add a second. you’re tight, he’s going to have to work to make himself fit.
you, on the other hand, have been so turned on that you feel like you could cum at any second. your hips squirm, wanting so badly to entice mingi into just fingerfucking you silly. he lets out a hoarse laugh, satisfying the demand as his thumb circles your clit, his two fingers crooking up into your sweet spot.
he watches your pussy sucking him in, and mingi just crumbles. “shit—”
he moves his thumb only to replace it with his mouth, and you damn near scream as his lips close around your clit. a third finger joins the others as he starts to fuck them into you, mingi flattening his tongue and lapping at your buzzing clit like a dog.
it’s so much all at once, and it’s more than enough to have you toppling off the edge, your legs locking around his head as your orgasm washes over you. mingi sucks your clit through it, curling his fingers up so hard and fast that you see stars.
he pulls back for a quick breath, sounding ragged as if he was on the verge of passing out, before groaning a “fuck” and diving right back in. not even listening to his own advice about breathing. your body thrashes above him as the waves of pleasure just keep on coming.
you don’t know how long it is before you go limp, completely spent. but not done. not yet.
mingi leaves one last kiss on your sensitive clit before he’s pulling his fingers out and climbing back up. “beautiful, so fucking beautiful.” he grunts, running his tongue over your breasts.
you’re so sensitive, your hands pulling at his hair, causing a groan to rumble on your nipple. his bare cock slides against your inner thigh, precum smearing the skin. you reach down to guide him to your pussy, and you both moan in tandem as his cock slides through your folds.
you roll your hips, and he follows, desperately grinding your wet heat together; his cock bumping your clit so perfectly with each thrust.
“i want you,” you pant.
“i want you too.” mingi sobs, wanting to feel this heat wrapped around him more than anything, but knowing he can’t fucking have it.
“fuck me, mingi,” you plead him.
“i c-can’t,” he whines. “i don’t have a, ah— a condom.”
“i don’t care, i want you.”
mingi lets out a broken groan into your shoulder. “fuck, you’ll really let me?”
“yes, mingi, please.”
“okay,” he huffs, catching his breath, comprehending that this is happening for real. “okay.”
mingi kisses your face as he works up the courage, lining his cock up. his tip nudges your hole, and he whimpers at the raw sensation.
“okay. if you want me to stop—”
“—i won’t.” you smile at him, and he just shakes his head, laughing to himself.
“what’d i do to deserve you?” he says, intertwining his hand with yours.
you keep eye contact as mingi pushes in, your face crumpling as his thick head splits you open. he pauses, worried he’s hurting you, but you nod frantically for him to keep going. just like you thought, it’s a good fucking sting. he did well with his fingers, since you’re able to focus on breathing as he sinks his entire length inside.
you feel almost unbearably full as mingi bottoms out, softly whimpering above you. his hand holding yours tight. your pussy flutters around him as it adjusts to the size, and he almost doesn’t even want to move.
you encourage him further with a soft kiss. mingi drags his hips until only the tip’s left, before pushing all the way back in. you both break off into a moan as he splits you open again, the glide smoother this time with your arousal gushing around him.
another reassuring kiss from you is all mingi needs to snap his hips again, and again and again. every thrust being so deep, shuffling you up the bed just from the force.
his other hand props himself up by a fist on the mattress, determined to fuck you as best he can. each movement has his length rubbing at your g-spot so beautifully. you don’t even realise that you’re holding your voice back, forgetting to do anything other than just take him.
“breathe, please.” he tells you again, thumb stroking your hand as a comfort. “i want to know how you’re feeling.”
“it feels so, so fucking good.” you cry out for him.
mingi dives down to kiss you, and you can feel his smile as it slots against your lips. he’s proud of himself for being able to please you. he breaks off with a high-pitched whine as your pussy grips him like a vice, and it might be the sexiest sound you’ve ever heard.
“cum in me,” you whisper to him, holding his face. “i want it.”
his only response is another of those sexy whines, his face scrunching up in pain from how hard he’s trying not to instantly bust over your words.
“god, you’re so good to me.” he pants out, fisting the sheets as he puts all his energy into ramming his hips as fast as they’ll go. his thighs ache from the gruelling pace, but it’s all worth it with your cries of bliss filling his ears.
your pussy clamps down on him, and you shout as another orgasm sneaks up on you.
“fu—ah, mingi!”
he cusses as he realises what’s happening, and he’s helpless to how his own release follows immediately after, his hips stuttering as he spills out inside you — your name on his tongue.
mingi’s chest falls on yours, rapidly rising for air, and he still pulls you in for another kiss. breathless as his hips kick weakly inside you, his tongue fervently licking against yours. he’s kissing you so desperately, you almost can’t keep up.
“i wanna be yours,” he pants out in between kisses, cradling your face so sweetly in his hands.
you smile, whispering back, “i wanna be yours too.”
“so be mine.” he pulls back just to beg. “please?”
you can’t say no to an adorable face like that. you tip your head in a nod, and mingi dives back in, your sweaty bodies falling into a pile of love.
you don’t say it outright — but the implication is there. you’re not just best friends anymore. as if you could be, after that. and as mingi sucks at your neck, his cock growing hard again where it’s still buried inside you, you couldn’t be happier.
──
you jolt awake, a deep pit sinking in your stomach as your blurry eyes spin at the ceiling. warm arms draped around your bare body being all to keep you grounded. you nearly recoil at the weight pressing down, last night’s memories flooding back in a tidal wave, headed by a thick slew of guilt. pure fucking guilt.
mingi stirs beside you, sleepily squeezing your side as if he’s checking you’re still there. a dopey grin spreads across his cheeks as he squints at you, still half-asleep. “thought i was dreaming.”
he goes to kiss your temple, and you pull back without thinking. hurt flashes across his face, but it slides into understanding as the fog clears from his head. the spell couldn’t last forever.
“is this okay?” mingi asks in such a small, unsure voice that breaks your heart, his hands hovering off of you.
you nod, curling back into his touch. you should make the most of it while it lasts. you sure as hell got a greedy fill last night. your thighs ache as your body shifts, a reminder of how long you were spread out last night. mingi massages your back, comforting you in silence.
“i have to go home.” you say finally. he already knows.
“i can take you.” he offers, nose nudging your hair as he breathes in your scent. he’s going to miss it.
you accept, since that’s the least you could do for him right now — but make a mental note to ask him to drop you off around the corner. all hell would break loose if mingi’s car pulled up in the driveway after you’ve been missing for an entire night.
mingi retreats to the bathroom to grant you some space — evidently resisting the urge to invite you in by the pout on his face. if you really meant what you said last night, you’re his now. all he has left is to call you his girlfriend. the last thing he wants is to put distance between you. but, he knows you need it right now, and that’s enough reason for him to.
you let out a genuine whine when you find your phone on the floor: the battery in the single digits, the lockscreen flooded with frantic texts and missed calls. you scroll through it, ignoring each and any text with yunho’s name attached. you don’t have the strength to confront those just yet. you feel a pang of shame seeing your stepmother’s contact strewed in there too — no doubt yunho had ran and cried wolf.
further down, your eye catches on a batch of missed calls from an unknown number, a single voicemail attached. curious, you press to listen.
“hey, it’s hongjoong.…sorry we keep speaking like this. i’m with yunho right now. i got your number from his phone, which i confiscated, since he was going to smash it. he’s very drunk and freaking out over you. i don’t know what happened between you two but… uh, look, i saw you leaving with mingi. i haven’t said anything because they’re both my friends, so.. just, please call yunho back, when you can? let him know you’re okay. don’t know if i’ll be able to get this massive guy to bed any other way. cheers.”
shame clogs up your throat, leaving you coughing until your lashes dot with tears. why did it have to come to this? why did a choice made out of tender, sweet love become something so fucking gutwrenching?
feeling broken enough, you scroll back through the texts to skim over yunho’s, each word hurting more than the last. you stop at a certain notification — one that you initially missed among the others, one that has your heart dropping immediately.
a single missed call from your father.
you don’t hesitate to call him back. he never calls you. he never feels the need to. you’re not close like that.
each ring that you wait through is like another stab to your ribs until finally, he picks up, voice groggy as he says your name. you must’ve woken him up.
“i’m sorry, dad.” you bumble out. “you called?”
he hums, mildly annoyed. the simple noise twists the knife. “where were you last night? your mother was worried sick.”
“i’m really sorry, i..” you gulp, making a split second choice on a lie. “my friend yuqi took me to her house. i lost track of time and fell asleep. i didn’t want anyone to worry over me, i’m sorry.”
“i’m fine.” he replies, unphased. another twist. “you should be apologising to your brother. he came home in tears, sobbing over you. you were with mingi, weren’t you?” you can’t even bring yourself to reply, your ribcage cracking open. your father sighs. “yunho’s concerned about you, baby. he says mingi’s bad news, that he’s trying to isolate you, but you won’t listen.”
that pisses you off enough to interject. “that’s bullshit. he—”
“—your brother matters more!” he silences you, frustration evident in his tone. “family comes first, baby. you should be taking care of yunho. he really cares about you. you shouldn’t be ruining that. not for some boy.”
you bite your lip until you taste blood. you fucking hate the way he says it. even when you were only innocent kids, not understanding why boys and girls couldn’t be friends, your father hammered it down that he’d never approve of you with mingi. he grew to tolerate the friendship over time, but that disapproval never faded, and you have no idea why.
“he’s not just some boy.”
you father heaves a sigh, and it’s so heavily disappointed that you nearly cry on the spot.
“i don’t want you to make the same mistakes i did, baby. those.. habits you had back at the town, i only ever let it happen because you were struggling. you have got to grow out of it now. we’re a family again.” he gives a bitter chuckle. “i know that you must get it from me.”
it’s so quiet on your end, you’re sure he must’ve heard the way your heart shattered before you abruptly hung up.
hearing all of that from him, his genuine disappointment in you, as if he’s not the one who cheated and split up the family in the first place. acting like what you’ve done is comparable.
you’ve never spoken much about emotions with your father. you’ve never spoken much about anything with him. it’s part of the reason why you depended on yunho so much while growing up, why you let him leech onto you.
the door creaks, and you profusely wipe at your face. mingi slowly pokes his head through, water still dripping from his hair. he looks upset, and you realise he must’ve been standing outside, not wanting to interrupt but hearing everything.
he fiddles nervously with the door handle. “do you want me to..”
you choke on a sudden sob, covering your face with your hands before tears can fall. mingi’s crossing the room within a second, sliding onto the bed next to you and enveloping you in his arms. you fall forward into his chest, swallowing down each sob threatening to claw its way up. you refuse to cry over your father.
“i have to go home,” you say, mostly to tell it to yourself. there’s another part to the sentence, one that you don’t say out loud, but you can both hear it. you have to see yunho.
you expect mingi’s hold to loosen, for him to be mad that you’re leaving, but he only nods — kissing your hair.
“i understand.”
there isn’t any more words as he cradles you like that for however long, letting you stain his clean shirt with sniffled tears. the warmth radiating from his body seeps under your skin, and you feel a little more okay with every second his arms hold you. you feel loved, knowing he wouldn’t let anything outside of these walls harm you.
eventually, you force yourself to go into the bathroom to freshen up, tidying yourself up so you don’t look like you’ve just cried after a night of sex. you return to the bedroom to see mingi taking the sheets off the bed, and it breaks your heart with how he’s basically cleaning up the evidence.
you should do your part, too.
“could we stop by a pharmacy first, please?”
he nods. “anything you need.”
on the way out, you shoot yuqi a text asking if she can cover for you — forward planning, since it seems like you’re going through with hiding this.
you can’t stop that sinking pit in your chest, that sharp twisting in your ribs. just last night, you felt like you were being dipped in gold each time mingi touched you, and now the memory sears your skin like acid. choosing to love mingi feels like a betrayal, like you’ve just cheated. and you can’t understand why.
──
you wince as the front door creaks open a bit too loudly for your liking, hoping your family aren’t prepared to greet you together as if ‘walk of shame’ is written across your forehead.
to your luck, only your stepmother appears — letting out a noise of relief as she rounds the corner from the kitchen. out of anyone, you’d rather run into her anyways.
“oh baby,” she tuts, bringing you in for a hug. she scrunches her nose as she pulls back, likely getting a big whiff of the sample pharmacy perfume you doused yourself in. “do you not like my life360 family plan that much?”
“er, no, it’s not that. i’m sorry, last night i didn’t know what—”
“oh, it’s alright.” she cuts the excuse off, placing a hand on your shoulder as her expression falls to a stern one. “just don’t do that to your brother again.”
you gulp through a dry throat, nodding.
as if on queue, yunho’s flying down the stairs, barely giving you time to react before he’s scooping you into his arms. wrapping his whole body around you with a grip so tight it hurts. your stepmother takes her leave, giving you both the space to have it out.
“i was so worried.” he mutters, face pressed to your shoulder. he breathes in, and you only hope he can’t smell the traces of mingi on you underneath the perfume. “why did you leave me?”
he pulls back in anticipation of your response — your excuse, your lie if he can catch it. you know he’s not dumb. mingi disappeared and so did you not long after. you know how it looks. but he’s never going to be able to prove it if he didn’t see it. in fact, he can even ask your alibi yuqi, who promised she’d back up whatever story you tell despite not knowing what for.
yunho’s eyes are almost entirely devoid of his usual warmth. which, if the dark circles under his eyes are any indicator, he may not have even slept. his hair’s mussed too, like he’s only just rolled out of bed upon hearing the door. or maybe it’s because he’s been tugging at it.
“i’m sorry,” you say wobbily, your body trembling under his hands — with guilt, but also with the adrenaline of lying. “i’m really sorry, i didn’t think it would get like this.”
yunho’s scarily still as he waits for you to elaborate. you take deliberate pauses to breathe, like you need to find the words. like you didn’t already plan what you’re going to say during the car ride over.
“i just felt so sick and i wanted to leave, so yuqi took me back to her place, and..” you cover your face with your hands, acting cringed. “we got stoned.”
lying 101: include an embarrassing detail. after all, why would you intentionally make yourself look bad?
yunho pulls your hands back, his eyes searching your face wildly. “why didn’t you come to me instead?? you turned your location off, you wouldn’t answer your phone for anyone — do you understand how that looks?”
“i know, i’m really sorry,” you whine, like the ‘truth’ makes you uncomfortable. “i just didn’t want to have to tell anyone… i was worried you’d be mad.”
“of course i don’t want you to smoke, but i would’ve liked to know that.” he cradles your face in his hands, tone softening. “i was so fucking worried about you, baby. why would you leave without saying anything?”
“i didn’t want to be a burden.. it was your friend’s birthday, and i had yuqi there for me—”
“i could have been there for you.” yunho hugs you to his chest again, leaving a kiss on your hair. “please come to me from now on.”
you nod profusely — internally stunned with yourself that you actually managed to convince him. “are you going to tell our parents?”
“what, that you ditched me to get high?” he chuckles at how you cringe, fondly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “no, i won’t.” then his smile drops. “as long as you never do that again.”
you nod, but that’s not good enough. his grip tightens like a warning, until you reply: “i won’t.”
successfully fooled but now freshly possessive, yunho follows you all the way up the stairs and into your room. even after you tell him you want to change, he lingers as if he’s waiting for you to just start stripping in front of him. he doesn’t even lock the door on his way out, and gives you only a minute of privacy before he’s barging back in — catching you in the middle of pulling a top over your bare tummy.
you know you fucked up. not because what happened with mingi was a mistake — but because breaking yunho’s trust was. he’ll never let you out of his sight now, not until he’s convinced you won’t get snatched up and sullied by his best friend if he so much as blinks. from yunho’s perspective, you and mingi haven’t been in contact since he ‘cut you off’. as long as mingi plays his part well enough, then your brother will never know what really happened last night.
yunho doesn’t speak, doesn’t even scroll on his phone as he lays on your bed, just watching you move about your room. like he’s trying to peel the truth off of you with his eyes, making you cave from the pressure and admit the worst of his suspicions.
you try to just ignore him, tidying up your room as a distraction. it’s also so he won’t question it when you empty out your bin. however, your plan is cut short when sudden sharp cramps attack your stomach. dizzy, you collapse into bed, and yunho jumps at the chance to cuddle you.
“hungover?” he coos, rubbing your sore belly from behind. you nod. “i’ll get you some ibuprofen.”
you curl into yourself, stomach rolling with pain; not paying any mind to yunho as he walks over to your desk, already knowing you keep medicine in the drawer. he tips out the last ibuprofen in the bottle, and walks over to the bin — where he freezes.
you’re too distracted by the slew of cramps to notice what yunho’s seen. his hand trembles as he crushes the plastic in his hands, staring directly at the box of plan b sitting at the top of your bin, an empty pill packet right next to it.
that wasn’t there before. he knows, because he anxiously paced your room all night, waiting for you to come home.
he knew it. he fucking knew it.
yunho tosses the empty bottle in the bin, running his hands through his hair. he tugs his scalp a few times, trying to ground himself with the sting. to stop the thoughts racing through his head that all scream bloody murder.
it’s okay. he can forgive you for this. mistakes are human nature, after all. you just need to make it up to him.
the bed dips when yunho sits down, and your eyes snap open when he says your name. not ‘baby’, your name. his face is solemn, hair mussed again, and panic bolts up your spine as you wonder what the hell happened in the last few seconds.
yunho reaches for your hand, holding it softly as his gaze falters. he can’t even look you in the eye right now, and it rattles you.
“there’s something that you deserve to know.” he starts, barely above a whisper. “something that i’ve been too scared to say, for a long time.”
you don’t even want to hear it. you feel like you’re one big breath away from passing out, the cramps mercilessly churning your guts. one wrong look from yunho and you could probably burst into tears. you know it’s only because the pill has kicked in: the pain being a constant reminder of last night, and with yunho right next to you. even still, you don’t regret going all the way with mingi, not for a second.
yunho goes on, determined. “your father.. when he cheated on eomma, did he ever tell you who it was with?”
yunho knows for certain that he never did. it’s why you still bother giving his bitch of a best friend the time of day. albeit reluctant, you shake your head, prompting him to continue. yunho takes a deep breath, acting like it hurts him to say this. acting like he’s not over the moon right now, knowing he’ll never have to share you again.
“mingi’s mother came onto your father” yunho says while he holds your hand. “mingi knew about the affair, but did nothing.”
“....what?”
“he let it happen for years. he could’ve stopped it, he could’ve told someone. but he didn’t. i was the one who told eomma, and that’s when they got divor—”
“what the fuck are you saying??” you yell, trying to rip your hand away but he holds it tighter. “what is this? why are you telling me this right now??”
“it’s the truth, baby. you’ve been so happy since you moved back, i didn’t want to tell you and ruin it for you, but i can’t stand to watch mingi lie to you anymore.” he holds your face, forcing you to look at him as your eyes well up with tears. “he’s the reason our family was torn apart. he’s trying to get close to you again, acting like he’s not the cause for all your suffering.”
“it was my father who cheated,” you interrupt in a brief moment of clarity. “mingi has nothing to do with that—”
“but he helped his mother hide it. for years. do you think he feels guilty, if he’s hanging out with you like nothing happened? if he’s taking advantage of you like his mother did to your father?”
“stop.” you sob, instinctively trying to cover your face but yunho’s quicker — wiping your tears away, stroking your cheeks to console you. “i don’t understand..”
“do you see now, why i didn’t want you around him?” yunho says gently, as if spelling it out for a child. “i was trying to look out for you, baby.”
in a surge of defiance, you rip your face away from his hands, and he looks at you like you’ve just slapped him.
“i don’t believe you.”
yunho, having expected this, just sighs and pulls his phone out from his pocket. “call him and ask yourself.”
he readily offers you his phone, and you almost don’t take it, put off by how assured he is. his screen is open on their chat, and your chest twists as you read the string of texts, dated from this morning. in the mere minutes after mingi dropped you off around the corner from home.
[yunho] I’ve had enough of this bullshit.
[yunho] You can go fuck yourself, I’m telling her what you and your mother did to us
[mingi] yunho
[mingi] please don’t
[mingi] i want nothing to do with her, i promise you
[mingi] please don’t say anything
the phone slips from your hands, joining your heart as it plummets to the floor. it’s there in writing. yunho really was protecting you. and mingi was…
… you can’t bring yourself to admit it. you’re in enough pain from the pill’s side effects, which you’re only bearing because you let him fuck you raw out of love. and he did it, he went through with it, knowing he was already fucking you over this entire time.
“why?” you croak out, boneless in yunho’s arms as he hugs you. “why would he do that??”
“i don’t know, baby. that’s just the type of person he is.”
“but why?!” you let the waterworks fall freely, your entire heart unravelling into a million tiny pieces. yunho’s there to catch it, kissing each tear from your cheeks. you’d feel comforted by it, if only there was anything left in your heart to be felt.
yunho kisses dangerously close to the corner of your mouth, and you pull back, suddenly realising how weird this proximity is.
“i need to see mingi.” you demand.
yunho clicks his tongue, and it almost feels demeaning. “i saw the plan b in your bin.”
“wh—”
“you want to see him, when he left you to deal with the side effects like this? when he lied the entire time just so he could use you for sex?” he spits out each word like they taste foul, and they all sting you more than the last.
you want to shake your head, but all the fight has left your body in the tears streaming down to your chin. you just can’t find it in you to refuse yunho anymore.
“i’ve been there for you, even when you didn’t want me.” he hushes your soft sobs, guiding you back on the pillows and laying down beside you. “i’ve never lied. only tried my best to take care of you.”
he drapes an arm over your waist, his hand enveloping yours where it holds your cramping belly. yunho massages the area softly, trailing kisses along your hair, the side of your face. you’re broken enough that it’s all working, and you just melt into the comfort that he’s giving you.
his mouth travels south, kissing along your jaw before reaching your neck. you shiver, sensitive — and you pull back to look at him. he’s looking back, with eyes almost entirely black, cheeks dusted a faint pink.
you know it before you feel it: he’s turned on. his boner very obviously prods into your back, and the shift in mood is written all over his face. you know he feels this energy between you and is trying to dip his toes into the waters, entice you over to the deep end. you’re so gone that you don’t even care anymore. you let him shift behind you, his length just slightly rubbing into your body and gracing him with the barest friction — enough to have him sighing and leaving another kiss on your neck.
against your will, old habits stir deep in your core. sex as a coping mechanism was your favourite vice back at the old town. whenever you missed your family too much, whenever you felt too lonely to bear it, you’d let some man inside you long enough to make you forget. sex is the only salve for heartbreak that you’ve ever known.
softly, you ask him, “why?”
yunho smiles. he can’t help but think you’ve never looked more beautiful than you do now, only because your heart’s broken and he’s all you’ve got to comfort you.
“because i love you.”
he studies your face, and you make the mistake of letting your eyes drop to his lips. how they’re slightly swollen from all the kisses he’s given you. how he runs his tongue over them under your gaze. your eyes flit back up to his, but it’s too late. you know you’re a goner.
yunho leans in slowly, very slowly, giving you the time to back up or tell him to stop. it’s as if he’s trying to prove a point, because you never do; and his lips curl into a smirk just before he presses them to yours. gently.
after a brief moment of shock, you pull away, eyes wide. what felt like a kiss that lasted way too long for you, was nothing but a blip to him. yunho knows he’s a goner too, because he has no hesitation before cupping your face and kissing you harder.
you squirm at the feeling of unfamiliar lips moving against yours, yunho eagerly parting your mouth with his own and swiping his tongue across your lower lip. you can feel his smirk into the kiss over how your body’s submitting to him. he trails a hand back down, lithe fingers skimming between your breasts, stopping at your tummy — before they crawl under your shirt.
“let me make it feel better,” he whispers. “please?”
you give him back nothing. he’s sucking your tongue into his mouth, huffing as he coats his lips in your spit, while you’re barely putting in the effort to kiss him back. you want to feel good, you want to feel anything other than this pain — but you refuse to inflate his ego just as much.
yunho, however, is unbothered. he’ll happily put in all the work. he’s your big brother, it’s his duty to take care of you after all.
he gently squeezes your waist, softly groaning onto your lips over finally touching your bare skin like this. he inches higher until his fingers tap the underside of your breast. yunho pulls back, looking into your eyes for a reaction, and he chuckles at the scowl you give him. because he knows that means you’re letting him.
yunho’s hand closes around your breast, and he gives an experimental grope, his insufferable smile growing wider at how your eyes flutter shut. you don’t want to face him that badly? yunho dives back in to kiss you, keeping his tongue buried in your mouth as his fingers expertly work at your breast: swiping, rolling, and pinching the nipple until you’re so lost in the pleasure that you kiss him back.
he starts to trail kisses south again; pausing before latching his mouth to your neck, and you wonder if he was checking for any hickeys. yunho leaves hot stamps down your jugular as his hands hike your shirt up until the air’s hitting your bare chest. he knows you never wear a bra at home. grinning, yunho continues to pamper your body with kisses, and you hate the goosebumps that arise as his lips graze your nipple.
everything’s so much more sensitive with your eyes shut. you open them, locking eyes with yunho as he’s already staring directly at you, lolling his tongue out of his mouth. he swirls his tongue around the bud, giving torturously slow licks before closing his lips and sucking. you hold your breath, muffling any noises out of spite. his free hand comes to circle at your other nipple, and your pelvis jolts a little, the stimulation sending shocks straight down to your clit. yunho caught that.
“breathe, baby.” he tells you, and you almost feel sick, remembering mingi’s voice saying that exact same thing. “no need to be shy.”
the mocking tone, combined with the way his tongue quickly flicks over your nipple, causes you to sharply intake breath and accidentally let out a whimper. yunho gives a pleased hum, switching to the other breast and sloppily kissing the sensitive bud. you let yourself loose — it does feel really fucking good, and it’s easier to just succumb than fight your own body. you moan freely for him, burying your hands in his hair and tugging hard enough to hurt. yunho only moans right back at you. of course he doesn’t mind pain.
now that you’re being responsive, yunho’s self-control is rapidly chipping away. without warning he aims for your pants, tugging the garment down your thighs to expose your panties. you don’t even react; you feel as if you’re half detached from your body, your mind tuned in solely to the sensations of pleasure that yunho’s giving you. perhaps so you don’t have to confront the absurdity of the circumstances.
yunho cups over your crotch, his eyes glinting at the soaked fabric under his fingers. even if you try to claim you’re not enjoying this — your body’s telling a different story entirely. he presses his hand in, and you whine at the pressure. your panties are thin where they’re stuck to the skin, and his palm offers delicious friction as he grinds it against your clit.
yunho’s so entirely enamoured with you right now. he’s indecisive as he goes between kissing your lips and then ravaging your neck, his teeth nipping and his tongue soothing. you spur him on as you let all your whimpers spill into his ears, your hips chasing the drag of his palm against your clit.
you take notice of his boner pressed into your leg, and you’re a little stunned as you realise the size — as well as the fact that he’s keeping still. choosing to please you and ignoring his own arousal as if he has all the time in the world.
you gasp as his fingers run over your pussy, coating the tips in your slick. you must be really out of it, since you hadn’t even realised he pulled your panties to the side. he dips his pointer to the first knuckle into your pussy, just to feel inside, and you clench around him before he pulls back with a hiss.
“god i want you.” he chuckles, two fingers swiping up and coming to draw digit eights on your clit. “you’re so beautiful, baby.”
you grimace through the whimper that slips out. his sweetness sits bitter on your tongue, just at the thought of how everything nice he’s done for you may have just been building to this.
“you want me?” you ask him, defiance crawling back up into your tone. “when did that start?”
yunho simply smiles. you’re so cute, trying to act like he’s not actively getting you off. “does it matter?” he retorts, bringing his other hand down to slip two digits into your hole. you choke on a moan as they curl up and instantly find your g-spot, his other fingers still circling your clit.
you’re still sore from last night, your pussy burning with the pleasure as yunho fucks his fingers directly into the spot that has your stomach in knots. yunho’s in awe of how wrecked you are under him right now: your breasts rapidly rising and falling, your thighs feebly trying to shut his hands out, the slope of your neck wet with blooming hickeys. he can’t help but want to mark every inch of your body, to smother any traces of that fucker he should’ve never called a best friend.
you cry out as yunho latches his mouth to a nipple again — feverishly trying to suck a bruise right on the bud. it’s all too overwhelming, and his hands are working at you so expertly, attentive to your most sensitive spots and the movements that have you trembling. it’s almost methodical as his rhythm switches between teasingly slow and ruthlessly quick. his long fingers curl deep into your g-spot, the others circling your clit the way you do to yourself.
so much for the quiet nerd you grew up with — it’s obvious that he’s had his hands on enough girls to know his way around a pussy. he knows exactly what to do, and he does it really well, it’s no wonder that heat coils in your lower belly dangerously quick. you almost don’t want to cum, out of spite as your chest aches with jealousy. you can’t help it though: it hurts to hold your orgasm back, teetering on oversensitivity as both his hands keep working your pussy.
yunho adds a third finger, pushing the digits in until the tip of his middle finger grazes your cervix, and your orgasm comes gushing around his hand. he watches with wonder as your pussy flutters around his knuckles, fingering you as deep as he can reach while rubbing your clit through it. he draws it out as long as he can, only stopping his movements when your knees close around his arms, pussy long past sensitive.
yunho tuts as he reluctantly pulls his hand back, slowly dragging each knuckle against your walls to have you whimpering before his fingers release with a wet squelch. you think you can finally catch your breath, before yunho’s prying your legs apart and slotting himself in the space between them, dragging your panties the rest of the way down.
“just want a taste.” he murmurs, and you squirm as his hot breath hits your clit. “i haven’t waited this long to not taste you.”
you want to frown over what he’s just suggested, though you’re overtaken with a full body jolt as his tongue runs through your folds. a moan rumbles on your clit as your slick floods his mouth, and you can only whimper at how raw you still feel from your release. it feels so good that it hurts, yunho pushing you into overstimulation as his lips close around your pussy. you try to rip him up by the scruff of his hair, to suffocate him as your thighs clamp around the sides of his neck, but he just groans through it — licking you harder as you hurt him.
he forces your legs back open, holding them down to the bed as you attempt to kick at him. tears fill your lashes, overstimulated and helpless as yunho eats you out like a rabid dog, right until you’re crying out into yet another orgasm.
your hips barely raise from the bed as he keeps you pinned down, your vision whiting out from the unbearable pleasure, yunho refusing to slow down for even a second. by the time you come back down, you’re all but smacking his head to get him off.
yunho chuckles, looking like the proudest man alive as he props himself up on his knees, chin completely smeared in your arousal. you rub at your stomach with shaky fingers. it aches again, you hadn’t realised how hard you were tensing it. you also hadn’t realised the pain ever subsided in the first place.
yunho coos at you, his large hand enveloping yours. “does it still hurt, baby?”
you glance down, eyes falling on the large stain of precum where his cock tents his sweats. you gulp — he really is long everywhere. as much as it fucking kills the last shred of your dignity to admit.. you want it. so god help you, you do.
you tip your head almost imperceptibly in a nod. yunho catches it, because of course he does, and his face splits into the brightest grin you’ve ever seen him sport. you’d almost find it cute, if only you weren’t about to go through with the most fucked up choice in your life.
you shove that train of thought into the deepest pits of your brain. it can crawl out in time for regrets later. all you want right now is to fill this emptiness inside with pleasure, and yunho has delivered on that more than enough. he’s almost got you greedy for more, chasing that brief moment again in which your mind goes blank and nothing but bliss flows through your body.
the bed squeaks as yunho stands up. he tugs his shirt off and drops his sweats to the floor, walking over to your bedside table in nothing but his boxers. wordlessly, he squats to pull out the bottom drawer, and rips open the box of condoms in there. you don’t even bother asking how he knows you have them. he really is a fucking weirdo.
yunho tears the packet with his teeth as he walks back over to bed, and you almost frown at how your pussy throbbed at the sight. yunho stands by the edge, reaching out to knead your ass. condom between his fingers, yunho can’t help himself to gripping his cock through the fabric, sighing out as his eyes feast on your naked body.
“roll over for me?” he asks, gently nudging your thigh. his eyes flick up to yours, and you fold at how enlarged his pupils are. it makes you remember just how much yunho adores you.
he’s never hidden how much he loves his sister, his baby, always being affectionate and loud about it. you can only wonder where that pure feeling twisted into.. this. maybe it was never pure to begin with. maybe, yunho can’t tell the difference.
you roll over for him, laying flat on your tummy and turning your head to the side to watch him strip from his boxers. your eyes widen at the brief sight of his dick as it slaps against his stomach before he’s straddling you within the next second; his knees bracketing your thighs, a hand eagerly groping your ass as the other slips the condom on.
yunho wanted you from behind not just because it’s his favourite, but because he knows mingi wouldn't have taken you like this. he seems like the hand-holding, sappy missionary type. yunho could easily be that for you, too, if that’s how you like your boys. but not right now — right now, he wants to be a little selfish. to see you in a position mingi didn’t. to fuck you in a different and better way.
yunho sighs in relief as his tip prods your entrance, wasting no time in inching his hips forward. yunho’s slimmer than mingi, so you take him with ease, encouraging him with soft hums as he buries his cock into you. however — his length pushes past further than you were prepared for, and you muffle a gasp into the bed as he bottoms out, his tip pressed against your cervix. just longer than mingi.
even if he’s not splitting you open, yunho’s spearing you right where it’s most sensitive. it’s almost an uncomfortable fit, and you deliberately clench down to entice him to move out. yunho pushes you further into the bed with a hand on your back, anchoring himself before he starts to grind his hips forward. the head of his cock rolls into your cervix as he pushes in as far as he can, and you cry out his name as a plea. he pulls out swiftly at that, his hand rubbing your hips to soothe you. you can’t see it, but he’s grinning like a maniac.
“did i hurt you? baby, i didn’t mean to..”
you can feel how his cock pulses against your ass. the motherfucker enjoyed it. he didn’t even bother saying sorry because he’s not.
patience running thin, you tilt your head to snap at him: “just hurry up and get it over with.”
most people would probably have second thoughts hearing that, but most people would also rather kill themselves than imagine being in yunho’s position — burying his cock into his stepsister. all he hears is that you’re just as excited as he is to be having sex at long last.
yunho pushes back in, breath breaking off into groan as your pussy flutters around him. it’s as if you’re trying to make him cum quickly. fortunately for the both of you, he’s got excellent stamina.
he angles his pelvis just right before snapping his hips, and you moan out at how he hits your g-spot directly — setting a fast pace as he fucks you right there over and over. it’s just like when you’re drunk, the way your head spins and floats away from your body. nothing but pure ecstasy coursing through your veins. it’s all you ever wish to feel all the time.
“shit, i knew it, you’re perfect.” yunho huffs out above you. “do you feel good, baby?”
you’re conscious enough to not want to answer him out of spite. you want to focus solely on your own pleasure, to simply take what you’re given as yunho relentlessly rams into your g-spot. he’s so cocky — he’s made you cum twice, it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure out that yes, he’s good at sex.
he can tell you’re defying him, so he makes it a point to angle a thrust into your cervix, shuffling you up the bed from the force in it. you bite down on your lip, not wanting to give him the grace of hearing you.
“shy again, hm?” he teases, giving your ass a light slap. “i just want you to tell me, please.” he wedges a hand under your stomach, reaching until his fingers tap your clit. he rubs once, and you moan out in shock, your eyes rolling back into your head from the oversensitivity.
“yes! it’s good,” you half-sob, half-whine, trying to wriggle away from his touch. you think you might pass out if you cum again.
luckily, yunho relents, chuckling lowly as he retracts his hand. he puts all his energy back into fucking you to the best of his abilities, because what good was any of his prior meaningless encounters if not practice for the only one that matters, you?
your eyes well up again, the sensations being so overwhelming but exactly what you wanted. you can’t feel anything past your hips with all the hot pleasure blooming from your gut, yunho fucking into places your own fingers can’t even reach. distantly, you wonder how long it’ll take him to cum, before his cock twitches violently.
yunho collapses on top of you, sitting his chin on your shoulder. he snakes a hand around your neck and cranes your head to stare back into his wild eyes.
“say my name.” he demands, pushing his length all the way in until a stabbing pang lights up your cervix.
“yunho.” you squeak out, struggling to keep your eyes open as he grinds up into your damn guts.
“not that one, shit—” there’s another twitch, and you wince with how deep he’s pressed. “the other one.” he urges you. “say— ah, shit!”
he slips his cock out instantly, sucking in a sharp breath to stave off his orgasm, but it doesn’t matter as you understand and whimper out:
“yuyu.”
“fuck, baby—”
you gasp as he roughly fucks into you like a man possessed, chasing his release with frantic thrusts. the pain pulses right along with pleasure, but you just moan with him through it as he fills you to the hilt.
yunho pulls out at the very last second, ripping the condom off before he’s shooting out his release, warm ropes of cum coating your ass. that very gesture is what immediately snaps you out of the lust-filled haze. if he was planning to cum on you, that means he only wore protection so that he doesn’t.. catch something.
upset, you prop yourself up by the elbows and twist your upper body to snap at him: “you’re a fucking asshole.”
yunho chuckles, too high off that once in a lifetime orgasm to care. “seems like you don’t mind this asshole, hm?” as if to prove a point, he dips a finger into your pussy, and you clench around him. he laughs as you kick him away.
you curl up into a ball on your bed, the post-sex clarity sinking like nails hammered into your bones. you wish the sheets would just open up and swallow you whole. meanwhile, yunho doesn’t bother tying the condom up before dropping it directly onto the plan b box in the bin, smirking as his cum leaks onto it.
yunho retrieves the wet wipes you keep in your room, pulling his boxers back on before walking over to sit by your huddled form. you don’t even move as he presses the wipe to your skin and cleans up after himself — letting him turn you this way and that like a ragdoll as you space out at the wall.
afterwards, yunho snuggles up right next to you, pulling the blanket up both of your bodies. briefly, you feel glad that he didn’t just leave you. his long arms wrap around you from behind, and he presses a sweet kiss to your head. a million dollar smile carved onto his face.
“i love you, baby.”
you don’t say it back, pretending to already be asleep as he plays with your hair.
──
for the first time in an entire day, yunho’s detached himself from your side. he left you with a kiss on the forehead, explaining that hongjoong was having some type of emergency. you could tell that he wanted to drag you along, hard-launch you as his girl in whatever yunho type of way he was thinking…but, you’re in no shape to be around other people right now. you’ve been a mess, and you only let yunho around you because he’s more than happy to clean it up.
you’ve returned to the point of wearing loneliness like a second skin, and you miss yunho as soon as he’s gone. perhaps not him specifically, but in the way that you’ll take any company to not be left alone with your thoughts — your regrets.
while doomscrolling in bed, a sudden knock at your window startles you. you sit up in bed at the sight before you, blinking furiously to prove that you’re not imagining things. but nope, that’s really mingi, looking like he’s struggling to balance as he shyly waves at you through the glass.
before you can think it you’re crossing the room over, lifting the window up in its frame. mingi collapses forward, his arms grasping onto the sill.
“what the fuck are you doing?!”
“‘scuse me,” he wheezes, out of breath. “i, uh, climbed.”
you crane your neck out of the window and, sure enough, he’s fucking balancing on the side of your house. the garbage bin’s positioned below him, and he must’ve jumped on it to hoist himself up, just like when he would when you were kids.
when he didn’t want yunho to know he was seeing you.
you grab his arm, helping to pull him inside. you’re not about to just let him fall after coming all this way. you’re relieved to see mingi, warmth swelling in your chest as he finds his footing in your room, before the memory of yesterday dawns on you. anger boils higher, rising to your face where it burns your nostrils before tears dot your lashes. you’re still angry with mingi, but also with yourself for how you retaliated. resistance is long gone from your body, yunho made sure of that; so, you hear mingi out.
you slump down onto your bed, waiting for his next move, and mingi gulps at how empty your eyes are. the last time he saw you, they were overflowing with love. it clenches his heart to consider what you’ve been going through while he hasn’t been here to comfort you.
mingi sincerely drops to his knees, hand pressed to his heart. “i am so, so sorry. yunho’s been sending me these texts, and— god, i was so worried about you.” he runs a hand through his hair, getting your full attention as he says your name. “you don’t have to hear me out if you don’t want to. i’ll leave if you tell me to. but i need you to know that i’m sorry, and i’m willing to explain everything.”
your stomach twists at how broken he looks. you so badly want to get on the floor with him, hug him and tell him he could never do wrong.
“go on.”
mingi lets out the breath he was holding, nodding and quietly thanking you. he wouldn’t blame you if you just kicked him to the street.
“yunho told you all of it?” he asks, barely above a whisper. you nod, and his eyes shut like you’ve just slapped him. “...there’s no excuse. you have every right to hate me for it. i was a coward. i shouldn’t have just.. blindly followed him.”
you blink. “what?”
“yunho. i should’ve come to you instead, but i was terrified of hurting you, and—”
“what do you mean?” you cut in. “he said that you hid it from us for years. that you were…helping your mother.”
mingi blanches in complete disbelief. “yunho told me to hide it. i went to him as soon as i found out something was going on, and he just.. said that it’s not my family, not my business.” he grabs at his hair, shell-shocked. “he said that to you?.. i was so scared, and i didn’t want to lose any of the people i love…god, what was i supposed to do?”
your heart breaks at his utter confusion, his panic. this isn’t the shame of a man who harboured malicious intent. all you see kneeling on your floor right now is a young boy, finding out something that would destroy the life of the girl he loves, and without knowing better he listens when his best friend tells him to hide it.
where there was once rage directed towards mingi, floods with nothing but sympathy. you were only kids — he had no say in his grown mother choosing to homewreck, nor did he for your father choosing to cheat. none of what occurred between your families was mingi’s fault. if you were in his position, you don’t know what you’d do either.
you almost don’t want to say it, because then you’ll have to confront the gravity of yesterday’s choices, the fact that you wronged the boy you love so deeply. but you need him to know, so, you just push yourself to say:
“it wasn’t your fault, mingi.” your lip trembles, and you catch the way he shifts. “it’s not right to put the blame on you. you have nothing to apologise for.”
mingi gets up, this distance between you killing him alive, and he quickly closes it. standing in front you. hands twitching at his sides, desperately wishing to hold you again. “i’ll never stop feeling sorry for what happened to you.” he murmurs your name brokenly. “i only want you to be happy.. even if it’s not with me.”
your head drops, biting your lip to distract your body from the tears threatening to spill. mingi’s helpless to how his fingers find your cheek, trying to comfort you in any way you’ll let him. he feels your pain bloom in his own chest.
“it’s too late, mingi.” bile rising in your throat, you force yourself to say: “yunho fucked me. and i wanted it.”
the very day after letting mingi call you ‘mine’. after leading him to believe that you’d be his girlfriend. essentially cheating on him — like father, like daughter.
“what?” you brace yourself for him to be disgusted, to insult you. you’d deserve it. you want it even. but he just grabs your face with both hands, searching your eyes. “are you okay??”
“no, i’m—” you try to writhe from his grip, “i’m gross, mingi.”
“you’re not.” he’s quick to refute. his fingers stroke your cheeks so gently, and you just cave. “i don’t care about that. i’m here because i was worried about you.”
you shake your head. a feeble effort to push him away. “why? i didn’t even hear you out first before going behind your back. i wronged you.”
“yunho took advantage of this situation in the only way he could.” he scowls. “i can’t believe he really stooped this low… god, i should’ve cut him off years ago.”
mingi sets his own heartache aside, knowing that it must be nothing compared to what you’ve been feeling. he’s already suspected yunho for years now — his best friend really was a freak who wanted his own sister.
you’re still knee-deep in denial, too scared to face the truth yet. the fact that you still wanted yunho despite it all.
“maybe he just told me how it was from his perspective,” you defend. “he only wanted to protect me.. and then make it feel better.”
mingi’s frown deepens. it fucking guts him, seeing how deep yunho sunk his claws into you. he’s already wronged you enough times with his own cowardice, holding back on telling the ugly truth just so he doesn’t have to be the one delivering your pain. deciding to put an end to this, mingi exhales your name, and tilts your chin to stare him directly in the eyes.
“yunho hid the fact that you moved back from me. he called you his girl and not his sister at that party when he threw the bottle at me. he’s so touchy that people think you’re dating, and he lets them. he couldn’t stand the fact that you didn’t reciprocate his feelings, so he broke your heart and used it to finally get what he wanted.”
you don’t even realise you’re crying until mingi’s leaving soft pecks on your face, kissing away each tear.
“i’m not mad at you.” he gently reassures you. “none of this was your fault.”
“it’s okay.” he smiles. “i deserved this, anyways.”
“no. it’s not fair for you to feel so guilty because of something you had no control over.”
“funny, i could tell you the same.”
it catches you off-guard, so much so that you breathe out a laugh, lip curling into a smile.
despite the vines of shame and grief knotted tight in your gut, you can just feel the faint flap of butterflies at the sight of mingi smiling right back. he’s proud of himself, getting you to smile after tears.
your fingers curl around his hand on your face, and he closes his palm to hold it. something flickers across mingi’s eyes before he gulps.
“i’m sorry i don’t want to pressure you, but i can only think of kissing you right now.”
you giggle before pulling him in, your heart skipping into beat with his as his lips melt against yours. he holds you like you’re fragile, kissing you gently like you still might disappear into thin air, nothing but a dream.
he parts with you, sighing. “i don’t want this to end, but.. i’m on a time limit.” he clears his throat. “i, uh, asked hongjoong to do me a favour so that i could come see you.”
that makes you laugh, falling forward into his chest. mingi wraps his arms around you, and immediately you feel like you’re back home safe. as if you never left.
“want me to take you somewhere far away?” he offers, just like old times. you agree, tugging him in for another sweet kiss.
──
yunho’s knuckles tighten around the controller as the game lights up with a red death screen. huffing in annoyance, he passes the controller to mingi, who respawns and plays his turn. ever since yunho loaded up his console, there hadn’t been any words. not after the disrespect that was mingi’s arrival.
he’d showed up on their doorstep after school unannounced, sparing yunho — his best friend — only a brief greeting before going straight for you.
you’d let his hopes down, saying that you were already on your way out, your father about to drive you to the cinema to meet up with minnie. mingi gave you sad puppy eyes, and didn’t even pretend to not be bummed as he settled for hanging out with yunho instead. hence the current lack of conversation.
“do you have a crush on my sister?” yunho asks outright, breaking the silence.
mingi stammers like he’s been caught with his hand down his pants. “w-what? why do— what, uh— no i don’t?”
yunho stifles a roll of his eyes. his best friend is a bad liar. he’s only thirteen, but he knows what’s in the look that mingi gives his sister. it’s the same look his mother gives his stepfather — the same look his stepfather has been giving mingi’s mother as of late.
“you can give up trying. it’s never going to happen.” yunho deadpans.
your father already dislikes how close you are with mingi — it wouldn’t work out between you. maybe even less than it could work between you and yunho, some day.
mingi pouts, his character dying ingame as he stares at yunho instead.
“why?”
yunho smirks and rips the controller from his hands.
“because she’s mine.”
yunho can’t stop smiling to himself as he sits in the middle of your bed, pulling the blankets to his nose and smelling the traces of all the love that happened yesterday.
he can’t even find it in himself to be upset that you left him for mingi again. he’s at the very top of cloud nine right now, still riding the high of finally getting the one thing he’s wished for since he was a kid — after being introduced to his sweet stepsister for the first time.
mingi’s always been an annoyingly persistent competition. he’s the only other person who figured out the way yunho wanted you, as more than just family. no one would believe him anyways.
yunho falls back into the pillows, love on his mind and in his heart as he daydreams about you. all the things he still wants to do, that he intends to do when he gets his baby back. because he will.
it won’t be tomorrow, or any day soon, but you’ll give up on avoiding him with time. family is for life, after all.
notes: what a wild ride amirite.. if you’ve read this far, consider reblogging or leaving a comment/ask! i’d love to hear your thoughts hehe
genre: fluff, heavily suggestive at the end, non-idol au, college au, childhood friends to lovers, penpals to friends to lovers, unrequited love that is actually requited, reader is an exchange student at jongho's university, ateez are volleyball players, i know nothing about volleyball, mentions of virgin jongho at the end, first love kind of thing
wc: 8.5k
summary: you and jongho met as children during a letter writing project. years later, you get the chance to meet in person because of a study exchange but you are determined to keep your feelings a secret - after all, how do you tell your best friend you’re in love with him?
a/n: this is my contribution to the alive live collab hosted by @sungbeam! it was such a fun collab where I got to speak and write with such amazing mutuals, ily all ❤️❤️❤️ the last scene of this fic actually took me ages to write, it just wouldn't come together like i wanted, so the nsfw scene has been taken out potentially to be posted as a side fic in the future when the idea is coperating with me 😭😭 i hope you like it anyways!!
thank you to @xomakara for the banner. i legit never make banners for my fics so thank u so much bby <3
masterlist // requests: open
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To my new friend,
My name is ----. I am 8 years old. I live in England. I like to write stories.
What is your name? I don’t know a lot about South Korea. Where do you live? What do you like to do?
I look forward to your reply.
From,
Your new friend
-
It started because of a school project.
Your Year 3 teacher was friends with someone who taught abroad and they came up with a writing unit that involved sending letters to people hours away in South Korea. You wouldn’t say you were excited about it but you definitely thought it was cool. Countries in Asia felt so far away from where you were right now and the idea that you could communicate with one without the use of technology sounded wonderfully archaic (you’d just learnt that word and used it obnoxiously when you had the chance).
So you wrote your initial letter using the writing frame your teacher gave you. You shared your name, your age, your home town, and your favourite hobby. You asked about Korea, about where they lived, to share something in Korean that you could practice reading or speaking (you didn’t know at the time how different hangul looked from English and that it would take some effort to be able to read it).
You didn’t know that your letter being selected by one person would change so much of your life.
-
To ---
Thank you for your letter.
My name is Jongho. I am 8 years old. I live in Goyang. I like to sing.
Goyang is very pretty. I like the lake here. What is England like? My teacher says it rains.
What do you write?
I wait for your reply.
From,
Jongho
-
You only shared a handful of letters before the writing project came to an end. You remembered holding your opened letters in your hand and frowning at your teacher as you asked, “does that mean I can’t speak to Jongho anymore?”
She’d smiled, happy that you seemed to have made a new friend, and assured you that you could keep communication - “just ask your parents permission to share your home address,” she advised.
Your parents, who had heard you excitedly speak about Jongho since you received the first letter, had smiled with amusement and agreed. They helped you write it down at the bottom of your next letter. You took your time to make sure each letter was clearly written so Jongho wouldn’t get confused and send it to the wrong place.
Two weeks later, a new letter with Korean postal stamps landed on your doormat and, you supposed, that was really the beginning.
Some of your hometown friends kept writing to their penpal but eventually, physical distance became too much. There were bigger worries, the kind that plague the mind of pre-teens, and then the problems of those teenagers that feel like the end of the world.
You had those too, of course.
You worried about whether the pimples on your nose were too obvious and whether your breasts were growing in appropriately because Sabrina already was already a DD while you were barely fitting a B cup. You dated the greasy boys that attended your school and cried into the lap of your friend, Hana, when they inevitably broke your heart.
You held Hana when the same thing happened and punched her girlfriend in the face when she spread a rumour that your friend wore granny panties (because those were incredible embarrassments in secondary school).
You didn’t tell everything to Jongho but you did tell him a lot. Once you hit 13, you became more aware that he was a boy and you were a girl, even if you’d known each other since before that mattered. When you got your first phone at eleven, you’d carefully written your number at the bottom of the page so he could text you. It was only later, when your mum raged at you about the phone bill, that you realised that probably wasn’t as viable as you had originally thought it was.
You didn’t speak in letters any more but you spoke every day on Kakao, which took a lot of translation apps to figure out how to set up an account.
I really need to learn Korean, you told him.
I can teach you, Jongho promised.
You sent each other videos and photos when you were fourteen. You’d sent him a version of yourself you considered perfect, made up with the appropriate lighting. You blushed when he called you pretty. The first selfie Jongho sent you was similar to yours - head angled up to get the right part of jaw, lips pressed together, eyes focused on the image on his phone screen. He was handsome, you’d known that, but you remembered the moment that you thought you actually liked him.
It was snowing in Seoul and he was trying to show you it. He’d spun the camera around his head, giggling his delight. He was bundled up in a massive ski jacket, hood pulled over his head. His eyes were sparkling in reflected light and his cheeks were burnt pink from the brutal winds that came in winter. You’d screenshotted it without even thinking and found yourself, embarrassingly, gazing at the secret photo while your heart beat in your throat.
You didn’t tell him of course, you couldn’t - that was embarrassing.
You didn’t know whether the rules for dating in Korea were the same in England but you knew you couldn’t bear the thought of doing something to ruin this relationship. It was important to you, more so than anything in your life.
I like talking to you, Jongho admitted.
I like talking to you too, you had replied, and then quickly added, even if you tell terrible jokes.
Hana would tease you about your international boyfriend, and you would blush and deny it vehemently. She was the only one that knew though you wished it were true.
“You’re my dream couple,” Hana had joked once. “I ship you.”
You’d groaned and shoved her off the bed in retaliation, even as your cheeks burned and your mind jumped in a hopeful dance.
-
Jongho was pretty sure that he was in love with you by the time he was sixteen.
There wasn’t any big moment or any one thing that truly made him realise. It just was. You were an important part of his life in a way no one else was. You were the first person he messaged when he woke up and the last before he went to sleep. When he ate new food, he’d think about whether you’d like it. When he listened to music, you were the first person he would recommend it to.
His eomma would always get this knowing look on her face when he brought you up. “Oh, she’d like this?” she’d say as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever said.
His appa had taken to calling you that ‘sweet foreign girl’. “Are you going to show that sweet foreign girl?” he’d ask whenever he took a photo. “Make sure you tell her the history, it’s important.”
There had been a girl that lived down the street from him during high school. Peonghwa. She was sweet, he recalled. She would always wait for him on the corner so they could walk to school together. She kissed him once before she’d darted away into her house, and Jongho remembered this sickening feeling that he’d done something wrong.
“Peonghwa-ah kissed me,” he told his eomma.
She hesitated for a moment before humming. “Okay. She’s a good girl.”
“She is,” Jongho agreed.
Eomma eyed him closely. “Did you want her to kiss you?”
He thought about his answer for a moment, debating the curling discomfort in his stomach. “No.”
Eomma pushed. “Because it’s her? Or because you’re thinking of someone else?”
Your face came to mind immediately. You updated your kakao profile picture constantly and he was greedy in how he took them in. The one you had up now was cute - you’d dressed up as a witch for some halloween party. You were all in black with your hair pulled into pigtails. You’d scrunched your nose up as you grinned into the camera.
Jongho had never lied to his eomma and he wasn’t able to start now. “Someone else.”
He’d let Peonghwa down the next day. He told her politely that he was flattered but he didn’t think about her that way. “I like...someone else.”
The first person Jongho actually told about you was Yeosang. The older friend was on the high school volleyball team with him. His phone had buzzed, a message from you and Yeosang had caught the dopey look that crossed his face when he read it.
“You didn’t mention you were dating,” Yeosang mused.
Jongho visibly startled. “Huh?”
“Dating?” his hyung gestured to the phone, still lit with your message, “I mean, I hope you don’t smile like that when you get texts from your eomma.”
Jongho’s ears burned red. “It’s not like that,” he insisted, “we’re just friends.” he paused and then added, “she lives abroad anyway. It’s not like anything is going to happen.”
Yeosang’s lips formed an ‘o’ shape. “Is that why you’ve never dated anyone?”
“Maybe,” Jongho admitted.
Of course, Yeosang told Wooyoung and it got passed around the whole team. His hyungs’ insisted on calling you his girlfriend and when no one was looking, he sometimes wondered what it would be like to actually ask you.
Do you like him? Do you like him? Would you date him? It all felt woefully embarrassing. Jongho had typed it out a few times, let the question sit there before ultimately deleting it.
Instead, he told you - you look pretty. I like talking to you. You make me laugh.
And every reply he got, every moment where you thought of him for even a second, made his heart skip a beat.
Even now, at twenty, it was still the same.
What university do you go to again? You asked.
Yonsei. He replied, why?
My school has an exchange program. Yonsei’s on the list. Should I apply?
Jongho couldn’t breathe, joy and terror and hope all weaving together in the center of his chest to make every inhale unbearable. He floundered trying to answer you, thumbs hitting the wrong letters. How do you say ‘fuck yeah’ in English again?
If you want to. He said.
Do you want me too?
He was honest. I’d love nothing more than to meet you in person.
The word love made him feel sick. Was that the right thing to say? He didn’t know. The wait for your reply felt like millenia, pushing against the fabric of time and space, because in reality, it was only a minute. Still, he watched the three dots like they were a lifeline.
I want to meet you too Jongho. Wish me luck.
-
I’ll meet you in front of Yonhi’s gates.
Roger that.
You sent your agreement and then stood at the door of your dorm room, deciding whether it was appropriate to hide away for the next semester. It had been one thing applying for the exchange program and a completely different thing to be standing in dorms on Korean soil, your closest friend just minutes away from meeting in person. The nerves and excitement had steadily increased as this dream became more of a reality, until just now when it slammed into your chest - made your heart pick up speed and your breath catch in your throat.
You stared at Jongho’s message for a moment longer. It was only natural, you reasoned, to feel anxious. You’d known Jongho for so long, he was practically a second skin, but you didn’t actually know him, right? You didn’t know what he really sounded like. You didn’t know how he really looked under the midday sun. You didn’t know how you fit into life with him in person rather than over the phone.
You’d confessed your uncertainty to your mother, only once, in the hours before you boarded the plane. “What if I’m making a mistake?” What if he doesn’t like me?
Your mum had heard the unspoken question. She smiled in that way that mothers do when they want to reassure you but can’t know for sure. She smoothed her hands over your cheeks like she once did when you were a baby and said, “Then you come home to people who love you in three months. Something tells me you won’t want to though.”
Three months. You only had three months.
Your fingers curled around the door handle and pulled sharply. You’ve got to make the most of it.
On the way, you got lost four times. Yonsei campus was vast, and more often than not, you got distracted staring at unfamiliar ancient architecture and took a wrong turn. Eventually, you got to the gate. You had searched the location and seen the photos, but it was different in person. Your first palace entrance, the gate stretched high in dramatic fashion. The reds and greens that adorned so brightly were clearly part of a restoration project.
And, standing on the other side like something out of a drama, was Jongho.
You recognised him immediately, almost instinctively. You didn’t have the forethought to wonder if that was too fast for someone you’d only seen through photos. You were too distracted, taking in that he looked so much better in person. He was taller than you thought, shoulders broader, head held higher. His nose was curved and his jaw sharp, his lips plump into a pout that you had spent far too much time analysing. When he glanced over, you took notice of the recognition that rose in his dark eyes and the way his smile blossomed so beautifully.
Fuck.
He really was unfairly attractive.
Jongho called your name, his voice slightly deeper in person than over the voice note, and raised a hand to wave. You did the same a second later, trying not to get distracted by the long strides he took to reach you.
When he hugged you, your heart leaped in your chest and you couldn’t stop the way you relaxed into his strong arms. He smelt so good and he held you so tight, he must have felt your heart beating against his. You hesitated a moment before returning the hug, arms folding around his waist and letting yourself enjoy the heat of him pressed against you, just for a moment longer than would be deemed appropriate.
When you parted, his happy grin was so wide that his eyes curled at the edges.
Truly unfairly attractive.
“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he laughed.
“Neither can I,” you admitted, “I don’t know why they picked me.”
Jongho nudged your shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he scolded, “You studied hard.”
“And now I’m here,” you said.
“And now you’re here,” he echoed, “with me.”
You had to be imagining the way his voice softened at the end there, or reading into the fondness that he gazed at you. You had to be because he glanced away and when he looked back, it was gone, replaced with a friendly edge. It shouldn’t have made your stomach drop as much as it did.
“I was thinking,” Jongho said, “we could get coffee and then I can release you for orientation.”
“How’d you know when my orientation is?” you wondered.
The tips of his ears went pink. “One of my hyungs is a student representative,” he admitted, “I asked him to look after you.”
This time, it was you who nudged him. “Ooh, special treatment already?” you joked.
“Only the best,” Jongho nodded, “for my friend.”
You didn’t like how tight that made your throat, and you swallowed around it determinedly. You linked your arms with his, trying not to notice how firm the muscles were when he hooked his elbow, and glanced out around them, anything to avoid making eye contact. “Lead the way, Jong-oppa,” you ordered. “This jet lag is severe. I’m going to need a litre of coffee.”
-
Jongho could still feel the heat of your hand in the crook of his arm. Your scent of your sweet perfume still lingered, stuck to his clothes where you had touched him. And Jongho felt like he hadn’t been able to breathe properly since he first saw you in person.
Of course, he knew you were pretty and funny and smart in so many ways. He’d spent so long ruminating on your face, on the voice messages you’d left him, on the memes you shared. But it was different in person. It was better.
Your face lit up when he made you laugh. Your accent slipped through so strongly on certain English words and the way Korean - learnt for him - formed on your tongue was mesmerising. You hummed when you drank your coffee and when you tried to find the right words to express yourself, your gaze drifted to the right, as if that could help you focus.
Jongho was enamoured, way more than he thought possible.
When he dropped you off at the orientation meeting zone, he almost didn’t want to let you go. Maybe you didn’t want to go either because you hovered by him as you greeted other foreign exchange students you recognised from previous online zooms you’d had to partake in. There was a small selfish and irrational part of him that wanted to invite you somewhere else - for dinner, for a walk, anything - but he held his self-restraint enough until the representatives approached and San made eye contact with him, beaming as he always did when he saw one of his precious teammates. San always called that on nights of team drinking, hooking one of them - usually Woo or Yeosang - with his strong arms. The outside hitter was a good person, Jongho knew, probably one of the best he knew. There was a reason that he was part of the student representative committee and not just because he was one of the few people he knew that spoke three languages confidently.
“Jongho,” San greeted happily. He clapped his teammate on the back before turning a charming smile onto you. “And I assume this is...” he said your name and then made a show of dramatically bowing as he introduced him, “I’m Choi San. Jongho and I play on the same team.”
You looked a little starry eyed at the sight of the man, and Jongho squashed down on the ball of displeasure that rose within him. It was just San, he reasoned. He was an attentive flirt but he would never - they all knew how Jongho felt about you and San would never betray his trust like that. Still, it twisted him up inside to see how the handsome man made you swoon without much effort. The insecure part of him needlessly compared himself - what did San have that he didn’t? Would you like San more than him? Would you want San over him?
“Charmed,” you said and smiled so prettily, unaware of the anxious and self-deprecating spiraling of his thoughts. That really didn’t help.
“Jong has told us so much about you,” San confessed with a cheeky grin.
“San-hyung,” Jongho’s cheeks turned pink.
Your eyebrows jumped up and you sounded amused when you said, “Did he now?”
“Only good things,” San assured.
“San.” Jongho tried to interrupt, but his hyung was on a roll.
“But I don’t think he truly explained how beautiful you were.”
Jongho snapped. “San.”
You were pink as well. “You told your friends I was beautiful?” you asked, shyly. Your eyes darted to him and away, like you were afraid to settle for too long. Was that good? Jongho hated how uncertain he felt.
It felt like a trap, like whatever he said something could go wrong. Jongho stumbled over his words before eventually saying, “It’s an objective truth,” he muttered.
His chest felt tight. Your eyes sparkled. San looked immensely pleased with himself.
When Jongho had taken his leave, he had been both relieved to escape the combined teasing and disappointed that he couldn’t spend any more time with you. Which was silly, he reasoned firmly, he’d already made plans with you for dinner, but walking away from you after waiting so long felt like it was happening way too soon.
Of course, he couldn’t quite escape the teasing.
Mingi threw the ball at him as soon as he entered the practice room. Jongho cursed in surprise and the taller blocker grinned at him in delight. “How’s your girlfriend?”
Seonghwa rolled his lips to hide his grin and Yunho giggled behind his hand.
Yeosang looked up from a long stretch from the middle of the court. “How is she finding Seoul?”
He had long given up trying to get them to stop calling you that. He chucked the ball back. “She’s good. She says she likes it so far,” he murmured.
“And?” Wooyoung pushed. He was throwing a ball into the air as far as he could and rushing around to catch it. “Did you fall into her arms and declare your love for her?”
Once again, Jongho felt hot. “No, of course not. I-I wouldn’t - that isn’t appropriate, I just...”
“Waaaa,” Hongjoong arched a surprised eyebrow, “How’d you manage to form a sentence in front of her?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted bitterly. He moved to one side of the practice room to drop his bag and shed off his hoodie - reluctant, because it meant he couldn’t smell you as he worked. Pathetic, he mocked himself and frowned down at the fabric like it offended him.
He could feel his teammate’s - his friend’s - eyes on him. He had no doubt that could read his genuine frustration, leading to the pause in teasing. They were good like that. It was one of the reasons they had remained friends for so long - each of his hyungs knew when they could mess around and when things were getting too real. It was why Jongho knew everyone was listening when he continued talking, “I didn’t expect...that seeing her in person would be so different. She was just...”
So beautiful, so smart, so charming, so funny. So much more in person than just in text. Was it possible to fall in love with someone who already had your heart? Because Jongho was pretty sure that was what happened.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Yunho wondered, voice softer, “Means you weren’t imagining your connection.”
Jongho let the hoodie drop on top of his bag and turned around. “Maybe, or maybe it's worse,” he murmured, “She’s even more perfect than I could have imagined.” He licked his lips, “And she’s my friend.”
“A friend you’ve had feelings for since high school,” Seonghwa reminded, “friendship is a good start to a relationship.”
Jongho pressed his lips together and tried not to dwell on that. He knew his older friend was just trying to help him, but he couldn’t bear it, not if it caused things to fall apart. His friendship with you was one of the most important things in his life - the idea of risking it...
Mingi piped in to say, “If he has the balls to do something about it.”
Jongho’s eyes went sharp and Wooyoung threw the ball he had at Mingi’s head with a shout of, “dude, timing.”
Mingi ducked out of the way before it hit him. “What? Let’s be honest, Jong’s going to spend the next three months pining, pretending he doesn’t want to kiss her, and then when she goes back home, none the wiser, he’ll regret it.”
“I don’t want to-”
Mingi waved his hand dismissively. “Ruin anything, I get it dude, I do, but like - come on, not everyone gets this chance with their first and only love. She came here to see you.”
Jongho corrected it immediately. “She came here to study.”
Seonghwa, ever the peacemaker, spoke with reluctant disagreement. “She could have picked anywhere, right? But she picked here. For you.”
For you. God, Jongho’s heart did a traitorious leap at that. He swallowed and found himself tensing as if to turn that soft thought into discomfort. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to not miss your chance, bro,” Mingi said earnestly.
Hongjoong called for attention. “I want to practice,” he insisted, “and while you practice setting, you can decide whether it's worth the risk.”
The captain’s words echoed around Jongho’s head as much as Mingi’s. Worth the risk. Was it? Were you? It seemed so simple when he was thinking about it alone, void of real-life consequences.
Of course, you were worth it. Everything about you, about their relationship, about their history with each other, was worth it.
But it was all that which was at risk should things go south. He could just picture your pretty face, twisted in disgust or pity as you told him “I don’t see you like that”. His nightmarish imagining filled in the aftermaths with distance and tight smiles, low contact becoming unanswered questions.
But the hopeful part of him dreamed. He could see your smile, bright and joyful as when you saw him for the first time, as you told him “I feel the same.” He could imagine being allowed to press his lips to your plump bottom lip, to not have to fight the urge to pull you into a hug; to really know what it felt like to hold your hand tightly in his.
Was it worth the risk? At the end of practice, palms aching and shirt sweat drenched, Jongho had made his decision.
-
When people asked you how you were enjoying your time in South Korea, you were honest when you told them, “I love it.”
You loved the reliable wifi on the subway. You loved how cheap iced coffee was. You loved the call buttons in restaurants so that you didn’t have to try and make awkward eye contact with your server to get more drinks.
You loved your dormmates - Korean and foreign exchange students alike - and how welcome they made you feel. You loved your classes and the chance to build your Korean speaking skills properly. But most of all, the reason why you enjoyed your time so much, you loved your time with Jongho.
Any fears you might have had about your friendship moving from online to the real world was unfounded. Jongho folded you into his life as if you had always been there and you supposed you always had, in some sense. Old jokes and memes became part of everyday conversation. He reminded you to drink water, just now he was pushing a bottle into your hand with a disapproving frown. The names of friends, his teammates, were as familiar to you as you were to them.
When you finally met the volleyball boys, Wooyoung had asked if it was okay to hug you “because I feel like I’ve known you for years. Jongho never shuts up about you.”
“He spoke about you all too,” you had told them, “he really looks up to you all.”
Jongho mock-groaned. “Don’t tell them that.”
Yunho pretended to wipe a tear. “Jong-ah, you look up to us?”
“He has to,” Mingi said, “He’s just a little bear.”
The blond might have been quick witted but he wasn’t fast enough to dodge Jongho’s elbow to the stomach.
“Bear?” you arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Why bear?”
“He’s got the strength of a bear,” Hongjoong explained, “one of the best hitters on the team.”
“Plus he looks like a teddy bear,” San added cheekily. He giggled when he got a kick to the back of the ankles in retaliation.
You looked at Jongho’s narrowed eyes and pressed lips, and gasped in delight. “Oh my god, you do look like a teddy bear.”
“See?” San defended himself.
Jongho stuck his bottom lip out. “Please don’t encourage them.”
When you called him baby bear later, he sighed in despair and put an arm around your shoulder. Wooyoung and Mingi made a show of complaining that you were getting special treatment.
“That’s because I actually like her,” Jongho shot back immediately.
Of course, that caused more objections, as intended, but you couldn’t focus on what was being said. No, not when the comfort weight of his arm around your shoulders made you feel warm all over, not when the scent of his perfume - musky with citrus undertones - flooded your senses and made your heart clench with torturous interest.
He’d been doing that more, you had noticed. Finding himself next to you - an arm around your shoulder, a hand brushing yours when you walked together, body angled your way as he listened to you with his undivided attention. It was sweet but perhaps, too much for your poor heart. Every time, he made eye contact with you or he reached for you, you felt yourself melt every time. It was so easy to forget that you were friends and nothing more when he smiled at you like that.
You’d gotten used to saying that. We’re just friends. People had asked, mostly those in your dorm who had caught sight of Jongho dropping you off basically every night. He always did the same thing - hugged you close, wished you a good night, and would stay on the porch until you’d shut the door securely behind you.
Soyeon, one of the student representatives residing in your dorm, had wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Making friends with the locals huh?” she teased.
You’d explained the long story of your friendship and ended it with the familiar assertion of friendliness. “Nothing else,” you’d asserted, “Jongho doesn’t see me that way.”
Soyeon looked more amused than anything. “I’ve been to a few parties with the volleyball boys,” she said, “and I’ve never seen Jongho take even the tiniest interest in anybody. No one night stand rumours, no relationships that can be confirmed, nothing. But you show up? He’s here every night, walking you home, giving you his jackets.”
You glanced down as if guilty. The familiar weight of the jersey sat on your shoulders. Jongho was so much broader than yourself so it hung off your frame, the sleeves over your fingers. You liked wearing you, you’d shyly admit, because it smelt like Jongho. Under the older girl’s clear gaze and unwavering explanation, you felt like you were doing something wrong.
“I was cold,” you explained quietly.
“And our star hitter was only so happy to warm you up,” Soyeon winked.
The clear innuendo made you flush. “We’re friends, nothing else,” you insisted, “this is a friend’s jacket. The jacket of a friend. We’re not, I’m not - we’re friends.”
“Hey, I’m not judging you,” Soyeon put her hands up in defense, “Friends, more than friends, whatever you say.”
She’d walked away, leaving you trembling and nervous and horrifically aware that the way you felt right now was very much not friendly.
When you texted Hana that you might have a crush on Jongho, she sent you back: well yeah, obviously.
That was the thought that lingered with you now, squished between Jongho and Yeosang in the tiny booth of the beef barbecue restaurant just outside of campus. It had become a weekly routine to meet somewhere - a local restaurant, a park with convenience store ramyeon and fried chicken, or hongjoong’s off campus apartment - and just destress after a long week of classes and high expectations. You did enjoy the time, you liked Jongho’s friends a lot and it was a wonderful time to just relax.
But then Jongho would put the first piece of meat on your plate or laugh happily beside your ear, his body shaking against you, and you’d remember that you like-liked him.
God, you felt like a silly school kid. Hopelessly and pathetically overwhelmed by your crush, and Jongho didn’t make it any easier.
See, you knew your friend was handsome, funny, helpful - but it was so different in person. You could see the way his eyes lit up when he laughed, hear the way he formed his words so intelligently, feel how earnest he was in helping you. It was like the idea of him had formed into reality and it was so much better than you could have imagined.
You’d dated before. Your last boyfriend had been an engineering student at your university and told you that “he wasn’t ready for a relationship” before immediately starting to date one of his housemates. Before all the red flags became apparent, he had been handsome - but not like Jongho - and smart - but not like Jongho - and he made you laugh - but not like Jongho.
It was almost pathetic how much you were comparing them and you had this horrible feeling that you’d be looking for Choi Jongho in every man you dated going forward. Fuck.
“Are you okay?” when he ducked his head to speak with you, his breath was warm against your cheek.
You shivered, crossed your legs at the ankles for physical support, and smiled brightly. “Fine. Just thinking about the amount of homework I have to do.”
He rapped on your forehead gently and you tried not to visibly melt at the feeling of his fingertips on your skin. “Nope. No homework thoughts allowed.”
Yunho swept his gaze across the room and then darted back. He lowered his voice when he said, “Don’t look now. The lacrosse girls are out.”
Mingi sat up straighter in interest and Jongho let out a long suffering groan.
You blinked in confusion. “What’s wrong with lacrosse?”
“It’s less the team and more one person in particular,” Seonghwa explained.
San poked Jongho on the shoulder. “Minji has a crush on our baby bear.”
You swallowed your discomfort at the announcement as Jongho batted at San’s hand. “It’s not a crush,” he said, “she just thinks I’m playing hard to get.”
“Are you?” you found yourself asking.
“No,” Jongho’s answer was quick, “No, I’m not interested.”
Your gaze drifts over. Across the room, the girls were still wearing their kit - you vaguely remembered the school’s itinerary email that shared the lacrosse team had a game today - and seemed unaware of the other team nearby.
“Which one’s Minji?” you asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jongho objected as Yeosang answered, “the one on the left. Red hair.”
Ah. The girl in question was laughing at something the teammate across from her said, eyes scrunching at the corners in pure joy. You hated how the sight of her hit you in the chest.
“She’s cute,” you murmured.
“And I’m not interested,” Jongho said firmly. He stabbed one of his chopsticks into a chicken wing as if it personally offended him.
“Soyeon told me about the volleyball boys,” you mentioned. “I didn’t know that you guys were so popular.”
Yunho and Wooyoung grinned. Hongjoong turned pink. Seonghwa coughed into his hand and ducked his head. Yeosang and Mingi gave you an embarrassed grin. Jongho kept his head on the plate in front of him.
“We...have stories,” Yeosang said slowly, “except for Jong. He doesn’t really like that scene.”
“Which adds to his mystery,” Wooyoung added.
“Unfortunately,” Jongho sighed.
You can’t really explain what this information does to you. Curiosity wars with delight and relief. It shouldn’t, it doesn’t really mean anything, but the part of your brain that had already imagined growing old together read it as something important.
You find yourself watching him again, tracing the curve of his jaw and the pretty curve of his nose. You take note of how his lips are angled downwards unhappily and how long he’s been chewing that piece of chicken.
When you reached up, you intended to touch his cheek but panicked that it was too intimate and changed the destination to pat the top of his head. He looked at you in surprise as you smiled and hoped you looked normal. Friendly.
“Aigoo,” you cooed, “I didn’t know my baby bear had an admirer.”
He watched you, eyes wide and round. You told yourself you were imagining the soft edges or the twitch of his head as if he was leaning into you. You told yourself that the ‘my’ didn’t mean anything, that it was innocent. You told yourself that it didn’t mean anything when Jongho just sighed, shoulders slumping, and didn’t immediately try to remove your hands from him, like he did with his other friends.
“Minji can admire all she wants,” he murmured, “she’s not the one I’m interested in.” Before you had a chance to respond - not that you’d have been able to, your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth at the intensity of those words - Jongho picked a piece of meat off the grill and held it out to you. “Try this cut. It’s good.”
-
Since Jongho had announced he was going to ask you out, his friends had been intensely invested. Every night, after he’d drop you back to the shared dorm building, he’d get asked the same thing - “so?” - and he’d have to shake his head or avert his gaze.
It was truly embarrassing how terrified he was about taking that step.
He always had an excuse as to why he couldn’t ask. Too much to drink, someone walked passed, you saw someone from your course; his voice had broken and you’d laughed too hard, or -
Yeosang looked unimpressed. “She nearly choked on sweets?”
Jongho hummed and kept his gaze on a loose thread at the end of his shirt. “She ate them too fast,” he murmured, “And I don’t want her to think of a date with me and link that to her near death experience.”
“Yup, I’ll admit, that wasn’t an excuse I had predicted,” San commented.
“Not an excuse,” Jongho challenged, “I just, um, it has to be-”
“Perfect,” Yunho and Mingi finished his sentence with a roll of their eyes.
Jongho flushed. How many times had he really said this? “It’s important,” he insisted, “I just - it’s going to change everything and I...I have to do it right.”
He’d imagined it so many times. That perfect moment. In reality, he knew it couldn’t be possible. Rationality, what he dreamed of was never going to match reality, but there wasn’t anything wrong with wanting it to at least be similar right? To have that one wonderful moment where confessing his feelings for you felt right rather than the most anxiety inducing thing he’s ever done.
“You’re gonna miss your chance,” Wooyoung scolded, “you aren’t the only one who fancies her, you know?”
Jongho froze as his heart leaped horrifically into his throat. “What?”
“I heard it in my dance class,” the libero admitted, “Apparently, Hyunjin already asked her out.”
Jongho felt adrift, like his world had been unended by such a simple revelation. With 5 words, his mind was swirling, his chest tightened by the panic pumping through him.
He knew Hyunjin - he was Wooyoung’s friend of a friend who kept each other company during long rehearsal stretches. They’d spoken a few times at parties to know that Hyunjin was genuinely a nice person, and he wasn’t blind to the man’s attractiveness. He could just imagine the smooth smile that would have made you blush or the charming pick-up lines that would have made you blush.
You didn’t tell him, he thought vaguely, you didn’t tell him about any date.
“What did she say?” Jongho asked, though he didn’t want to hear the answer.
Wooyoung’s eyebrows furrowed as he hesitated. “Jongho...”
Jongho was up so quickly, the sofa pushed backwards on the wooden floor slightly. “I have to go,” he declared.
Hongjoong looked startled with worry. “Jong, are you-”
But the maknae of their group was already heading for the door, stumbling into his shoes and forgetting the keys still in the pocket of his hung jacket. He couldn’t think clearly, not with so much anxiety and dread coursing through his bloodstream. He didn’t know whether to laugh or scream or curse himself out for his avoidance. He should have thought - you were wonderful, perfect even, why wouldn’t anyone else see that?
Their team captain looked ready to follow behind but was stopped by Seonghwa’s grip on his elbow. “Let him go,” Hwa sighed, “he’s gotta figure it out himself.”
“Maybe it’ll be the kick up the arse that he needs,” Yeosang murmured hopefully.
Mingi hummed in agreement. “50,000 won that he actually asks her out.”
“50,000 that he martyrs himself.” Yunho shot back.
“Guys,” San shook his head and then leant forward on his knees to add, “50,000 that he does ask her out but he fucks up the first time.”
Hongjoong pinches the bridge of his nose.
-
Soyeon had been out the night before and had made it clear she wasn’t to be disturbed, which was probably why she looked half asleep and unimpressed in your doorway. You didn’t get the chance to ask her why she was there before she said, “your boyfriend is at the door.”
You didn’t even try to correct her, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. You’d seen Jongho just an hour or so before, and he’d seen fine. You couldn’t think of a reason as to why he’d be here now, unless - you wondered if there was some kind of emergency, something that had him rushing here.
You muttered a quick apology to the older woman and moved out of your room, down the short hallway and stairs to get to the main door. On the steps, Jongho looked breathless, pink in the cheeks and eyes wide. You desperately scanned him for any signs of injury.
“I need to talk to you,” the words tumbled over his lips. “Alone.”
It sounded serious, terrifyingly so, and you could only nod in stunned agreement. He followed you up the steps quietly and your mind whirled. You jumped from one reason to another wildly - a family member hurt, an argument with the volleyball boys, an issue with the coach, a problem with a professor, or - your heart did a painful lurch - did he know you had feelings for him?
You let him into your dorm room and the door shut behind you with a weight of finality. Jongho hadn’t been in your room before, you realised, and a sense of inadequacy filled you. Your bed wasn’t made, covers crumbled from where you had been laying on him. You hadn’t cracked a window in a while because mosquitos kept getting in and you had a worried moment when you thought the space smelt funny, despite the diffuser you had placed on your desk. There was a pile of dirty clothes falling out of the basket because you hadn’t had time to go to the laundry room and god, yep, that was a pair of your comfortable granny pants sticking out the top.
You shuffled yourself so your body was blocking the view of the mess before you spoke. “What’s wrong, Jong-oppa? Are you okay?”
Jongho’s gaze was steady and his voice was raw when he said, “don’t go out with Hyunjin.”
You startled, surprised. “What?”
“Please,” Jongho begged. “I don’t think I could handle it.”
“Handle?” you repeated faintly.
When Jongho reached for you, you let his hands warm yours without much thought. You’ve never refused his touch and, like always, it made your heart pound in your ears. It was made worse by the way that he was looking at you, a desperate tinge seeping into his gaze. I’m dreaming, you thought, this has to be...
“If you’re going to date anyone, date me,” Jongho stated. His fingers flexed around yours. “Please.”
“Jongho...”
“It’s your choice. You can say no, fuck, I promise I won’t make it weird.”
“Jongho.”
“I just...please don’t date Hyunjin. The idea of him getting to hold your hand or kiss you o-or -”
“Jong,” you said his name louder, more forcefully. You had to hear it properly, you needed to be sure. But when he looked up at you like that, it couldn’t be anything else, right? “You want to go on a date with me?”
“I want to take you on as many dates as you’d let me,” he confessed.
Your voice shook. “Where?”
“Huh?” Jongho blinked.
You elaborated, “Where are you going to take me on our date?”
“You...you want to?”
The corner of your lips twitched up into a smile. “Do you want me to say no?”
“No,” Jongho said quickly, “but um, I didn’t expect you to actually say yes. Are you sure?”
“Probably the most sure I’ve been about anything,” you admitted.
Jongho shuffled closer, until the tops of his socks bumped against your house slippers. You noticed how much taller he was like this, looking down at you with such warmth. His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. “Can I kiss you?”
You shuddered a breath. It was insane how such a sweet question made you fall for him all over again. “Fuck yeah.”
The first touch of lips was soft, a gentle touch with an unsteady breath. It was a moment of stepping over that boundary, of the line between friendship and more being crossed. Jongho was so careful with you and you leant into him fully, eyes fluttering closed.
The second kiss was firmer, more assured. You shaped his lips the way you liked and your free hand splayed across the center of his chest to feel his heart beating against your palm. Jongho’s nose bumped against yours as he let you guide him, show him what you wanted, and obliged happily.
The third kiss was molten. It burned your skin as he took control, pressing in closer and when he licked into your mouth, you sighed in contentment. Your hands stretched until they could intertwine in Jongho’s hair, gripping tight enough to make him curse. He rocked forward instinctively and you could feel him, the bulge in his jogging bottoms a delicious sign of how much he was into this, into you. It gave you that pleasant fuzzy feeling at the back of your head and, driven by that feeling, you let one hand drift lower to feel him in your palm.
“Ah, shit,” Jongho twitched in your hold before rearing back. He looked even more attractive like this - pink cheeks, eyes blackened and lips swollen. You rubbed your thumb against the seam, only stopped when a hand grabbed at your wrist, panicked in how it stilled your movements.
“Wait, I...I’ve never...” his voice warbled, insecurity seeping in.
You didn’t want him to feel that way, embarrassed around you, but you couldn’t stop the disbelief that crossed your face. Could you really be blamed? Choi Jongho was a gorgeous man, a popular athlete; you knew he had the attention of others in the university. Had he really never... “Like, at all?”
Jongho pursed his lips and diverted his gaze to somewhere over your shoulder. “I’ve never been interested in anyone,” he said, “no one but you.”
If it were possible for you to love him more, you did at that moment. You pushed yourself up on tip toes to press a firm kiss to his lips and you grip on his clothed dick - mournfully because fuck, he felt so good - lessened. “We don’t have to do anything,” you murmured, “kissing is enough. Being with you is enough.”
Jongho’s expression was unreadable but you knew that meant he was thinking, debating his opinions and weighing the best response. He always did that when it was something important and you knew - your feelings, your relationship and anywhere it went - was incredibly important to him.
Eventually, he let out a low sigh. “Show me,” he asked, voice rougher than it was before, “show me how to make you feel good.”
You felt it in your stomach, the words and the earnest way he said them. “Are you sure?”
Jongho’s fingers released your wrist, stepping closer into your hold. One hand came to cup your jaw, stroking at the skin there until your eyes fluttered. “Show me,” he repeated.
Who were you to deny him?
“Strip,” you ordered, voice trembling. “And get on the bed.”
Later, under the thin bedsheets on your too small bed, you laid half on top of Jongho’s broad chest. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest, and listened to the beating of his heart against your cheek. It was the most content you had ever felt, safe and secure in his arms. Jongho traced ticklish patterns along the curve of your back, fingers dipping low to trace bite marks that he’d littered your thighs and hips with. You shivered and nudged your nose affectionately into his pec.
You looked up when his trail stalled and frowned as Jongho’s eyebrows furrowed together, as a thought came thundering back to him. “What about Hyunjin?”
You tilted your head. “What about him?”
“He asked you out.”
Oh, right. Yeah. Jongho had come to you, looking so panicked, so desperate with love once hidden pouring into his words. You had been focusing on more important things, you reasoned.
You shook your head. “He didn’t. Hyunjin asked me to help him with his English language assignment.”
“Oh.”
“Who told you that he did?” you wondered.
“Wooyoung,” Jongho admitted.
You huffed a laugh. In the short time you’d known his volleyball friends, Wooyoung was friends with everyone and thus, the person who seemed to know everything. He was also a terrible gossip and had more than once shared the most dramatic version of the story he’d heard. “Really?”
“He was really convincing,” Jongho defended himself.
You didn’t hide your smile. “Besides,even if Hyunjin had asked me out, I would have said no.”
Relief danced in Jongho’s eyes as he tried to hide it behind feigned nonchalance. “Oh? Why? He’s a good guy.”
“Well yeah, he’s smart and gorgeous,” you agreed and snorted in laughter when Jongho looked down at you with a deadpan disappointment. “But, see I already have feelings for somebody else.”
Jongho’s hold tightened around you, possessive in a way that made your toes curl. “Yeah?”
You hummed. “Yeah, we’ve known each other for years,” you murmured, “and he’s the best person I know.”
“And the most handsome?” Jongho teased. Another time, you might have rolled your eyes, pretended to feel nauseous and tell him nothing of the sort.
It was different now though.
You reached up to cup his cheek, caressing the soft skin under his pretty eyes. “He’s beautiful,” you admitted and delighted in the way that Jongho went pink and grinned shyly, gums on display.
“Funny, I have someone like that,” he said. He angled his head to press a sweet kiss to your palm. “I’ve been in love with her for most of my life, to be honest.”
God, the word love made your stomach drop in the best way. “That’s a long time.”
“Yeah, but she’ll always be worth the wait,” he said, and you couldn’t stop yourself from rearing up to kiss him again.
-----------------
a/n: thank you so much for reading!! pls check out the works of the other writers in the collab :)
⭑ bf!mingi x gf!reader x bestie!yunho
⭑ warnings in each part smut minors dni / word count 89.2k
ONE — planning to buy a house, get married and start a family within the next few years, you and mingi are the blueprint for the perfect relationship— until one of yunho’s infamous stories about his intriguing sex life gets stuck in your head for a little too long, and has you curious about spicing up your own sex life. 21.4k
TWO — it finally happened... and then it happened again... and again... until lines are blurred and everything feels a little heavier than it was supposed to. 31.3k
THREE — four days away at the beach, hiding your feelings from all of your friends while you’re all under the same roof, a week after yunho broke up with you and mingi. easy enough, right? 36.5k
⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART TWO [FINAL] 14.2k
⪼ this is the second half of my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! genuinely so happy and grateful to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, i've met so many wonderful mooties & friends through this whole process, and im so glad to be beside them in such a banger ass collab!!! be sure to check out everyone else's bangers fr
⪼ smut minors dni 18+ | p in v, fingering, dirty talk, you and mingi are both sluts, wooyoung lore, LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. if you made it this far thank you so, so much for reading, sorry i had to split it lol, this fic is genuinely my baby and everything i could ever want in my life. i hope you enjoy xoxo
When was the last time you cried? Like seriously, actually bent over and cried real tears into your palms? When was the last time it was at the hands of a man? Did you even have something to cry over?
It was too confusing, you didn’t have the energy to pick it apart while heaved sobs rip from your throat. Was this a release? Too much emotion built up inside, with nowhere to go? The tears began after picking an argument with a still-drunk Yeosang in the car, pointless, yet you still left him to fend for himself while you ran up the steps to your apartment, still fighting to keep the sobs inside.
Alone in your living room, sitting hunched over on the couch, face in your palms, you cried.
And cried, and cried, and cried.
Your phone lights up, sitting face-up on the coffee table, multiple notifications from the square, pink icon that’s been draining your battery all fucking day. You can only imagine what they say, what vile fucking things are waiting for you, all from real accounts, real people who hate you because of Song Mingi.
Maybe it’s masochism, or maybe you need to keep the release flowing, a devil on your shoulder tells you to unlock your phone and read. You make it through three before your shoulders shake all over again, your phone falling to the floor, you have half a mind to smash the screen so you can’t look even if you wanted to. Curling up onto the couch, you let yourself cry, you sink into the feeling, into the emotion; if you let your brain wander enough, you can still feel his covered palm on your skin, his lips on yours, you can still see his eyes, how he looked at you. So fond, affectionate, so fucking different from any man who has ever looked at you, ever.
There’s a knock at your door, rendering you quiet, sniffing up snot that dared to fall.
“Hello?” You call out, sounding so unlike yourself you cringe.
Three presses of someone’s knuckles at your door again, you whimper as you push yourself up off the couch to open it. Hand on the knob, you close your eyes, sucking in a deep, grounding breath. You hope you don’t look insane.
Just as another knock sounds, you open it. Standing with his fist out, he wears a blank face, one that warps into confusion then concern as he looks you up and down. “Are you okay?”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Wooyoung?”
“I came to get my hoodie,” he shakes his head like that was beside the point. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”
“Have you gotten your eyes checked recently?” You sniff again, wiping at your nose with your bare wrist. It’s clear you’ve been crying, are crying, sounding nasally on top of your appearance, you can’t be bothered to care. “What do you want, for real? I know you’re not here for your fuckass hoodie.”
“I broke up with Winter,” he admits easily, too fucking easily.
There’s no feeling in your gut, no excitement, no disappointment, there’s nothing. Your face reflects it, shoulders shrugging, free arm flying to say okay? You feed him an irritated laugh, “Congratulations?”
“I broke up with her because I miss you,” he tries again, “she isn’t you.”
His hair is messy, undone. Clothes dark, hanging off him, like he rolled out of bed to come here. You study his face, his mismatched eyes, the dot of espresso that sits on the apple of his cheek. There’s nothing unclear about the way he’s looking at you– there’s the hinge in his jaw, his dilated pupils, his slouched shoulders, deflated. Like he didn’t want to admit it, but here he is.
“No shit,” you sniff again. “What was the plan? You come here, confess your bullshit to me, I take you back, and we live happily ever after?”
“I’m not going to give you a bullshit speech,” his gaze averts to the floor, “I know you have a boyfriend. I just wanted you to know, I needed to get it off my chest.”
You laugh again, and it’s accompanied by disbelief and shock, but what rings truest is understanding. You lean into your door, still wide open, “You don’t have to lie. She found out, didn’t she?”
He glances up, “You’re the only one who gets it.”
“I’m the only one who put up with it,” you correct him, “those days are over.”
“Why are you crying?” He asks, straightening again. “What happened?”
“Nothing you give a fuck about.”
He takes a step forward, hands reaching out, but he doesn’t touch you. “I care about everything that involves you. What happened?”
You hold his stare, your jaw locking. Familiarity, routine. Pattern.
“If I asked you,” your voice comes out shaky, you clear your throat, “to fuck me, would you do it?”
“You have a boyfriend–”
“Would you fucking do it?”
His hand wraps around your jaw, searing your skin, lips smashing onto yours like he was fucking waiting for it. It’s blinding, dizzying how he pushes you backward, kicking the door shut behind him, lips rough and tongue taking, your mind shuts off in a second’s time. Muscle memory kicks in, Mingi’s jersey on the floor, mini skirt hiked up to your waist, panties pushed to the side, this is it. This is everything.
This is all you’ll ever get, and you’ve made peace with it.
“Are you coming tomorrow?”
Inside, at the very edge of the tunnel, tucked off to the side to avoid lingering eyes, Mingi’s vibrating with excitement, he can’t believe Winter is here and wearing his fucking jersey. He was already excited because they won their game; even if he knew they’d win and it was no surprise to him, Mingi played such a perfect game he was high off adrenaline, off arrogance, like absolutely nothing could go wrong.
“Of course,” her back is against the wall, her head tucked right under Mingi’s outstretched arm. She wears a cute, dainty smile, almost innocent, it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He has to fight his instinct to not tell her about the life he’s imagined for them. “I broke up with Wooyoung, by the way.”
This might be the best day of his fucking life.
“I’m… sorry?” He eases a smile, one that turns into a full-fledged grin when he sees how Winter smiles back.
She giggles, “Don’t be sorry. That night at the bar, she was right.” Winter bites her lip and Mingi wishes he could bite it for her. “Will she be there?” She asks, “Your girlfriend?”
“Huh?” Mingi’s brows furrow, then he remembers the bar, and then a picture of you in his passenger seat rushes through his mind. “Oh. I don’t know, I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“I saw her in your jersey,” she tilts her head to the side, a manicured nail between her teeth, “unfair, she gets the real one, and I’m stuck wearing this.”
“Not for long,” it rushes out of his mouth before he can think about it. He chuckles, nervously, “I mean, like, things aren’t really that great between us right now.”
“Oh, really?” Her brows lift in soft surprise, “She seemed kinda… mad, when she saw me in this. I told her I’m a huge fan, but she didn’t seem to like that answer. Does she get jealous often?”
Mingi’s brows furrow, head cocking to the side. Jealous? Mad?
“What do you mean?”
She giggles, a hand covering her mouth, “I don’t want to paint her in a bad light, or make you guys argue or something.”
“We won’t,” he pulls his arm back to his side, sounding assured, “tell me.”
“She asked me why I was wearing your jersey,” she looks down at her shoes, then back up to him, “she looked really mad, Mingi, like she was seconds away from ripping it off of me or something. I was kinda scared.”
“Huh,” he looks away, he isn’t sure where. You were already acting off when you came down to the field, he could feel it, he could see it on you. How you forced a smile on your face, faked laughter, looked like Lucifer had come to pull you back down to Hell before he kissed you.
For some reason in his stupid fucking mind, he thought kissing you would make it better. That you’d laugh, call him an asshole, brush it off like it was nothing– selfishly, he wanted it to make it better, he wanted to be the reason why. He wanted to see your smile, the real one, not that fake shit you were putting on so no one would shoot you a second glance.
You looked like he hurt you instead. He supposes it’s time to break up anyways, if the conversation he’s currently having is any indication, there’s no real reason for you to be together anymore if everything had already worked out. But fear lingered, in the way you looked at him, in how you jumped away from him like he burnt you, it stuck heavy in his mind, scared that you wouldn’t be friends after this. He’s afraid you’ll never speak again. He’s terrified you’re the first real friend he’s ever made.
“I’m okay, though,” she brushes a hand on his chest and he doesn’t like how it feels. “She left me alone after that, that’s why I waited until she left to come see you.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he’s speaking, not thinking. “And no, she doesn’t do that often, I don’t think she’s feeling well today.”
Should he not have kissed you? Did that make everything worse? Did he cross a line, for real?
“I hope she feels better,” Winter smiles, showing off the pearly white teeth hidden behind her glossy lips, “are you doing anything tonight?”
“Yeah, I– um,” he looks around again, moving backward so her hand falls from his chest. Are you mad at him? Should he apologize? “The team is going out to celebrate tonight, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, you deserve the celebration for how well you played. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” it’s mindless, absent.
He walks back to the locker room with furrowed brows and tunnel vision. Opening his locker, pulling out his phone, he doesn’t even take his jersey off before texting you.
mingi: were having a party tomorrow at the house to celebrate
mingi: if u wanted to come
mingi: and im sorry for kissing u
mingi: idk if i shoulda done that
mingi: im sorry
mingi: if u want we can break up tomorrow at the party
mingi: a lot of people will be there
You stare at the pictures Yeosang sent you. Minutes go by, maybe an hour, you aren’t sure, but you’ve zoomed in on every inch of each picture, and the looming cloud of dread won’t dissipate for shit. You weren’t imagining how he looked at you, how he held you, it was eternalized in pixels on your screen.
The more you stared, the more you hated it.
“What’s that?”
You lock your phone, throwing it on the nightstand beside you. “Can you get the fuck out already?”
He smacks his teeth, “We haven’t had a sleepover in so long, why so mean?”
“I don’t like you,” you finally turn your head to see him. Eyes low with sleep, dark hair frizzy and sticking out in every which way, shirtless, littered with marks you’ve never been allowed to give him before. “I don’t want you here.”
“Then why’d you let me stay?”
“Because you did me a favor,” you run your hands over your face, rubbing at your swollen eyes, “but I have to prepare to break up with my boyfriend tonight, so unless you’re helping me come up with a plan, go.”
“Just tell him you cheated,” he shrugs, and when you look at him he’s wearing the nastiest of smirks. “Worked for me.”
“You didn’t even tell me, you fucking asshole,” reaching over, you smack him dead in his chest. “Get out of my apartment.”
He laughs, slowly sitting up, giving you a pretty view of his spine, the tattoo that sits at the top, the muscles in his shoulders. You hum, head tilting as you stare, he really is pretty. You missed the sight. He turns his head halfway, “Have a smoke with me before I go.”
You keep your eyes glued to him for a moment, his eyes peeking over his shoulder, he’s still shamelessly naked in your bed. So many things, Jung Wooyoung is, but most of all a complexity you don’t think you’ll ever fully understand.
You sigh, soft, pleasant, almost. “Okay.”
On the balcony, you’re in Mingi’s jersey you picked up from your living room floor, the first thing you saw when you realized you needed something on your body to go outside. He’s across from you, boxers on his hips, shirtless, comfortable. Always comfortable with you.
He turns around to face you while your lips wrap around his cigarette, a Marlboro Red, he takes a second to watch you. His eyes don’t follow the smoke as it leaves your lips, they stay on you, analyzing, thinking.
“What’s up with you?” He finally asks. “Don’t bullshit me.”
Face going unchanged, you respond, “I think I like him for real.”
He stares a second before breaking out in laughter. Hand clutching his stomach, his brows furrow, “So you slept with me because you like your boyfriend?”
“I slept with you because you’re the opposite of him,” you reach out your arm, two fingers sliding the tobacco into his, “he freaked me out. He kissed— kisses me like he cares about me.”
“I don’t kiss you like I care about you?”
“You kiss me like you’re saving the nice shit for her,” you huff, craning your neck, stretching your aching muscles. You really went too long without getting laid.
Wooyoung’s brows wiggle, shoulders shrugging as he brings the cigarette up to his lips like he couldn’t argue with you even if he tried. “You don’t make sense.”
You sigh, turning to face the balcony, the neighborhood below. So quiet, it was busier closer to campus; here, it was nothing but peace. Warm, not quite humid yet, a clarity in the air you haven’t felt in so long, you let the sunshine beat on your skin, the kelly-green polyester covering it.
“You don’t need to understand,” you reach out your fingers, he places the cigarette between them. “Being with him is too much exposure, too many eyes on me. You should see my Instagram DMs.”
“Bad?”
“Worse than bad.” Tilting your head, blowing smoke from your lips, you ask, “Wanna come with me tonight?”
“To watch you break his heart?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m game,” he takes a step toward you, leaning over the balcony, shoulder touching yours. “Did you know Winter has a thing for him?”
“Yes,” you laugh a little, “you’re late to figuring that one out.”
He stayed until the cigarette burnt down to the filter, shoving it in the ashtray you bought and kept on the small table in the corner, solely for him. You stayed on the balcony for what felt like forever after he showed himself out— sitting with yourself and your thoughts, flooded with Mingi, the inevitable end a part of you had begun to think might not actually come.
FIFTH OUTING: THE BREAK UP, FOOTBALL HOUSE. 10:21 PM
Mingi has always been grateful for his height. It’s helped him tremendously, helping his mother much smaller than him, in football, with women. He remembers being a kid and being giddy about holding the caboose of his class’s line because he was the biggest.
He thinks he’s never been more grateful than he is right now, facing Seungmin, looking over his brown head of hair clearly, effortlessly— you, in his living room, dancing like you didn’t give a fuck. Hair let loose behind you, your top clinging to your body like it was painted on, jeans hugging your swaying hips in a way that made him jealous of black denim.
You greeted him like you weren’t here to break up with him, a soft hey rolling off your tongue, cheeks already flushed with liquor, shoulders already slouched. Mingi put his beer down on a table littered with empty bottles and hasn't once thought about picking it back up.
You told him he looked good, apologized for his jersey smelling like cigarettes, which made him quirk a brow in confusion, but he forgave you in the same breath with a little laugh as you stumbled over your feet.
Drunk. Cute.
You didn’t mention the kiss, didn’t mention breaking up, you didn’t mention anything that happened in the last twenty-four hours. Mingi wasn’t going to remind you, not when you’re blissfully boneless, a smile permanently etched onto your cheeks, there wasn’t a line in your face to be seen. No worries, no stress, no anger, unaware like it was purposeful. You seemed like you needed it.
“Hello? Mingi?”
He blinks into focus, eyes back on Seungmin before him who wore furrowed brows and tilted jaw, staring at him expectantly.
“Sorry,” he laughs a little, jutting his chin in the direction of you, making Seungmin turn his head. “Look at her.”
“You’re sick,” Seungmin looks only for a second before turning back to Mingi whose eyes are glazed over, the younger man’s face rendered flat. “Obsessed.”
Mingi giggles like he’s proud of it. No denial, no rebuttal, he thinks he might be, just a little, maybe infatuated was the better word. Especially since you’re not mad at him. The nerves he’s felt from last night leading up to when you walked through the door of the football house were full-bodied, eating at every vein below his skin, every organ felt like it wasn’t working right.
You answered his texts, which should have eased him at least a fraction.
princess: i kissed you back did i not
princess: moron
princess: ill be there
princess: and im breaking up with you btw
He couldn’t figure out a response, mostly because a huge part of him wanted to stall breaking up, but he couldn’t figure out why. Or he wouldn’t let himself, he should say, because the answer was staring at him in the fucking face: he likes you. He knows he does, Yeosang’s show confirmed it, forced it to the front of his mind, a life-altering observation— he’s so fucked.
This is an arrangement. An even exchange, he gets Winter, you get whatever the fuck your plan with Wooyoung is. It dawns on him that he’s never even asked, there are so many things he wants to ask, so many things he wants to say, he doesn’t have enough time to say them. You made it clear yesterday that you wanted to break up.
“Go get her,” Seungmin huffs, “I know you want to.”
“I don’t dance,” Mingi looks at Seungmin like he’s crazy.
“Why else did you ask Woozi to DJ then?”
“Fair.”
Seungmin turns on his heel, toward the kitchen, maybe. Mingi takes one step before he stops in his tracks, eyes blowing wide, body running ice-cold.
Like a shadow, he was at your back, hands on your hips, smiling like he was supposed to be there. Like you were allowing it. You clearly were, head tilted backward, smile wide as a laugh he couldn’t hear rolled off your lips. God, Mingi can’t even say his name— he’s a roach, a fucking rat that’s lingering around Mingi, waiting for the opportunity to give him diseases or something.
He finds his feet moving, not aware of himself body slamming people who were minding their own damn business, certainly not aware of the anger that hung in the hinge of his jaw, in his clenched fists. He pulls you by the wrist, your name on his tongue, you barely notice. Hazy eyes finally landing on him, your smile widens, sparkles in your eyes shining brighter, your fingers tighten in the fabric hanging off his shoulders. “Mingi!”
He eyes Wooyoung over your head, face flat, unimpressed, pissed off. Wooyoung’s smirk is cynical, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, what’s happening. Mingi feels left out and he doesn’t fucking like it.
“Where have you been?” You’re whining, head tilted to the side, lips pouty even if your body sinks into him more than it ever has before. You’re drunk.
Mingi eyes dance over to Riyo and Jia, two of your friends, he thinks those are their names. One red-haired and wide-eyed, body rigid with fear as she meets Mingi’s gaze, the other dark-haired and panicked like she was already searching for a distraction, a way to get you out of this situation.
Wooyoung speaks up before Mingi can get a word out, “Did you two break up yet?”
Yet. His jaw clenches. Riyo and Jia turn confused.
“We’re not breaking up,” Mingi responds, “fuck are you talking about?”
“I need another drink,” you turn around, back leaning into his chest, laying your whole weight on him as your arms reach down to his thighs, palms splayed flat over denim for purchase. “Can we go find cutie Kai? He’ll get me one.”
He can’t even focus on your hands on him, how mindless you are, he’s so fucking irritated. He ignores you, asking Wooyoung again, “The fuck are you talking about?”
Wooyoung’s brows raise, smirk growing like he was about to drop a bomb. “Interesting, that’s what she told me this morning,” he takes a step closer to you, “right, baby?”
“Huh?” You ask, body swaying, Mingi uses two hands on your waist to keep you steady.
“You’re breaking up with Mingi,” Wooyoung repeats, “that’s why we had sex last night. Right?”
Sorry if your jersey smells like cigarettes.
He pushes you forward like you fucking burned him, just enough for you to fall into Wooyoung’s chest instead. Jia and Riyo are side-by-side, watching everything unfold like it was a train wreck they couldn’t look away from.
“Wait,” hands braced on Wooyoung’s chest, you turn around, eyes wide and lips trembling. “Hold on a second.”
Wooyoung pulls you into him, arms slithering around your torso like he knows every inch of your body. It makes Mingi sick, or it would if he could feel anything, his body’s numb like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
“You fucked him?” His voice is pitched like he didn’t believe it. “He cheated on you,” Mingi feels like the three of you are alone, like this isn’t a party full of one hundred something people. “Twice.”
“I know—”
“Then what, you don’t give a fuck?” His voice is raised, he doesn’t care. “What the fuck was the point then, huh? What the fuck was the point if you were just gonna go back to him?”
Wooyoung cocks his head, “The point of what?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Mingi blurts, “I’m not talking to you.”
“Mingi,” your jaw drops, “I don’t—”
“You couldn’t wait?” Mingi asks, “Couldn’t at least have the decency to break up with me first before running right back to him?”
“I’m sorry!”
The apology off your lips makes him stand straighter. It’s pleading, like you’re just asking him to be quiet, to stop, but it seems to screw his head back on his body, his consciousness forcing itself back into his six-foot build with vengeance.
You call after him as he turns around, walking away as quick as he can, fingers tapping at his sides just to remind himself he has them. This can’t be real, he’s gotta be dreaming, there’s no way in hell that just happened to him.
Is he just gonna leave you with Wooyoung? Drunk as you are? Is that why you’re so fucking hammered in the first place? You seemed so comfortable in his hold, Mingi wonders if that was you or the alcohol, he could see it in your eyes, the fear of being caught. The confusion, like you didn't understand why Mingi was so angry.
You probably didn’t. You probably thought he wouldn’t find out, because why would he? You were supposed to break up tonight, be done with each other. A chapter closed. Mingi feels like turning on his heel and pulling you away from him, just to ask you every fucking question he’ll never have the chance to.
He feels like apologizing.
He feels like confessing.
But he’s so fucking pissed he bullies into the kitchen instead, eyes on alert, searching for something he can’t place, anything that will rid him of this dirty fucking feeling.
It’s full circle, he thinks, as his eyes land on Winter. Sitting on the counter, two guys in front of her, clearly chatting her up.
Nah.
Forcing a smile when he gets close enough, his voice carries a warning to the two unnamed, no-faced men. “Hey, beautiful.” They scatter.
“Should you be calling me that?” She teases, hands gripping the edge of the counter, leaned forward, feet kicking where they hung. Hair pulled up, tiny top, little shorts, she looked bare-faced, natural. Pretty. Good enough.
“I can’t be honest?” A cocky smirk, a character he hates playing. Approaching her pinned knees, they open, letting him step between them, he takes the silent offer.
“You can be honest,” she nods, batting her lashes. “But I would rather you be mine.”
He has to force the twinge of disgust out of the back of his throat, tasting like coke-drip and disappointment. He didn't feel this way talking to her last night, Mingi blinks at her before a slow chuckle rolls off his lips. “Smooth.”
“Vodka makes me bold,” she shrugs, winking. “Problem?”
This could work. He could make this work. He has to make this work, actually. “I’m supposed to be the bold one,” he hums, palms landing on her bare knees, so soft beneath his burning skin. Her eyes drop to where their skin meets, but she makes no move to stop him.
“I didn’t think you were available enough to be,” her eyes flicker upward, “do you have good news for me?”
He nods, “You won’t believe it, actually.”
Her brows furrow, smile faltering a little. “What?”
“Don’t worry about it, nevermind,” Mingi shakes his head, “we don’t have to talk about her, we can talk about us now, finally.”
They talked. And talked, and talked and fucking talked, Mingi heard every other word, something about her classes and school-air fucking up her makeup. Something about Wooyoung, he thinks, he tuned out after he heard that godforsaken name. Mingi didn’t really care, he wanted to kiss her, to fuck her, he hoped you’d find out and feel as shitty as he did right now.
The tips of Winter’s sandals toyed with his pants, his hands planted on the counter, on either side of her thighs. He was so close to scoring he could taste it, this was the right outcome, the whole purpose. This is what he should have been focused on the entire time.
“Bro,” Jaemin snaps him into focus, a pest at his side, a hand on his shoulder. “Your girlfriend’s on a table.”
“Not my girlfriend,” Mingi shoves his hand off, but then the words sink in. He cranes his neck, “A table?”
“She’s dancing on a fucking table,” Jaemin confirms, laughing like it’s funny. Like you aren’t piss-drunk and surrounded by people who don’t care about you.
Mingi doesn’t even look at Winter again before he’s moving. Rushing past bodies, physically moving them out of his way as he follows the sound of cheering into the dining room, he can see you over everyone’s heads. No, this is full-circle, he thinks for just a moment at the entryway, here you are, in his dining room where the plotting truly began, where Mingi first lost his mind over the girl he could give two fucks about right now.
Dancing, swaying your hips to whatever song is playing, something pop with heavy bass from the early two-thousands, it’s deaf on his ears. Arms above your head, smile absent, eyes absent, you aren’t even in your fucking body and everyone surrounding you is cheering you on. Mingi’s sick and he can feel every tapered edge of it.
Bodies are glued together, phones out, he smacks two out of the air as he forces his way past. He spots Jongho and Yeosang, the only two trying to get you down, arms reaching out in caution, faces stressed beyond what they should be at a party.
Mingi meets the edge of the table and he catches Wooyoung out of the corner of his eye, standing up against the wall, watching, smirking. Like he was loving every second of this. Like you wouldn’t want to rip your fucking hair out when you wake up tomorrow. Somehow it pisses him off worse that he’s watching you like this was reality TV, as if you’re not a real person, someone he slept with last night. He shivers. Rage runs deep.
“Mingi!” Jongho yells across the table, “Thank god you’re here, please get her down.”
Bare feet— where the fuck did your shoes go? Hair stuck to you, shirt splotched with wetness, probably liquor, maybe worse. There’s bottles on the table, grinders open and full of weed, puddles of water, beer, solo cups from a game of pong. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, panic, like he was responsible for you, for this.
“Get down,” his voice stands out amongst the music, the cheers. Louder, heavy with direction, order. Like he’s on the field.
Your head spins in every direction like you weren’t sure where the sound came from. Even now, irritated and shocked beyond belief, he softens at the sight of you. “Please, baby, get down,” his voice is layered with worry as you finally meet his gaze, eyes glossed over, smile lazy and gone. Holy shit.
“You’re mad at me,” you drop down to your knees, pouting, fuck this table big enough to seat half the goddamn team, stopping him from pulling you away from each and every pair of eyes.
“No I’m not,” he shakes his head, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “I’m not mad at you, I just want you to come to me.”
On all fours, you start crawling across the fucking table, a lazy grin taking over like you didn’t have any eyes on you, so unaware that Mingi’s anxious. Head tilting, a split of consciousness entering your vision, you ask, “You want me?”
He swallows, nodding, a palm reaching out for you, “Yeah, I do.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a shadow of black leaving the room. He doesn’t look, keeping his eyes on you, each agonizing second of your arms and knees pushing you forward, not a semblance of haste to your movements.
You reach out your arm when he’s close enough to grab your hand and he pulls you the rest of the way, hearing the slick sound of black denim sliding against shiny oak, he isn’t fucking thinking as he bends at his knees and throws you over his shoulder. You yelp, body deadweight over his back before your legs bend up in front of him, bare feet covered in a layer of grime, wet and sprinkled with god knows what. He sighs.
“Put me down!” You yell, your tiny hands flat against his back, pushing yourself up.
He turns, one arm holding your legs down, hauling you out of that room faster than he’s ever sprinted down a field. He spots Kai across the living room, a head of blonde hair standing tall over the crowd, the only face easy to spot at his full height.
“Huening!” He shouts. Kai’s brows furrow when he sees him, bending into bewilderment when he sees you over his shoulder. “Get me my keys.”
“You drink?”
“Get me my keys, Kai.”
He feels you smacking his back, yelling something unintelligible as he hauls you through the living room, through the front door, the air outside no fucking relief to the sweat forming at the base of his spine. Down the lawn, to his car that’s parked at the edge of the street, he puts you down on the hood with a muddled grunt from the back of his throat.
You lay back as soon as your ass meets steel. Eyes closed, head turned to the side, your arms straight out on either side of you, you heave a breath and mumble, “I’m s’fucking drunk.”
Mingi didn’t realize he was out of breath until he leaned into the side of the car, elbows resting on the roof plate. He laughs, a small one, full of disbelief and utter shock. “No shit.”
“You called me baby again,” your eyes peek open to point at him with a weak, bent arm, “you were nervous.”
Mingi feels seen. He squints, “You were gonna fall off the table, I had to get you down, of course I was nervous.”
“You like me,” you sing, arm falling back down to the steel with a smack, dopey grin on your cheeks. “You like me for realsies.”
Mingi snorts, pulling his arms off the roof of his car to step to the side, palms landing on the hood to lean forward. Your hand sways through thick air before your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist, “I like you too, even though you’re kind of rude.”
He wills his heartbeat calm. “You think I’m rude?”
“You’re so rude,” the words slur together, his lips tighten at the sound. You open your eyes again, “Wanna fuck on the car?”
Mingi cracks a laugh, a belly laugh he couldn’t hold back, “What the fuck?”
You laugh with him, loud and obnoxious, the arch of your back lifting off the car, head turning to the opposite side before it snaps back to look at him. “Just a question,” you sing again, “jus’wonderin’.”
“Can I ask you a question?” He waits for your slurred mhm. “Did you really fuck Wooyoung?”
You suddenly frown, “Yeah, he caught me at a real vulnerable time. Do y’know what vulnerable means?”
He shakes his head, “Yes.”
“Means exposed. He caught me crying ‘cus you kissed me and you were nice and your Instagram army was calling me crazy shit.” Your eyes open all the way, “They’re wild on there, did you know that?”
“People are messaging you about me?”
You choke on a laugh, “So many people.”
“Let me see–”
You scoff, “Fuck no.”
“Song!”
He hears Kai shout from the tip of the lawn, Mingi turns and Kai throws his keys across the green, landing perfectly in Mingi’s palm like he aimed for it. “Thanks,” he yells back up, and Kai nods once before turning back inside.
“Can you get up on your own or am I putting you in the car?” He receives nothing but a groan in response, a turn of your head in the opposite direction. He sighs. “Come on, you can’t even sit up?”
You turn your head back to him, “Why’d you kiss me?”
“Because I wanted to,” he says it like it’s obvious.
“They’re gonna kill me for it,” you grumble, “they’re gonna kill me and it will be your fault.”
“No one’s killing you–”
“Did you like it?” You’re blinking at him, knees opening and closing like you needed to move to remind yourself you’re conscious, "Kissing me?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow when you’re so–”
“Tell me now.”
Mingi sighs, taking his eyes off you to look at the trees across from the football house. Tall, shadows filling space between them, calm. The music inside is muffled, bass still vibrating the ground beneath his feet. The confession sits heavy on his tongue. Fuck it.
“Yeah I did,” he says it in one breath before he looks down at you again. Your brows are upturned, a pout on your lips, watching him until you hear what he says, then you smile.
“Yay,” the word is light, cute. Then you look as if reality snapped back into you, “Damn, I probably shouldn’t have fucked him, huh?”
Mingi snorts as he walks around the front of his car, grabbing you by your wrists one after another, pulling you upward. “No,” he says, shaking his head, but his smile stays, “you shouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, then bring your hand up to your forehead, groaning. “Fuck, ‘m dizzy.”
“I’m taking you home.” He scoops you off his hood, an arm curled under your knees and another holding your back until he’s got you next to the passenger door, letting your feet touch the grass beside the curb. Opening the door, one hand still on your waist, he says, “Get in.”
Your body is a mess of tucked angles as you quite literally fall into his passenger seat, Mingi has to fasten your seatbelt for you when he finally gets in the driver’s seat. You smell like liquor, cigarettes, sweat– he rolls the windows down and you stick your head out like a dog.
Twenty minutes to your apartment, no music, just Mingi and his thoughts. He thinks about her, his first girlfriend after he started becoming known, how the long-term relationship ended so soon after going public. Comments, DMs on every platform, it didn’t matter what revisions she made to her social media, the words still made it to her eyes, her ears. Nasty, disgusting, vile words and not one of them was true, Mingi hasn’t spoken to her since they broke up. She hates him, down to his core because of something he had no control over. It’s what put his wall up in the first place, made of brick, of steel, a wall so thick it didn’t let any emotion in, only desire.
He can’t imagine what’s sitting in your phone. Terror lives in his grip on the steering wheel, white-knuckled, bottom lip tight between his teeth, brows furrowed in thought, in remorse. He didn’t think you’d be affected by his status since your relationship was fake, an oversight, one he regrets already.
“You awake?” He parks just outside of your apartment, but your head doesn’t move off the window frame.
“No.”
He reaches over, unbuckling your seatbelt, “Come on, drunkie.”
You moan something belligerent, picking your head up slowly, the seatbelt going over your head, stuck around your arm. Mingi can’t help but laugh as he rolls the window up, turning off the car, he expects to have to haul your ass inside. You let him, deadweight in his hold, your bare feet crossing over one another with each step, all the way up to the second floor. Thank god your building has an elevator.
“Key?” He asks. You point to the mat on the floor, eyes half open. He flattens his lips. “Yeah, we’re gonna have to change that.”
You stand on your own long enough for him to get the door open, and he’s on alert this time, taking in his surroundings. The last time he was here he didn’t walk past the threshold, but now that he’s in, he can smell you everywhere. A large mirror next to the TV surrounded by plants, a tall lamp in the corner, a cozy couch set cream-colored. A coffee table filled with books, an unlit candle and his jersey thrown over it, your apartment screamed comfort, peaceful.
His eyes squint at the Lego sets under your TV. An open shelved media console, a polaroid camera, a record player with flowers, a starry night painting, all Legos, it’s all he could pick out until you start moaning and groaning again.
“Uh-uh,” he grabs you by the wrist when you start making for the couch, “your ass is taking a shower. Where is it?”
You gasp, staring down at your feet, wrist limp in his palm. Your toes wiggle as you ask, “Where are my shoes?” You look back up at him wide-eyed, “I had shoes on, didn’t I?”
“I’ll find them at the house tomorrow,” he pulls you closer by the wrist, “come on, drunkie. Shower time.”
“I don’t like that nickname,” your top lip lifts, “you have better ones. Why are you here?”
“To get you into bed,” he starts leading you toward the entryway to his right, a small walkway he can only pray holds a bathroom at the end. “You smell like a brewery.”
You smile, following behind him like this was his apartment and not yours. There’s movie posters, framed paintings, decor on your walls he stores for later as more questions come to mind. He notes how clean and sophisticated you decorated, minus the closet door left open with clothes strewn about like you tore it apart before going out tonight. The bathroom tucked in the back corner is worse, makeup scattered across the vanity, pairs of shorts and underwear littered the white tile, you didn’t seem to mind as you walked in right behind him.
“Do I have to?” You sit on the closed toilet, back bending over the tank, head hitting the wall with a thump.
He opens the shower curtain, turning it on, heating it up instead of answering. You giggle, more of a single sound of amusement, legs spread out in front of you, body molded to the shape of the toilet.
“Fine,” your grumble is somehow still amused, and Mingi swears it takes five whole minutes for you to stand up, toying with your skinny studded belt as your feet stumble over tile, fingers missing the prongs like you couldn’t get a grip.
He sighs again, sitting down on the toilet instead, “C’mere.”
Your hands find his shoulders for purchase, standing between his legs, body still swaying. He steadies you with two hands on your thighs and you lean into him, his touch, voice filled with pleased confusion, “You’re being nice to me.”
“I want to be nice to you,” he glances up at you, face flushed, eyes low, hair a mess. So vulnerable, a new word in his dictionary, to see you like this, for you to act this way in front of him. He wonders how much of it has to do with the messages in your phone.
“Nice is scary,” you whisper as he starts undoing your belt, pushing the prongs out of leather, your grip stays tight on his shoulders. “You scared me when you kissed me.”
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he pulls leather through the loops of denim, throwing it on the floor. “Button?”
You nod, body swaying again, he holds you upright with his fingers tucked in the hem of your jeans. “No one has ever kissed me like that before,” you’re still whispering like you’re telling him a secret. He looks up after getting your zipper down, seeing your glassy eyes, your dilated pupils. Pretty.
“I think that’s how you should be kissed,” the answer comes quickly, easily. Honest.
Your hands find the hem of your top, pulling it over your head, throwing it to the floor beside you. He fights to keep his eyes on yours. Your forearms sit on his shoulders this time, finding them like magnets as you flip your hair over your shoulder, out of your face. He swallows, breath catching in his throat, “You should get in the shower, don’t waste water.”
“You didn’t like me when you met me.” It’s not a question, but an observation. A memory.
He counters, “You didn’t like me either.”
“You were an asshole.”
“You’re sober enough to get in the shower–”
“What changed?” You ask, words sounding fragile, like you were scared of the answer.
“Everything,” he smiles halfway, leaning back an inch. The room feels hotter, steam taking up space, the sound of the shower hitting the tub a small hum, his ears ring with the quiet. “Most of all, me, I think.”
You’re looking at him differently, like you’re trying to figure something out. You reach up to his hair, pushing it out of his face, your touch featherlight, so delicate a shiver shoots through him like a firework. Your fingers glide over his temple, his cheek, you press your palm flat against his cheekbone, he leans some of his weight onto it, he lets you toy with him like he’s yours to do as you please. There’s a part of him that thinks he is, even if it’s fucked up, even if the two of you are still somewhere in purgatory.
“Pretty,” you mumble, a mindless word. “I can understand why they hate me.”
His bottom lip curls, “I’m so sorry–”
“No,” you shake your head. “Not your fault.”
His lungs twist hard enough to steal his breath. His hands find your hips, pulling you forward until his forehead meets the heat of your abdomen; so soft under him, fragile in his hold, you have no idea how long he’s waited to hear those words, no idea the weight they hold. No idea the guilt that lives glued to his spine.
Your hands find his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp, holding him against you like it’s where you wanted him, where he’s supposed to be. He thinks it’s where he’s supposed to be, too. He picks his head up only to place a kiss against your skin, a soft press of his lips over your stomach, it holds everything he can’t say to you right now. He hopes you can feel it.
Your knees buckle a little, fingers stalling in his hair, he hears the breath you suck in, feels how you bend into him. “I’m drunk, don’t make me horny, I’ll jump you.”
He snorts, your words pulling a laugh straight from his gut, he leans back to look up at you, your fingers still in his hair. You’re smiling, lazy and stupid, but then you break away from him, thumbs tucked into your jeans like you’re about to shove them down.
“Hold on, damn.” He stands on weak knees, quickly skipping out of the bathroom, he peeks his head back in just before closing the door. “Be careful. Shout if you need anything.”
“You’ll stay?” Your face is round with supplication.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Hey.”
Your nose twitches.
“Wake up, it’s after twelve.”
Your top lip curls.
“Wake up, I’m getting bored.”
You peek an eye open as your whole face tightens up, hands finding your cheeks, rubbing your eyes awake. Your stomach hurts, your knees feel sore, you grumble out a curse as your body stretches itself into consciousness.
“She’s alive.”
You pause, peeking over your fingertips to Mingi sitting on the edge of your bed. Dark hair messy on his head, shirtless, a pair of your shorts painted onto his thighs. You’re too confused to laugh at the sight.
“What the fuck?” You ask, voice laced with sleep, face scrunched up beyond recognition. “The fuck are you doing here?”
“Come on,” he frowns, “you didn’t even throw up, there’s no way you blacked out. Think, smart girl.”
You blink at him, letting the memories come back one after another. Wooyoung, shots, shots, shots, table, car, bathroom, bed. Mingi’s head on your stomach. Mingi’s lips on your skin.
“Oh, shit.” You sit up on your elbows, eyes on your bedspread, still blinking crust out of your vision, “Oh, shit.”
Mingi huffs a noise of amusement through his nose, “Still confused?”
You shake your head, heart picking up speed in your chest. Your head feels heavy, stomach nauseous, limbs tingly with leftover alcohol in your blood. You look up at him, “Why are you still here?”
“You asked me to stay,” he shrugs, like that was the most normal thing in the world. Like he’s stayed over a thousand times before.
“So you stayed?” Your brows stay knitted together, confused, confused confused confused.
“So I stayed,” he nods, “how do you feel?”
“Like dog shit.”
“Sounds about right,” he’s smiling but he’s trying to hide it. It makes your lips twitch upward. “You remember dancing on my dining room table?”
Your eyes close, lips flat, brows raised. “Yup,” you nod, “unfortunately, I do.”
“Remember asking to fuck on my car?”
Your eyes shoot open, tone full of disbelief, “No.”
“You’re funny,” he chuckles, laying flat on his back at the edge of your bed. “You’re always funny, but you’re an especially funny drunk. It was cute when I wasn’t terrified you were gonna die.”
“The scaries are gonna haunt me for weeks,” you push yourself up, forehead meeting your palms. “Fuck.”
“I was hoping we could talk,” he sounds coy all of the sudden, nervous. Shy.
You nod, “Let me shower again, eat something, drink a bottle of water. I feel like a fucking zombie.”
After cursing yourself out under your breath upon entering your messy bathroom, half your shower was spent with your forehead pressed to the wall, somehow cooling down your body temperature while steaming water soaked away all your shame. You ran through the events last night over and over, a little fuzzy at the edges, but each and every damning moment was crystal clear. You dried yourself off, completed your routine all with the same thought in mind: What the hell does he want to talk about?
It’s not like he likes you for real. You’d never work– your past is too messy, your current state is too messy, actually. He needs someone with a clean record, a nice, pretty girl who dresses in dainty clothes, someone who says please and thank you– that’s his goddamn destiny, a girl like Winter. Reserved, bashful, composed, you wonder if she’s ever said a curse word out loud, she’s nothing like you. She’s someone the internet would love, his coaches would love, his family would probably love, not that you know anything about his family.
You’re getting ahead of yourself— you’re spiraling. The only outcome of this conversation is that tension ran high, he was kind enough to take care of you when you were drunk, you’d go back to normalcy in an hour. Maybe Wooyoung’s free later tonight, he’d make a snide comment about you dancing on the table, you’d laugh like it was intentional. Like there weren’t videos of you on people’s phones that’d haunt you at two in the morning for weeks to come.
“What’s all this?” You asked upon walking into the living room, Mingi stood beside your small kitchen table, rummaging through one of two plastic bags.
“I ordered food,” he says, pulling out containers from the bag. Setting them down on the table neatly, one on top of another, neat.
Your brows furrow, walking into the kitchen hesitantly, “Food?”
“I can’t cook,” he looks up at you with a half-smile, “no idea how. But you need to eat, I also got juice for you, and I found ibuprofen in your cabinet–”
“Mingi,” you shake your head, trying to gather your bearings, “what are you doing?”
He holds up a hand, flat palm facing you, features straight and unimpressed. “Don’t start with me, sit down and eat. We’ll talk after there’s food in your stomach.”
You must still be drunk. Limbs feeling heavy, you trudge into the wooden seat, the one with the broken bar that supports the legs. Breakfast food, so much breakfast food, your stomach hurts at the sight of oil and grease, but you need it, you need the juice, too– you sucked that down in record time.
Silence, other than the sound of chewing and plastic ruffling, it was comfortable. Maybe a little awkward, unless that was your nerves talking which was absolutely plausible, you still sat in fucking confusion. Feeding you, catering to you, taking care of you like he did last night– and he still only had on your shorts. Your powder blue waffle shorts that fit you loose but clung to his muscled, golden, tan-lined thighs like they’d rip at the seams if he moved the wrong way.
You hate that it’s nice having him here. You hate that you’re letting it happen.
Pills swallowed, enough food in your stomach to take an hour to digest, the awkwardness grew after cleaning up the table. Both aimlessly pacing the kitchen, pretending to still have something to do, avoiding the conversation that needs to happen. Might as well get it over with.
“Mingi–”
“Can I start?”
You sigh, pointing a finger in the direction of the living room. “Couch.”
Your stomach feels uneasy like you’d throw up every bite as you sit across from him, both taking edges of the couch like you’re scared to get close. You sit on a leg like it’d give you an easy escape if you needed it, despite it being your apartment.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, voice small. Your brows furrow, ready to ask what the hell he’s sorry for, but his lips part instead. “I’m so sorry you were sent messages about me, this has happened before, my ex-girlfriend broke up with me because of them, because people didn’t leave her alone about me.”
“Mingi, it’s not your fault–”
He looks up at you and his glassy eyes kill the words on your tongue. His voice is small, layered with struggle, “We were together for a year. When I posted her, us, she broke up with me within two weeks. We never spoke again.”
Your jaw drops, “Two weeks?”
He nods, “I don’t even think we made it to the fourteenth day, I can’t believe I didn’t think that would happen to you. I guess I thought because our relationship was fake it wouldn’t, but no one knows it was fake, I just didn’t think, again. I let it happen again. I’m sorry.”
Ah, and now everything makes sense. “You didn’t need to do all of this because you feel bad. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself, I also know when things are out of your hands, and the messages are one-hundred-percent out of your hands.”
His brows furrow after a second, “I didn’t take care of you because of the messages, or because I feel bad. I took care of you because I care about you, I like you.”
“No,” you shake your head, “no you don’t. You might think you do, but you don’t.”
“Huh?” His eyes thin, top lip lifting, “Who are you to tell me what I feel?”
“I just know, I’ve seen your type, and it’s not me. Which is fine, I don’t–”
“You told me you liked me last night,” he argues.
Your lips flatten. “I was drunk.”
“Drunk words are sober thoughts.”
“What are you? Sixteen years old?” Your face twists, “I’m being realistic and logical, you’re acting on emotion.”
“Well I haven’t felt this much emotion since she broke up with me!” His hands fly up on either side of him, voice strained. “And I’ve missed it, I missed feeling this way. I want to keep feeling this way, about you.”
Your blinks are stuttered, slow. Your lips purse, he might have shocked you into silence. He runs a hand through his hair, face torn up into exasperation, he sighs, one deep and grounding. Looking at you again, he asks, “Do you really not want me? There’s not one bone in your body that wishes everything we’ve done the last few weeks was real?”
Your chest is tight. Your lips won’t move, your mind is blank.
“You don’t think you deserve it,” his voice switches to something calm, understanding. “Someone to like you, or care about you, I know. You’re used to guys like him, guys who use your feelings as ammunition. I won’t do that to you.”
You feel like stone. Stuck, still, eyes wide, unblinking. Fear simmers.
He shifts himself closer, eyes pleading. “I was sick when I found out you slept with Wooyoung, I’ve never acted like that before in my life, so jealous and angry, like he was taking you from me. I felt like you were mine, and he was trying to steal you–”
“I asked him to,” you finally speak, rushed and panicked. There’s nothing else left to argue with other than this. “I basically begged him.”
“You were upset,” Mingi shakes his head, “you told me. You said you were upset because of the messages and because I kissed you, you didn’t want to–”
“I needed to,” you try to swallow, throat squeezed tight, “I needed him to. He isn’t kind, he isn’t genuine, he doesn’t hold me like I’m breakable, he wouldn’t do all the shit you did for me last night. He isn’t you, and I needed the reminder. That’s what I deserve, not you.”
“Do you even know what you’ve done for me in the weeks we’ve known each other?” Mingi’s voice is pitched now, layered with raw emotion. “You’ve reminded me what freedom is like. That I can do whatever I want, I’m not a machine, or a puppet for someone else to use. You gave me back myself, is it so ridiculous that I don’t want to let you fucking go?”
“I’m scared,” you blurt it out, two words pulled from so deep in your psyche you can’t believe you said them out loud. “I’m scared to let myself feel anything towards you.”
“You already feel something towards me,” he argues, “a lot of something. You wouldn’t have slept with him if you didn’t.”
Stunned into silence again, your lips purse. He continues, “I’m not stupid. My vocabulary might not be as big as yours but I’m not stupid, I know you have feelings for me. You can’t hide that no matter how much you want to, how much you try to get it fucked out of you.” He shifts closer. “I’ll show you. Let me kiss you again.”
“Fuck no,” your brows furrow.
He deadpans, “Let me fuckin’ kiss you.”
“Did you even brush your teeth?”
“Shut up,” he stands up on his knees, too big in front of you, chiseled body on display, your heart drops to your stomach. “Stop deflecting. I see through you now.”
“Mingi–”
His hands find the armrest behind you as you uncurl your leg from beneath you, trying to accumulate space, space you’re quickly losing as he leans closer. “You don’t have to be scared with me.”
Your breath is shallow and shaky, heart in your throat, eyes halfway out of your head. He keeps his face close, forehead a millimeter from yours, you feel his heat first. He’s so big, he swallows your figure, he’s too big for the fucking couch, it’s dizzying.
“I’m gonna kiss you.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
He smiles before pressing his lips to yours, soft, so fucking delicate it takes you a moment to ease into it, to process that it’s even a kiss. Softer than it was on the field– his lips barely graze yours at first, as if he was testing the waters, like he wanted to feel your breath on his skin, wanted to feel your body say yes before your mouth said the word. Your lips part for him, soft and steady, molding to his, letting him guide, lead.
He asks for entrance with his tongue, swiping along your bottom lip with a certain courtesy like even though you were following him, letting him show you, you still held the reins. Your insides feel molten, fingers grabbing onto your shirt like you didn’t know where else to put them, mind in a constant battle to pick every detail apart or shut off completely. It’s different– it might be everything, laying here and kissing him softly, lazily, like nothing else exists except for him, his weight, his mouth. He tastes like something new, something blue, a memory you’d come back to for a long, long time.
He parts from you, lips swollen and red like he’d bitten them, he stares. Chocolate eyes big and round, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed a pretty rose, he looks at you like he’s just discovered you. Like even though he kissed you to prove something to you, it’s proven something deeper to himself.
He doesn’t smile, still calculating, but in a quiet voice he asks, “Do you feel it too?”
Your fists are still tight in your shirt, you search his eyes, the way they fall to your lips, you don’t answer— you kiss him again, harder this time, faster, tongue passing through his lips like his mouth belonged to you, like you were running out of time. You shift down on the couch, pillow falling to the floor, his elbows bracket your head as your calves hook over his thighs, moving in unison like your bodies were acting without either of you thinking about it.
Your hands find his hair when you wrap your arms around his neck, lifting yourself into him, pressing yourself against him, feeling the strength of him, it makes a tight noise leave your lips, one needy and begging. He rolls his hips into you on instinct and you moan into his mouth like you need him to do it harder.
“Fuck,” he curses into your mouth, lifting himself up on his palms, “wait— wait.”
“What?” You follow on your elbows, bug-eyed, “Why? What happened?”
He swallows, panting, running a hand through his hair as he sits back on his calves, your legs still thrown lazily over his thighs. The print of his length sits heavy and prominent with his legs spread in your cotton shorts, your eyes flicker back and forth to his face, mouth watering, patience already scarily thin.
“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he shakes his head, chest splotchy, tummy expanding with each aborted breath he takes. “I want this, I want you, I want to do it right.”
Your heart flutters in your chest, it’s at war with your dampening panties, your thighs that twitch as the words leave his mouth. His eyes drop to your figure, the big tee you wore hiked up to your stomach, tiny shorts clinging to your dampened core, he squeezes his eyes shut like it’d erase the sight from his memory.
“You want to stop because you want to take me out on a date?” You ask, brows raised. “We’ve been on, like, two already. Maybe three or four if you squint.”
He opens his eyes to narrow them, “You’re such a smartass.”
You smile at that, head tilting, cocky, “Clearly you like it, since you wanna date my smart-ass.”
His hands fall to your hips, tugging them towards him until your back is flat against the couch again, “I wanna do more than that.”
“Then do it,” you huff, hips bucking into him, arms lifting to reach for him, “you’re the one who stopped.”
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” He asks, leaning forward enough to let you wrap your arms around his shoulders, he uses his hands at your waist to lift you up onto his lap.
You gasp at the movement, at the fucking ease in which he maneuvers you, your knees land beside his hips before you answer. “If you want me to shut the fuck up then give me a reason to.”
“I lied, don’t want you quiet,” he’s looking up at you from this angle and the sight of him steals your breath, makes everything feel a little more real. He’s so beautiful and he wants you and fuck you want him, too.
“Make up your mind,” you press yourself to his chest, keeping your faces close. “Y’know, you talked big game that night at the LAX house, been wondering if you could back it up.”
His hands tuck beneath your tee, fingers warm against your skin as they drag up your sides, palms landing heavy on your waist, it makes you shiver. He smirks, “Now you’re baiting me into fucking you?”
“Maybe,” your faces are so close your lips graze, “is it working?”
He kisses you again, more feverish than the last, hands squeezing your waist before they drop down to your hips, grinding you against him. You keep your arms folded around his neck, tongue slotting between his lips messily, teeth clashing together as you grind your core against his clothed length, roughly, purposely, letting him feel the arousal that’s bottled up inside. You part to empty strangled noises into each other’s mouths, eyes screwed tight, your hips move steadily in a rhythm guided by his hands. So hard, long and thick beneath you, you could feel him through your shorts, his shorts, there was no stopping. There was no pausing.
His hands find the hem of your tee, you help him pull it over your head, his lips find your neck, your chest, your head tilts back to give him access, for small, pitched breaths to leave your lips, a song for him to hear. He groans when your hips slow into a nasty grind, his tongue pokes out to drag down your chest, over your heart where he places an open-mouthed kiss. He looks up at you to say, “This is mine now.”
Your heartbeat picks up, he smiles like he can feel it. Brows knitted together, face bent with intoxicated arousal, you respond, “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“We’re technically still dating,” his teeth catch onto the hem of the lace bralette you wore, tugging on it before placing a kiss right above, at the center of the valley between your breasts, “and we’re not breaking up.”
“Are you trying to gaslight me?” You ask, hips still moving against him, fingers knotting in his hair when your clothed clit rolls over the ledge of his tip, “ah– I think we had a very public breakup last night.”
One of his hands slithers over the curve of your hip, down between your thighs, two fingers adding pressure where you needed it. You choke on a moan, back arching, hips digging into the pressure as he grins wide, “I forgave you already. This is make-up sex.”
“More,” your fingers tighten in his hair, eyes squeezing shut, “Mingi.”
“Oh, I like that,” he circles his fingers twice over your clit, smirking, “beg a lil’ more, put that mouth to good use.”
Your eyes open wanting to scowl but your brows are knitted too deeply in pleasure, lips parted and glossy with his spit, you can’t force yourself to as his fingers circle over your clit again. “P-please,” you stutter over the word, hips rolling into his touch, “wanna feel you.”
His face contorts in pleasure like you were the one touching him, he catches your lips again, tongue slotting into your mouth as his fingers dive beneath your shorts. He groans into your mouth as he slips between your folds, feeling the wetness that seeped through your damp shorts, “So wet for me, princess.”
Your hips buck into his hand, body twitching at how thick his fingers feel at your center combined with that fucking word on his tongue. “Feels s’good, more, Mingi, inside.”
“Say please,” the words are muffled, lips still pressed to yours.
You whisper, “Please.”
“Good girl,” he mutters, feeling you clenching around nothing as his fingers prod at your entrance. His eyes flicker upward, “You liked that? Being called my good girl?”
You nod shamelessly, hips rolling into his fingers, beckoning him to put them inside. Slowly he inches forward and you gasp, breath catching in your throat, fingers tightening in his hair, he curves them with each inch he gives you, adding pressure on that spot as soon as he reaches it, you’re choking on your own pleasure as your hips grind to fuck yourself on his fingers.
“So greedy,” he whispers, completely in awe, “look at you, baby, fucking yourself on my fingers. You gonna be good for me and cum on ‘em?”
“Holy shit,” you whisper, hips stuttering, his words going straight to the pit in your belly. You’ve never had someone pay this much attention to you or your pleasure, never had someone even insinuate making you cum before they’ve taken their pants off. He crooks his fingers and you whine, “You don’t h-have to, ‘hmygod.”
“Yes I do,” his fingertips massage that spot, fucking into you in small, stuttered thrusts so he can keep pressure, “need you to cum around my fingers, then around my cock, gonna do that for me?”
“Yeah,” you roll your hips faster, harder, meeting the thrusts of his fingers, his movement trapped within your shorts, the edge of his palm kissing your clit. It’s fucking dirty, nasty the way you’re moving, so shameless, if you weren’t so consumed by pleasure you’d be mortified at how easily he cracked your composure.
“Yeah? You wanna cum around my cock?” He asks, tone arrogant because he knows the answer, “Gonna make a mess on me with this wet lil’ pussy?”
“Mingi,” you whine, “stop.”
“You like it, I can feel you clenching,” he grins, you open your eyes just enough to see it. Cocky, but he’s backing it up and fuck you might die if he stops. “So good for me, bet you’d take anything I give you, bet you’d ask for more.”
The pit of pleasure builds steadily in your gut and you bite your lip to try to keep your mewls inside. It’s futile when he kisses you, drinking up every wrecked moan you spill into his mouth, keeping his fingers moving at the same pace, the same pressure. The rough edge of his palm hitting your clit with each movement and it’s so fucking obvious he knows exactly what he’s doing, how to pull you to the finish line with ease.
“Mingi,” you gasp out, limbs locking as you climb, “I’m close.”
“I know,” he presses his lips to your chin, under your jaw, “give it to me– cum for me, baby.”
Your hips stutter first before your orgasm crashes over you heavily, body twitching, rolling into him, he moves with you, keeping his hand steady as you ride out your orgasm, chanting praises into the space between you, encouragement that extends your pleasure, the feeling of euphoria that rocks through you never-ending. You keel after you finish, forehead meeting his, body deflating like he took everything out of you, he kisses your unmoving mouth, smiling into you when you don’t respond.
“Did so good for me,” he pulls his fingers out of your shorts, bringing them up between your faces, slipping them between his lips. He moans in pleasure, “Mm, can’t wait to eat her. You’ll let me, right? You’ll ride my face if I tell you to?”
The pit in your stomach twists all over again, core clenching around nothing, he’s filthy. You love it. “Need you inside,” you mutter, voice tight with arousal but winded, “need to feel you, Min.”
His smile returns, “Can you handle it, big girl? Look at you after just two fingers.” You whine and he laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen, “I can’t believe you’re so easy. You’ve got such a fuckin’ attitude and now you’re whining and crying for my cock.”
“You asked me if I ever shut the fuck up,” you grind yourself against him, bleeding impatience, “do you?”
He makes a sound he keeps lodged in his throat, it makes you smirk. He answers, “Not if it makes you this wet. You soaked through your shorts, princess.”
“Stop calling me that,” you huff, “fuck me already, ‘m tired of hearing you run your mouth.”
His hands find your thighs, holding onto them tight as he lifts himself up, you fall backwards fast with a loud yelp, back hitting the cushions of the couch. He’s predatory as he leans over you, “This mouth can make you cum faster than my fingers did,” his fingers find the hem of your shorts, “wanna find out?”
“I want you to fuck me,” you lift your hips for him and he tugs them down to your ankles, “save your filthy fuckin’ mouth for another time.”
“There she is,” he stands on his knees, tugging at the baby blue shorts on his hips, “knew the brat was in there somewhere.”
“It only comes out when you’re a cocky motherfuck–” he tugs his shorts down and the word dies on your tongue. Bigger than he felt beneath you, thick, red, leaking, your mouth waters, back arching off the couch at the sight, “Damn.”
He’s smirking and you hate that his cockiness is starting to become sexy. “Gonna take it all like a big girl?”
You’re nodding, not even looking at him, you can’t take your eyes off his cock. Bigger than Wooyoung, than Hyunjin, he might even be bigger than Mingyu and that’s a feat. All you can muster is, “Hurry.”
He settles between your legs, your knees spread under his heavy palms, he licks his lips when he gets eyes on your center. “She’s so pretty, baby. Why didn’t you tell me? Woulda been fucking you weeks ago.”
“God, Mingi, shut up,” you buck your hips toward him, “get inside me already.”
“She’s soaked,” he wraps his fist around his cock, sliding it through your folds, rubbing circles over your clit that make you shiver, “so pretty, gonna ruin her. Can I? So you can’t fuck anyone but me?”
Impatience is a band that snaps hard, “Is that why you talk so much? You have a big dick that you don’t even know how to use–”
He wastes no time slipping back down to your entrance and pushing inside, just his tip has your body locking up, head tipping back, a tight, wilted noise slipping out of you involuntarily, it tells him everything you can’t say. He’s smirking even if he’s fighting to keep his own pleasure at bay, “Yeah? I don’t know how to use it? Say that again.”
He’s curved, carving into you like he’d make you take it even if you couldn’t, your walls suck him in like you were made for it, clenching around the width of him, mushroom tip kissing your cervix just enough that it’s pleasurable– you shake your head, biting your fucking tongue, nails clawing at the couch cushions because no one’s ever felt this good just sitting inside you.
“Exactly,” he pulls out slowly, filling you back up just as slowly, letting you adjust to his length, his thickness, the perfection your mind couldn’t comprehend. “Lay there and take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”
“Fuck, Mingi,” it’s high-pitched, filled with anticipation and slight disbelief. You watch as his abdomen flexes, how his tummy fills with air and deflates, his jaw that goes slack with each thrust, he’s so sexy it hurts. “Faster.”
He picks up speed on command, palms finding your shins, pushing them back into your chest as his cock starts bullying into you, “Like that?”
You can barely choke out a yes, hands flying to his biceps, nails marking crescents into his skin, half-curses fly from your lips drowned out by tight moans, pitched noises when his tip drags over that spot inside you, repeating, “Mingi, Mingi,” like it’s the only word you know.
“I’m here,” he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your knee, “I got you, know it’s big, baby, you can take it.”
You curse again as he fucks into you harder, back trying to arch but he has you pinned so deep you can’t move, “Mingi!”
He smiles, eyes half-lidded, “That all you can say? Fucked out already? Just started.”
You whimper, legs shaking beneath his palms, he lets go of your shins so he can lean down and kiss you, trading speed for a pace so deep and heavy you can’t kiss back. Moaning straight into his mouth, arms around his neck, you keep him close, legs hooked around his back, “Mingi.”
“Doing so good,” he kisses your cheek, your jaw, down your neck, “pussy so tight, baby, so perfect, gonna have to fuck you every day.”
You sound hypnotized, you might be. “Yes, yes, every day.”
“You know why?” He doesn’t wait for your answer. “‘Cause you’re mine.”
“Uh-huh,” you nod, and when he picks his face back up to kiss you, you kiss him back. It’s a mess of teeth and spit, too distracted and moving to be considered a kiss, but you’re lucid enough to tangle your fingers in his hair, for your hips to start fucking back.
“Say it,” he whispers in your mouth, edged like a blade. It makes you moan.
He groans, hips picking up speed all over again, he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, lips mindlessly pressing against your skin, tongue poking out just to taste the sweat that's formed. He slips an arm between your bodies to press two fingers against your clit and you twitch, a sharp moan escaping you, bucking into him at a pace unsteady and uncontrolled as the pressure builds fast.
“Mingi!” It’s loud and pitched, “Too much, too much.”
“No ‘ts not,” his words are muffled, lips pressed against your skin, “Take it, cum around my cock. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you cum f’me, baby.”
Strangled noises escape you one after another, his fingers circling your clit with practiced movements like he already knew your body inside and out. He’s still talking as pleasure climbs, your fingernails clawing shapes into his back, his rhythm doesn’t change or falter for a second. His words feel mindless, babbles of praise, “C’mon, baby, cum for me. Need to feel you clenching around my cock, say my name, say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, Mingi,” you don’t sound any more composed than he does, “Mingi, ‘hmygod I’m gonna cum, just for you, all for you.”
He moans as your pleasure hits its peak, seizing beneath him, legs locking around his body, fingers raking at his back hard enough to leave marks, you’re a mess of moans and cries and whimpers, but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t let up even a little. He’s cursing, hips jerking into you at that same fucking damning pace like his life depended on it, like he refused to give you anything but the entirety of your orgasm.
You’re still shaking when he pushes himself up, body red and splotchy, veins swollen and prominent and everywhere. “Gonna flip you,” you think he might be saying it to himself more than to you with the way he moves you fully on his own, your front meets the couch with a squeak, body spent, head fuzzy.
You’re flat against the couch, his legs straddle yours just below your ass, he spreads you to lean down and spit before he’s pushing inside once more. You curse sharply into the pillow, eyes rolling back, hands swatting behind you as he fills you up in one fell swoop.
He shushes you, two hands grabbing your swatting arms by your wrists, pinning them at the base of your spine, “You can take it. Breathe, princess.” When he moves, you feel like you might never recover. Your wails are muffled by the cushion you buried your face in, the pleasure was different, more, deeper, the way his cock grinds against that spot inside you and you can’t get away– you feel the pressure build like it never stopped, steady, heavy, so euphoric you might not be in your body at all anymore.
“You’re perfect, oh my god,” you hear him behind you, “gonna let me fill you up? Let me mark what’s mine? Fuck, baby, need to fill this perfect pussy up, need to cum inside.”
You dig your fingernails into your palms, kicking at the armrest on the other side of the couch, grinding your teeth, you turn your head just to cry, “Yes, fill me up, inside,” your voice cracks, “please.”
“Clenching around me s’fuckin’ hard,” his voice is rough, “y’gonna cum again?”
You let out a noncommittal sound and he changes the angle ever so slightly, your vision blurs, breath taut in your chest, his cock drilling against that spot like he was aiming for it, you don’t know if the damp spot under your head was from tears or drool. Keeping the angle, the pace, he lets your arms go before leaning over, pressing a sloppy kiss to your shoulderblade, breath hot in your ear, “So fucking perfect, let go f’me, baby.”
The sound you let out in response was from the deepest part of your lungs, a sob, a prayer, you’re so close you can fucking taste it. He presses another kiss to the tip of your spine, leaning over your shoulder again, mouth opening, teeth grazing your skin– when you feel him clamp down in a bite you lose it, trembling, sobbing, fisting the couch cushions with his name on your tongue, “Mingi!”
“Yes,” in awe again, his hips stutter, “there you go, fuuck– fuck, gonna fill you up, gonna make you mine.” You’re spasming around his length, hips bucking, trying to escape the unending pleasure as his thrusts only get heavier, sloppier, quicker. He keeps himself close, “My perfect girl, y’gonna take every drop? Fuck– fuck, gonna cum, baby, you want it?”
“Yes, Min,” you’re grabbing for him again, nails clawing at his thighs behind you, “fill me up, make me yours. Need you inside.”
One hand snakes under your jaw, turning your head he kisses you sloppily as his hips stutter, groaning a curse into your mouth as he twitches inside you, then he slows, warmth filling you up, ropes of his release heavy, hot, nasty. His breath is short, winded, exhausted, you don’t think yours is any more even.
“Mingi,” it comes out like a whimper, you feel him twitch inside you, he lets go of your face. A lazy grin takes over your cheeks, eyes closing, “You weren’t lying.”
He laughs, a small, easy thing, lifting himself up. “Why would I lie?”
“Dunno,” you answer absent-mindedly, “make yourself sound better.”
“Baby,” his hands smooth over the skin of your back, he leans down to press a soft kiss in the middle of your spine. Mumbling into your skin like he was too shy to say it with his chest, “I don’t need to do that.”
You hum, “Of course, how could I forget, you’re the entire package.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or if you’re fucking with me.”
“Good.”
He smacks his teeth, “I’m gonna pull out, ‘kay?”
You pop a brow at the warning, but as he starts to slip out inch by inch, you’re grateful for his thighs keeping you locked in place because the full-body twitch it gives you is lethal. You whine a little as his spent cock lays still-heavy on your ass, “How do you keep that thing hidden?”
He snorts, “Like in my pants?”
“That’s a weapon,” you’re still twitching beneath him, “and you just used it on me.”
He’s giggling as he shifts himself to be able to carefully flip you over, another movement he does with ease as if you’re some kind of toy. It still makes your stomach curl with warmth, body flushing hot as he lays himself down next to you, sliding an arm under your body, holding you close. “Smells like sex in here.”
You curl into his side, cheek pressed to his bare chest, eyes closing again. “Don’t care.”
“I really like you, you know,” his voice is low but steady, honest, “and I want to be your boyfriend.”
You pick your head up to look at him, his eyes big and round, glossed over like he was nervous to say the words. You reach a hand up, running your fingers through his chocolate locks once before cupping his cheek, guiding him down to press your lips softly against his. “You already are my boyfriend, moron.”
“I mean seriously–”
“And I mean seriously, you’re already my boyfriend,” you raise your brows in expectation, “so no more ogling girls at parties, no more calling me stupid names and no more Winter.”
“I thought you said you’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend before,” there’s a stupid smile on his face, “seems like you got the gist, princess.”
“What did I literally just say–”
“What about the messages?” His question is a little sturdier.
Your brows furrow, “What about them? I already turned my requests off.”
His brows match yours, “That’s it? It doesn’t turn you off from being with me?”
“I fucked Wooyoung like, two days ago, Mingi,” you smile when he makes a face of disgust, “if you can mentally handle that, I can mentally handle being in the spotlight, as long as its smaller than yours. But if I can’t, I’ll tell you, and we’ll figure it out. Wait, what about your coaches?”
“That is such a non-issue,” he rolls his eyes, “who gives a fuck?”
You make a face of surprised agreement, bottom lip bending over, brows raising, “Sure. Who gives a fuck?”
He smiles, “Cool, I think that’s everything.”
“Cool,” you nuzzle yourself back into his chest, pressing a short kiss to his skin, “by the way, how long until we can fuck again? I’ve been waiting three weeks for this too, y’know.”
masterlist 🏈 part one
this is my soul project. ive never loved another mingi as much as i love this one. if you read all of this, genuinely thank you from the bottom of my fucking heart. i could write about him endlessly, my muse fr. i hope you enjoyed and pls dont hesitate to tell me all your thoughts 🩷
⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART ONE ~28k
⪼ you can’t fucking stand jung wooyoung, mingi really really wants kim minjeong. when wooyoung and winter end up together, you and mingi have no choice but to figure out how to win winter’s favor, to stab wooyoung in the back. mingi needs a favor, and you want revenge... do you dare?
⪼ fake dating au, college au, slow burn, lowk enemies to lovers, this is my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! so happy to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, be sure to check out the masterlist for other banger college fics :)
⪼ eventual smut minors dni 18+ | LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. i hope u enjoy this is my pride and joy in a fic i would eat this mingi as my last meal
“Fuck you.”
Jung Wooyoung has never promised you anything. In your four months of doing whatever the fuck this was, he’s never once lead you believe you’d be anything more than his bed warmer. At least not verbally, and honestly, you had to hand it to him, he’d repeat the same monologue over and over like it was his personal gospel: We’re too young to be in a serious relationship, don’t you think? We should be enjoying our youth, our freedom, doing whatever we want…
If you ever hear the words serious relationship, youth, or freedom ever again, you might actually fucking vomit. In the beginning, it was easy to believe him; you rarely spoke to him outside of the bedroom, yours, his, that one supply closet on campus, the bathroom of that stupid fucking dive bar he loves so much. When he began sleeping over, kissing you awake, leaving with promises of later just to do it all over again, you started feeling blasphemous. Questioning gospel, his words of wisdom, you started to think there was more than just sweat and saliva to your relationship– maybe he enjoyed spending time with you. Maybe he even likes you.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” leaning against the wall of his foyer, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle over the other, you didn’t even make it inside his apartment. The bare, beige walls seemed to laugh at you even if there were no pictures on them, no paintings, no decor.
Too good to be true, of course, since you caught him hand-in-hand with her, Kim Minjeong, Winter, that pretty little thing you’re positive you shared a class with at some point in your three years at ATZU. Your immediate reaction was defense, denial, naturally, because why on Earth would he need anyone but you? He’s told you plenty of times you’re not like anyone he’s met before, that your personality was unique, that you’re the best he’s ever had.
“You’re sorry?!” Your arms were flying around the space, you voice loud, harsh, angry. You didn’t care if his roommate was home, maybe you’d apologize to San if you saw him on campus somewhere. Maybe. Right now, your anger was behind the wheel, driving you to insanity, “Who’s next, Summer? Spring? Fall? You gonna fuck all four seasons, you asshole?”
He shakes his head, black hair falling around his face, the poster board for nonchalance. You wonder how many times he’s had this conversation, how many girls he’s done this to. Maybe you were the problem for thinking you were different, that he’d alter his Ten Commandments for you. He uncurls his arms, straightens out his legs, and motions for the door, voice frustratingly monotonous, “I think you should go.”
“Yeah, I should,” you bite, already turning towards the dark brown, wooden door, “I hope I never fucking see you again.”
“Should be easy,” he says through a much too casual breath, reaching around you to grab the worn, brassy knob, forcing you to step sideways so he can open it. You take a step through the threshold and he leans his lanky body into the frame, “Make sure you return the Chrome Hearts hoodie I left at your place, though, doll. Paid good money for it.”
Face morphing into sheer disbelief, the audacity, only your head turns to look at him, eye legitimately twitching, “You’ll be lucky if I don’t fucking burn it.”
A corner of his lips tug upward in a smile, “Now that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”
“Just like the last four months?” Your brows raise, a faux smile creeping onto your lips, “Don’t text me ever again. Hope she fucks you like I do.”
He doesn’t answer– just stares as you stand there, waiting for an argument, for a rebuttal. Your jaw clenches when you realize you aren’t getting one. Turning on your heel, you stomp down his hallway, down the three fucking flights of steps you’ve climbed every other day for the past four months.
Fuck him. Fuck him.
Humiliation sinks in as you leave his building, anger crumbling into something small, something sad, pathetic. You should have seen this coming, you aren’t stupid, you’re definitely not naïve. You could blame his pretty smile, his cheekbones so sharp they could be considered blades, his beautiful bronzy skin you’d miss tasting, the way he filled you up so perfectly you wondered how you fucked anyone else. You could blame his touch, the grace he used with your body, how he cared for you after he split you open.
The only person to blame here is you. And you know it, deep in your gut, in the ache in your back from carrying the entire relationship you made up in your head, you know it’s your fucking fault you’re hurt. Your friends would tell you soon, too, that they knew this was coming, that they told you he’d do this, they advised you to not get involved with him.
Sighing, looking up at the sky, you squint at the overcast, the blue sky that was now a deep, sad grey. Great, even the fucking sun didn’t want you.
Song Mingi didn’t care about much outside of football. He didn’t have time to.
Almost every day, his schedule was the same: wake up at six, eat his breakfast that was the same every single morning: egg white omelet, two slices of whole-wheat toast, a cup of fresh fruit, sometimes he’ll have cranberry juice diluted by water, usually just plain water.
He’s at the gym by seven, following his training program, by nine he’s in the meeting room in the same building as the gym, he meets his team, his coach, going over the practice schedule, reviewing any changes made for the day or the week. By ten, he’s showered and on his way to class, where he fights to keep his brain turned on until two.
By three, he’s getting taped, at three-thirty he’s out on the field, practicing. By six, he’s back in the gym, then he’s eating dinner until seven, when he showers, fighting to stay awake for the academics squad that arrives specifically for the football team, helping them with homework, plain old studying, any projects they might be involved in.
He’s lucky if he’s finished by eight thirty, where he can finally go back home, to the house the entire fucking team lives in. In the beginning of the season, it’s usually quiet by nine, everyone so exhausted by the day they don’t have the energy to be rowdy– but that never lasts long, once everyone is comfortable in their routines, Mingi’s convinced they have endless pits of energy. Music, laughter, conversation, video games, it’s so fucking loud Mingi has to put on noise-cancelling headphones when he reaches his bedroom.
He doesn’t have the energy for anything outside of his schedule. His days are grid-locked, no room to pencil anything in, no time for partying, for socializing, for anything that would damage his D1-starting-quarterback reputation. He thinks he’s the only person in this whole fucking university that has a reputation, everywhere he goes, people watch. Everyone he speaks to, people listen. When he raises his hand in class, the whole fucking room turns their heads. It doesn’t help that he gets escorted to class. It’s unfortunate that his treatment comes with the gig.
It’s nauseating, the pressure of football was enough, there’s so much added bullshit that comes with it. On his good days, when his adrenaline is pumping, when he feels restless, when he’s really fucking tired of being Mr. Perfect, he makes time. He goes to the party the LAX house is throwing, he takes shots with his teammates, he even dances a little if Woozi’s mixing– if it’s Vernon DJing, he’s probably standing on the side, bobbing his head to whatever funky shit is playing while the nth girl of the night is in his ear.
The girls, the girls, that’s a whole other issue he tackles daily. Nightly. Literally. The cheerleading team, the dance team, the girls on campus he makes eyes at that quite literally fold. Well, he folds them, on the nights he doesn’t feel like releasing his pent up energy at a party, or when he needs to release his frustrations after an especially bad practice. There’s always girls, there’s an endless supply on a college campus, even more in his DMs, he’d assume half of his forty-three-thousand Instagram followers are women, at least that’s what it seems when he clicks his requests folder.
Mingi hasn’t really ever been denied in his life, not with women, not with his college applications, he was getting scouted by university after university in high school. Which is why he can’t wrap his mind around what happened to him last week, a typical crazy night at the LAX house, who throws weekly in their off-season, celebrating absolutely nothing but partying like it was everyone’s birthday.
Mingi was in his favorite outfit, short, dark hair slicked back, jewelry on his neck, his wrists, his fingers, he felt good. He felt lucky, even, when he eyed up the dark-haired beauty across the kitchen, standing alone, staring at her phone like she was waiting to be approached by him. He put on his pretty boy smile and crossed the room, running a hand through his hair, and approached her with every ounce of swagger he could conjure.
Winter. Such a pretty name for such a beautiful girl, Mingi was nearly drooling, her voice sweet like honey, her outfit screamed danger, he needed her. She didn’t smile when she looked at him, didn’t ask for his name, he didn’t think twice, Mingi just assumed she didn’t need to ask, everyone on campus knew his name.
“Do you know when Wooyoung will get here?”
He thinks his heart might have flatlined.
Mingi isn’t like his bitchless teammates, who jump at every opportunity to fuck just because they can. Mingi fucks, but it’s with purpose, every woman he approaches, every woman he hits on, it’s because they fit the criteria.
He coughed a little, brows furrowed, head tilted in confusion. He knew that name, he knew Wooyoung, he’s roommates with San who’s friends with Jongho, one of his teammates, on the starting offensive line.
“Wooyoung?” He found himself asking, choking on a laugh. “Like, the guy who got some girl pregnant last semester?”
She rolled her eyes, “That was a rumour, he didn’t get anyone pregnant.”
Then her phone lit up, and so did her entire fucking face. That smile, Mingi nearly groaned, she’s perfect, she’d look so good on his arm, flaunting her to the entire campus, to his teammates, his coach. He watched as she walked away, taking all of his hopes and dreams with her. His future, the mother of his unborn children, gone in a flash, off to find that leather-jacket-wearing fucking asshole that didn’t even have a career. Is she kidding? Mingi was on the brink of getting drafted to the fucking NFL, and she wanted Wooyoung? What did he fucking have that Mingi didn’t?
He stood there for at least another two minutes, stunned into silence, fingers slowly gripping his solo cup harder until he could hear the crackling of hard plastic bending in his palm. Then and there, Mingi decided she wasn’t worth it. How could she be worth his time, when she wants him? It showed a lot about her.
Mingi spent the night burying himself into whatever girl he could find that looked closest to her. For the week that followed, his mind was clouded by a dark vignette, the picture of her at the center. Winter. He didn’t even fucking like snow, that’s why he went to school somewhere warm.
Slowly, day after day, the rejection began to eat away at him, making him look inward, a practice he doesn’t have much experience in. What does Wooyoung have that he doesn’t? He came to the conclusion that there’s nothing. In every which way possible, Mingi’s better than Wooyoung, so why the fuck did she want him so bad when Mingi was standing right in front of her, in his favorite black party shirt, rings on his fingers, Aquaphor freshly applied on his lips?
She wouldn’t leave his mind. He replayed the rejection so many times, involuntarily and voluntarily, Mingi found himself attracted to the bored stare she gave him. Eyebrows straight, lips wet from liquor, shoulders slouched, not even a hint of a smile. She’s beautiful. She doesn’t care about him. She’s perfect for him.
He has to do something, has to commit some kind of crime, or somehow get Wooyoung kicked out of the school. He sat his teammates down in the dining room days later, the whiteboard they kept for discussing gameplay filled with scribbles and lines in red at the head of the table, in the center was a circled photo of her. His teammates called him crazy, down bad, but Mingi considers himself the next Albert fuckin’ Einstein.
All he has to do is prove to Winter that he’s better than Wooyoung. Easy.
“...I’m sorry you feel that way?” Your eyes, so wide they took over the entire upper half of your face as you all but screeched, “doll?!”
Yeosang and Jongho eyed each other from across the table, then redirected their gaze back onto you. The three of you at the most popular coffee shop on campus, Lucent, you didn’t even care to have this conversation somewhere private, all the ears who might listen should take it as a warning. You considered it a service to the ATZU campus.
Yeosang, green hair messily waved over his cheekbones, sighed, “I can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I know,” you bit back, eyes pointed, already prepared for that response. “But can you wait before saying I told you so and comfort me first?”
“Thank you,” you grumbled, “it’s just stupid. She’s not even prettier than me.”
Yeosang and Jongho shared another look, but it’s Jongho who spoke up this time, “I bet she’s not, probably just easy.”
“Exactly!” You screeched again, eyes wide, jumping out of your seat a little. After receiving looks from around the semi-crowded shop, you shrank in your seat again, cheeks heating up. In a quieter, but still sharp voice, you continued, “Because that’s what Wooyoung likes. He’s a no-good piece of shit who just wants to get his dick wet, it doesn’t matter who wets it.”
“I wish someone would have told you that before you jumped in bed with him,” quips Yeosang, a small grin playing on his lips. When you cursed him out with nothing but your eyes, his smile disappeared.
“Why are we blaming me?” Your fingers curled onto the table as your eyes danced between your two best friends, probably looking insane, but you didn’t care. “I’m the victim here. He played me.”
Jongho runs a hand through his hair, still half-damp from his training this morning, or maybe he actually showered after the gym this time. He sits back in the booth, eyeing you with a bored look, “Wooyoung plays everything. All he does is play, that’s who he is.”
“Well, forgive a girl for wanting to be different.”
Yeosang snorts, and the way your eyes pierce his soul makes his laugh die on his tongue. “What are you laughing at?” You scoff, “You can’t even look your girl in the eye publicly.”
Yeosang gasps, “Do not bring up my situation because you’re pissed about your own.”
“Well?” Your head shakes, arms flailing about in front of you to say What the fuck is the difference?
“Okay!” Jongho intervenes, his arm literally laying over the black table between you to cut the two of you off. “I’m sorry you’re upset, and I’m sorry he hurt you. But he seriously isn’t worth a shred of emotion, you aren’t losing anything by cutting him off.”
You bury your face in your palms, elbows holding you up. Muffled from the edges of your hands over your mouth, you mutter, “He’s so hot, and he’s so good at sex.”
Jongho chuckles, his head shaking, you could see it even with your hands over your eyes. “Is that why all the girls on campus flock to him? Because he’s a good fuck?”
You split four fingers down the middle to peek an eye out, “Yes. And he has this, like, magnetizing aura about him, I don’t know. He’s good at talking, at making you feel special, like wanting him was your idea all along.”
“Hm,” Yeosang’s head tilts, plopping back into the booth, arms crossed. “So he’s just… a manipulator?”
You whine, faking an annoying, high-pitched crying noise. “Yes, he’s really good at it.”
“Damn,” Jongho mutters under his breath, “he’s giving the whole campus problems. How long until he runs through everybody, you think?”
“Not long,” you grumble, “who else is he giving problems?”
“Mingi,” Jongho’s lips scrunch to one side, and a shiver runs down your spine. Mingi. “He wanted to bag this one girl and she dubbed him for Wooyoung. He’s torn up about it.”
“He should be torn up,” you snatch Yeosang’s coffee cup from in front of him and take a long sip. He makes a face like he’s disgusted you’re drinking from his cup, so you make the same one back, mocking him.
Yeosang turns to Jongho, “Mingi never gets dubbed. What is Wooyoung, like a sex god?”
“He’s the bad boy trope in every shitty coming-of-age movie you’ve ever seen,” you sip again until you hear the rattle of the last bits of liquid between ice cubes. Yeosang makes the same face when you slide the coffee cup back to him.
“Mingi is genuinely losing his fucking mind,” Jongho laughs a little, shaking his head like he didn’t even believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I don’t think the man has ever been told no in his life.”
“I wouldn’t tell him no, that’s for sure,” you say with the smallest laugh, and Jongho gives you a long stare, like he’s putting puzzle pieces together. You look on either side of you, then down at your shirt, then back up to him, “Do I have something on my face?”
Jongho shakes his head, eyes widening like he was about to shout eureka, “This could work.”
“What could work?” You ask, and within four seconds of him not responding, you ask again, “Ho, what could work?”
“Stop calling me Ho,” Jongho’s lip lifts in distaste, “Mingi’s trying to figure out a way to get revenge on Wooyoung, or prove that he’s better than Wooyoung, I guess, so he can steal the girl from him.”
“Just tell him to wait a month and she’ll be free again,” you shrug, “he doesn’t need an elaborate plan.”
Yeosang’s brows raise, bottom lip flipped over, shoulders slightly shrugging as if to say Yeah, true.
Jongho holds a finger up between you, “What if I set you up with Mingi?”
Your jaw drops, a disgusting sound leaving your lips that you’d die if anyone else heard. “Me? And Mingi? Are you stupid?”
“No, no, no,” he shakes his finger back and forth, “hear me out. Wouldn’t Wooyoung be pissed off if you bounced back with the star QB mere days after he cut you off?”
You, still sitting in anxious disbelief, plant your palms against the black table, shaking your head rapidly. “Even if he is–”
“Hear me out,” Jongho says a little stronger, and your lips smack back together. “Wooyoung will be so enraged that he cuts the girl off and gets back with you, maybe he’ll even be so mad he realizes his feelings for you were stronger than he thought–”
Yeosang cuts him off, “Hold on a second–”
“–Mingi gets the girl, and then you can break Wooyoung’s heart to get back at him.”
You sit back in the booth, arms crossing, face scrunching together in thought because it actually doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Jongho is grinning like he’d just solved one of the seven wonders of the world, and Yeosang is looking back and forth between you like he’s never heard anything so fucking stupid.
“There’s no way in hell you’re actually considering this,” Yeosang’s voice is shaky, drenched in disbelief, “have you ever watched To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before?”
“This is different,” you’re quick to answer, “I’m not Lara Jean, there are no letters, there’s just an Wooyoung who needs to learn what it feels like to be on the opposite end of the knife.”
“And Mingi won’t shut up until he sinks his claws into that girl, I think it’s a pretty even exchange,” Jongho adds, both of you two peas in an optimistic pod while Yeosang just stares, dumbfounded.
He blinks once, twice, before his lips part to speak, sucking in a breath. They close, and his face twists in confusion, “Let me get this straight, you’re suggesting fake dating Song Mingi, like, football player Song Mingi. And you think he’ll agree?”
You turn to Jongho who just shrugs. “Why not?”
“I don’t know how to say this without insulting you, girl,” Yeosang’s bottom lip is tugged down to expose his bottom row of teeth, a nervous but apologetic look. “But his taste is… refined. Of snotty girls and like, barbie dolls. Plus, you’re opposites.”
“Fuck you Yeosang, I’m hot!” You immediately bark out, then turn to Jongho, “I’m hot, aren’t I?”
“Yeah Yeo, she’s hot,” Jongho nodded, saying Yeosang’s name like it was an insult, then immediately cringing because those words feel gross on his tongue, “Mingi will be into it, trust me. And if he’s not, I’ll just remind him of the bigger picture, it’s not like he has to kiss her or anything.”
You make a face that is nowhere near pleased, lips thinning, brows flattening. “You guys have known me too long, you’re too comfortable insulting me to my face.”
Yeosang barely gives you a glance, “She doesn’t party anymore, she doesn’t socialize with anyone outside her study group and us. They’re opposites, even if she’s–” he cringes, “–hot.”
“Her study group goes out!” Jongho argues, also not sparing you a glance, “Jia and Riyo are always at the LAX house, she can just tag along with them or with Mingi or whatever. I don’t know, once I get him to agree, it’s out of our hands.”
Your jaw drops again. “Out of your hands? Hello? I’m right here, first of all, second, this is your idea, Ho.”
The flex in Jongho’s jaw is his way of saying stop it with the fucking nickname. Deadpanning, he responds, “It’s just an idea, you and Mingi can figure out the details.”
“Stop acting like he said yes already,” Yeosang argues, amusement in his voice now, “you’ll get her hopes up of fucking a football guy.”
You can’t react to the response, because fucking Song Mingi would be a dream— not that the football part has anything to do with it. Your face reflects the thought.
“He’ll say yes,” Jongho nods, “trust me.”
“Fuck no. Are you stupid?”
Maybe Jongho should have waited until they got to the gym, or at least until after Mingi had consumed four bites of his breakfast. Maybe waking him up a minute before his alarm went off at a mere six in the morning wasn’t the best idea, but his anxiety wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Come on,” Jongho whines, legitimately whines, because if Mingi didn’t say yes he’d have to hear about it for weeks to come, and he can’t bear to hear another complaint from the older man’s mouth. “She said yes already, it’s the perfect plan. Girls are jealous like that, they want what they can’t have.”
Dark hair, a little oily and piecey on his head, shooting out in every which way, he was shirtless under the navy blue comforter, sheets crumpled at the foot of his bed. Jongho can’t remember the last time Mingi used the washing machine in the basement of the football house.
Mingi sits up a little, yawning, before looking up to Jongho with an uninterested look, “Is she hot?”
Jongho can’t help the face he makes. Head craning back and forth, almost touching each shoulder as a high pitched, unconvincing, “Yeah,” slides from his lips.
Mingi smacks his lips, laying back in his bed and turning away, pulling the comforter over his shoulders as he utters, “Waking me up before my alarm for some bullshit, Jongho.”
Jongho tries defending himself, “I’ve known her since she was fourteen, she’s like a sister. If you’re talking about, like, conventionally attractive then I guess, yes—”
“I don’t even know what conventionally means,” Mingi huffs, “get out of my room.”
“Mingi, Wooyoung just broke her heart, she wants revenge, and you want the girl. It's an even exchange, no strings. You have nothing to lose.”
Mingi’s grumble slowly grows in volume as he turns back over, eyes still closed. “What about my pride? Making some elaborate scheme just to get a girl who I shouldn’t even care about.”
Jongho’s lips thin— not the pity party, again. He can’t listen to it another time or else he might explode. They’ve already hidden the whiteboard.
He bends at the knees, arms folding over the empty space at the edge of Mingi’s mattress, “Listen, bro, it’ll stay between me, you and her—” and Yeosang, “—it’s the perfect plan. You don’t even have to learn her last name, just stand next to her for a little while until your dream girl’s interest is piqued. Easy peasy.”
One of Mingi’s eyes opened, “It’ll work?”
Jongho nods.
“And she’s hot?”
Jongho’s lips thin again, but he nods.
“Fine,” Mingi huffs, “tell her to come over or something so I can get a good look before I agree to this.”
If it was any other circumstance, your fingertips would be buzzing at your sides, heart pounding in your chest with having a man so beautiful in front of you. Plump lips, dark hair still a little damp laying over his sculpted cheekbones, strong shoulders on display in his sleeveless tank. He sat sunken into the couch, one leg folded over the other with his ankle kissing his knee, arms crossed over his chest. Gorgeous. His skin looks so soft you want to touch it— maybe lick it.
But he did not look pleased. On top of ruining the fantasy, you’re disappointed that men like him still exist.
Standing before him across the living room, a hip popped with your arms crossed, the only thing Jongho said to you before walking inside the football house was that Mingi wanted to meet you. Not that you’d be put on display for him to judge your appearance before he agreed to being your fake fucking boyfriend.
“This is misogynistic in ways my mind can’t even comprehend right now,” you huffed the words to Jongho, your best friend of nearly a decade, not even looking at Mingi. As far as you’re concerned, he’s not in the room anymore. He no longer fucking exists.
There was an apology in his deep brown eyes, his features softened, lips tightened. But he didn’t answer. Mingi’s thick eyebrows were furrowed, top lip curled, but his eyes didn’t read distaste even if his body language portrayed it. With the rage simmering within you right now, he should thank whatever god he prayed to that you weren’t at the boiling point yet.
“I don’t know what that means,” Mingi shakes his head a little, voice lazy, “this will do, though. I guess.”
“You guess?” Your entire face jerks forward, “You fucking guess? I’m a human, you know. Standing right in front of you.”
“No shit,” Mingi sighs, head leaning back into the couch cushion, chin tipped up, face reading utter boredom. “You’ll get me the girl, though? You’re sure she’ll want me if I pretend I’m… dating you?”
He said the words like you casted a fucking curse on him.
Your eye twitched as you glance at Jongho. Meeting his apprehensive stare you uncurled your arms from your chest, legs moving for the front door, “Fuck no, I’m not doing this. Absolutely not, plan is cancelled.”
“Wait!” Jongho stands, eyes wide, palms pressing into your shoulders to stop you from walking straight out the front door. “He’s tired, we had a hard practice today. He’s not usually this bad, I swear, I swear.”
“What do you mean?” Mingi sits up a little, turning halfway to see the two of you, “What do you mean ‘this bad’? I’m being normal.”
“See?” Your arm flies in his direction, “he’s being normal. You never told me he’s a fucking asshole, Ho.”
“An asshole!?” Mingi stands up straight, arms at his side, jaw dropped. “I have to tell every single person in my life I’m dating you, and I’m an asshole for wanting to make sure it’s fitting?”
“What are you so worried about?” You raise your voice, “you’re twenty-one years old, it’s college, it’s not like you have a reputation to uphold, no one cares. You play football, big fuckin’ deal.”
Mingi gasps, insulted, “Big deal? Big deal? It’s my entire future, thank you very much.”
“You won’t have a future if you treat women like they’re your little playthings,” you snap, voice bitter, “is the NFL gonna draft a misogynist?” You smack your lips, eyes meeting the floor, regretting the words as soon as you said them. The NFL would in fact draft a misogynist. Plenty of them, actually.
“Why do you even care? We just have to show face a few times,” Mingi responds, voice bored yet again, “you don’t have to like me, I don’t have to like you. I just want her.”
Rage bubbles up inside you again as Wooyoung crosses your mind. It would feel really, really good to hurt him after he hurt you. And Mingi’s right, you guess, you don’t have to get to know him, or speak to him ever again after this. You could look past the flaws you were sure ran deep if it was just temporary. Situational.
You look up, brows flat, mumbling the reiteration, “A few times.”
Jongho is nodding, smile growing as his eyes bounce between you, whispering, “Yes, friendly, this is good, this is good.”
You face Mingi from across the couch, holding up a flat hand, curling a finger into your palm with each rule, “We don’t speak to each other outside of pre-scheduled meetings, we only act like a couple when there’s people watching, and do not fucking touch me.”
“Don’t touch you?” Mingi pops a brow, “people won’t believe we’re a couple. How am I gonna prove to her I’m boyfriend-worthy if I can’t show off my boyfriend skills?”
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, looking away, “you’re right. Wooyoung won’t be jealous if you don’t make him jealous.”
“Exactly,” Mingi’s brows raise, pleased, dimples out to play as his lips thin in a tight smile. “I don’t want to touch you as much as you don’t want to touch me, trust.”
Your head snaps up to shoot him another pointed stare, grumbling under your breath, “Asshole.”
Mingi’s smile morphs into a nasty little smirk, “Your asshole now, baby.” You give him an unimpressed, blank stare and his smirk falters as what he said sinks in. Sheepishly, he mumbles, “Sounded better in my head.”
“Like you actually think before you speak,” you snap, rolling your eyes, bringing your attention back to Jongho who looks like if he breathes wrong his entire plan will go in the shitter. “I’ll figure out where Woo will be next, you can tell Mingi and plan out when we’re meeting and where, whatever. Keeping this very much so in your hands, Ho.”
“Good,” you nod, then glance back at Mingi, “don’t embarrass me by saying stupid shit around people, ‘kay?”
Mingi cocks his head to the side wearing the biggest smile, “Don’t embarrass me by wearing that outfit in public again, ‘kay?”
FIRST OUTING: SOFT LAUNCH, THE LAX HOUSE. 11:20 PM.
“How the hell did you get Song Mingi to be your boyfriend?” Riyo is on your hip, bright red hair in a single braid down her back, denim booty-shorts hugging her hips, a cropped, tight bandeau top covering her chest. You suppose for where you went to school that was the uniform, something you quickly realized weeks into your freshman year, clothes were optional here.
You scoff, walking in-step with her, grass from the lawn of the LAX house sneaking around the edges of your flip-flop covered feet. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”
She giggles, a step ahead of you as she walks up the front stairs, “It’s weird, you have no correlation to the football team. Where did you even meet him?”
“On campus,” your voice is high-pitched, certainly not convincing. You clear your throat, “I mean, I applied to be a part of the football team’s academics unit, I just got in, like, a month ago.”
Riyo pauses at the door, a hand on her hip, eyebrows furrowed, “The fuck? And you just didn’t tell me that you,” she counts on her fingers, “applied, got accepted, and started?”
“It’s not a big deal,” you shrug, nervously laughing to cover up the so fucking obvious lie, “I’m just helping them study, Mingi and I.. clicked.”
God, the words feel sour. So unconvincing you could vomit– and he’s inside, waiting for you, you could really fucking empty your guts on the LAX house’s porch. It’s already cluttered with lacrosse sticks, solo cups, backpacks, containers of white balls you can only assume are used in the game, your vomit would probably go unnoticed. Or washed away by beer, maybe your tears by the end of the night.
You don’t know why you agreed to this, it was a moment of weakness. Of rage. Wanting revenge. Because behind the stained, scratched white door, was the entire lacrosse team, the entire football team, God knows who the fuck else if Riyo’s here. You could hear the music bleeding through the walls, something with heavy bass, something rap, something you might know if you opened the door.
Jongho texted you yesterday that Mingi asked for you to make your first appearance here, he said it was the perfect spot, that Wooyoung and Winter might even be here. As much as you were regretting your decision, you hoped he was here. You want to see the look on his face when he spots you at Mingi’s side, when word spreads that you’re dating him, you want to watch his face morph into confusion, into regret, hopefully something lustful that you could use to your advantage.
“That’s gotta go in, like, the top five most insane things to ever happen on this campus,” Riyo wears a supportive smile, yet her head still shakes in disbelief, “I’m happy for you, though. Actually, I think you kinda suit each other.”
You fight the cringe, that was an insult. You smile instead, already hating the words about to come out of your mouth, “Let’s go inside, I wanna see him.”
You’ve been here before, you frequented the LAX house plenty freshman year, a lot less sophomore year after your fling with Kim Mingyu, you haven’t been here once yet this year. It hasn’t changed, medium-sized house, open floor plan, giant kitchen, silver appliances. The furniture was dull, broken in, old, thrifted. It’s nostalgic, being here, these people, you barely see the lacrosse team on campus, you know a few of them from your times here as a freshman, mornings escaping after a night with Mingyu, you don’t know anyone well enough to be considered a friend.
Riyo is immediately squealing upon walking inside, hugging girls you only know the first names of, you smile in greeting from behind her. Jia, another girl from your study group that you’re close with, approaches with the same squeal Riyo had unleashed on the room, her dark hair styled in waves behind her back, deep, golden-olive skin glowing beneath the barely-there lights in the room.
Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees you, “Hello? Shut the fuck up?”
“Hey baby,” your tongue sneaks out between your teeth and she squeals again, throwing her arms over your shoulders in a tight hug. Swaying you side to side, she’s a giggling mess, sandal-covered feet tapping against the floor.
“I haven’t seen you here since last year!” She yells, grin spread wide, showing her dazzling white teeth you couldn’t believe shone so bright in a room this dark.
You shrug, smiling, “I have good reason.”
“She’s seeing her boyfriend,” Riyo teases, nudging you with her shoulder, smiling like a fucking crazy person. Leaning in close to Jia, her voice is still loud, even if she was trying to be secretive, “Song Mingi.”
Jia looks like nothing in the world makes sense, and she’s been transported to another dimension. “I saw you two nights ago, babe, and there was not one mention of a boyfriend, most certainly not a word about Song Mingi.”
“We’re not being, like, super public about it,” you shake your head, cheeks burning, “it’s chill guys, seriously, don’t make a huge deal about it, he’s not a celebrity.”
“Closest we’ll ever get to one, plus, last I heard you were still fucking Wooyoung,” the look on Jia’s face hasn’t left, and God you wish you thought out a better plan with Mingi before you left the football house the other day, you’re scrambling for a story.
“Ew, why are you talking about him?”
Speak of the fucking devil– a shiver racks down your now rigid spine, you fix your eyes that involuntarily widened. Jia and Riyo watch with dropped jaws as Mingi slides an arm over your shoulder, an easygoing smile on his face, looking at you so fucking fondly it makes your heart skip a beat. Fuck him for being so damn beautiful.
Dark shirt clinging to his torso, showing off every fucking muscle that was etched into his skin beneath it, his hair was styled, purposely messy how it hung over the sides of his head where it was shorter, faded into his skin. Baggy jeans on his legs, low enough to show the Calvins under them, he wore a skinny, silver chain around his neck, one to match on his wrist, with pretty, bulky rings on his fingers.
This is so fucking unfortunate– he’s beautiful and he sucks, you hate him, his personality, the misogyny he so easily wields as a weapon, it makes you sick. He doesn’t deserve a perfect face and an even more perfect body. Fuck him.
“We were talking about you,” you force a smile on your lips, turning back to Jia and Riyo as your stiff body leans into Mingi’s huge one, so stiff and broad and muscled you tried to not pay too much attention to it. “Of course you missed it.”
“Start again,” his smile is cheesy, so fucking cheesy you want to slap it off his face. “I wanna hear all the cute things my baby said about me.”
Spit lodges in your throat that constricts around nothing, you choke. Coughing, you pull away from his grip, turning around, smacking your chest with a fist, eyes tearing– he did not just call you baby unironically.
He leans in close, feigning concern, “Are you okay?”
Your other hand flies up, back still facing him, “Fine– fuck.”
Gathering yourself, you turn back around, plastering a smile onto your face. Bidding a wave to the two girls, through gritted teeth, you ask him in a false, sweet voice, “Don’t you have people to introduce me to?”
He quirks a brow, but nods, slinging his arm over your shoulder again as he guides you away from your group of friends. Voice low, keeping himself tight to your ear, he asks, “What the fuck was that?”
“Do not ever call me baby again,” you keep your smile, but your voice is venomous, “that was fucking disgusting.”
“You think I enjoyed it?” He whispers back, voice pitched sharply, “It’s kinda part of boyfriendism, no? Pet names and shit?”
You’re wading through the crowd, Mingi shooting smiles and dapping up tens of people you don’t know, mainly men, all beefy and drunk and eyes dilated like they just railed lines in the kitchen. You shift your shoulders under his heavy ass arm, “Jesus, Mingi, I’m not a fucking ledge for you to put your whole weight on, big ass.”
He grins as he looks down at you, wiggling his brows, “You think my ass is big?”
You roll your eyes, “I don’t think I’m gonna survive you.”
“You won’t believe how many times I’ve heard that line,” his grin is proud, he’s not even looking at you as he says it, eyes focused on the people in front of him, in the hallway where a large table is set up, holding a messy game of beer pong. Water beneath the table, a shallow film on top of the painted surface, swirls of brown covering your school’s logo shittily lined in black, gross.
You don’t have time to scoff– you know these guys, Jeno, Chris, Kai, Haechan, Soobin, Changbin. All on the football team, all huge, you’re already vibrating, body stiffening under Mingi’s arm that’s so casually thrown over your shoulders, heavy and thick. Suffocating.
You wish you could be meeting them under different circumstances. You’re tainted now, if they even cared about boy-code, which they might not usually, but you wondered if Mingi pulled rank with them, or if girlfriends were off limits compared to casual lays. Your answer is quickly delivered to you on a silver platter as Jeno eyes you from across the table, hip to hip with Chris who does the same, eyes sliding down your body and back up like they were sizing you up, waiting to pounce.
Your posture changes, subtle, but your arms uncurl from in front of you, back arching slightly, eyes drooping into that pretty, low stare that did Wooyoung in when you first met him. A small smile on your lips, you tilt your head away from Mingi while he introduces you– as his girlfriend. Right. You lock back in, blinking into focus, smiling and nodding to each man that introduces himself like you didn’t already know all of their names and their positions.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Changbin has one palm planted on the painted table, clearly he didn’t care about the murky water, one of his hands palms a can of beer close to his chest, “you were crying over what’s-her-face two minutes ago.”
Mingi makes a face, head nodding towards you with his eyebrows raised like he was silently telling Changbin to shut the fuck up, like you weren’t supposed to hear that, as if you didn’t know already. He’s playing it up, smart.
“Nice to meet you,” Chris grins from the other side of the table, his voice warm, smile pretty, it makes you feel fuzzy inside. You can’t wait to fake-break-up with Mingi. “Your boyfriend didn’t get you a drink yet?”
“Was waiting for one of you to do it for me,” Mingi juts his chin out in Kai’s direction and he nods, eyes wide as he receives the order, and he scrambles. Like, literally scrambles. Nonchalantly you nudge your elbow into Mingi’s ribs, silently telling him to stop being an asshole.
Hiding his hiss in a forced laugh, he steals his arm back from around your shoulders, hiding his formerly exposed ribs, “You should have one hand-delivered to you, ba– sweetheart.”
God, you can feel the bile churning in your gut. You fix your face before it morphs into full disgust.
“How did you two meet?” Haechan asks, his voice whiney– you were not expecting that from his bulky build, broad and toned, so hot. His cherry-red hair is a mess of curls atop his head, skin bronzy under the far light dimming the hallway, allowing them to see the game, you presume.
“The library.”
“On campus.”
You and Mingi respond at the same time, then look at each other, eyes panic-stricken at the fumble. You couldn’t repeat your lie from earlier, they would know you aren't a part of their study team, all you could think was on campus, a generic answer.
You stutter, “The– The library.”
“The one that’s on campus,” Mingi nods, assured.
“Why the fuck were you at the library?” Soobin asks, leaned up against the wall of the hallway, dark brows furrowed, two hands around his can of beer. Valid question, your heart picks up speed in your chest, you weren’t expecting them to pry.
“Studying,” Mingi responds nonchalantly, his voice high, shoulders shrugging.
“Extra tutoring,” you add, “on top of what you guys have, yeah. One of the girls on your academics team told me Mingi needed extra help and volunteered me because our schedules lined up.”
“Exactly,” Mingi nods, lips pursed in an attempt to be more convincing, “love at first sight type shit.”
You tuck your lips between your teeth to hide your smile, smothering the snort that fights to climb to the surface, redirecting your gaze to the floor beneath you. You can’t wait to make fun of him for that line later.
“Right,” Changbin’s brows are tied together, dark hair sprawled across his forehead, almost hiding his skepticism. He redirects his attention to Jeno, the silver-haired hunk of a man beside him, Chris splitting the three. Tilting his chin up, he asks, “Keep playing?”
Mingi’s lips tighten, turning to you again, “Should we go find where Kai is?”
“Sure,” you sigh, flipping your hair off your now slightly sticky shoulders, “I could use a drink.” One of his hands slides to your lower back, guiding you away, and you realize then that he doesn’t have a drink– moving in-step towards the kitchen, you ask, “You’re not drinking?”
“No, not tonight,” his voice is monotonous, he doesn’t look down, keeps his eyes ahead. “Need a clear mind if I’m gonna lie to a hundred people.”
“It’s hot in here,” you complain, face crunching to cringe, it’s humid for November, even for where you live.
“I can tell, you’re sweating all over me, bro,” he responds, voice dripping in boredom, pressing his hand to your back a little harder instead of removing it from your body altogether. “Gross.”
“Then take your hand off me, bro,” you huff, turning the corner, the kitchen coming into view. Surprising high ceilings, white cabinets, silver appliances, marble countertops, probably the nicest room in the whole house, you wondered if there was still a hole in the back door from that one night Hoshi got a little too drunk. You sneer, “You probably smell like a wet dog after practice.”
You spot a few members of the lacrosse team in the corner, standing in front of the back door, a black mesh screen severing the house from the backyard, letting cool air from outside in. Joshua, Wonwoo, Seungkwan, a joint lit in Seungkwan’s mouth, the youngest of the three, a sophomore. Guess they really chilled out during their off-season, no worries about a drug test in their future. Good for them.
“I smell like a beautiful woman after practice,” Mingi scoffs, guiding you in front of him with his palm, hands gliding up to sit on your shoulders, pushing you through people that parted at the sight of him. You keep a tight-lipped smile on your face, giving a small nod each time you make eye contact with someone new. He leans down into your ear, “You’d probably like it, you’re the gross one. Pheremone-lover.”
“Keep your androstenone away from me,” you answer with disgust in your voice, without changing your face an inch, “you probably don’t even know what that is.”
“Guilty as charged, smart girl,” he catches Kai’s head of blonde hair over the crowd, the two men probably the tallest in the entire kitchen. “Huening!” Mingi yells, stealing Kai’s attention, he wears a wide, excited grin, holding two cans of beer over his head like he’d discovered the One Piece.
“I got beer!” He yells across the kitchen, immediately wading through people to get to you and Mingi. A freshman, you think, also on the offensive line, Jongho’s told you about him– a smart kid with great instincts for football, uses his build to his advantage. Innocent, ignorant like a child, a little stupid, he’s cute. Chubby cheeks, a kind smile, your already heated skin rises in temperature as he approaches, opening your can for you.
You introduce yourself properly, thanking him for the beer, “How’s your first year on the team?”
Mingi’s head snaps down to look at you, brows tied together in surprise.
Kai grins, blushing immediately, running a hand through his blonde hair, “Great, thanks for asking, the guys are really cool, Coach is terrifying lowkey, but he’s cool, too.”
You giggle, head tilting, “I’ve heard that, he’s famous though, right? Coach Suh?”
“Yeah, he’s like, renowned in the football world,” Kai babbles on, the two of you erupting into easy conversation, all while Mingi’s head bobs back and forth, watching, listening, his confusion growing with each new word that falls from your lips.
He can’t help but interject, “Since when do you know so much about the team?”
Your giggle slows to a stop, smile faltering, “What do you mean? I’ve always known, this is a D1 school, silly.”
Silly is synonymous with stupid fuck, he can feel it in how your pointed eyes stare into him.
“She couldn’t be your girlfriend if she didn’t know football, Song,” Kai adds, so innocent, so easygoing, oh my God you love him.
Mingi nods like he was the one who reminded himself you were his girlfriend, not Kai, forcing a laugh out, more punched and nervous than anything. “Right, yeah, yeah.”
Your blood runs cold as you catch a head of recognizable black hair around Kai’s ridiculously huge bicep, bronzy skin, a cloud of smoke surrounding him like it was his brand, his aura. Your eyes widen, head swerving around Kai’s arm to get a better look, taking in his leather jacket, the rings on his fingers, the cigarette dangling between his teeth as he smiles, Corona in one of his hands.
“Nice meeting you, Kai,” you don’t even look at the boy, grabbing onto Mingi’s arm, dragging him sideways, away from Kai’s earshot. “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.”
“Who? Who?”
“Who do you think, dumbass?” You spit, chin pointing in Wooyoung’s direction, “The only man who’s more of an asshole than you.”
“Oh my God, she’s with him,” a hand comes up to cover Mingi’s mouth, his brown eyes wide, excitement gleaming in chocolate, drawing them hazel. Beside Wooyoung is Winter, long, dark hair pinned up halfway, a short, black skirt on her hips, halter top tugging her upper half just right. He lowers his voice, “Fuck, she’s so hot.”
“Pause,” you turn to him as the realization sinks in– he wants Winter? Winter is the girl you’re helping him get? Kim Minjeong? “You want Winter?!”
“Yes,” he groans out, head tilting back, a whine to his voice like he was four years old and you just took away his favorite toy. “She’s perfect, dude. Like, perfection in a human, I love her, I think.”
“What the fuck?” Completely baffled, you shake your head in disbelief at how perfect this is lined up. You don’t know how you didn’t put it together sooner, you didn’t once think about who Mingi wants, who the girl might be. You didn’t really care. “This is good, this works in our favor, this is perfect, actually,” you’re rambling as you turn around, watching Wooyoung and Winter across the room, how Wooyoung introduces her to the lacrosse trio at the backdoor, how he pulls his cigarette from his lips to press them to her cheek in a short kiss.
“Ew, he’s touching her, that’s my wife,” Mingi props his forearm on your shoulder, you immediately shake yourself out of his grip, eyes never leaving them, laser-focused. He whines, “Comfort me, I’m heartbroken. He’s touching her, bro.”
“They’re together, what do you expect?” You whisper-yell, twisting around to get him out of your personal space. “How can we get their attention? We need them to see us together, being coupled up and shit.”
“I’m boys with Shua and Wonwoo, we can go over there,” Mingi suggests, finally looking at you, and the excited gleam in his eye was now dulled down to desperation, a sadness only caused by yearning. If he wasn’t such an asshole, you might feel bad for him.
You nod, “Good idea, let’s do it. Let’s go, come on, football boy.”
With his hands on your shoulders again, you guzzle the beer in your hands as you cross the kitchen, eyes screwing shut as the spicy carbonation burns your throat. Beer is so fucking gross, at least it’s cold, it gets the job done– you burp before you approach them, a closed fist covering your mouth in an attempt to hide the noise.
“Ew!” Mingi gasps from behind you, “Did you just burp? You’re disgusting, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Shut up,” you spit, “I couldn’t help it, and they’ll hear you, go back to boyfriendism and make it believable.”
“You want me to put on a show?” You can hear the amusement in his voice, the wiggle of his stupid thick brows.
“I do, actually,” you answer with a defeated sigh, “do your worst.”
Approaching the lacrosse trio, Wooyoung and Winter, Mingi throws his arms fully around your front, tucking your back into his chest, his chin sitting on the top of your head. In an obnoxious yell, he makes his presence known, “Hey guys, how we doin’ tonight?”
Ew. One of your hands wraps around his forearm glued to your chest, a wide grin on your cheeks, your head leaned up against one of his biceps that boxes you into his hold, “Hey guys.”
“Song!” Joshua yells, smile widening, lighting up his whole face, “I was hoping you’d show tonight.”
Wooyoung’s smile drops when he sees you, you meet his eyes immediately, your fake grin turning real. Yes, be mad, be so angry you flip the fuck out.
“Of course I’d show,” there’s so much confidence in Mingi’s voice it’s nauseating, “had to introduce my girl to all my people, do you guys know her?”
With a coy smile, you introduce yourself as Mingi’s girlfriend, head leaning into his chest impossibly further, forcing a stupid, lovestruck look on your face, you prayed it was believable.
Joshua nods, as does Wonwoo, both recognizing you from all the times you’ve been here, probably also your fling with Mingyu. The two lacrosse boys greet you kindly, where Seungkwan introduces himself, newer to the team, to those who party in their house.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Wonwoo’s brows furrowed, “the campus isn’t burned down, I’m confused.”
You and Mingi both laugh, but Mingi says, “I don’t think word has spread yet, don’t worry, expect the heat soon.”
“It’s hot enough,” you add, rolling your eyes, “your fangirls will be just fine, there won’t be a fire.”
“You have no idea,” Joshua snorts, “I remember one girl having to deactivate her Instagram account because word got out you were sleeping with her, remember that, Min?”
“Let’s not talk about the past in front of my girlfriend,” Mingi’s voice slips into something strict, “it’s disrespectful, Shua.”
You stiffen in his arms, that’s oddly kind, it makes your situation more believable. You briefly wonder how Mingi is with his girlfriends, if there’s any form of chivalry in his cold, chauvinist heart.
Joshua snorts, shaking his head, “‘m sorry, you’re right, my bad.” His pretty brown eyes fall to meet yours and you melt into Mingi all over again, “Blame the weed, sweetheart, my social awareness has depleted to zero.”
“It’s okay,” you smile softly, liking the word as it falls from Joshua’s plump, wet lips, eyes wandering back over to Wooyoung who’s still staring, lips slightly parted, the cherry on his cigarette so long it’d fall soon. You avert your eyes to it, cocky amusement in your tone, “Planning to start the fire yourself?”
His eyes find his cigarette and he jumps into action, twisting around to flick it in the ashtray behind him, sitting full on the corner of the kitchen island. Your eyes find Winter who’s eyes are staring up at Mingi, looking at him the same way Wooyoung was looking at you.
Your smile turns devious– it’s fucking working. You knew it would, but it’s still surprising, how stupid could these two be? Maybe they deserve each other. You remind yourself that Mingi’s stupid, too– maybe they could explore polyamory together.
“Preseason start yet?” Mingi asks, either unaware of Winter’s eyes or he’s playing his cards right, the three lacrosse boys erupt into conversation, complaining about their coach, their training, the program they go through in the fall season to ensure they’re in shape come Spring.
Wooyoung leans into Winter, a hand around her waist, pulling her into him to whisper something in her ear. It’s like she’s forced back into reality, how her hand lays over his chest, giggling at whatever he said. Gross. You could probably bet money on what nasty shit he just whispered in her ear, dirty talk so smooth it used to make you go weak in the knees, clinging to him like a moth to a flame, how she arched into him you assumed he probably asked to pull her into the bathroom. A move you’d fallen victim to plenty of times yourself.
Jealousy stems in your gut, anger pushing blood through your veins, you look up to Mingi, batting your lashes. You could do it, too. His eyes meet yours and blink into focus, into realization, you watch as his brows ever so slightly knit together, so slight it could go unnoticed, you’re sure you wouldn’t have if you weren’t so close.
A smirk creeps onto his cheeks, voice velvety and smooth, “I know what you want.” Thank God. “Excuse us,” Mingi winks at the lacrosse boys who start snickering upon the words leaving his mouth, “what the princess wants, she gets.”
You catch Wooyoung’s eye, his head whipping around Winter’s, a flicker of surprise. Winter turns too, eyes on Mingi’s biceps around your head, sinking down his build, you hope she’s thinking about fucking him. You hope Wooyoung’s thinking about all the things you’re about to fake-do to Mingi.
You wave as Mingi turns you around, voice light, “Nice to meet you, Seungkwan.”
A few steps away, his biceps flex around your head to get your attention, “Nice move, smart girl.”
You giggle to yourself in victory, bringing your beer up to your lips, “I do have to pee, though, we have to actually go to the bathroom.”
“There’s one at the end of the hallway,” he pulls his arms from around your head to sink down to your hips, his fingers curling through the loops of your denim shorts, guiding you where to go like you’ve never been here before.
Does he think you’re a LAX house newb? You run a hand through your hair, “And there’s two upstairs, one connected to Mingyu and Cheol’s room, another between Dino and Hoshi’s rooms.”
“Look at you, flexing how many bathrooms you’ve gotten laid in.”
“Only the one connected to Mingyu’s room, he’s huge, you can’t blame me.”
“Disrespectful,” he snickers, smacking his teeth, winking at his teammates he passes by in the hallway, you give them all a feigned, bashful smile. “Telling your boyfriend who you’ve slept with.”
“You don’t want to know who I’ve slept with,” you stop in front of the bathroom door, twisting the knob carefully, and thankfully, it opens. You rush inside and Mingi follows, closing the door behind him, locking it. You stare at him with furrowed brows, “What the hell are you doing?”
“We’re supposed to be fucking, remember?” His brows raise, hands landing on his hips, his face falling into the usual disgust. You didn’t have to pretend in here.
You groan, head tipping back, “I have to pee.”
“Then pee!” A hand flies out from his side, five fingers pointing to the toilet, “I’m not stopping you, there’s a toilet right there.”
“What are you gonna do, watch?”
“Are you offering?”
“Fuck you, you’re disgusting,” you spit, a revolted chill making you shiver, he laughs like it’s funny. The weight in your bladder is clear, you whine, shoving your beer into his chest, “I can’t pee if you’re in here, I’m pee-shy.”
“Do you want me to sing? Do a little dance for you?”
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, “Actually, yeah.”
His amused smile drops, “Deadass?”
“You offered,” you shrug, “turn around, do a lil’ dance for me, football boy.”
His face morphs into regret, but he turns around, facing the shower, he takes a sip of your beer before he clears his throat, spreading his legs for comfort, his other hand finding his front pocket.
“...Seventeen-thirty-eight… Ay… I’m like hey, whatsup, hello…”
You burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth, the weight in your bladder growing excruciatingly heavy, “Fuck, I’m gonna piss my pants.”
Flipping the lid, you shove your shorts down, squatting over the gross toilet, Mingi keeps fucking singing. You’re laughing as you pee, snorting, holding onto the bathroom counter for dear life until tears cloud your vision, he’s purposely singing badly, sounding insane, he has no shame. You suppose neither do you, peeing in the same room as Song Mingi, for a second you forget who he is.
Starting quarterback for your university’s football team, he’s a known figure, important. The face of sports for your school, everyone knows his name, everyone wants him– and he’s with you, singing fucking Trap Queen in the LAX house bathroom so you can successfully empty your bladder.
Wiping, flushing, he turns around as you finish buttoning your shorts again, his voice filled with amusement. “How was that? Should I switch careers, or what?”
“Stick to football,” you mutter, then snort again as you side-step to the sink, turning the water on to wash your hands. “Also, love at first sight? We need to work on your lying skills, and your vocabulary.”
“I thought it was cute!” He defends himself, setting your beer down beside you on the countertop, “People ask too many questions, I wasn’t expecting to make up a full-fledged story every time I opened my mouth tonight.”
“You forget who you are,” you eye him through the mirror, “I wasn’t prepared, either. But enough people know now, word will spread on its own. When can we stop? Like, break up?”
“Damn, one night with me and you already want to break up?” He clutches his heart in hurt, then grins, the tip of his back leaning up against the wall, hips blocking the pole that holds the hand-towels. “Soon, though. Did you see how she was looking at me?”
You turn around, shaking your hands out on either side of you to air-dry since he’s unknowingly hiding the damn towels, clutching the countertop to haul your ass onto it, beside the sink. “Of course I saw, I also saw how you didn’t even spare her a glance.”
He smirks, wiggling his brows, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever the fuck.”
Your face morphs into confusion, “I don’t think you can use that saying here.”
“Whatever,” he scoffs, “you know what I mean. Jongho told me girls want what they can’t have, so I’m trying to make myself look very unavailable. It seemed to be working, right?”
“Yeah, she seemed into it,” you shrug, “you think Wooyoung looked pissed?”
“I don’t think he puffed that disgusting cigarette once,” Mingi gives you an impressed look, “his jaw was too busy mopping the floor.”
You giggle at that, legs swaying back and forth where they hung off the counter. Tilting your head, you wonder out loud, “I think three-ish weeks max should be enough, what do you think? If they’re showing interest now, it shouldn’t take much longer.”
He groans, “I have to endure you for three more weeks?”
“Don’t act like you aren’t having fun,” you bite back, “I’m the one who has to endure you.”
“You weren’t complaining when I was holding onto you, smushing your cheeks with my arms, girls would fight to be in your position. Your back was probably getting my shirt wet, you know, sweaty ass.”
Your jaw drops, offended, “It’s fucking hot!” Throwing yourself off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a smack, your hand flies for the doorknob, “I’ve had enough of you, actually. We’ve done plenty of damage for one night, the rest should fall in place.”
“I got it,” he turns off the bathroom light, closing the door behind him, his hand immediately going for your lower back.
“There’s no one in the hallway,” you reach back to shove his hand off you, “don’t touch me, pervert.”
“I just fucked you, and now I can’t put my hand on your sweaty ass back?”
“You didn’t even make me cum, so no.”
He laughs, a genuine belly laugh, straight from his gut, “Don’t talk shit when you have no fucking idea the things I can do.”
Under other circumstances, in another life, if he wasn’t Song Mingi, you’d love to find out. You don’t answer, cheeks flaming, ears tipping with heat, you’re forgetting yourself, a few days without consistent sex and now your stomach is dropping from words said by him? Out of all people?
You walk a little faster, aiming for your escape. At the end of the hallway, you turn your head halfway, “I’m leaving.”
He pauses in the archway, brows furrowed, voice clearly disappointed, “So soon?”
Swallowing, you nod, “I have class early tomorrow, I’ll let Jongho know what the next outing is, kay?”
SECOND OUTING: LUCENT, TWO DAYS LATER. 12:24 PM
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come to lucent
xxx-xxx-xxxx: they’re here
you: the fuck
you: who is this
xxx-xxx-xxxx: arent u the smart one bro
xxx-xxx-xxxx: its mingi
you: lose my number
xxx-xxx-xxxx: bruh
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wooyoung and winter are here can u come
you: oh
you: i get out of class in 15
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i cant be here long
xxx-xxx-xxxx: theyll start to ask questions
you: mad ominous. who is they
you: ill leave early tho
The air is thick, humidity wrapping around your body like a blanket, so hot you tug your sweatshirt off your body upon leaving the lecture hall, leaving you in a thin-strapped tank, shorts on your legs, backpack slung over one shoulder. Headphones in your ears, the trek to Lucent is quick even if by the time you make it to the glass double-doors you’re sweating like a whore in church.
It’s air-conditioned, at least, battling the floor to ceiling windows that begged to let the heat inside, bright, white light invading the room, a perpetrator. It helped you find Mingi easy enough, not that you had to search, eight men squished into one booth had you snorting at the entrance.
Approaching the table, you put on your best girlfriend-smile before you even spotted Mingi. At the edge of the booth, dressed casually, much like how he looked the day you met him, he wore sweatpants and a cut-off tee, dark hair messy and sprawled across his face like he didn’t bother styling it. Heaving a breath from rushing over, you tucked your hair behind your ear, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”
He looked you up and down before meeting your eye, a smile spreading across his cheeks, “Hey, princess.”
Your nostrils flared, lips tightening in a fight to not morph into disgust, you guess that was the nickname that stuck. Searching the rest of the table, you find seven men smiling back at you, Jaemin, Taehyun, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Seungmin, Beomgyu and… Jongho. Your eyes widen, smile dropping, hands falling to your sides, words rushing from your lips, “I didn’t know you were here.”
The others turn to Jongho, who looks scared, eyes wide and lips pursed like he didn’t know what the fuck to do. He forces a smile, a nervous chuckle, “I didn’t know I’d be coming here.” His eyes cross the room, leading you to the back corner of the establishment, where Wooyoung sat on one of the comfy chairs, legs stretched out to rest on the small table in front of him, Winter perched on his lap.
You swallow, ice prickling at your scalp. You never went anywhere public with him, even at fucking Eonian, his favorite stupid dive bar, the only time you interacted was either in the bathroom, or if he was drunk enough to address you in front of other people. Your jaw clenches for a split second, fists forming at your sides before you remember where you are, who’s watching.
“Do you want anything to drink?” It’s Mingi who pulls you back up to earth, half your body already in the depths of hell from what you were mentally planning to do to Jung Wooyoung.
Plastering that same, stupid fake-smile back on your lips, you realize you’re still standing, and the booth is clearly full. The boys are nearly on top of each other, large bodies pressed together by their shoulders and thighs, you refuse his question, instead asking, “Should I pull up a chair?”
Mingi’s lips warp into a small smirk as he leans back in the booth, two hands sliding down his thighs before he slaps them twice, “Here’s your chair.”
Your smile tightens, lips flat, eyes scrunched to hide the twitch. “Of course,” there’s nothing but sarcasm in your tone, enough for Mingi to notice, more than enough for Jongho to notice, but hopefully not the others.
Pulling your backpack from your shoulder, you set it on the floor beside the booth, resting your headphones and hoodie on top. Carefully, slowly, hesitantly, you slide a leg between Mingi’s body and the table splitting the seats, trying not to cringe as you sit on the edge of his thigh. In the back of his throat he makes a strained, tight noise, one low enough for only you to hear, it makes your head snap to look at him, eyes pointed and lips thinned.
He’s just smiling, fully amused by your reaction. You wish you could speak telepathically, call him a fucking asshole for pretending you’re heavy when he lifts six days a fucking week.
His arms wrap around you, settling on your thighs, you’re too aware of the silence at the table as he shifts you farther back, in a more comfortable position– if a comfortable position actually exists on Song Mingi’s lap.
“Are you guys between classes?” You turn to the table, smile back on your cheeks, hands in your lap, “I never see you here.”
“Why are we here?” Taehyun leaned forward, dark brows that matched his hair furrowed, plump lips scrunched in question. He’s a DB, if your memory serves, on the smaller side but fucking strong.
Heeseung, from across the table, replies simply, “Mingi wanted to come.”
The table’s eyes lead to the six-foot moron behind you. You can feel him shrug, voice casual like he didn’t care that this is clearly weird, “Was feeling coffee.”
“We’ve never been here before,” Jaemin comments, or argues, you think. He sips his water bottle, no coffee on the table before him, lean build with a wide upper body, he’s fucking gorgeous. He catches your eye, flashing you a smile held in his eyes, you have to look down at the table to stop yourself from asking for his number.
“We come here all the time,” Jongho adds, your head picks up to see something playful in his eyes, lips upcurved slightly, “probably wanted to see your girlfriend’s hangout spot, right, Min?”
It’s then that you realize Jongho arranged this, Jongho knew Wooyoung was here, but why wasn’t Jongho the one to text you? Your eye twitches remembering Mingi now has your number.
He’s having too much fun chuckling from behind you, knees bouncing, making your whole body shift. His voice is coated in rock-hard candy, “Of course I wanted to see the coffee shop my girlfriend loves so much.”
Your lips tighten again, embarrassed. You’re embarrassed. He’s embarrassing you right now, and it’s on purpose.
“You’re so sweet,” you turn your head halfway, shoulders lifted into your cheeks, forcing a cheeriness to your voice that makes Jongho snort from across the table, “I’m so lucky.”
It renders Mingi’s face flat, unimpressed, he reaches forward and grabs the half-filled plastic cup filled with what looks like watered down shit, bringing it up to take a sip. Your brow pops, “Are you drinking espresso water?”
The table erupts in laughter and your head turns, brows fully furrowing at the commotion, “What?”
“Have you ever heard of an americano, du–” Mingi stops himself mid-insult, lips snapping shut.
Your top lip curls, but instead of reacting your head turns to the table again, seven fucking football players staring at you like you’re an alien, “What the fuck is an americano?”
They all laugh again, slapping each other’s chests like it was the funniest thing they’ve ever heard and unfortunately it makes you laugh with them, a nervous-confused combination of a breathy giggle, their laughter too contagious for you to not join.
Mingi holds the cup up to your mouth, making you flinch as the straw approaches your lips. He smacks his teeth, “It’s espresso diluted by water, try it, it’s good.”
Your eyes flicker up to his, and he’s not laughing, not smiling. His brows are lifted with the offer, lips slightly pouted, he looks genuine. Reluctantly you lean forward, lips wrapping around the straw, taking a sip– and it tastes exactly how it looks.
Face scrunching up in disgust, you shake your head twice, “This is why god created cream and sugar.”
That makes him laugh, a smile curving his lips, he takes another sip right after you. An indirect kiss, the immature part of your brain realizes, you wonder how many women on your campus would kill to have exactly that with Song Mingi. How many women would die to sit exactly where you sat; to feel the sheer strength of his thighs beneath them, arms brushing his chest with each movement, his biceps stretched out on either side of them.
The thought is fleeting as you hear the table laugh again, this time it startles you, jumping slightly on Mingi’s lap out of surprise. His other arm wraps around you a little tighter, your movement startling him, you quickly mumble, “My bad.”
“You’re funny,” Seungmin notes from across the booth, as you look at him you realize he’s talking to you. He’s cute, mousy face, maybe more like a hamster, or a puppy– his eyes are soft and his smile is kind, it takes the edge off his attention on you. His eyes slide to Mingi behind you, “How did you guys meet again?”
“We met here,” Mingi responds casually and your lips tighten again, the lie spins once more. He keeps going, completely theatric, “She bought me coffee because she tripped me outside the cafe.”
You gasp, brows furrowing, head twisting behind you to scold him, “That did not happen!”
His eyes are playful, smile menacing, “Oh, yes it did, we cannot have this argument again, princess.”
Your tongue pokes your cheek, following now. Fine, let’s play. Straightening your back, you respond, “It’s not my fault you tripped over your feet, I just happened to be there. You blamed it on me and threatened to call campus security if I didn’t buy you a coffee.”
Mingi shrugs, “It got me a free coffee and a girlfriend, didn’t it? Well-played, if you ask me.”
Your smile grows, shaking your head in disbelief, at the story he created, how smooth he’s playing it. Fuck him. “You’re such an asshole,” you mutter with a small laugh, “I guess it did.”
Turning to the table, they all seem so locked in you almost forget you told five or six of his other teammates a completely different story. You suppose D1 football players won’t be gossiping about where you and Mingi met.
Catching Jongho’s eye in your scan, he looks surprised, almost. Maybe disbelief, how he was blinking at the two of you, his jaw dropped, lips slightly curved. You thin your eyes at him, “You know this story Ho, don’t look so surprised.”
His face quickly morphs to irritation as the table sings a chorus of laughter once more, all six of them adding the nickname to their arsenals upon it gracing their ears. You smile, proud of the work you’ve done, Jongho can do nothing but scowl.
“If any of you call me Ho I’m putting dog shit in the vents of your bedrooms,” he looks around the table, voice threatening, eyes cold.
The laughter dies down but humor dances in the air, Beomgyu is the only one still verbally giggling with his whole chest, “I don’t even care, that is so fucking funny, I’m calling you that forever.”
Jongho redirects his scowl to you, exasperated, “Look at what you did.”
“And I’d do it again,” you’re giggling too, cocky, feeling big-dicked that Jongho’s teammates find you so funny.
The feeling of being watched strikes alarm bells in your head, you turn your head to scan the room, landing on where Wooyoung sits, his lap now empty. He eyes you from across the room and you can’t read his expression, mostly boredom, but the more you look, the more the clench in jaw is visible. Elbow on the armrest, forearm bent upward, fist clenching and unclenching, he’s analyzing.
You sink further into Mingi which he accepts easily, hand lazily thrown over your thigh, you looked like a real, proper couple getting coffee between classes. The smell of cedar beckons your attention, warm and woodsy, a little spicy, it makes it easier to forget who’s beneath you, who’s body you’re so easily and openly and publicly attached to.
Two taps to your thigh grabs your attention, you pull your gaze back to the table, to the dark-headed fuck behind you, “Hm?”
“Park asked you a question, princess,” Mingi tips his chin in Sunghoon’s direction, his voice light but direct, it has your head turning to follow his motion in an instant.
“Is this your first time dating a D1 athlete?” He asks the question with innocence, expression curious, “It has to be different than dating someone who isn’t an athlete.”
You resist the urge to say first time dating, because you’ve certainly slept with a few. Instead you nod politely, humming your answer, “Definitely my first time dating someone as high-profile as Mingi.”
Sunghoon snorts, body leaning back in the booth, his build leaner than the others, strong all the same. Pretty face, structured, timeless features, you briefly wonder what he’s doing on the football team and not on a stage somewhere.
“Not gonna lie, we never thought Song would date,” Heeseung leans forward again, eyeing you from the other side of the booth, a smile playing on his lips, but there’s more truth to his words than humor.
“Not again,” Taehyun quips, “we always assumed he was too focused on his diet and his training program to actually put effort into another human.”
Mingi stiffens beneath you– a slight movement, one you can feel too easily while perched on his lap. There’s still laughter in the air, the comments read light-hearted, but you wonder if it feels that way to Mingi.
Jaemin cackles, “What the hell do you guys mean? He’s never alone.”
“Did you have him tested before you fucked him?” Seungmin wears a smirk, brows raised in your direction, “Because if you haven’t, I think you both probably should at this point.”
Mingi’s chest leans into your back, his chin popping over your shoulder, “Alright, enough.”
You can feel every single muscle pressed to your back, the plush of his broad pecs against your shoulderblades, his fucking washboard of an abdomen against your spine, you can’t even register the tension consuming the table, how everyone quiets down on Mingi’s command, holy shit. You need to get laid.
Your eyes find Wooyoung, too aware of his presence, his eyes that are still fucking on you. Dark clothes, boots crossed over one another, he held up his caseless phone like he wanted you to check yours. Blinking into focus, you reach between you and Mingi to your back pocket, pulling out your phone, clicking it on to look at your home screen.
wooyo: can we talk
wooyo: outside
You pick your head up to look at Jongho, heart picking up speed in your chest, drowning out the sounds of the men around you in another conversation. He meets your eye, furrowing his brows for a split second and fuck you wish you could speak out loud.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” you say quietly to Mingi, barely turning your head to see his face.
His hand lifts from your thigh, “I have to leave soon.”
“That’s fine,” your voice is low, “wait until I get back so I can say goodbye.”
Don’t catch me outside talking to Wooyoung with half of your team in tow.
The restrooms are beside the exit, your escape is easy. On the far side of the building, you ignore how foul your heart feels in your chest, the pounding bass feeling like nerves instead of excitement.
It’s still putrid, hot, humid, disgusting outside, it only adds to the feeling of wrongness. It feels like an eternity before you hear the scrape of his boots against concrete, the smell of cigarette smoke circling where you stood.
“Hey,” his voice is low, casual, rough around the edges like that was his umpteenth cigarette of the day. His black tee is fitted, jeans baggy, one of his pantlegs tucked into a boot. He looked like danger personified but his skin still gleamed summer, bronzy and sparkling, pink dusting his cheeks.
“Why did you want to talk?” Your voice is sharp, no room for it to be taken any other way than rude.
Wooyoung chuckles a little, lips scrunching to blow smoke up into the air, above your bodies. He leaves room between you, enough for you to feel comfortable, but you’re sure there was a purpose. With him, there’s always a purpose.
He flicks the butt, ashing on the concrete below, eyes trained on his own movements before they slowly trail up your body to meet your gaze, making a show of checking you out, it makes you sick. Kind of.
“You’re really dating him?” It’s between a statement and a question, two of his fingers bringing the cigarette back up to his lips.
Your brows furrow, arms crossing tighter over your chest, “Yes?”
“We broke up a week ago, baby,” he chuckles, smoke escaping his mouth with each burst of breath, “that’s a little quick, don’t you think?”
“You’re one to talk,” your jaw clenches, standing straighter, “where’s your arm candy? Or did you cheat on her already?”
“She’s in there,” his voice is too light, so unbothered it genuinely pisses you off how fast your heart is beating. You wished you had a fraction of his nonchalance. “And I didn’t cheat on you, doll, we were never together in the first place.”
“Right,” you blow disbelief through your nose, rolling your eyes, body turning away from him, facing the parking lot that looked deserted even if it was packed with college kids inside. Turning your head only, you ask, “Why are you out here, Wooyoung? What do you want?”
“I still haven’t gotten my hoodie back,” his eyes are low, catching a honey bronze color in the sunlight, you hate how they steal your attention.
You crack a nasty grin, “I burned that ugly fucking hoodie.”
Inside the cafe, Mingi has caught on easily. He watched Wooyoung stand about forty-five seconds after you left for the bathroom, he doesn’t need to look to understand what’s going on, where you are. For such a shitty plan, he can’t believe it’s working so well, it’s as if Wooyoung and Winter were falling into Mingi’s palms without him having to lift a finger.
He doesn’t mind having you around, it doesn’t feel like work. You’re funny, quick-witted and smart, so smart he wonders what your major is. He wonders a lot about you, your relationship with Jongho, what you do in your free time, what the hell you were doing sleeping with Wooyoung, of all people. In the small amount of time he’s spent with you, he already knows you deserve better than a fucking asshole like him, you deserve someone who will meet you on your level.
Mingi wonders if there’s anyone on the team he can set you up with after the two of you break up. Looking around the table, there doesn’t seem to be any winners, maybe Seungmin could keep up with your banter, but Mingi thinks you might destroy him. Jaemin’s funny, but he’s stupid, he can't keep up with your smarts, he thinks Jaemin will irritate you before he entertains you. Maybe Chris, he’s smart, he’s a lot like Mingi, but he’s not one to date.
You don’t need another fuckboy asshole taking advantage of you.
It doesn’t matter, anyhow, maybe after your talk with Wooyoung the scheme will be cut short and everything will go back to normal. He won’t have to see you ever again, he’ll have Winter at his side and he can forget this ever happened, forget about you fully. Training, academics, practice, games. Playoffs are coming up– he hopes he’ll have Winter by then, cheering for him in the stands, wearing his jersey.
“Hi.”
Eyes flickering upward to a voice he recognizes, he sits a little straighter when he sees the dark-haired beauty standing at the head of the table, holding two coffee cups, wearing the prettiest, shy smile.
Winter. He could see his future like it was his past.
“Hey,” Mingi keeps his voice steady, only letting his lips curve ever so slightly. “You need something?”
She shakes her head, pink kissing her round cheeks, she looks down at her shoes, toes knocking together. “Just wanted to wish you luck with playoffs. I know your conference game is next weekend, you must be stressed.”
Mingi swallows down his giddiness, she knows who he is? She’s standing here, at the table, in front of a quarter of his team, talking to him? Wishing him luck?
“Thanks,” Mingi nods, smile growing, “no stress, we’ve got it in the bag. You’ll be there?”
She nods, “Definitely, wouldn’t miss it.” Finally looking at the rest of the table, her eyes land on each one of his teammates, and he’s loving the way each man looks like they want to devour her. Little do they know, she’s his. Her voice coy and soft, she says, “Good luck to you guys, too.”
She made it clear she was only here for Mingi.
He’d kiss her right now if he could.
She winks at Mingi as she walks away, long lashes fluttering as she makes her way back toward where she was sitting with Wooyoung before, setting the plastic coffee cups down on the table. Straight posture, dainty fingers, hair shiny and long, cascading down her back, fuck, she’s perfect.
“Your luck is crazy, Mingi,” Jaemin comments when she’s out of ear-shot, “Winter approaching when your girl goes to the bathroom? You’re one of God’s favorites.”
“Huh?” Mingi pops a brow before you pop into his mind again. “Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I really lucked out.”
“What are you gonna do?” Taehyun asks, “She wants you.”
Mingi scrunches his lips to one side, catching Jongho’s eye from across the table. Playing with the coffee cup on the table, spinning it in a circle between his fingers, he’s reminded who you are to Jongho. He can’t be openly disrespectful.
Mingi answers plainly, “Nothing, I have a girlfriend.”
They all snort, table erupting in laughter like that was the most stupid thing that could have left his mouth. And Mingi guesses it is, Jongho knows who he is, that this is all a plan, a ploy, for the sole purpose of Mingi dating Winter. It doesn’t matter how it all unfolds.
You startle him by barreling back to the table, barely sparing Mingi a glance as you grab your hoodie, your backpack, your headphones. Your eyes find Jongho across the table, flaring something panicked before looking back at Mingi, “I have to go.”
You don’t sound happy. Your jaw is clenched, your chest is flushed, your eyes seem glossy, Mingi finds himself concerned, internally questioning what the fuck happened outside.
“You okay?” He asks, body turning sideways, knees poking out from below the table.
Wooyoung walks by behind you, not even looking as he leisurely strolls past, the smell of cigarette smoke following him like he was purposely leaving a trail behind.
“I’m fine,” you mumble, chest rising and falling in quick succession, “but I gotta go.”
Mingi, apparently out of his fucking mind, stands abruptly, stepping toward you with furrowed brows, “I’ll come.”
“No,” you answer harshly, then lick your lips, mouth tightening like you wished you could reel the word back in. “I’m sorry, I– I’ll text you, ‘kay?”
Your eyes find the table behind Mingi, everyone staring up at you, some with furrowed brows, some acting like they didn’t hear anything at all. You reach up to put your hands on Mingi’s shoulders, standing on your tippy toes to plant a small kiss on his cheek, then whisper, “Bye.”
Mingi’s dumbfounded as you haul ass out of Lucent. Backpack bouncing behind you, you rip the door open and leave the place like an intruder had just told everyone to put their hands up. His fingers find his cheek, though, confused as he is, he turns back to the table, all of his boys already staring up at him.
“You’re fucked,” Seungmin says plainly, “she definitely saw Winter at the table, she’s pissed.”
Mingi sits back in the booth, eyes sliding to where Winter sits, meeting Wooyoung’s already-there stare. He’s smirking, eyes trained on Mingi while Winter is speaking to him, a hand on his shoulder, it makes Mingi’s top lip lift in distaste, he’s such a fucking asshole it makes him sick.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: next sunday
xxx-xxx-xxxx: four highest ranked teams get a first round bye for playoffs
you: so youre planning to be top 4 i assume
xxx-xxx-xxxx: im planning to be top 1 fym
you: hmmmm
xxx-xxx-xxxx: idk how much time ill have between now and then tho
xxx-xxx-xxxx: we might not be able to flex our fake relationship as hard
you: absence makes the heart grow fonder
you: winter will be at the game tho
you: think shell kiss you if you win???
xxx-xxx-xxxx: stop dont make me delusional bro
xxx-xxx-xxxx: and dont steal my line
you: acting like you made it up is crazy
you: saying been around for decades and here you go
you: claiming it as your own
You’re smiling at your phone, not realizing you’re giggling while Jongho and Yeosang stare at you with pointed eyes from across the living room, the two sitting comfortably on Yeosang’s couch, laptops on their laps. You came over to catch up on schoolwork after Jongho left practice, not wanting to do it at your own apartment, plus, you had to catch them up on the newest development in the Wooyoung saga.
Since you ended things, you haven’t really had time to process what happened. Quickly shoved into the fake dating scheme, you were focused on something shiny and new, you forgot to pay attention to the small part inside you that ached. Four months is a solid chunk of time, especially when most of it was over the summer where most of the campus wasn’t in attendance, the only thing on your agenda was your part-time job and Wooyoung.
Despite having something shiny and new to focus on, the loss of him still hurts. Sleeping alone, not having anyone to touch, to kiss, to tell your work drama and have them fuck it better, despite being an avoidant asshole, Wooyoung filled a gap for you the entire four months you were ‘together’.
He spoke to you the other day like you meant nothing to him. Which you knew, but to have further confirmation in such a setting, standing outside your favorite coffee shop where the other woman sat just inside, it hurt. By the end of the conversation all your pent-up, repressed feelings rose to the surface, you needed to get the fuck out of there before you sobbed all over Mingi’s americano.
Mingi. Fuck him, his pretty hair and strong body, fuck him for looking at you like he cared about your feelings. It’s all bullshit and it’s not what you need right now, you should be focused on doubling your pain and passing it straight back to Wooyoung. School should really be top priority, your weekly study group, your shifts on the weekend, your top priority should be your degree and making sure you’re stable. You didn’t think this plan would come with so much added shit.
“Who are you texting?” Yeosang asks, green and black hair straight, tucked behind his ears, showing his piercings. He wore a dark sweater, ripped at the collar bone, jeans painted onto his legs, his pink bunny socks tucked beneath his body completely ruining the bad boy vibe.
Yeosang’s never been a bad boy, he doesn’t have it in him. A soft lover boy, one that cares, one that sees what others don’t see, that’s who Yeosang is.
Mindlessly, eyes still glued to your screen, you mumble, “Mingi.”
Jongho and Yeosang share a look. Jongho, face flat, looks over his laptop screen to you, “I still can’t get over seeing you two together.”
You look up, popping a brow, “Why?”
“You look too comfortable,” a very physical shiver runs through Jongho, ruffling his fitted white tee, gray sweats a contrast to the black couch, “it’s weird.”
“Are they friendly?” Yeosang asks Jongho, the two once again acting like you’re not in the room. You roll your eyes.
“Very,” Jongho nods, then turns to look at you, “what’d I miss at that party?”
“What do you mean?” Your face morphs into confusion, small shakes of your head enforcing your bewilderment, “It’s weird because we aren’t ripping each other’s faces off? Can’t really do that in front of people who think we’re dating.”
Jongho’s face stays flat, eyes knowing, “How about the fake ass story of where you met? That was bullshit, you were bickering like you’ve known him as long as you’ve known us.”
You giggle again upon remembering, “Wait, that was funny because half his team thinks we met at the library, it’s like an ongoing bit–”
Jongho cuts you off, looking at Yeosang, “Do you see what I mean?”
Yeosang narrows his eyes, “Are you into him?”
“Do you think I’m a moron?”
“Yes,” they answer simultaneously.
You scoff, “I don’t know why I hang out with you just to get verbally degraded.”
Looking down at your phone, you notice three more messages from the number you still refuse to save.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: shut up who even are u
xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u coming to the game? if shes there wooyoung will be too
xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill give u my jersey to wear lmfao
“Do football players do this?” You ask, brows furrowing, showing Jongho and Yeosang your phone screen. Holding it over the coffee table splitting where you sat on the floor and the couch they occupied, you sat up on your knees as they bent over their laptop screens, squinting to read.
“Give their jerseys out?” Jongho asks, still mid-read.
You snatch your phone away when he starts to scroll, “Yes, fucker, is that normal?”
“Girl,” Yeosang makes a disappointed face, sitting back on the couch, “that’s standard.”
Your repulsion is physical, “Do you think he washes it?”
“It gets washed for him,” Jongho responds, “I’m surprised the staff doesn’t do all his laundry for him. If it weren’t for them, it wouldn’t get washed.”
“Do the staff really do that much?”
“He doesn’t really have to think,” Jongho continues, “he’s the star, the prized possession, vital to the football team, to the school’s popularity and income. They’d do anything he asked.”
“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, processing each word out of his mouth, “there’s really a whole world out there I don’t know shit about.”
The two men laugh, Jongo harder than Yeosang, the younger man’s giggles high-pitched and shameless, “Have you not paid attention my entire football career?”
“No,” your answer is short, plain, “why would I?”
“Because there was a time we both played football and you were glued to us,” Yeosang answers, “there are some things you should probably know already.”
“Neither of you have had a girlfriend during the season!” Your voice is high-pitched, defensive, you bring your attention back to your phone. “You’re riding me for what right now, all of this will be over in like, two weeks, anyway.”
you: whatever football boy
you: ya im coming
xxx-xxx-xxxx: cool
xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u actually gonna wear my jersey
you: do i have to
xxx-xxx-xxxx: kinda
you: man
you: whatever
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wow
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i can feel ur excitement through the phone
“Are you bringing him to my gig?” You look up from your phone to see Yeosang already looking at you, “It’s at Eonian, so Wooyoung will definitely be there.”
You groan, throwing your phone to the side, stretching your body out as you lay down on the rug, whining. “Your shows are our time, Yeo.”
Bass player for his band, Yeosang playing shows on and off campus was a frequent event. Always somewhere lowkey, somewhere fun, you always went with Jongho, Jia or Riyo. Bringing a man, especially Mingi, would debase the entire meaning of Yeosang’s shows. You go to support him, not to keep tabs on Wooyoung all night or feel uncomfortable with Mingi attached to your hip.
“All that shit just happened with Wooyoung, though,” Jongho says matter-of-factly, “it’s smart to show up with Mingi on your arm. Where Wooyoung goes, Winter follows.”
You pick only your head up, squinting at him over the table, “Yeosang’s shows are off limits. I need to be able to scream my excitement freely, Mingi’s presence will hinder my enjoyment.”
“Whatever,” Yeosang sings, “it’s just one show, but okay.”
You whine, head banging against the floor beneath the rug as you lay it back down, “He’s busy, anyways. He just told me he won’t have time to hang before the conference game.”
“Yet here I am,” Jongho argues, “and at that show, I will be.”
You mumble a curse, “Whatever.”
Picking up your phone again, a notification from Instagram sticks out on your home screen, a message request.
blondenbeautiful: Heard you’re dating Song Mingi?
blondenbeautiful: Biggest joke i’ve ever heard LMFAO
blondenbeautiful: Lying for attention is pathetic, I hope he sues you for defamation
You sit up abruptly, eyes wide as you stare at the screen, “What the fuck?!”
Seeing the fear in your eyes, hearing the shock in your voice, Jongho and Yeosang hop up from their spots, throwing their laptops to the side, racing around the coffee table to look at your phone screen.
“Ew,” Yeosang huffs, “no way this is happening already.”
“What do you mean already?” You look at your green haired friend, shocked and confused.
“Turn off your DM requests,” Jongho adds, “fuck that, dude, fuck no.”
“I’m not turning them off,” you scoff, “that’s pussy shit. Her username is blonde n’ beautiful, Ho.”
You click on her profile, scroll through her feed, watch her story, she lives across the fucking country. You think this is what Yeosang meant when he said Mingi had refined taste; barbie dolls, rich bitch attitude, this was his typical.
“Who cares about pussy shit?” Jongho’s brows are tied together, his eyes pleading, “That’s not the point. He has a fanbase of Warrior Barbies, have you even looked at his Instagram?”
Scrolling out of your requests and opening up the search bar, your eyes widen upon seeing his profile. You followed him already, probably from your freshman year, but he definitely didn’t have near fifty thousand followers back then, or so many posts professionally photographed.
For some reason it’s this that opens your eyes, a chill racking down your spine. You knew how detrimental he was to the university, his level of popularity, but you didn’t think it was outside of your campus, too. He was popular, known, and it spread wider than you ever thought was possible for a guy who sings Trap Queen in sports house bathrooms.
Voice shaky, you whisper, “I feel like I’m in a who the fuck did I marry subreddit.”
Yeosang can’t help the laugh that escapes him, head dipping down with an amused breath, he snaps back to deadpanning in a second’s time. “You should turn off your requests before it gets worse.”
“I’m not even dating him for realsies,” you argue, “the insults are empty. None of them are true, so they don’t count.”
Jongho sits beside you, flopping down on the rug from where he was crouched, “I just don’t want them to get to you. The whole Wooyoung thing upset you enough, you don’t need social media harassment to put the cherry on top.”
“I’ll be fine,” you lock your phone, tossing it to the floor beside you, “that shit won’t bother me. I’m strong.”
“Yeah, alright,” sarcasm swims in Yeosang’s voice, “is it a crime to listen to us every once in a while?”
You sneer, “Yes.”
you: btw yeosang is playing a show friday at 10
you: at eonian on 4th ave
you: woo and winter will be there
xxx-xxx-xxxx: just told u i dont have time
you: why are you acting like i want you there
xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill be there
THIRD OUTING: EONIAN, FRIDAY. 9:42 PM
“Did you hire a personal stylist or something?”
You scoff, standing in your doorway, looking down at your own outfit. You supposed it was different for you, more stylish than you’d normally shoot for when going anywhere, let alone the dinky dive bar you’ve gone to a thousand times. The doormen have seen you in sweatpants, chain-smoking cigarettes because you had too much to drink, the bartenders have seen you in stained overalls, making out with a random person in the corner because you had too much to drink, you don’t know why you chose today, of all days, to put in an effort when everyone there has seen you at your worst.
Looking at Mingi, he seemed to have the same idea. Although he always looked put together in a way, even if he was in sweats and a cutoff tank, it never looked necessarily bad. All black, leather jacket, boots, his hair styled away from his face, messily but purposeful, he looked good. Really good. It pissed you off.
“Did your staff pick out that outfit for you?” You sneer, “I’m not used to seeing you without sweatpants on.”
“Insulting the man who came all the way here to pick you up,” he nods, bottom lip folded over in the most attitude-stricken look he’s ever given you, “smart.”
“Shut up,” you grumble, heels clicking against the floor as you step through the threshold of your apartment. “Let’s just go.”
Mingi’s car is ridiculous. Ever since seeing his stupid Instagram page, there seems to be a constant reminder everywhere of who he is, what he has. It still smelled new inside, black leather interior, red detail, gear shift looking untouched, pristine. Not a spec of dust on the dash or in the backseat that held only one black duffel bag unzipped, your instincts told you it could hold a lot more.
“Have you been to Eonian?” You ask, turning your head to face him after he pulled out of your complex’s parking lot.
Pressure forces you back into your seat as he picks up speed, knees shifting below the steering wheel, palm wrapped around the gearstick, his face goes unchanged. He leans his head toward you but doesn’t turn it, “Maybe once, why?”
“Just wondering,” your voice is pitched, shaky, eyes widened while you swallow down your heart that shot up so high you could taste it. Your fingers curl into your jeans, thanking god seatbelts exist in your head, you turn your head to the window so you could close your eyes in peace without being caught as a wimp.
You hear him laugh after a second, a small, snarky giggle. The car slows and you can feel it in your chest, body sinking into leather, free to move as you please, your fingers uncurl from your pantlegs, shoulders slouching in relief.
“My bad, should have warned you.”
“I want to survive,” you don’t let him hear the shakiness in your voice, keeping it laced with clear irritation, “if I died beside you I’d have to resurrect myself just to walk ten feet away and die there instead.”
“You’re really sweet, y’know that?” Sarcasm evident, he continues, “I can’t understand why Wooyoung would cheat on such a nice, kind girl.”
Your neck twists to eye him, gaze harsh enough to cut. What the fuck? “We weren’t even together, he didn’t cheat.”
“Oh!” His laughter is punched, eyes condescending, lips half surprised and half amused, “Excuse me, he didn’t cheat, right. He didn’t want to date you at all.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you mumble, head turning to face the window again. It rained earlier, there’s still droplets of water sprinkled on the glass, the gloomy evening looking like the pit in your gut, soggy, heavy, dark. “That’s why Winter rejected you.”
“Well she wants me now,” he adds and you can hear the stupid smirk in his voice.
You snap your head toward him again, “Where did that even come from?”
“Did I strike a nerve?”
Your jaw clenches, facing the window again, mumbling, “This isn’t even worth it anymore.”
He turns the music up, letting it fill the cabin of the car, you can barely feel the road beneath you, his car drives so smoothly. You can hear him switch gears, the roar of the engine picking up, the feel of force in your chest as his speed increases, your hair moving when he slows again, it’s torture.
It’s worse when you step out to go inside the bar, the ground bendy beneath you, feet unsteady on pavement. Your stomach feels icky, your chest heavy and weird, and to top it off, the cigarette-smoking-stupid-fucking-asshole is standing right outside the front door, talking to the bouncer, doused in leather and silver. You suck in a deep breath, straightening your back, part of you forgetting Mingi’s there as you start for the door. Maybe you just wish he wasn’t with you at all.
Mingi calls your name, you don’t stop. A little firmer, a little louder, “Hey.” Jaw clenched, you stop in your tracks, the fur on your jacket whipping as you turn around. Lazily he strolls toward you, holding out a hand, to which you don’t grab.
“Hold my hand,” he wiggles his palm a little, voice edged with annoyance, “come on.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Is it what I said in the car?” He lowers his palm, head tilting, “I’m sorry if I went too far, I won’t do it again. Now please hold my hand so we can go inside together, they’ll be watching.”
Shooting daggers at him, your hand peeks out from your sleeve, reluctantly reaching forward; he spreads out his fingers with a satisfied grin, tangling them with yours, palms pressed together. There’s a certain intimacy to holding someone’s hand, not something you do often, not something you’ve done in a very long time; yet there’s no warmth that spreads through you at the contact, no electricity that stems in the tip of your spine. Strictly business.
Taking a step forward, he comments, “Your hand is clammy.”
“Wonder why,” you roll your eyes, “you have calluses, it’s gross, like sandpaper. Or cat tongue.”
Mingi smacks his lips together, walking in-step with you now, his head dipping down to hide how your words made him laugh. “You’re seriously deranged.”
It makes a smile claw at your lips, turning your head away so he can’t see the grin that fights its way to the surface. He squeezes your hand once like he can see through your wall of hair, snickering from beside you, by the time you get to the front door you’re both fighting to crack a smile like a pair of stubborn idiots.
Tall and buff, a head of light brown, curly hair hidden beneath a snapback, the bouncer eyes you over your ID, then looks at Mingi, deadpanning, “Make sure she doesn’t get near a pack of Marlboro Reds tonight.”
Wooyoung is behind him now, smiling as smoke pours from the corner of his mouth, losing its opacity as it melts into the humid air around him. He’s quiet, but he watches as your face falls, then makes it clear he’s inspecting every article of clothing on your body.
“I’m not even a smoker, Minho.”
“Minho?” Mingi questions, head bobbing in surprise and confusion. He looks at you with a dumbfounded face, “Marlboro Reds?”
“Can we just go inside?” You tug on Mingi’s hand, he takes your ID back from Minho before following you inside Eonian, his brows still furrowed.
“I thought you said you don’t really come here,” Mingi sounds lost as you pull him inside the door, the smell of humid air and alcohol meeting your nose upon entrance.
You do a quick scan of the bar, mindlessly answering, “I’ve been here a few times with Wooyoung.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with the bouncer,” he hisses his argument, standing close to you now, leaning down just enough to whisper-yell it into your ear.
Spotting Jongho in the far corner, just beside the stage at a table, your grin is finally real and takes over your entire face. “Yeah, well, he fucked my friend,” you pull him in Jongho’s direction, “I found Ho, come on.”
It takes longer than you thought it would to get across the crowded bar, you stopped three different times for Mingi to dap up strangers you’ve maybe seen before, all people who tucked Mingi into a quick hug with grins so bright it was as if they were meeting God. Antagonizing, remembering how many people love him, not that you showed your distaste as Mingi introduced you to every single person as his girlfriend, in which they all drank up your figure and complimented Mingi on how well he did scoring you.
It almost made up for what happened in the car. Almost.
Dick two inches bigger, you had more swag in your step as you dragged him to Jongho’s table, where he stood around the high-top wooden surface with two others beside him. Lee Minho, Lee Felix, tight-end, kicker. Felix, bright, blonde and bushy-tailed, stood a little shorter than Minho, who was everything dark and brooding, at least on the outside. Light seemed to return to his eyes when you approached the table, a small smile on your face, already in-character.
Jongho looked less wary as you approached this time, a pink hue to his cheeks, shoulders slightly slouched, a tall beer on the table before him. It looks appealing, even for a beer, at this point you think you’d take a swig of whiskey just to ease the lingering weight in your chest.
He notices your eyes lingering on his beer, he tugs it toward him, eyes pointed, “No.”
It makes a small laugh pass through your lips before you greet the table. Felix’s warm brown eyes seem brighter after Mingi introduces you, his freckled cheeks pink at the apples, “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
“Me?” You’re still smiling, one brow popped, “Why?”
“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho is quick to answer as if that was now a title of sorts.
Your head tilts, confusion spreading, Mingi’s hand slides to the small of your back, his pinky lining the hem of your jeans. The girl who tamed Song Mingi, your initial reaction is to laugh through the confusion, it comes out staggered, airy, uneasy.
Felix is beaming, grin spread wide like excitement was oozing from his pores, “The whole team has been talking about you, they say you’re funny, and hot, which is clearly true.”
Now heat is spreading through you, smile shifting to something of a smirk, he’s pretty. Like a girl, in a way, blonde hair straight past his shoulders, you can tell there’s a lean, disciplined body beneath the oversized clothes on his body. Backwards hat, lips plump and rosy like he’d been kissing someone for hours, you wonder how hot he thinks you are.
“Is your jacket from Anthro? I’ve been looking at it online, waiting for it to go on sale,” his eyes are on the faux fur on your shoulders, the jacket you thrifted ages ago for ten bucks, you have no idea what brand is on the tag.
Gaydar going off, you ask, “No idea, wanna check?”
His eyes flare brighter, you don’t wait for his answer as you break away from Mingi’s heavy hand, walking around the table. You feel soft fingers moving your hair out of the way as your eyes lead to Jongho, “When does Yeo go on?”
“I think in twenty minutes or so,” he shrugs, bringing his beer up to his lips.
You shiver when you feel the warmth of Felix’s fingertips at the base of your neck, “They’re late?”
Head down to allow Felix access to your tag, your eyes slide to look at the stage, lights on and empty. You got here right before ten, he should be going on any minute now.
“Technical difficulties,” Minho comments in a sing-song tone, reminding you he’s also at the table. Taller than you, beefier than Felix, his elbows sit on the table, biceps straining the sleeves of his fitted tee. Dark hair, eyes feline, lips small and pouty, shit, he’s hot, too.
You hum, storing the info for later, “I hope they play soon.”
“This is Anthro,” Felix gasps, “so cute, I want one.”
“I thrifted it a long time ago, if you ever want to borrow it, ask Mingi for my number,” you offer as you turn around, hands grabbing the hem of it to pull it forward, fixing where it sank backward.
Felix’s head turns to Mingi across the table, feigning a pout, “I like this one, can I keep her?”
In-character, Mingi shakes his head, a smooth, proud chuckle tumbling from his lips. “Sorry to break it to you, Lix, but that one’s mine.”
Mine.
Hand holding didn’t get a reaction out of you, but a singular word makes your stomach curl. You barely remember the last time you were considered someone’s partner, significant other, girlfriend, you don’t know if you ever have been; you’ve been a fuck-buddy, a situationship, a friends with benefits, everything under the fucking sun besides owned. At least five, maybe six years it’s been since someone used the word mine to describe what you are to them, and back then it was purely adolescent, puppy-love at fifteen that made you feel lovesick instead of violently nauseous.
“I need a drink,” you blurt, “from the bar.”
Mingi’s brows furrow, “Where else would you get one, princess?”
That fucking nickname. Your nose crinkles with disgust, you don’t even care about forcing a smile on your face or putting on a show, your irritation returns tenfold. Giving him a long, blank stare, you turn and beeline for the bar.
Deep, shiny oak littered with splotches of wetness, signed receipts soaked, smudged and clinging to the surface, loose, skinny black straws thrown about the bar like some drunk idiot threw a handful in the air, it was a typical Friday night here. Elbows on the bar, you push yourself up by the ledge attached to the base, you keep your chest pressed above your folded arms so the sexy bartender would help you first.
“What’s wrong?”
You smack your lips again, but you don’t turn around. Just his voice is getting on your last nerve.
“Tell me what’s wrong, you’re acting bitchier than usual.”
You can feel the words in your spine. You snap your neck to the side, “Is that why it’s so understandable for me to get cheated on? Because I’m bitchy?”
“You’re still mad about that?” Mingi asks, sounding genuine. You hear him sigh before he forces himself between you and the guy standing beside you at the bar, someone shorter than him, smaller. “Do you want me to apologize again?”
“I don’t want anything from you,” you say quietly, voice laced with venom, keeping your eyes on the tall bartender juggling bottles like they’re toys, his movements fluid. You attempt to telepathize with him, maybe he’ll hear your calls of his name in his mind.
“I thought we moved past that already,” he sighs, “you’re not even gonna look at me? I’m trying–”
“Why do you give a fuck?” You finally look at him and his brows are upturned, lips pouty, but that arrogance that’s embedded in him is so fucking clear you regret looking. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. I’m here for Yeosang, you’re here to impress Winter, wherever the fuck she is. You should go find her.”
“Hey, baby,” you turn to find the bartender finally answering your calls, “he bothering you?”
“Yes,” you smile back, giddiness forming in the pit of your stomach. Slit through his eyebrow, buzz-cut bleached a sandy blonde color, he wears a mesh tank that sits loose on his skin, flowing with each movement. “But he’s paying, so I can’t escape him just yet. Wanna do a shot with me on his tab?”
You lean in closer, eyes low, smile playful. He chuckles, eyes sliding to Mingi and then back to you, “A shot with my favorite girl? Of course. Is he doing one too?”
You shrug, “Ask him, not me.”
You both look at Mingi whose brows are in his hairline, lips parted and slightly curled in a small sneer. It takes him a second to process Hyunjin’s staring at him with a question, he shakes his head slightly before reaching into his pocket, muttering, “Nah, I’m good.”
Hyunjin pours you your favorite drink before placing two plastic shot-cups on the bar, messily pouring liquor that spills onto the grated surface below, “Cheers, to Yeosangie.”
“To Yeosangie,” your grin spreads wide, clinking plastic before smacking them on the bar and shooting them back. “Thanks, Jinnie.”
“Anything for my favorite girl,” his voice is warm, almost as warm as his pretty brown eyes when he looks at you, it makes your insides feel fuzzy. He turns to Mingi who passes him his credit card with that same confused-annoyed look, but he stays quiet. Good.
When Hyunjin walks away, he speaks, and you groan upon the first word leaving his lips. “You’re such a liar, you lied to me.”
“Whatever,” you huff, bringing the straw up to your lips. Fruity, bitter, strong, necessary. “You don’t need to know the truth all the time.”
Mingi’s shaking his head, an annoyed chuckle falling past his lips, “Is there anyone else here you’ve slept with that your boyfriend should know about?”
You shrug as he gets his card back, signing the receipt. You eye it to make sure he left Hyunjin a nice tip, which he does without a word from you. “I’ll let you know if any more show up, if you’re really that curious.”
“I’m sorry for what I said in the car,” he tries again, voice sounding strained, “I’m exhausted, the coaches are working me to the fucking bone with playoffs so close, and I’m here for you.”
Mine.
“You are not here for me,” you bite back, “you meant what you said in the car, don’t go back on it now because it pissed me off. You’re here for Winter and that’s it, Mingi. Like I said earlier, go find her.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No!”
“Fine!” You huff, “Then leave! I didn’t want you here to begin with.”
“You invited me!” He argues back, eyes blowing wide, “I came because you invited me. I picked you up after a three-hour practice. I skipped the second half of studying with exams soon to be here.”
Mine. Your chest constricts.
“You shouldn’t skip studying,” you mutter, “you can’t afford to, moron.”
“Yet I did,” his arms raising on either side of him, defeated. You look at him, really look at him, and you don’t know how you didn’t notice the bags beneath his eyes earlier, he hasn’t had that energetic, snarky-spark since he picked you up.
The lights dim around the stage, music playing through the speakers silencing, the TouchTunes turned off. Mingi sighs, “Can we just watch the show? Wooyoung saw us, which means Winter's here somewhere. They’ll see us at some point.”
“Sorry for being a bitch,” you mumble, voice small, cheeks burning.
A smile tugs at his lips, “I’m sorry for being a bitch, too.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, “Come on, it’s time to pretend you like me again.”
There’s a smile on your face when you groan, body falling beneath his arm, he walks you up towards the table again, through the crowd that parts for him as if he’s a celebrity, standing beside Jongho like he knows it’s where you’d be most comfortable.
He pushes you in front of him as people start closing in, hands sliding down, hooking into your belt loops as Yeosang’s band walks out onstage. Excitement blooming, a grin breaks out across your face, head tipping back with a hand curled around your mouth to release a sharp, pitched whistle.
Mingi echoes the noise, leaning forward to cheer for Yeosang, the back of your head touching his chest. Your head follows his body as he stands straight again, leaning on him with a smile etched into your skin, holding the plastic cup between your hands as the band takes their positions.
Yeosang’s eyes scan the crowd, you follow where his gaze gets stuck, in the back corner, sitting at one of the high-top tables. She’s here, your eyes widen ever so slightly at the sight, warmth filling your chest, a semblance of pride. Good.
“Who’s that?” Mingi leans down to ask in your ear.
“Yeosang’s kind-of girlfriend,” you tear your eyes away from her to tilt your head up, looking at him. “Their relationship is weird.”
“Hm,” Mingi’s head tilts, “doesn’t look like Yeo’s type.”
“She’s exactly his type,” you giggle, “you should know that.”
A smile forms as he looks down at you, “I guess you’re right, don’t know why I assumed everything changed after he quit playing football.”
“Running-back-gone-stoner still likes his cheerleaders,” you sing, bringing your attention back to the stage, taking a sip from your drink. “He seems happier now that he doesn’t play anymore.”
“This is the most confident I’ve ever seen him and he hasn’t played a single chord yet,” Mingi adds, nodding his agreement.
“He’s good,” there’s pride in your voice, “you’ll like their music.”
As if they could hear you, Jay strums his guitar, a striking chord that pulls the attention of the entire room. You squeal, turning your head to see Jongho who’s looking at the stage with the same amount of fondness and pride in his eyes that you wore, the same feeling you have every time you see Yeosang on stage.
Their opening song is one original out of three, the rest covers. You know every word, singing along with Jay, their lead singer and guitarist, head bopping to the beat.
Mingi doesn’t know where to look. Yeosang, who was once his good friend, onstage, or you, smiling, giggling and dancing between his arms. It’s only the third time you’ve been out in public together, but with all the texting, the updates you send each other throughout the day, the constant banter, there’s a feeling in Mingi’s chest he can’t really explain.
He’s not into you. But there’s an urge in his consciousness somewhere, to keep you close, to protect you, it makes him fucking cringe every time the thoughts cross his mind. You’re not friends, you won’t stay in contact after your alignment fulfills its purpose, it’s something he reminds himself after he thinks about you for just a little too long.
He’s tired. His bones ache, his eyes feel heavy, there’s a slouch in his shoulders he doesn’t have the strength to straighten. Your energy bleeds into him, he’s found himself going along with you the entire time you’ve been associated, as if he’s a horse you’re leading to water. So he keeps his mindless grin, a hand steady on your hip since you jumped his fingers out of your belt loops, he holds your drink with the other, keeping his palm blanketed over the open top.
He’s never seen you so happy.
He’s seen you angry, irritated, maybe he’s made you laugh once or twice now, but it’s nothing compared to the joy on your face now, how your body moves out of excitement. It’s not the liquor, it’s Yeosang onstage, who plays so well and looks so fucking cool Mingi finds himself a little jealous, a feeling he pretends isn’t there as soon as he recognizes it. The way you care for him, for Jongho, it adds to the list of things he keeps learning about you, like layers of a fucking onion.
You come to Eonian. Often. You know the bouncer, the bartender, Mingi can’t figure out why you lied. He wonders what else you’ve lied about– what more he can learn about you just by sharing space. He wonders about Wooyoung, what he said to you outside of Lucent, what made you so nervous and eager to leave. He wonders why you wanted to fake-date in the first place, if Wooyoung has done worse than cheat, if that’s why you want revenge so deeply.
The way your eyes wander across the room, finding Wooyoung and Winter, his arms thrown over her shoulders, keeping her close. How they sway together, Winter’s fingers holding onto his forearms, a small smile on her face, cheeks pink. It makes your movements smaller, the bubble of excitement surrounding your being dwindles to a flicker, you turn around and ask Mingi for your drink.
“No,” Mingi shakes his head.
Your face contorts, “What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“You don’t need to drink because you’re upset,” he keeps his voice low, “liquor isn’t going to help.”
“I’m not upset,” you sound defensive, which only confirms what Mingi’s thinking is true. “I’m at a bar watching my best friend kill it onstage, why would I be upset?”
Your brows are furrowed, lips pouty, the gloss you wore faded by now, leaving a pinkish stain behind. There’s heat in your cheeks, a pretty flush, he hates the realization that determination in your features is kind of cute.
“Come here,” Mingi offers, placing your drink on the table behind him before twisting you back around by your hips, throwing his own arms over your shoulders, tucking you into him.
You squirm, making a whiney noise, shifting your shoulders and looking down to untuck your hair where it got trapped against Mingi’s body. “You’re fucking huge,” you mumble, soft fingers coming up to hook around his forearms, Mingi can’t tell if it’s a compliment, but it’s definitely not an insult.
“You have no idea,” he smirks to himself.
You groan, “Stop saying shit like that to me.”
“Why?” Smiling, his tone comes out playful, “Curious?”
Your head tilts back to look up at him, eyes pointed, lips bent in a frown. “No.”
“Liar,” Mingi smacks his teeth, “all you’ve done tonight is lie.”
“Like I said,” you bring your attention back to the stage, “you don’t always need to know the truth.”
“So you admit you’re curious.”
“No!”
Mingi chuckles, squeezing you with his arms clamped around your front. You stay there for the rest of the show, in Mingi’s hold, head pressed to his chest, your eyes don’t wander again. They stay locked on Yeosang onstage, singing along to each song. At one point you and Mingi started swaying together when he recognized one of the covers they performed, singing along with you.
“You two are so fucking cute,” Felix comments when Yeosang’s band runs off the stage after bowing to the crowd. Mingi finally let you go at that point, where you attached to your iced-down drink like a moth to a flame.
“Yeah?” Mingi smiles at Felix before jumping into action when you bring the straw to your lips. “Don’t drink that, I didn’t have eyes on it. I’ll get you another.”
You pout, but you let him pull the straw away from your lips, “Boo.”
“What’d you think of the show?” Jongho asks, a little drunk now, Mingi thinks, as he smacks a hand on his shoulder.
Mingi’s grinning again, nodding his head, “They’re good, Yeosang is really talented.”
You squeal again, stealing his attention, “Isn’t he? He’s so fucking talented, he makes me so jealous. I wish I could play an instrument.”
Cute. He doesn’t think before reaching up to ruffle your hair, “You’re talented at lots of stuff, princess.” He doesn’t know why he said it, he doesn’t even know what you do in your free time. He blames it on it feeling right. He’s tired.
You quickly fix your hair, mumbling, “Motherfucker.”
It makes Mingi’s grin spread wider. Weird, how your insults are starting to feel like compliments.
“Are you coming to the conference game?” Minho asks, and your brows perk up at the attention, that smooth smile appearing on your cheeks, the one you use when you look at any one of his teammates. Anyone you find attractive, actually, he’s noticed.
You nod, “I’ll be there, supporting Jongho.”
“Not your boyfriend?” Minho asks, popping a brow.
“Oh shit, yeah, Mingi too,” you nod, “duh.”
He has to fight his laugh, lips tying together. You meet his eye, the look of him biting back his laugh, and crack a stupid smile at the sight. “You ready to go?” You ask, brows lifted.
Mingi’s neck cranes in confusion, “You don’t wanna wait for Yeo?”
“He has people to see,” you say casually, but Mingi knows who. “Plus, you’re tired, and you need to study before bed.”
Hesitantly, seeing the honesty in your eyes, no disappointment evident, Mingi nods. “You’re right.”
“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho sing-songs, and Mingi’s neck snaps to glare. He hates that nickname, the way they use it in the house, in practice, how it rolls off his teammates tongues with a sneer. Minho’s smile is devilish, daring; he’s one of Mingi’s only teammates that doesn’t suck-up to him completely. It’s not the right time or place to berate him for it.
You say your goodbyes politely and grab Mingi by his hand, pulling him towards the crowd, in the direction of the exit. Mingi ignores everyone who tries to steal him for a chat, giving small smiles, nods, waves of acknowledgement, but he lets you drag him all the way to the exit, where you give the bouncer, Minho, a small wave goodbye.
A little colder now, enough to rack a chill down Mingi’s spine, you stop in your tracks when you open the exit door. Winter is pressed against the wall of the building, Wooyoung’s hand over her head, forehead touching hers. He plants his lips against hers once before realizing he has company.
“Leaving so soon?” He’s smirking as he tucks his arm back into himself, standing straight, turning to face the two of you. “Yeosang played a good show.”
Winter’s eyes locked on Mingi, widened, pupils dilated like she didn’t want to be caught where Mingi had indeed caught her. She swallows, licking her lips, fixing the baggy denim on her legs as she stands straighter, moving slightly behind Wooyoung as if it’d put her out of Mingi’s eyesight.
“He always does,” your voice is cold, venomous. No warmth at all.
Wooyoung’s eyes find Mingi, taking a second to look him up and down. “Nice outfit, different for you.”
Mingi pops a brow, “Because I’m not in a jersey?”
“Sure,” Wooyoung nods, then moves his eyes to you. “Same goes for you, doll. Find my hoodie yet?”
Your fingers flex at your side, fist clenching, “I told you I burned it.”
Wooyoung chuckles, arm lifting for Winter to tuck herself into his side, it makes Mingi grimace. Gross. He’s slimey, the energy he gives off, Mingi can’t understand what the fuck girls see in him in the first place.
“Did you see Hyunjin inside?” Wooyoung asks, “He asked me about you, said your little plaything was bothering you.” Wooyoung looks at Mingi again, “I take it that’s you? But you’re her boyfriend, right?”
Mingi’s brows furrow, but you speak up before he can open his mouth. “Don’t speak to Hyunjin about me or Mingi. The only plaything you have to worry about is the one under your arm.”
Winter straightens, brows furrowing, “I’m the plaything? Me?”
“What do you think he’s gonna do with you when he’s bored?” You laugh a little, eyes so piercing it renders Mingi silent, all he can do is stare. “Toss you to the side, just like he did with me. There’s another one, you know, it’s never just you.”
Wooyoung tucks her closer, his features devoid of all amusement, back going rigid. “Lying, huh? Just ‘cus you’re butthurt? Always leads to lies, you haven’t changed one bit.”
“You’ll never change,” you whisper, but the chilly air is quiet enough that it hits its mark. “When she calls, you’ll run back to her, it doesn’t matter who’s occupying your boredom at the time.” Your eyes find Winter, “You’ll see. I feel bad for you.”
Mingi, confused, watches Winter’s face fall, the slow realization that there’s not a lick of jealousy in your voice, just sheer honesty. His head bobs back and forth between the two of you, but he grabs your wrist when steam starts pouring from your ears. “Time to go, baby. Come on.”
You pull your wrist away from him, tucking it into your chest, keeping your eyes steady on Wooyoung who doesn’t falter for a moment. A staring contest of sorts, it makes Mingi feel nervous, uncomfortable at the least.
“Time to go,” Mingi reiterates, voice heavier, hands on your waist now. “It’s not worth it. I’ll take you home, c’mon.”
It takes you a second to turn your head away from Wooyoung as Mingi starts pulling you away, but once you’re out of eyesight, in front of Mingi’s build that engulfs you whole, the shakes begin. Your fingertips, your shoulders, your teeth chatter in your fucking skull.
“In the car,” he’s whispering, encouraging, ushering you into his passenger seat. “There you go,” he closes it behind you, making sure you’re tucked inside.
When he’s behind the wheel, engine roaring to life, he takes a second to gather his bearings. He turns to you slowly, only his head, and you’re staring into nothing, body still shaking. It makes him swallow, nerves etching into his vision.
“Are you okay?” He asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of. He doesn’t know how to comfort you. You hum an agreement, a slight nod of your head, it does nothing to ease the discomfort in his chest. His lips tighten, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “What just happened?”
You shake your head, still staring into space. Voice small, battered and broken, you whisper, “I don’t know.”
Mingi feels something swirling in his gut, something foul. Like before a big game, when he isn’t positive he’s going to win. Voice low, he asks, “What actually happened between you?”
“He didn’t just cheat on me with Winter,” you finally look down at your lap, “there’s another girl. I don’t know who she is, what she looks like, I just know she exists. She’s like, the girl version of him, she made him like that.”
Mingi’s brows furrow, but you keep talking after a deep, shaky breath. “He called me a liar, I am a liar.” You shake your head, staring at your lap. “I lied to everyone when I was with him. I lied to him, I lied to myself, not to mention Jongho and Yeosang.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier that way,” you finally look at Mingi, eyes glassy, pupils dilated, “if I told the truth, I couldn’t be held accountable for my own actions.” When you notice his confusion, you laugh, a short, disbelieving chuckle. “I knew about her the whole fucking time, the nature of their relationship, I even tried competing with her at one point.”
When Mingi asks why again, you sigh. “I think because I knew I’d never win. Him and I would never be real no matter how hard I tried, and that was safety to me, in a way.”
“I don’t understand,” Mingi sinks into his seat, carefully peeling back another layer.
You shake your head again, silent for a moment. “Have you ever wanted something so bad that it terrifies you?”
“All the time.”
“This is gonna sound self-deprecating, don’t make fun of me or else I’ll fucking kill you,” you start, and Mingi’s lips curve at the corners, but he nods. “That’s how I feel about relationships, or being loved, I guess. I want it, but do I deserve it?”
Mingi’s brows furrow again, “Do you deserve it?” You blink at him, and he shakes his head in confusion, “Who cares? You want it, don’t you?”
Mingi swears your eyes get rounder, your lips plumper. He’s never seen you look so… delicate. Small, vulnerable, like your walls have crumbled away and left what’s at your core bare for him to see.
“I do,” you whisper, staring at him, into him, he feels just as bare as you. He feels the moonlight pouring into the cabin, he hears the light hum of his idling car, and he realizes he hasn’t been in this position in a long, long time.
His relationship with women has been strict since… her. Transactional, never more, never less. Give and take. He doesn’t make friends, he doesn’t form bonds, he does nothing more than fuck– when’s the last time he had a real fucking conversation with a woman? When’s the last time his chest has felt so twisted from emotion?
He stares back, eyes dropping to your lips for a millisecond. Glossy, from the spit you swiped over them with your tongue moments prior, plump and opaque with color. This is the longest you’ve gone without arguing since the moment you met. This is the first time he’s looking at you so clearly, seeing you as more than a means to an end. He swears he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.
“Take what you want,” Mingi whispers back, “who gives a fuck about being worthy of it?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips, “That’s easy for you to say, you get whatever you want.”
“Not everything,” he shifts in his seat, sinking down, stretching out his legs as much as he can. “Not even a lot, actually.”
When your brows furrow, he makes a face like he doesn’t want to keep going, but he does anyway. “I don’t have control over anything in my life. What I eat, how I train, how much I sleep, what I do in my free time, that’s all coordinated by someone else. Dating you is the most freedom I’ve had in years.”
“They don’t do whatever you say?”
“I do whatever they say,” he corrects you, lips flattening. “I don’t have to think if I don’t want to, and I fucking hate it. I’m a twenty-one year old man that doesn’t do anything for myself, it’s suffocating. Like I’m a puppet.”
Your lips are tucked between your teeth, swept to the side, head tilted. “I thought it was the other way around. Are they mad you’re… dating me?”
Mingi laughs a little, “More than mad. Consequences-mad.”
You gasp, leaning forward, palm planted on the center console. “Then why are you still doing it?”
“Because I want to,” he’s looking at you now, “for once, I’m doing something I want, and I’m having fun.”
“You’re having fun with me?” Your smile makes Mingi feel like he’s just handed you a thousand dollars. “For realsies?”
Chuckling, nodding, Mingi nods, “For realsies, princess.”
You sit back in the passenger seat, body deflating dramatically, head sinking to the side, silly smile still on your lips. Looking up at him through your brows, you say, “I’m having fun with you, too.”
Mingi doesn’t understand why the sentence fills his stomach with… butterflies, like you’d just said the words he’s been waiting the whole night to hear. He pushes the feeling down, shifting himself upward, finally plugging his phone into the car’s speaker system. “You ready?”
“Yes,” you nod, sitting up, pulling the seatbelt over your torso. “Drive nicely though, please, or else I might throw up.”
FOURTH OUTING: CONFERENCE GAME, SUNDAY. 7:02 PM.
Bass pumps through the stadium, so deep and booming you can feel it in your heels that touch the concrete beneath you, it vibrates through the navy blue, plastic chair you sat on. Only in a mini-skirt, your thighs sat bare against the cool, hard chair, a relief in contrast to the humid air that rudely asks you to put your hair up.
In the tenth row, just above the fifty-yard line, your view was immaculate. Just above where the players stood on the field, you could see the field, the players clearer than you ever have, Jongho always gifted you and Yeosang nosebleeds. A routine, up in the stands, guzzling beers because what else was there to do if you couldn’t see? You’d trust the commentator with a tall-boy of Miller and pretend you were enjoying it until you got drunk enough to not care, and to you, that was the true college football experience.
But here, almost eye-level with Mingi who lines up directly under center to take the snap, this was different. Dark hair covered by his kelly-green helmet, the only reason you knew it was him was because of his last name and the number eighty-eight on his back.
It mirrored the one on your back, the kelly-green jersey that offset his white one, it hung more than oversized in your body, off one shoulder, tucked into your skirt. You haven’t seen Mingi in a week, and when Yeosang delivered it to you this morning the pang of disappointment in your chest was so uncomfortable you pretended you didn’t feel it.
“Mingi gave it to Jongho who gave it to me to give to you.”
Yeosang threw the jersey onto your couch, oversized and… green. So green you looked down at the jersey then back up to Yeosang’s head of hair, a smirk crawled onto your cheeks. Yeosang squinted, “Don’t.”
“Oh, you can make fun of me, but I can’t make fun of you?” A hand on your hip, one knee bent, you exuded nothing but attitude. You took a step forward to pick the jersey off your couch, held it up in the air in front of you by the shoulders, “Can dish it out but can’t take it, huh?”
The mini-skirt in your closet you haven’t been able to face since sometime last year popped into your brain, a tall pair of boots you already started mentally picturing with the outfit. It looked good enough in the mirror, his jersey hung off your shoulder, you did a little twirl in the mirror to see how it swayed with your movement.
A smile was stamped onto your cheeks when you glanced at your back in the mirror, reading a very clear Song written above the number 88. After noticing the grin, you forced your lips flat, arms straightening at your sides. You turned back around, lips tucked in as you ran your palms over the jersey, blowing a sharp breath through curved lips, then left your bedroom once more.
You kind of missed him, which was a strange pit-in-your-stomach feeling you didn’t let yourself think too much about. You haven’t seen him in a week, not since your explosion on Wooyoung at Eonian, he’s been too busy with this game approaching, strategizing, practicing, training. Not seeing him after sharing something vulnerable with him, something you haven’t even shared with the green-headed-motherfucker in the room just to get something vulnerable in return, you felt strangely closer to him. Like maybe you two could actually be friends.
Silly thought. Silly you.
He stands crouched on the field, your chest still heaves from cheering when his name was announced throughout the stadium, excitement vibrating through you as much as when bass bled through your skin. The stadium looks bigger from down here, more open, yet there was less air to fill your lungs, to ease the discomfort in your chest.
There were messages in your DMs, more messages now than when you entered the parking lot to tailgate. You read the first ones upon your first step through the wired, silver gates, not telling Yeosang who was already slurring his words because it didn’t matter. The messages have never grown too personal, nowhere close to a threat, until today.
Don’t go to the game today.
His minions, the army assembled of Mingi-lovers who haunted your requests folder, you wonder what they’d think if they knew you weren’t really together. If they knew Mingi only looked at you affectionately in public. You wondered what they’d think if they looked at your text thread, if they saw the slew of insults you threw at each other on a daily basis, between the updates with time stamps because Mingi said it’s proof he’s busy.
Now, there were more.
Thought we told you not to go
We saw you tailgating.
Should we expose you for cheating on him?
In his jersey too, you must be fucking stupid
Drinking beer, so trashy
Don’t you think you eat enough?
A tall-boy in the cupholder across from you, a cup of cheese fries split between you and Yeosang, a fucking hotdog in your hand. This was normal, this is what you always did, what you always fucking ate when you came to these games. You looked behind you, the crowd was busy talking to each other, laughing, drinking, eating, there were no eyes on you. You couldn’t figure out who was looking at you. Who was waiting.
Unsettling isn’t the word for how uncomfortable being seen was, when you didn’t want to be.
The game begins and you attempt to force yourself into focusing. Yeosang, drunk and belligerent beside you, luckily didn’t notice your discomfort, you don’t think he’d notice if you dropped a fucking brick on his head right now. You pull out your phone when focusing proves impossible, rereading your last text thread with Mingi again, the only thing keeping you from grabbing Yeosang by the scruff and dragging him out of the stadium.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come down to the field when games over
xxx-xxx-xxxx: go down the stairs inside, tell security ur name. they should let u through
you: okay
you: play good or else ill cheer for jongho
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come on now
xxx-xxx-xxxx: whos name is on ur back
you: some guy
you: streets are calling me mrs. song
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wait that has a nice ring to it
xxx-xxx-xxxx: if u see winter let her know what her future looks like
you: i hate you
you: break a leg
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i dont think u say that for football
you: no like i hope you break your leg
xxx-xxx-xxxx: oh bro fuck u
xxx-xxx-xxxx: dont say that before a game
xxx-xxx-xxxx: asshole
you: go stretch or something stop texting me
You haven’t seen Winter, you haven’t seen Wooyoung. You didn’t see them in the parking lot, either, where you tailgated with not only Jia and Riyo, but Mingyu, Seokmin, Hoshi, Dino and Seungkwan. Nine of you taking up two parking spots, drinking beside Mingyu’s ninety-six Ford pickup, playing pong with the table he brought in the truck bed, sitting in folding chairs, watching from the roof panel.
Riyo claims they’re the only people she could convince to tailgate. You think they’re the first and only people she tried convincing, especially since she’s hooking up with Seokmin on the DL, but you’d believe there’s some truth to it just because Mingyu’s the easiest person to convince of anything on the planet. You can remember convincing him chocolate milk comes from brown cows and strawberry milk comes from pink cows– he was elated to find out photoshop-generated pink cows exist in real life.
Tall, buff, bronzy and handsome, he was the first one to refer to you as Mrs. Song with a slippery smirk and a wiggle of his brows. For the entire two hours you tailgated, you don’t think you heard your name once; like parrots, once one of them says something, the rest follow.
It was nice to be friendly with him, even if you eyed him up with a smirk of your own two or twenty times, advances only understood by him, and each time you remembered whose name and number was painted on your back and forced your face to fall.
Boring.
“That pass was,” Yeosang hiccups, “disgusting.”
You lock your phone, picking your head up, “I missed it, what happened? Disgusting good, or disgusting bad?”
“Good,” Yeosang nods, watching the game with a different, analytical eye, “Mingi’s so fucking good.”
“Do you ever miss playing?” You ask, tucking your phone into your pocket, picking up your beer to take a sip. Cringing, you wish you’d drank more at the tailgate.
“Of course,” he says like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked, “but I don’t regret quitting. Everything is better now.”
You can hear the liquor in his voice, it makes you crack a smile. Taking advantage of the situation, you lean in a little closer, “Do you miss her cheering you on?”
With his feet propped up on the empty chair in front of him, body lazily strewn in his own chair like it was deadweight, it might be, the way he only turns his head to look at you. “You don’t think she cheers for me anywhere else?”
Your top lip curls, leaning backward, putting space between you. “I don’t know if I should take that in a sexual way or not.”
Yeosang snorts loudly, head dipping back like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore, “You saw her at my show last week. She was cheering me on like she didn’t give a fuck who saw, it was awesome.”
“Good,” you nod, turning back to the field, eyes closing in on the pretty cheerleader dressed in little to nothing, green and white pompoms in her hands. Whispering, watching her, you nod again, “Good.”
Checking your phone again, you see more DMs, but you don’t open them. Ignorance is bliss, you tell yourself as you sit rigid up until halftime, where the cheers and boos from the crowd went right over your head the entire time. Twenty minutes to pee, buy another beer and more cheese fries because you should’ve eaten before you fucking came and you didn’t.
On edge, speed-walking through the crowds in the concourse, your eyes worked a mile-a-minute to scan every face you saw, to analyze if anyone was looking at you a certain way. It’s terrifying, knowing someone is watching, not knowing who, or from where. You stared above you, through the cracks in the stall doors while you peed, you kept an eye on your surroundings while you bought another beer, more cheese fries.
Maybe you should turn off your requests, you think as you sit back down in your seat, Yeosang leaned sideways with his head in his fist, eyes half-open.
“Are you alive?” You ask with a laugh as you sit down, handing him another tall-boy can, “Here, got you another beer.”
He resurrects like the second coming of Jesus, eyes wide and brows lifted like you’d woken him from hibernation. Back straightening, he grabs the can from your hand, sucking in a breath, “You’re my best friend.”
You laugh as you sit back in your seat, tucking your skirt beneath your thighs, the game had already begun again while you were up in the concourse. Peeking up at the scoreboard, seeing nine-zero clear as day, your head snaps to Yeosang, “When the fuck did that happen?”
“Mostly in the first quarter,” his voice is heavy with carbonation, he closes a fist over his mouth in an attempt to silently burp into it, a failed attempt.
You snicker at the sound, giggling through your words, “Who?”
“Haechan, Jaemin.”
“Jaemin’s a kicker?”
“Him and Felix.”
“Ah,” you nod, taking a sip of your own beer. Turning to him again, you ask, “Haechan’s the whiney one with the red hair?”
“Wide receiver,” Yeosang nods, “and a good one. Mingi’s passes are perfect, though, can’t give Hyuck all the credit.”
“Hyuck?”
“Haechan.”
“Oh,” you mumble, searching the field again. Mingi looks so much bigger with all the padding on, bulkier, you can see his chest heaving despite the layers, his run turning to a slowed drag of his legs as he walks towards the edge of the field.
Arms flexing as he pulls his helmet off his head, he shakes his hair back, running a gloved hand through the sweaty strands, away from his face. It’s like slow motion, his shoulders pushed back, lips parted, jaw clean and angular, teeth poking out from beneath his top lip.
“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, he looks hot. Fuck him.
That clean smirk lifting his lips on one side as he shakes hands with another one of his teammates, you don’t care to figure out which one, you can’t take your eyes off him. He tilts his chin up, keeping that same cocky smirk as he says something too far for your ears to catch, his eyebrows twitching upward. Shit.
Your stomach rumbles something unwelcome, a feeling of interest, sweat prickling at the back of your neck that isn’t from the humidity in the air. You know he’s hot, you knew he was hot before you started fake-dating him, you quickly remind yourself who he is. A narcissistic asshole, a misogynist, a lonely twenty-one year old that doesn’t have the freedom to make decisions for himself. One that likes spending his free time with you, one that laughs at your jokes, one that throws his arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side like there’s no other place he’d want you.
Mine.
You shake your head, turning to Yeosang again, “You know how I said I got those DMs the other day?”
Yeosang blinks in half-focus, “Kinda, why?”
“Nevermind,” you shake your head, sighing. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Can I have a fry?” He asks, giving you puppy eyes, you hand him the cup of cheese fries without looking at him.
By the grace of God, as if you fucking summoned her with damning thoughts, walking into the row before yours, sitting in the seat directly in front of Yeosang, is Winter.
Where the fuck is Wooyoung?
Yeosang stiffens, a cheese fry halfway in his mouth, he pulls his feet back down to the concrete, mumbling apologies through his already-full mouth. Winter is everything polite, she gives him a warm smile, tucking her skirt beneath her as she sits into the seat. Slowly she drags her hair to one side as she relaxes in the plastic, body not hitting the backrest, giving you a full, front-seat view of Song and 88 on her back.
Your lips part, eyes widening as you read it, you blink once, twice, six fucking times and the name and number doesn’t change. It’s a jersey bought from the school store, not official like the one on your back, but she’s fucking here, in front of you, with your boyfriend’s name and number on her fucking back.
“Excuse me,” you lean forward, heart beating out of your chest, brain spewing words onto your tongue and not one of them is nice.
She turns like she’s surprised, brows lifted, “Hm?”
“Your jersey?” You tilt your chin, what the fuck else would you be asking about?
“Oh,” she grins, cheeks pink, a hand coming up to cover her mouth like she’s fucking bashful. “I’m just a huge fan.”
“Right,” you say slowly, eyes thinned to shoot daggers, nodding like this shit does not add up.
Yeosang rests a heavy hand on your back, you turn your head to look at him still shooting missiles from your eyes and his face is twisted up to say what the fuck are you doing?!
Your face snaps back into reality, quickly straightening in your seat, pupils shaking beneath your lids and lips pursed hard enough to bruise, an embarrassing heat turns your body to lava. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing but the mortifying pulse of your own heartbeat, what are you doing? What the fuck was that? This is the whole point.
You’re going insane, that’s the only answer, the only reason for what you just did. The DMs, sitting in seats he got you because they’re the best view, having eyes on you somewhere in the crowd, remembering how he looked at you from the driver’s seat of his car, telling you to go get what you want just because you fucking want it. It's all going to your head.
You need to break up. Now.
You don’t see the rest of the game. You don’t hear the music, the sirens of triumph, the roars of the crowd, you don’t even process that they won until you’re standing up, clapping, staring out at the field with your face utterly blank. This is fear. This is real, genuine, raw fucking fear.
“Let’s go,” Yeosang is tugging on your arm and your gaze is elsewhere, confused, your mind somewhere along with it.
You tug your arm back, “Go where?”
“Down to the field?” Yeosang furrows his brows, “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” you give him a weak smile, “yeah, ‘m fine.”
You’re gliding up the stairs into the concourse, fuzzy finding the staircase to lead you back down, you’re shaking your head, trying to snap yourself out of it before you reach the bottom platform. There’s a man shuffling around like he was waiting for bodies to approach, earpiece connecting to a small black box clipped onto his slacks, a black polo to match, his face reading focus, professionalism. You mumble yours and Yeosang’s names and he lets you through with a stretch of his arm, you heave another breath when the LED lights come into view at the end of the tunnel.
The field is vast, it’s warmer down here, the air is wet. Bodies seem to cover every inch of sideline, cameras, lights, people with clipboards and hats on their head with your university’s logo, you’re too aware of your fingers at your sides.
You spot him and he’s smiling, laughing as he talks to an interviewer, already standing before a camera, it makes your heart drop to your asshole. You shuffle closer to Yeosang who’s already on the hunt for Jongho, you’re sure he doesn’t want to be caught down here by his old coach or any of the staff, if they’d even recognize his bright green hair.
“You’re down here?” Jongho finds you before you find him, brows furrowed, hair sweaty and chest heaving, he wears confused brows and a winded smile.
Chest puffed from padding, sweat dribbling down his forearms that aren’t covered by nylon, you actually feel a semblance of relief when you see him. “Mingi invited me, I wasn’t coming without Yeo.”
“Oh,” his smile spreads, “how was it?”
Yeosang claps his hand, throwing another on his shoulder, “You’re a fucking boulder, wish I was down here with you.”
Jongho looks confused, “Are you drunk?”
Your eyes travel, landing on Mingi, who catches you just as you look over. You see him brighten, smile widening, a sparkle in his eyes that makes your stomach do flips. Fuck.
You watch him mouth the words excuse me, nodding his head before escaping the press, running over to you with that stupid fucking smile you might have seen in your dream last night.
“You came!” He yells when he gets close enough to pull you into his chest, acting as if his sweat didn’t soak through his padding. Huge, massive, he swallows you, it makes your knees weak.
You verbally cringe, muttering a noise of disgust before pulling away, “I was right, you smell like wet dog.”
“Beautiful woman,” he corrects, face reading amusement, “like you in my jersey, green looks good on you, princess.”
Your eyes meet the turf beneath your boots, “You don’t have to say that, no one can hear you, Mingi.”
“Damn, no insulting rebuttal?” The more he looks at you the more his smile falters. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
You look up at him through your brows, surprise written on your face as you take in the concern on his. He can tell? You shake your head, plastering a fake smile on your cheeks, “I’m great, I’m fine, I’m good. Did you hear me cheering?”
“For me?” He’s cheesing, excited like a little kid.
You laugh a little, tucking your hair behind your ear, “Duh, you told me I had to since I’m wearing your jersey.”
“Let me see,” he pulls his arm from where it laid over your shoulder back to his side, “do a little twirl for me, smart girl.”
The heat on your cheeks is molten, you roll your eyes as you make a ponytail in your fist, twirling to give him full access of him on your back.
He cheers, woo-ing loud and shameless, his smile takes over his entire face. “Wow, look at you, like a real-life WAG.”
“What’s a WAG?”
He shakes his head, “Means you’re mine.”
Mine.
You panic, words spilling from your lips, “Guess who else is in your jersey.”
His smile falls, body going still with knowing disbelief, “No.”
You force a tight-lipped smile, nodding, “Yup.”
“Oh my god!” Yeosang cuts you off, loud and obnoxious. Now he chooses to get rowdy? “I almost forgot, you guys should take pictures.”
In boyfriend mode again, Mingi’s gloved palm finds the small of your back, coming to your side when you twist around to look at Yeosang, face screaming no. Yeosang giggles, a nasty little smirk on his lips that tells you he’s playing the game, too, maybe better than you are at this point.
He pulls his phone from his back pocket, “Come on, pose.”
You look at Mingi, uneasy. He shrugs, unbothered. Hand tighter around your waist, he leans into you, smiling. You try to force light into your eyes, doing your best to grin like a proud girlfriend, not that these pictures would ever see the light of day.
“Cute,” Yeosang crouches, “move over, the lighting is weird.”
You huff, but move in the direction Yeosang’s pointed palm is ushering you in, Mingi following, the both of you quiet. Too aware of where you are, eyes, cameras, lights— it’s overstimulating just having his fucking hand on you, his body pressed to yours.
Yeosang eyes you over the top of his phone screen, flashing something mischievous, “Now kiss.”
“What?” There’s barely a moment between his order and your reaction. Mingi stiffens beside you, you think you’ve gone cold, you think you might drop dead on the turf.
“Kiss!” Yeosang nearly whines, “Come on, what are you, children? One kiss for a picture, you’ll thank me for it later.”
Your jaw drops. Blinking at him, stuttering a rebuttal, head shaking and a hand moving to wave in front of you out of denial, Mingi speaks before you do.
“Okay.”
“Huh?!” You look at him like he’s insane.
He shoots daggers, eyes bouncing back and forth between you and Yeosang as if to say don’t blow our cover. Little does he know, Yeosang was present when the plan was fucking formed.
“No,” the shake of your head is final, “absolutely not.”
“One kiss,” Mingi argues, “it would be a cute picture.”
You whisper, “Why are you encouraging this?”
He shrugs, his smile effortlessly stupid, “It’s just one kiss.”
Your eyes lower to his lips for a split second. Round, plump, pink, wet with spit from his tongue that glides over them seamlessly, there’s an anxious pit in your stomach, your fight or flight kicks in.
He uses the angle in which you turned, one hand sliding to your waist, the other on your jaw, tilting your head upward. Warm, his touch delicate, you feel your heart in your throat as he leans in, kissing you with a softness no one has ever kissed you with.
You’ve been someone’s situationship, friends with benefits, fuckbuddy— all things that require a disconnection to function, a wall you were far too good at putting up, keeping stable. You’ve been kissed with haste, with fervor, just to add a touch of romanticism because the rest that followed lacked respect in its purest form.
This was different. It wasn’t a peck, your lips parted for him, your body melted into him, his hand on your jaw was guiding, grounding, his gloved thumb swiped along your skin like he fucking meant it. He tasted clean, like he just drank a gallon of water, still fresh on his plump lips that tucked yours in like they belonged there. It's not right, it’s not right but it’s working and you’re fucking terrified.
He pulls away just as softly as he leaned in, a dopey smile stretching his lips wide. Keeping himself close, he hums, “See? Just a kiss.”
You don’t realize your fingers wrapped around his forearm, or that your spine bent towards him. Breath shaky, grip iron, your eyes flicker upward and even the way he’s looking at you is different.
You swallow down your discombobulation just enough to utter, “We need to break up. Now.”
