summary: she was a one night stand until he saved her life now they’re bound for eternity
warning: dom yunho, sub reader, oral, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, spitting, choking, squirting, breeding, creampie, mentions of death
genre: dark romance, supernatural
pairing: prince of hell yunho x afab human reader
word count: 6.1k
chp 2 coming soon
masterlist
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The apartment door practically slammed open. The hinges creaking loudly in the old exterior as rain poured outside and thunderous booms echoed as flashes of lightning decorated the sky. It was as if mother nature herself was lashing out at what was happening.
“Fuck…” His lips moved to her neck as tossed his jacket off and lifted her, pinning her to the wall. “I need to taste you.” Normally, Yunho wouldn’t beg. Being a 400 year old demon prince, he’s used to getting what he wanted but something about her…. he’d drop to his knees if he had to. “No one is stopping you.” She smirked and a deep, primal growl rumbled from Yunho’s chest the second those words left her lips and his grip on her thighs tightened, fingers digging into her thighs as he pulled her harder against him. “Where’s your bedroom?” he demanded, voice low and rough like gravel dragged over silk.
“Down the hall… across from the bathroom,” she breathed, barely finishing before he was already moving. He carried her like she weighed nothing, long strides eating up the distance while she stayed pressed to his chest and her legs locked around his waist. The door to her bedroom swung open with a kick and he dropped her onto the mattress and started following her down immediately to claim her mouth again in a bruising kiss as his hands worked fast but deliberately to yank the ripped jean shorts down her legs and tossing them aside before he peeled the black tank top she had on upward, exposing smooth skin inch by inch. The bra came next, unclasped with a flick of his fingers, not that she could see that, and dragged it down her arms.
Yunho didn’t rush the reveal. He lowered his mouth to her breasts, kissing the swell of each one before his tongue dragged slow, wet circles around her nipples. He sucked one between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to make her arch, then switched to the other, nipping and leaving faint red marks that would darken later as his hands slid under her, lifting her body higher up the bed until her head rested against the pillows. “Ride me,” he growled, the command vibrating through the air between them and in one swift motion he hooked his fingers into her panties and stripped them off before dragging her forward until her thighs straddled his face.
He held her there with an iron grip on her hips, mouth opening wide to devour her pussy. His tongue thrust deep inside her without warning, fucking into her with wet, obscene sounds while he growled against her. “Fuck, this pussy… best I’ve ever tasted,” he rasped between licks, the words carrying centuries of experience she couldn’t possibly understand. He sucked her clit, tongue flicking rapidly until her thighs shook and she came hard on his face but Yunho didn’t let her lift off. He kept her pinned, licking every drop clean with long, slow strokes until she whimpered from oversensitivity. Only then did he release her, pulling her down his body while his mouth trailed kisses across her stomach and sides.
He sat up just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, then shoved his pants and underwear down, kicking his shoes off in the process and let her look. Her eyes dropped immediately to his dick, thick, heavy, and already leaking at the tip. It twitched under her gaze, veins prominent along the length. She reached for him without thinking, sliding off the bed to kneel between his legs, reaching and wrapping her hand around the base, stroking upward in a slow glide before her tongue followed the same path, licking from balls to tip with deliberate patience.
She barely had time to open her mouth before Yunho’s hand caught her jaw. “Open,” he ordered and she obeyed, watching as he leaned down and spat directly onto her tongue and watching her swallow the offering before he released her and she dove back in, lips stretching around his dick as she took him deeper, pulling off only to drag her tongue over his balls, sucking one gently before returning to fuck her own mouth on him. Spit ran down her chin, the wet sounds filling the room along with his low groans but just as his breathing grew ragged, Yunho pulled her off by the hair.
He dragged her back onto the bed, kissing her hard while his hand slipped between her legs. One finger pushed inside her soaked pussy, curling against her walls. “So fucking wet… all for me.” He pulled his finger free and held it up between them and she leaned in without hesitation, sucking it clean making Yunho’s grin sharpen. “Good girl.” She kissed him again, desperate now. “I need you inside me.” Another growl tore from his throat before he flipped her onto her stomach, one hand running down the length of her spine before gripping her ass hard enough to leave prints.
His dick slid between her cheeks, dragging slowly, then lower to tease her clit with the head. Then without further warning he thrusted in deep in one smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt making her cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets as her walls stretched around him, clenching tight as Yunho moaned low, hips already rolling. “Fucking made for me,” he hissed, starting slow and deep before gradually increasing the pace. Her begging came soon after, broken pleas, “harder….. please…. faster…” and he gave it to her, pounding into her with bruising force, the bed frame slamming against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts.
One hand fisted in her hair, yanking her upright against his chest and he held her there, fucking up into her relentlessly while his free hand slid around to rub her clit. The orgasm hit her hard making her shake violently, screaming as she squirted around him. But once again Yunho didn’t stop. He kept driving into her through the aftershocks until a second rushed climax tore through her, leaving her limp and gasping. He eased her down onto the mattress, pulling out only to flip her onto her back, eyes raking over her flushed body, settling on her soaked pussy. His thumb brushed gently over her swollen clit. “Can you still keep going?”
Breathless, she met his gaze. “If you don’t get back inside me and come… you can go to hell.” Yunho’s grin widened, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. She had no idea how literal that statement was. He spread her thighs wide, tapping his dick against her sensitive clit a few times. “Knock knock,” he teased, voice dripping with heat before he sank back inside her in one long thrust and her legs wrapped around his waist instantly, pulling him deeper.
He moved slower at first, savoring the tight heat of her and the way her walls clenched him, one hand sliding up to wrap around her throat and her own hands followed, gripping his wrist as he began pounding into her again. She squirted again, the wet gush soaking his him and the sheets beneath them making Yunho groan in approval, hips never faltering. “I’m gonna have to have you again… and again… and again… fuck…” He was pussy drunk, completely addicted to the way she clenched around him, to every sound she made. How she begged him to come inside her, voice hoarse and desperate making Yunho tighten his fingers just slightly around her throat. “Yeah? You want me to breed you? Ruin you for anyone else?”
He released her neck and folded her legs back into a deep mating press, folding her nearly in half. The new angle let him drive even deeper, pounding into her with brutal precision and all she could do was whimper his name, overwhelmed and crying from the intensity as her final orgasm crashed through her just as Yunho buried himself to the hilt and came hard, flooding her with him and stayed locked inside her through every pulse, grinding deep until he was empty.
When he finally collapsed beside her, both of them were breathless, bodies slick with sweat as she curled into his chest without thinking and he pulled her closer, already feeling the hunger stir again despite the exhaustion. They were ruined completely, thoroughly and already wanting more.
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Monday arrived wrapped in a deceptively perfect California afternoon. The storm that had rattled Los Angeles for two nights and had vanished without a trace, leaving behind endless blue skies and sunlight that bounced off the glass towers downtown. Traffic crawled below in its usual symphony of impatient horns, helicopters drifting lazily overhead chasing whatever celebrity scandal had become today’s headline, and somewhere down on Sunset Boulevard, people carried on as though the world had never stopped spinning.
From the floor to ceiling windows of a luxury penthouse overlooking the city, Yunho watched it all in silence. He’d owned the apartment for nearly seventy years. Before that, it had belonged to another building entirely. Before that, there had been nothing but empty hills. He’d watched Los Angeles grow upward one decade at a time until the skyline barely resembled the city he’d first wandered into centuries ago.
His fingers rested loosely around a crystal glass filled with whiskey, though he’d barely touched it. The amber liquid caught the afternoon light as he leaned one shoulder against the window, silver hair falling across his forehead. He looked every bit the successful businessman any human would expect to find living in a place like this. Only the faint pulse of infernal magic humming beneath his skin betrayed what he truly was.
His thoughts, much to his irritation, had wandered somewhere else entirely however. A tiny apartment. Rain hammering against old windows. A woman with absolutely no sense of self preservation. He could still hear her voice after she’d told him to go to hell if he didn’t get back inside her and the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. “Ironic,” he muttered beneath his breath. Four hundred years. Thousands of faces. Kings. Queens. Artists. Warriors. Lovers whose names had long since been forgotten by history. Yet somehow… the woman who worked nights at a club in Los Angeles had managed to occupy more of his thoughts in forty eight hours than most people had in decades.
Ridiculous.
He pushed away from the window, draining the rest of the whiskey before setting the glass on the marble counter. He should’ve gone back already. There wasn’t any reason to remain on Earth. Not really…….
a familiar ripple rolled through the room, invisible to any human eye as the air bent inward as though reality itself had exhaled. Yunho didn’t bother turning around. Instead he sighed. “Let me guess…” he said dryly. “Dad thinks I’ve been up here too long again?”
A soft chuckle answered him. “You always know it’s me.”
Yunho finally looked over his shoulder to the demon standing in the middle of the penthouse as though he’d always belonged there. Seonghwa. Unlike Yunho, Seonghwa made no effort to pretend humanity fascinated him. Everything about him carried quiet refinement. His black coat fell perfectly over tailored clothes, not a wrinkle to be found, and his posture remained impossibly straight. There was an ageless elegance to him, the kind earned only after centuries of existing. Six hundred years had sanded away any impulsiveness he might’ve once possessed, leaving behind someone whose calm could make even the oldest demons uncomfortable. He was one of the few beings Lucifer trusted without reservation. Which, in Hell, was saying something.
Yunho folded his arms across his chest. “So?”
“So…” Seonghwa replied with the ghost of a smile, “Lucifer doesn’t particularly care how long you’ve been on Earth.”
“He doesn’t?”
“No.”
“Huh.”
“He does, however, require your assistance.”
“There it is.”
Seonghwa ignored the comment with practiced ease. “There’s a man in Laguna Beach.” Yunho groaned before Seonghwa had even finished. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I literally know what you’re about to say.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“He wants fame.”
“He does.”
“He thinks selling his soul is easier than developing talent.”
“He does.”
Yunho pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate these.” Seonghwa’s lips threatened another smile. “I know.”
“They’re always the same.”
“They usually are.”
“They never ask for something interesting.”
Seonghwa tilted his head slightly. “What would you consider interesting?” Yunho walked toward the kitchen, opening the refrigerator more out of habit than necessity before closing it again. “I don’t know. World peace. The cure for cancer. Maybe someone wants to become the greatest violinist in history.”
“And instead?”
“They want followers.”
“Millions of them.”
“They want money.”
“Lots of it.”
“They want everyone to love them.”
“And nobody ever specifies why.”
Seonghwa gave a single approving nod. “You’ve conducted enough bargains.”
“I’ve conducted too many.” Silence settled between them for a moment before Yunho glanced toward the skyline again. “What’s his name?” Seonghwa reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a small leather bound book. Not paper. Human skin. The pages turned on their own before stopping halfway through and he glanced down briefly. “Ethan Holloway.” Yunho sighed as Seonghwa started reading. “Twenty seven. Aspiring musician. Convinced social media algorithms are personally conspiring against him.” Yunho looked at him flatly. “You’re making that last part up.”
“I wish I were.”
A reluctant laugh escaped Yunho before he shook his head. “And what exactly does his infernal majesty need from me? Surely someone this… uninspired could be handled by a lesser collector.”
“He requested you.”
That made Yunho pause. “He… requested me?”
“He specifically asked for the Prince of Hell.”
Now that was unusual. Humans almost never knew enough to make requests like that. Yunho’s expression sharpened ever so slightly. “Why?” Seonghwa closed the ledger. “Because he believes the Devil’s son grants better bargains. And because the internet has become… surprisingly creative.”
Yunho stared at him. “You’re telling me conspiracy forums have reached Hell.”
“They’ve reached everyone.”
For the first time that afternoon, genuine amusement lit Yunho’s face. “That’s unfortunate.”
“It truly is.”
Yunho slipped on a black jacket draped over the back of a chair, adjusting the cuffs with practiced ease. “Fine.” His keys disappeared into his pocket. “I’ll meet our future celebrity.” Seonghwa gave a single nod before adding, almost casually, “And afterward…”
“Hm?”
“Lucifer would like you to return home.”
Yunho hesitated only briefly before looking toward the glittering city stretched beneath the afternoon sun. Something in his chest resisted the idea. He couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t duty keeping him here. It wasn’t curiosity. At least… that’s what he kept telling himself as his gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the neighborhood where one very ordinary woman would probably be getting ready for another shift at the club in a few hours and frowned. “Yeah,” he murmured quietly, more to himself than Seonghwa. “Afterward.”
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Lunch with Tiffany was never cheap. That was the first thought that crossed Y/N’s mind as she stepped out onto the rooftop terrace overlooking downtown Los Angeles, one hand shielding her eyes from the bright October sun while the hostess led them toward a table near the glass railing. Six months ago, she’d have talked Tiffany out of it entirely. Today, she’d stopped trying. Tiffany had expensive taste, an appreciation for rooftop restaurants with menus that didn’t list prices until the bill came, and an irritating habit of insisting she was treating whenever Y/N complained.
The city stretched endlessly beyond them, sunlight glinting off skyscrapers that seemed close enough to touch. Down below, traffic crawled through the streets in familiar LA fashion, horns occasionally drifting upward on the warm breeze. It was almost impossible to believe that for two nights rain had flooded the streets and thunder had rattled windows hard enough to wake half the city. Y/N slid into her chair and opened the menu for all of three seconds before immediately closing it again. “Every single time you bring me somewhere like this,” she muttered, setting it back on the table, “I become painfully aware that we do the exact same job and somehow have wildly different bank accounts.”
Tiffany didn’t even bother looking up from across from her as she adjusted the oversized sunglasses resting on top of her red hair. “The difference is I don’t buy coffee every morning.” No. The difference was her daddy was a big time lawyer and gave her money whenever she wanted.
“I buy one coffee.”
“You buy three coffees.”
“They’re emotional support coffees.”
“They’re financial mistakes.”
“They’re necessities.”
“They’re why you’re still living in that shoebox apartment.”
Y/N clicked her tongue. “I liked you better five minutes ago.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Fair.”
The server appeared to take their drink orders before disappearing again, leaving the two women alone beneath the shade of a cream colored umbrella. For a few minutes the conversation stayed comfortably ordinary, bouncing from work gossip to complaints about Saturday night’s crowd at the club. They laughed about one of the bartenders nearly dropping an entire tray of drinks on a bachelor party, rolled their eyes over a regular customer who’d once again insisted he knew the owner and briefly debated whether the new DJ had somehow managed to make every song sound exactly the same.
Then Tiffany’s expression changed. It was subtle. One eyebrow lifted and her smile turned knowing as she folded her hands together on the table and looked directly at Y/N. “So…” Y/N sighed before Tiffany had even finished the word. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I absolutely do.”
Tiffany leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Then answer it.”
“I’m not answering a question you haven’t asked.”
“You’ve been brushing it off for two days.”
Y/N reached for the glass of water the server had just set down, taking a long drink that accomplished absolutely nothing except delaying the inevitable. “I haven’t been brushing anything off.”
“You disappeared Saturday night.”
“I left.”
“You left,” Tiffany repeated slowly, “with the hot blonde.” Y/N stared into her water for another second before finally letting out an exaggerated sigh. “His name was Yunho.” Tiffany blinked once. Then twice. Then pointed a finger across the table like she’d just solved the easiest mystery of her life. “You slut.” Y/N rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Oh, please.”
“You fucked him.”
Y/N opened her mouth to deny it but instead she bit down on her bottom lip and the corners of her mouth betrayed her almost immediately, a grin creeping across her face despite every attempt to suppress it making Tiffany’s eyes widen. “Oh.” Y/N looked away toward the skyline, shaking her head to herself. “Oh,” Tiffany repeated, this time with enough realization in her voice to make Y/N laugh quietly under her breath as Tiffany gasped dramatically, one hand flying to her chest. “Oh… he gave you the good dick.”
Y/N nearly choked on her water. “Oh my God,” she hissed between laughs, looking around to make sure nobody nearby had heard. “Would you keep your voice down?”
“I knew it.”
“You knew nothing.”
“I know that smile.”
“There is no smile.”
“There is a massive smile.”
Y/N rubbed a hand over her face, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the amusement away. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m right.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I’m still right.”
Y/N let out another sigh, this one quieter, before resting her elbows on the table. “It wasn’t supposed to be… memorable.”
“But?”
“But…” A small laugh escaped her. “He was…” She searched for the word. “Different.” Tiffany didn’t interrupt this time. “He actually listened when I talked. Like… genuinely listened. Didn’t spend the whole night trying to impress me. Didn’t brag about himself. Didn’t act like buying me a drink meant I owed him something.” She absentmindedly traced the condensation on her water glass with her fingertip. “We just… talked.”
“And then?”
“And then we went back to my place.”
Tiffany nodded knowingly. “And?”
Y/N shook her head with a quiet groan. “And now I can’t stop comparing him to every other guy I’ve ever slept with, which is incredibly inconvenient.” A laugh burst out of Tiffany before she reached across the table and patted Y/N’s hand. “Honey…”
“What?”
“I don’t think your problem is that the sex was good.”
Y/N frowned.
“I think your problem is that you actually liked him.”
Y/N immediately scoffed. “No.”
“No?”
“It was one night.”
“But?”
“There isn’t a but.”
Tiffany simply gave her a look and Y/N held it for exactly three seconds before looking away toward the skyline again. “He is probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” she admitted under her breath and hesitating a moment before admitting. “And definitely the best sex I’ve ever had.” Tiffany leaned back in her chair wearing the most self satisfied grin imaginable. “I knew it.”
“I hate that you knew it.”
“No,” Tiffany said with a laugh as their lunch finally arrived, setting steaming plates between them. “You hate that some ridiculously gorgeous stranger walked into your life for one night… and somehow ruined every man who comes after him.”
Y/N reached for a fry, pointing it accusingly across the table. “I am never telling you anything again.”
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The black charger purred to a stop, the engine falling quiet beneath the distant chorus of traffic and the occasional impatient blare of a horn. Yunho stepped out a second later, shutting the driver’s door with a soft click before adjusting the cuff of his black jacket. The afternoon sun hung high overhead, warming the sidewalks just enough to erase any lingering memories of the storm. His day had been, thankfully, uneventful. As expected. Ethan Holloway had proven to be every bit the cliché Seonghwa had promised.
The aspiring musician had answered the knock on his apartment door with bloodshot eyes, two days’ worth of stubble, and the unmistakable scent of desperation clinging to him stronger than cheap whiskey ever could. Yunho hadn’t even bothered pretending to be human for long. One moment he’d been standing in the cramped Laguna Beach apartment. The next… his body dissolved into a swirling cloud of black smoke that rolled across the living room floor like ink spilled into water before reforming directly behind the stunned man again. The glamour had slipped just enough. The polished black horns curling from either side of his head, eyes black. A smile that was just a little too sharp. Humans always believed in the impossible right before they signed their souls away.
The contract had appeared between his fingers with a flick of his wrist and Ethan had barely read a single sentence. “You’ll make me famous?”
“I will.”
“Worldwide?”
“If that’s what you desire.”
“And all I have to do is sign?”
Yunho had smiled. “Everyone always asks that question after they’ve already decided.” The pen touched the paper and infernal ink spread across the page. The bargain sealed itself with a pulse of crimson light before vanishing into black embers. Another soul accounted for. Another lifetime traded for a dream. Yunho had offered a polite nod, dissolved once more into smoke, and reappeared beside his car overlooking downtown Los Angeles before Ethan had even realized he’d forgotten to ask what happened when his time eventually ran out.
People rarely cared about consequences while they still believed they had decades left to worry about them. Now he intended to reward himself. He glanced across the street toward the restaurant, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as he slipped his keys into his pocket and stepped away from his car, waiting at the crosswalk as the pedestrian signal remained stubbornly red. Then… he felt it. Not heard. Not saw. Felt. Ancient magic brushing against his senses like the first cold breeze before a winter storm.
Yunho’s smile faded as he slowly turned his head and saw standing perfectly still on the sidewalk directly outside the restaurant was a woman dressed in robes darker than midnight itself. No human acknowledged her existence. People walked around her without realizing they were doing it. A businessman passed so close his shoulder should’ve collided with hers, yet somehow drifted harmlessly aside at the last possible second as though reality itself refused to allow contact. Her hands rested calmly before her. Her hood was lowered with dark hair framing a face that looked neither young nor old. At her side rested the long obsidian handle of a scythe.
A Reaper.
Yunho exhaled through his nose. “Well.” The Reaper’s eyes shifted toward him with no surprise in them. Only recognition as Yunho shoved both hands into the pockets of his coat before glancing toward the restaurant, then back at her, a snort escaping him. “Please tell me this place isn’t going to burn down.” The Reaper remained silent. “At least not until I get my order,” he continued with a dramatic sigh. “They have my favorite fries here.”
The reaper remained silent until, almost imperceptibly, one corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile but more…. the acknowledgment of a joke she’d heard from him a hundred times before. “You always make light of it.”
“I’ve had four centuries to work on my material.”
“And it hasn’t improved.”
“Ouch.” The pedestrian light changed and people urged into the crosswalk around them. Neither immortal moved as Yunho tilted his head slightly. “So…”
“So.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re standing outside a restaurant in the middle of the afternoon.”
“I am.”
“Which means somebody inside has an appointment.”
“Yes.”
“Soon?”
She nodded once and Yunho sighed again, this time with genuine disappointment. “Damn.” His stomach chose that exact moment to remind him why he’d stopped in the first place and he looked longingly toward the restaurant. “Any chance I can still grab the fries first?”
“No.”
“Cruel.”
“It’s my profession.”
“I thought your profession was escorting souls.”
“I can do both.”
Yunho clicked his tongue. “I liked you better three hundred years ago.”
“You’ve never liked me.”
“I tolerated you more enthusiastically.”
For the first time, something resembling amusement flickered across the reaper’s otherwise unreadable face before it vanished almost immediately and her gaze drifted toward the restaurant entrance. Yunho followed it, though from where he stood all he could see was the steady stream of patrons coming and going beneath the awning. Then the first tremor. It was so slight that most people mistook it for a passing truck but Yunho didn’t.
The vibration rolled beneath his polished shoes like something enormous had shifted beneath the earth itself. The pavement quivered once, barely enough to ripple the puddle collected near the curb after the storm, before settling again into uneasy stillness as his head lifted. But the reaper didn’t move. She simply watched the restaurant with the same unreadable expression she’d worn since he’d arrived. “That wasn’t normal,” Yunho murmured.
“It has begun.”
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Three floors above the street, Y/N and Tiffany had just stepped away from their table. Lunch was over, the bill reluctantly paid after Y/N spent a solid minute complaining about the price of fries that somehow cost eighteen dollars. “I’m telling you,” she muttered as they crossed the rooftop patio toward the stairwell. “If somebody serves me ketchup in a porcelain bowl one more time, I’m starting a riot.” Tiffany laughed, nudging her shoulder. “You still ate all the fries.”
“They were really good.”
“They always are.”
Y/N pulled open the heavy stairwell door, the cool concrete replacing the warmth of the rooftop as they began making their way down. They’d barely reached the first landing when the second tremor hit and the entire stairwell lurched sideways with a deafening groan of twisting steel. “What the….” The lights flickered violently and concrete dust rained from the ceiling as a deep, thunderous rumble rolled through the building, growing louder by the second.
The handrail shook beneath Y/N’s grip then everything began moving. The floor. The walls. The stairs. The entire building swayed with terrifying force as people screamed. “It’s an earthquake!” someone yelled somewhere below and Y/N’s eyes widened. “Tiff!”
“I’m here!”
She grabbed Tiffany’s wrist without thinking. “We have to get out. Now!” The two women stumbled down the stairs together as the building bucked beneath them. Every step became a fight for balance. Somewhere above them, glass exploded and the sound echoed through the stairwell as a woman cried and someone else shouted for their child.
The shaking only intensified as they burst through the second floor exit into the restaurant below and into complete chaos. Tables overturned. Wine bottles shattered across the floor. Ceiling lights swung wildly overhead as people shoved toward every visible exit, trampling chairs beneath their feet in blind panic. “This way!” Y/N shouted over the noise, still pulling Tiffany behind her as another violent jolt ripped through the structure making a support beam overhead crack with a sound like a gunshot.
The floor dipped beneath their feet as a section of reinforcement steel tore free from the ceiling, driven downward with horrifying force. Y/N barely registered the movement. One second Tiffany was beside her. The next….. the beam crashed between them and the impact threw Y/N backward as splintered wood and concrete erupted through the dining room. “Tiffany!” Her voice caught in her throat because the steel had struck Tiffany before either of them could react.
For one impossible, frozen heartbeat, neither woman moved. Y/N simply stared as her mind refused to understand what her eyes were seeing. “Tiff…” Another explosion of cracking concrete ripped through the floor beneath her feet and the building groaned. The sound finally snapped her back to herself. “No…” The section of floor beneath Tiffany began collapsing inward and Y/N stumbled forward. “Tiffany!”
Another violent shake sent a rain of glass cascading from every remaining window as the room tilted and the floor split open. Survival took over and Y/N stumbled backward just as the ground where she’d been standing disappeared into darkness. She turned and ran. Not because she wanted to. But because there was nothing else she could do. She reached the massive floor to ceiling windows overlooking the street below, desperately searching for any way out.
The city had become complete pandemonium. Cars sat at impossible angles. Traffic lights swung overhead. People flooded the sidewalks. The pavement rippled beneath the city as skyscrapers swayed against the skyline and windows burst outward. People poured from surrounding buildings as Yunho’s gaze shot upward back to the restaurant. The glass facade reflected the chaos until…..
Y/N.
His stomach dropped. “No.” Beside him, the Reaper finally spoke, voice remaining calm despite the world collapsing around them. “Should a demon preserve that which fate has harvested… the savior shall forever carry the burden of the saved.”
Yunho’s jaw tightened. “I know.” The words came out through clenched teeth. He knew every syllable. Every consequence. He knew exactly what would happen as above them, the building gave one final, deafening groan before the entire western side began folding inward and Y/N disappeared behind a wall of collapsing concrete.
Yunho moved. His body dissolved into a violent cloud of black smoke that tore across the street faster than the eye could follow. The glamour shattered. Silver hair whipped around glossy black horns as infernal shadows exploded through the collapsing floors and he reformed inside the dying building. Concrete rained around him and steel screamed as the floor vanished beneath his feet. Then he saw her, stood frozen, trapped between the collapsing wall and the shattered windows, staring at him in complete disbelief. There was no time. He crossed the distance in a heartbeat, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulled her tightly against his chest.
Then everything disappeared into darkness. The building collapsed. Thousands of tons of steel and concrete crashed into themselves in an earth shaking roar, swallowing the restaurant in a cloud of dust that rolled through downtown like a tidal wave as half a block away, black smoke erupted from empty air and Yunho and Y/N stumbled onto the cracked pavement together.
Y/N’s knees nearly gave out as she clutched at the front of his jacket, coughing through the dust, every breath shaking. For several long seconds she couldn’t process what had just happened. The screams. The collapse. Tiffany. Then she looked up. Really looked and he breath caught. “Yunho?” He didn’t answer. His gaze had already lifted beyond her shoulder….
The reaper still stood untouched by dust. Untouched by chaos as she inclined her head once. “The Covenant has witnessed.”
Yunho shut his eyes and his shoulders sagged with the weight of four centuries pressing down all at once. “Fuck.” Dust rolled through the ruined street in suffocating waves, swallowing the afternoon sunlight until everything looked washed in gray. Sirens had already begun somewhere in the distance, their cries growing louder with every passing second, while the screams of survivors echoed from every direction and Y/N still clutched the front of Yunho’s jacket with trembling fingers. “Yunho?” His attention remained fixed on the reaper. The Covenant had witnessed. Four hundred years. Four hundred years of never once crossing the line. Gone. Just like that.
A sharp hiss escaped Y/N. “Ow…” She released his jacket, grabbing at her left wrist as a searing heat exploded beneath her skin. It wasn’t the sting of a cut or the ache of a bruise. It was deeper. Like molten metal had been poured directly into her veins. “What the fuck…”
Yunho’s head snapped down. “No…” The word barely left his lips before he felt it too. Not pain. Recognition. The inside of his own wrist ignited with the same infernal heat as Y/N cried out, staring in disbelief as impossibly thin black lines began spreading beneath her skin. They branched outward like living ink, twisting and weaving together with unsettling precision. But the lines didn’t stop. They curved. Folded. Connected. Until an elegant symbol slowly revealed itself.
A single black horn.
Its shape unmistakably echoed the royal horns now curling from either side of Yunho’s head. It sat over the pulse of her wrist as though it had always belonged there. “No…” Yunho whispered again as his own wrist burned brighter. He looked down just in time to watch another design emerge beneath his own skin. Not a horn. A feather. Long. Elegant. Its delicate barbs etched in the same flowing black lines that formed Y/N’s mark.
Human.
Demon.
The symbols stared back at one another from opposite wrists like two halves of the same ancient promise. Then came the runes. They spiraled outward around each mark in perfect circles, ancient infernal script carving itself into flesh with molten golden light as Y/N watched in horror. “What… what language is that?” Yunho couldn’t answer. Because he could read every word. Every single one. By blood preserved… Another rune burned itself into place. By fate denied… More appeared. Two souls… The circle completed itself.
…bound beyond death.
The final rune flared so brightly it forced both of them to shield their eyes and for one blinding heartbeat, the symbols glowed like liquid gold before the infernal script dissolved. The light vanished beneath their skin, leaving behind only the completed marks, matte black, as though they’d been tattooed there years ago. Silence enveloped them. Even the sounds of the collapsing city seemed impossibly distant as Y/N slowly lowered her wrist, staring first at the strange black horn etched over her pulse… then at Yunho.
Really looking at him for the first time since he’d pulled her from the collapsing building and her eyes traveled upward. Past the silver hair she’d spent two days thinking about. Past the face she’d convinced herself she’d never see again. Until they stopped on the glossy black horns rising from his head and her breathing caught.
She looked from the horns… to the mark on her wrist and back again. “What the hell is going on?”
Yunho didn’t answer at first. His gaze remained fixed on the horn branded into her skin, the reality of what he’d done settling over him with crushing finality. The reaper’s form was already beginning to dissolve into drifting ash, her duty complete. And before the last trace of her disappeared, Yunho heard the faint whisper of robes carried on the wind. Then… nothing. Only then did Yunho let out a slow, weary breath as his eyes finally lifted to meet Y/N’s. “The keyword…” he said quietly, a humorless smile touching the corner of his mouth despite everything….
pairing: coworker!teez x reader (member-by-member)
tags/genre: office au, coworker au, smut
word count: 2.3k words
synopsis: there's nothing worse than being left behind at the office, late on a friday night when everyone else is long gone and enjoying the start of their weekend. luckily, you weren't the only one and a certain coworker might be able to ease some of your frustrations ...
notes: 18+ content (mdni)! based on this request—for future ref, if the scenarios are a bit more specific like this one, i'll keep it to drabbles and the big ideas will be member oneshots! ENJOY A LIL OFFICE TENSION TEEHEHEHE
hongjoong
when hongjoong told you that you needed to stay back to help him submit your team proposal to corporate, you were just about ready to pull your hair out. a friday night wasted on reviewing reports and financial analyses instead of at one of your favorite bars, surrounded by your friends and good music.
disappointment quickly flew out of the window when he had you pinned against the glass wall of his office, your legs wrapped around his waist and his teeth latched onto your earlobe with a low groan.
"i'm guessing we're not working tonight?" you ask breathlessly, fumbling to grip onto the fabric of his shirt to steady yourself.
"mm," hongjoong hums as he carries you to his desk at the center of the office. he lays you back, nestling himself between your legs and tracing slow, languid circles against your waist. "we have time. might need a little motivation first."
"oh, is that what this is?" you scoff as he rolls his eyes at your jest. "motivation?"
"don't you feel more inclined to work?" he asks, slipping his hand beneath your shirt to cup your breasts through your bra. you shudder from the tender pressure and arch your back off of the wood.
"the opposite, actually."
"might need to stop, then."
"no—"
"no?"
"... no."
hongjoong grins, thoroughly enjoying the way your body craved him as he lowers himself to meet your lips in a mess of teeth and tongue.
seonghwa
"you're a fucking freak."
"funny," seonghwa mutters, up to his knuckles between your folds as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. with a groan, you grit your teeth and your head falls back against his shoulders. he braces you from behind, propped against the edge of the boardroom table. "didn't hear you complaining earlier when you were asking me to fuck you."
you glance up, the pair of you projected onto the meeting room's widescreen monitor with the webcam perched on the table right in front of you. every muscle twitch, every staggered breath is on display as seonghwa meets your gaze in the screen.
your boss' greatest mistake was keeping you cooped up in the office late at night with a certain coworker you failed to keep your hands off of ever since he'd been brought onto your team. although your company strongly advised against colleague relationships, there was something undeniably attractive about seonghwa that you couldn't avoid.
thank fuck he felt the same.
"you planning to tell him you couldn't submit the report in time?" he mumbles against the shell of your ear, making reference to your boss' overtime request.
"we'll see how long you last," you counter, relishing in the way his body tenses beneath you.
"oh, we can check the webcam storage after, if you want to be exact."
"you better delete this shit."
"we'll see," he mocks before picking up the pace to drag you closer to your climax.
yunho
"this isn't fair."
"what's not fair?" you ask, feigning ignorance as you circle yunho in his desk chair like a predator closing in on its prey. he jerks his hands against the restraints of the zip ties you'd found in the supply room, tethered to the chair handles while you lean against the table in front of him.
"i could have gone home earlier with everyone else," yunho grumbles through pouted lips, "i stayed out of the goodness of my heart."
he was half-right; you were confined to the office to finish submitting quarterly reporting on behalf of your team and would have slammed your head against a filing cabinet if not for yunho's company. of course, the fact that he was willing to help you out meant that you had to return the favor.
"well, i'm just showing my appreciation," you muse before hooking a leg around the back of his chair to wheel him closer. "you just need to be patient." a frustrated sigh escapes him as you trail a manicured fingernail along the length of his jaw and down to the collar of his shirt. "let me have a little fun with you first, pretty boy."
he shifts in his seat, a poor attempt to conceal the fact that he still grew hard at the way you were toying with him. you lay back onto the table before him, a hand snaked between your thighs so that you could touch yourself on full display for him. your fingertips meet fabric and you sigh from the friction, tracing circles lazily against your clit as your eyes flutter shut.
suddenly, your hand is yanked away and you gasp in surprise at the fact that yunho had found a way out of his restraints. he hovers over you, his usually bright eyes filled with a desperate hunger as he grips onto your waist with a lopsided grin.
"how did you—"
"don't worry about it," yunho teases, pressing himself against you as he buries his face in the crook of your neck with a messy string of kisses. "let me have a little fun with you, pretty girl."
yeosang
"boss would kill us if he knew we were in here," yeosang mutters against your lips, lifting you onto the aged wooden desk that was clearly much better quality than your cubicle. you scoff and pull him into another messy kiss before you shove his suit jacket off of his shoulders and let it fall onto the floor.
"who gives a fuck," you breathe, your nails raking across the fabric of his dress shirt. the pair of you shared a mutual disdain for your supervisor; the fact that he'd forced you both to stay behind on a friday night to review a series of reports he needed to submit the following monday was just another reason added to the list.
it was your idea to use the larger office space to work together. that went out the window quickly when you caught yeosang staring at you from the corner of his eye one too many times. you'd long had an unspoken will-they, won't-they that your other colleagues were quick to pick up on and it seemed like tonight might be the best opportunity to capitalize on it.
with an added bonus of sticking it to your boss, of course.
yeosang drags your panties to the side beneath your skirt, the sound of his belt unbuckling sending a jolt down your spine as he leans you over the furniture and wraps his fingers around your neck to hold you steady. you gasp at the sudden pressure, the sound becoming strangled when he bottoms out inside of you.
"try not to mess up what's on his desk," he warns, his eyes flickering to the haphazard stacks of folders and printed reports.
"no promises."
san
you fall back onto the boardroom table, barely a moment to catch your breath before san pulls you to the edge and hooks your legs around his waist. you feel the pressure of his growing erection against your clit and whimper at the friction.
"what?" san teases, his prominent brows furrowed as a lazy grin hangs from his face. his breathing grows ragged as he grinds against you, heavy hands keeping you pinned down so that you couldn't meet his movements. "isn't this what you wanted?"
"i—" you gasp when he glides his hand along your inner thigh, his grip firm. your reply is cut short when you bite down on your lower lip to stifle the moan that threatened to slip out of you.
when you were assigned to work overtime with san to wrap up the donor proposal that needed to be submitted by midnight, you hadn't expected much other than a grueling night of extra work. san was polite, gentlemanly and soft-spoken ever since you'd known him. he was kind, but you'd rarely seen him actually break out of his shell.
that is, until one suggestive joke tonight turned into two, into three, into a full blown session of you teasing him about how he was way too nice to ever do something as risqué as defiling the company boardroom. he was determined to prove you wrong, it would seem.
you writhe against his restraints and he just scoffs, flexing your legs further back and lowering himself onto his knees before your clothed entrance. the moment he uses his tongue to shift the fabric of your panties to the side and begins to devour you like a man deprived of water in a desert, you know you're in for a very long night, after all.
mingi
"can you tell me more about the projected earnings for the next quarter?" the foreign investor asks over a teleconference call. mingi grips the edge of the desk with white knuckles, his face contorted with intense focus as he nods along.
"so, we'll be seeing—ah—" he cuts himself off and bites on his tongue to stifle the sound that threatened to slip out of him.
"are you alright?" the older man asks and mingi nods frantically.
"y-yes, sir." he musters a smile. "it's just a bit late here."
mingi goes on to talk about shared profit goals, quarterly grant reporting, and whatever else you'd tuned out the moment your lips were on his cock. you try not to laugh at his panic from beneath the desk, settled between his legs as you swallow him until he bottoms out and hits the back of your throat.
you feel the way his thighs tense against the desk chair and your chest swells with pride, a low hum vibrating against his length as you flick your tongue against his tip to send a shiver along his skin.
"would you excuse me for a moment?" he asks hurriedly, triple-checking that he's muted and that his camera is switched off before he glances down at you and finally releases a frustrated groan. "you're insane, you know that?"
without a reply, you peer up at him through your lashes and continue to move your mouth along his cock. when he mentioned earlier in the work day that he'd be taking a call from another time zone, you figured there was no better way to make sure that he'd be awake and alert in the office than with your help.
he unmutes and continues speaking through gritted teeth, his hand now threaded through your hair and his legs spread further apart.
wooyoung
"you're distracting me," you snap as you shove wooyoung's hand off of your thigh for the umpteenth time that night.
the pair of you were stuck at the office in order to reorganize files that needed to be archived before you moved to a new office the following week. your brain was already overheating from trying to catalog every file, every scanned document that needed to be saved in the right place. wooyoung could care less, haphazardly saving his files to his own drive and arguing that he'd spend sunday working on it instead of compromising his well-earned friday night.
that is, until he realized you were unwilling to leave until you were finished. he made it his personal mission to torture you until you finally cracked and succumbed to his desperate attempts to tear you away from work for the night. first it was a hand on your inner thigh, then kisses along your collarbone.
you yelp when he sinks his teeth into the crook of your jawline, his hands reaching to steal yours away from your keyboard as a sigh finally escapes you. he hums triumphantly, trailing his tongue along the length of your neck before he pulls your chair away from your desk.
"you won't quit, will you?" you ask, trying to conceal how breathless he made you as he spins you to face him instead. he shrugs and brushes a hand through his hair before loosening his tie.
"not until you learn to relax a little."
"relax—?!" you nearly squawk, about to protest when he pulls you into his lap and drapes his arms around your waist. he sighs, burying his face in your chest and adjusting enough so that you could feel the weight of his growing erection.
"we'll get back to it," he mutters against your exposed skin above the neckline of your shirt. he presses a kiss to your sternum before nipping at the sensitive skin on your chest. "promise."
"something tells me i'm gonna regret this," you say, half-teasing as you instinctively arch to draw him in further.
"maybe," he says, moving up to ghost his lips over yours. "or, maybe not."
jongho
"not so much to say now, hm?" jongho asks between breaths, his chest heaving with every thrust into you against the desk. you don't answer, just groan through parted lips as you try to find something, anything to grip onto in front of you to steady yourself.
you were already frustrated having to work overtime, let alone along with a fellow team lead you couldn't stand. the moment your boss assigned you both to stay back on a friday night, you knew you were in for a rough night. he was cocky, he was arrogant—
—he was fucking you on the very desk you were stuck at until you submitted your report for the night.
"you're a dick," you muster, your nails raking over your keyboard and sending a flurry of typos onto your draft.
"and you're enjoying it," he counters, reaching to wrap his hand around your throat and hoist you up so that you were pinned against his torso. his breath is against your ear, rough and ragged as yours as he watches the way your eyes roll back from the pleasure.
"no," you protest weakly, internally scolding yourself for the lack of conviction in your voice.
"sure," he scoffs, haughty as ever as he keeps you upright and picks up the pace. "hope you think of this every time you sit at this desk from now on."
Perv!Mingi and his not so subtle obsession with you
3,917 - perv! mingi, swearing, masturbation (m), fingering, oral (f! receiving), p in v, creaempie, hyperspermia. Based off of this post
Mingi was the kind of guy who made girls' heads turn at a distance — tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jaw and dark eyes that could cut glass.
Up close, though, the cracks showed. He showed up late to class, if he showed up at all. His assignments were a mess. He spent more time at the campus convenience store buying energy drinks and junk food than in the lecture hall. His friends Wooyoung, San, Yeosang, and Hongjoong called him a hot loser to his face, and he never argued. He knew it was true.
His field of study — biomedical engineering — was a joke at this point. He'd chosen it because it sounded impressive, because his parents expected something respectable, because Hongjoong had said the programme had good job prospects. But Mingi had spent most of the school term skipping lectures to smoke behind the music building with Wooyoung or play basketball with San. Truly, his grades were hovering somewhere between "academic probation" and "please just drop out."
Honestly, if he spent half as much time studying as he spent ogling the girls he encountered in passing, his grades could improve from their hellscape. But he was so easily distracted by fantasising about girls he'd never have the guts to talk to.
Especially you.
He first saw you in the library during midterm season while waiting for Hongjoong to "study". You were sitting at a corner table with Seonghwa, his friend from the music production club. Seonghwa was laughing at something on your laptop screen, his hand resting casually on your shoulder. Mingi's gut twisted. He'd never seen you before, but from that moment, he couldn't stop looking.
You were pretty in a quiet, focused way — hair pulled back, glasses perched on your nose, lips slightly parted as you explained something to Seonghwa. Your shirt was loose, but when you leaned forward to point at the screen, the neckline gaped, and Mingi caught a glimpse of the curve of your breast. His cock twitched in his jeans.
He sat down at a table across the room, pulled out a textbook he knew he wasn't going to read, and watched you for the next two hours.
When he got home, he rushed to his bedroom. He had spent the entire time at the library observing you; the image of you leaning over that library table, your shirt gaping, burned into his brain. The soft curve of your breast peeking through. He'd jerked off to that memory four times since midterms. Four times, each session longer than the last, his hand wrapped around his thick cock, stroking until his balls tightened and he spilt rope after rope of cum into a wad of tissues.
That became his routine. Every day, he found an excuse to be in the library at the same time you were there.
He'd sit far enough not to be obvious but close enough to see everything. He memorised the way you bit your pen when you were thinking, the way you stretched your arms above your head when you'd been studying too long, the way your shirt rode up just enough to show a sliver of stomach.
His friends noticed.
Wooyoung caught him staring one afternoon and elbowed San. "Holy shit, he's actually drooling," Wooyoung whispered, loud enough for the entire floor to hear.
"Suck my dick," Mingi muttered, not taking his eyes off you.
"You wish." Wooyoung retorted, rolling his eyes at his friend's creepy staring.
"What would you even say to her?" San asked, leaning in. "'Hey, I know I've never spoken to you, but I've been fapping off to you for three weeks.' Want to study together?"
"Fuck off."
Hongjoong, ever the sensible one of the friend group, sighed. "If you're that obsessed, just talk to her. She's friends with Seonghwa. I can set something up."
Mingi's heart hammered; he looked like a kid in a confectionery store mixed with one caught with their fingers in the cookie jar as he stared at Hongjoong. "Set something up how?"
"I'll tell Seonghwa you need tutoring. He'll recommend her. She's like, top of the class. Then you get private sessions with her. Easy."
It really was easy. It was terrifyingly too simple.
A week later, Mingi sat in his dorm room, which smelled like stale energy drinks, his favourite Jo Malone cologne and regrets. He lay sprawled across his bed, phone clutched in his hand, when Seonghwa texted Mingi with a time and an address.
Hwa: 'She says she can help you with your assignment. Be on time, and don't fuck this up, asshole.'
He'd been half-hard since reading it, and now, two hours before he was supposed to meet you, Mingi lay in bed and let his mind wander. His hand drifted down to his sweatpants, palming his half-hard length.
He imagined what it would be like to have you beneath him. To feel your legs wrapped around his waist, your mouth open against his, your fingers digging into his back. He wondered what sounds you'd make — soft little gasps or needy moans?
Would you let him fuck you slowly, or would you want it rough?
Would you want his cum inside you?
The thought made his cock twitch, already hardening. He imagined gripping your hips, pumping into you, feeling his release build until he couldn't hold back anymore. Thick, hot ropes flooding your pussy, leaking down your thighs, marking you as his.
"Fuck," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.
He was getting hard just thinking about it. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats, fingers wrapping around his shaft. Already slick with precum, he started stroking — slow at first, then faster, his breathing ragged.
In his mind, it was your hand wrapped around him. Your palm sliding up and down his length, your thumb circling the tip, spreading the precum. His room filled with low groans and sharp gasps as he continued jerking off. He imagined you stroking him until he couldn't take it anymore, until he begged you to let him come, and when you finally whispered, "Go ahead. Show me how much you want it." His hips bucked into his fist. Precum dripped onto his stomach. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, that familiar ache that meant he was about to unload.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck–"
He came hard, his back arching off the mattress. Cum pumped out of him in thick, white ropes, splattering across his stomach, his chest, pooling in his navel. He kept stroking through it, milking himself dry, until his arm was soaked and he was panting like he'd run a marathon.
When he finally opened his eyes, he stared at the mess he'd made.
Get it together, he told himself. You're about to see her. Don't fuck this up.
Mingi showed up at your flat thirty minutes early due to a mixture of nerves and lack of choice. Wooyoung had kicked him out of their shared dorm because he and San were "conducting important musical research" that apparently required privacy and a locked door.
"You're not staying here," Wooyoung had said flatly, blocking the doorway. "Go study or something."
"Where am I supposed to go?"
"Literally anywhere else."
Hongjoong had passed by on his way out with a smirk and a stack of composition notebooks under his arm. "Heard you're getting tutored by Seonghwa's friend. The hot one from the library."
Mingi's face burned as he fidgeted with his clothes slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't," Hongjoong clapped him on the shoulder. "Try not to drool on the textbooks. They're expensive."
The rest of the walk to your flat, Mingi replayed their teasing in his head. He hated that they knew. Hated that they could see right through him. But more than that, he hated that he couldn't stop thinking about you long enough to form a coherent sentence.
When you answered the door, his brain short-circuited. You looked soft, comfortable, real, and his cock twitched in his jeans despite the fact that he'd just jerked off not even two hours ago.
You lived in a small studio near campus. "Hey," you said, stepping aside. "Come in."
As Mingi followed you further in, his eyes darted around the room, and he noted the walls were covered in posters of bands he didn't know. Polaroids of you and friends smiling, fairy lights draped over the window, and stacks of books on every surface.
It smelled of vanilla and laundry detergent. Mingi stood in the middle of the room, feeling too big for the space, while you cleared a spot on your desk.
"Seonghwa says you're struggling with the experimental design section," you said, pulling out a chair.
"Yeah." He sat down, trying not to stare at the way your jeans hugged your thighs. "I just– it's hard to focus." With the intensity of his stare, he's shocked he hasn't burnt a hole in your pocket. His eyes snapped back up to your face as you spun around.
You smiled at him, and it made his chest tight. "That's what I'm here for."
The first hour was torture.
You sat across from him, leaning over the desk to point at diagrams and equations, and every time you moved, your shirt shifted. He caught himself looking at your chest more than the paper. You were wearing a simple cotton top, nothing special, but he could see the outline of your bra underneath. His palms started to sweat.
"Experimental design relies on proper variable isolation," you said, tapping the textbook. "If you don't control for confounding factors, your results are meaningless."
"Right," he said, not registering a single word.
He'd been answering questions mechanically, half his brain on the work, the other half imagining what your skin would feel like under his hands. You must have noticed because you paused mid-sentence, looked up at him, and raised an eyebrow.
"Mingi. You're not listening."
"I am," he lied.
"You're staring at my boobs."
The words hit him like a slap. His face flushed neon red. He opened his mouth to deny it, tried to form an apology, but nothing came out. You didn't look angry. You looked amused, lips curving into a slow, teasing smile.
"You know, you're not as subtle as you think." You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms under your chest, pushing your breasts up slightly. Mingi's mouth went dry. "I saw you in the library. You always sit at the same table, don't you? The one with the direct sightline to my spot."
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Yeah." You laughed, soft and mocking. "You're kind of a pervert, aren't you?"
"I'm sorry," he managed. "I didn't mean to– I just– you're really pretty, and I–"
You held up a hand, cutting off his stammering. "It's fine. I know how to fix this."
Your eyes sparkled with something that made his pulse race. "I have an idea. For every question you get right, you get a reward. A touch. Something simple. You tell me what you want, and I'll let you do it. Consider it motivation."
Mingi's brain short-circuited. "A touch?"
"On the honour system. You answer correctly, you get to cross one of your fantasies off the list. But you have to keep studying. And you can't cum. Not until the end. Deal?"
He nodded, barely able to speak. "Deal."
The first question was simple. You slid a worksheet toward him, and he scribbled the answer in seconds. When he looked up, you gestured at your hand resting on the table.
"Go ahead. Claim your reward."
He reached out slowly; his fingertips brushed your knuckles. The contact sent a jolt through him. He took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over your palm. It was soft and warm.
"That," he said, voice low. "Wanted to know if you'd let me."
You let him hold it for a full minute before pulling away.
"Next question."
He answered it correctly again. This time, he got braver, his fingers sliding up to graze your neck before he leaned in slowly.
Mingi leaned in, pressing his lips to the curve of your throat. He lingered, breathing in your scent — vanilla, coffee and a hint of something spicy — before pulling back. You shivered, and he felt a surge of pride.
By the third correct answer, he was bolder. "Can I touch your thigh?"
You spread your legs slightly in answer. He slid his hand onto your knee, then slowly upward, fingers grazing the denim of your jeans. Your breath hitched. He squeezed gently, feeling the muscle beneath.
The fourth question was harder. He had to think, to recall details from the textbook he'd barely read. Something about factorial designs that he should have known but had completely blanked on. You were watching him, waiting, and his mind went blank.
"Give me a second," he muttered.
"Take your time."
But he couldn't focus. Not with his hand still resting on your thigh, not with the memory of your neck against his lips, not with the way you were looking at him — patient, amused, knowing.
He guessed wrong.
You smiled softly and shifted back in your chair. His hand slipped off your thigh, landing on empty air. You stood up, stepping away from the desk entirely, folding your arms.
"Wrong answer. No reward." Your voice was teasing but firm. "Try the next one."
Mingi groaned, running a hand through his hair. "That's cruel."
"Study motivation, remember?" You sat back down, but this time you kept the chair a few inches farther from him. "You have to earn it."
He gritted his teeth and flipped to the next page.
I'm going to get every single question right, he swore to himself. And by the end of this, I'm going to have you underneath me.
Two hours later, Mingi had answered fifteen out of twenty questions correctly. His hand had mapped the curve of your calf, the dip of your waist, the soft skin behind your ear. He'd kissed your palm, your wrist, the hollow of your throat. Each touch left him harder, more desperate, his cock aching against the zipper of his jeans.
By the time he reached the last question, he was sweating, his breathing shallow. You closed the textbook and set it aside. "Last question."
He was barely listening. His eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. He wanted to taste you. Wanted to feel you writhe beneath him.
"If you get this right, you get your last reward. Anything you want."
Mingi's head snapped back up to your face. That definitely got his attention. "Anything?"
"Within reason." A small smile played at your lips as you tapped your pen on the cover of the textbook.
You asked the question — something about p-values and statistical significance — and this time, Mingi didn't hesitate. The answer came easily, pulled from a corner of his brain that had actually absorbed your teaching.
"Correct. Sixteen out of twenty, a passing score." You leaned back, crossing your arms. "So. What do you want?"
Mingi stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. He rounded the desk, grabbing your hips and pulling you to your feet. Your body pressed against his, your warmth seeping through his clothes. But his hands trembled slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He'd never done this before, never been this close to a woman's body like this, and the anticipation was almost unbearable.
"I want you to ride me."
Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull away. "Here?"
"Here." He guided you toward the edge of your bed, sitting down and pulling you onto his lap. "Right now."
You straddled him, your thighs bracketing his hips. The heat of your cunt pressed against his clothed cock, and he groaned, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your tits through your top.
"You sure?" you whispered.
He answered by kissing you hard and desperately, his tongue sliding against yours. But his hands were shaking. His heart hammered so loud he thought you might hear it. He wanted this more than anything, but he didn't know what the hell he was doing. Every move felt like a gamble.
Instead of rushing, he pulled back, breath coming in short gasps. "Let me–" He swallowed. "Let me taste you first. Please."
He didn't wait for an answer. He slid off the bed, landing on his knees in front of you. His fingers found the button of your jeans, but they fumbled, clumsy with nerves. A frustrated laugh escaped him. "Sorry. I'm–" He didn't finish. He just focused, finally getting the button undone, pushing the denim down your thighs.
You shimmied out of your pants, and Mingi's mouth went dry. Your panties were dark at the centre, a damp patch glistening in the low light. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, slowly revealing your cunt inch by inch. The sight of you bare, slick, and waiting for him made his cock twitch painfully.
He leaned in, pressing a tentative kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another, higher. His nose brushed your curls, and he inhaled your scent — musky, sweet, intoxicating. His tongue darted out, tracing a line up your slit.
You gasped, your hips shifting toward him. Encouraged, he parted your folds with his thumbs and pressed his mouth to your clit. He licked experimentally, then with more confidence as your moans grew louder. He circled the sensitive nub with his tongue, flicking and sucking, learning what made you squirm.
But he wanted more. He wanted to feel you clench around his fingers. He slid one hand up your thigh, fingers teasing your entrance. "Tell me if it's okay," he mumbled against your skin.
You nodded, breathless. "Just– go slow."
Mingi pushed one finger inside you; the heat and tightness made his head spin. He pumped it gently, then added a second, stretching you, curling them to find that spot that made your back arch. Mingi watched your face — eyes squeezed shut, lips parted — and felt a surge of power mixed with nervous wonder. He was doing this. He was making you feel good.
Your wetness coated his fingers, and he kept working you, alternating between licking your clit and tonguing your folds, until your thighs trembled and your moans turned into desperate whines. He pulled his fingers out slowly, wiping them on his own jeans before standing up.
"Okay," he said, voice rough. "Now, ride me."
He sat back on the edge of the bed, his cock straining against his jeans. He freed it with trembling hands, and a bead of precum oozed from the tip, thick and viscous, more than you'd expect. It dripped down the shaft, glistening. He pumped himself once, twice, spreading the slickness, then guided you forward.
You positioned yourself over him, the head of his cock nudging your soaked entrance. Mingi's breath hitched. He was so hard it almost hurt, the pressure building in his balls already. He gripped your hips, steadying you, trying not to thrust up.
"Slow," he repeated, more to himself than to you. "Go slow."
You sank down, inch by inch, and Mingi's eyes rolled back. The heat of your cunt, the silkiness of your walls — it was overwhelming. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, fighting the urge to come right there. A groan tore from his throat as you took him fully, your hips flush against his.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you rocked forward, and he felt another wave of precum leak from his cock, mixing with your wetness. He shuddered, fingers digging into your hips.
"Fuck, Mingi. You fill me so good," you whispered.
He couldn't speak. He just nodded, his hands trembling as you began to move; a slow, rocking grind that stole every thought from his head. You rode him with a rhythm that started gentle, then built, your hips rolling in circles while he gripped the sheets and tried not to come immediately.
The pleasure was overwhelming. Every sensation — the clench of your cunt, the slap of your thighs against his, the sight of your tits bouncing in front of his face — pushed him closer to the edge. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, that familiar ache that meant he was about to erupt.
"Fuck, I'm gonna–" He couldn't finish the sentence. His hips bucked upward, burying himself deeper as his orgasm ripped through him. Thick ropes of cum shot into you, pumping again and again, flooding your pussy with hot, white fluid. His body shuddered with the force of it, his hands digging into your hips so hard he'd probably leave bruises.
You gasped, your rhythm faltering as you felt the torrent of semen filling you. It leaked out around his cock, dripping onto the sheets, your thighs, his stomach.
But Mingi wasn't done. As the aftershocks faded, a new hunger flared in his chest. He needed more. Needed to feel you come on his cock while he controlled the pace.
He flipped you onto your back before you could react, your legs falling apart as he hovered over you. His cock was still hard, still slick with his cum and your wetness. He lined himself up and slammed back inside you, a guttural curse ripping from his throat.
"Oh God," you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Mingi–"
He didn't answer with words. He fucked you hard, deep, each stroke driving his cock into your sopping cunt. The bed creaked beneath you. Your moans filled the room. He leaned down to kiss you, swallowing your sounds as he pounded into you. Your nails left lines of red down his back.
He could feel your walls clenching around him, hear your breath hitching. You were close, so close, and he wanted to see you fall apart.
"Come for me," he growled against your ear, his fingers trailing down to rub firm circles against your clit, causing your back to arch further into his chest. "Come on my cock."
That was all it took. Your body arched, a sharp cry escaping your lips as your orgasm crashed over you. Your pussy milked him, squeezing and fluttering, and Mingi groaned, burying his face in your neck as he came again — a second, weaker orgasm that still spilt another hot pulse of cum into you.
When it was over, he collapsed beside you, both of you panting, sweaty, tangled in each other. The sheets were a mess, soaked with sweat and cum. He stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering.
After a long silence, you spoke. "Mingi?"
"Yeah?"
"That was insane. Where the hell did you learn to fuck like that?"
He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking at you. A nervous laugh escaped him. "I, uh... didn't."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, that was my first time."
Your eyes went wide. "What? No way. That was your first time?"
He nodded, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. "I'm a virgin. Or, I guess, was a virgin."
You stared at him, then burst out laughing — not mocking, but genuine, surprised laughter. "Holy shit. You're kidding me."
"I'm not."
"Mingi– You let me take your virginity for a study session, and you fuck like that?" You reached out, running a hand through his damp hair. "You're a natural, I guess."
if a man won't give you what you want, there's always another who will.
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 7/?
🎤︎︎ 18+ | 9k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, yunho is an angel sent from god above | smut minors dni, oral f!receiving, fingering, dirty talk, praise, slapping/spanking, no condom, yunho's mad sexy
YOU HATE CLEANING YOUR ROOM. You don’t know why you decided to start after showering, washing your hair, lathering your body in lotion, doing your entire skincare routine, sheet mask included. You came home ready to decompress, to start sorting through every single emotion you felt tonight and organize them into categories. Emotions toward Wooyoung, Yunho, yourself, why you can’t get Wooyoung out of your mind when Yunho is literally right in front of you.
Maybe you’re avoiding it, and that’s why you just threw a load of laundry in with nothing but a big tee shirt on, too distracted by the state of your room to even put on a pair of fucking underwear. You’ve piled all your dirty laundry into a corner, your hamper overflowing, and either folded or hung the rest of your clean clothes. You’ve been putting it off since Monday, even though you’ve been in your room each and every single night, the moment your lights go off, you’re occupied.
You dusted each surface, even hand-wiped your anime figures, cleaning out each spec of dust between the hard, plastic locks of hair with a goddamn Q-tip. Soft music plays from your TV, a random playlist, something to keep your brain busy so you can pretend it’s empty while you clean. All the trash, the half-drank coffee cups, the chip bags, the wrappers, receipts, you threw it all away, and the worst part is that you didn’t even do it because Yunho is coming over tomorrow.
It’s because you came home, looked at your bed, and your first idea was to lay on your bed and shove your hand under the waistband of your shorts. In the shower, fingers wrapped around the shower head, you stood perfectly still for at least forty-five seconds mentally convincing yourself to not turn the dial to the highest pressure setting.
Now, with nothing left to do but wait to turn your laundry over, your bare bed stares back at you. Not only is it painfully mortifying that you’ve masturbated more times in the past three days than you have in your twenty-one years of life, now you don’t even care that your bed sheets are in the washing machine. It’s a surface. A comfortable one.
Emotion organization could come later.
You don’t even crawl onto your bed. You lay on it, knees bent up, heels hanging off the edge, and slide your hand between your legs. Slow touches at first, light pressure on your clit, you sigh in relief, legs loosening, falling further apart.
There you go… Use me…
You circle your clit, eyes screwing shut, a sharper gasp tumbling off your tongue. It’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough, but it takes the edge off, calms your reeling mind.
So pretty…
His fucking face between your legs, his bronzy, tanned skin, his hair fucked up from knotting your fingers in his roots, the glint of focus in his eyes. The way his tongue felt, soft but solid, flicking so perfectly at your clit– you moan, chin tipping upward, hips twitching into your hand.
Give me one more, baby, you can do it again…
Heat pools in your belly, and you refuse to acknowledge the speed it took to get you here. Your fingers circle faster, other hand sliding beneath your tee, squeezing at your chest, pinching at your nipples. Your jaw cracks open, slacked, breath catching in your throat, a small squeak slipping through. You fantasize about his fingers slipping inside you, curling so perfectly, massaging against your front walls until you saw stars.
Three hard, aggressive knocks at your front door make you shriek. Your knees snap shut, hand splayed across your lower abdomen, terror washing through you, kicking your orgasm far, far away. You take a second to slam back into reality, forgetting for a second that knocks mean someone is at your fucking door.
They don’t seem to be patient, knocking again, three more harsh, aggressive pounds of knuckles. “Fuck,” you mutter harshly, hopping off your bed, pulling your shirt over your thighs. “I’m coming!” you yell, and you wish it were true.
Unlocking your door, pulling it open, your first thought is that manifestation is real, and this is the immediate consequence of your lustful thoughts.
“How the fuck do you know where I live?” is your second thought, one hand on your door frame, the other curled around the side of your door.
“You know I fucked Jen,” he says, like it should be easy to put two and two together. “I’ve been here before.”
“Didn’t you fuck, like, a long time ago?” There's a repulsed attitude in your tone. “Why do you remember?”
“What, a guy can’t have a good memory now?” His arms fly out on either side of him, brows kissing, top lip lifted.
“No,” you spit. “Leave.”
You move to push the door closed, but he pushes from the other side, and the strength of your anger isn’t enough to get the slab of wood closed. His words sling together, “It wasn’t even that long ago, fuck, Jesus fucking Christ you’re strong.”
You were seconds away from an orgasm, his face was getting you there. You need him to not be here, to not come anywhere near you for the rest of ever. “You need to go.”
“Why’d you leave the Penny?” he asks, and your muscles give ever so slightly. He gets the door open again.
“Because,” you start, and then stop. Crossing your arms, you frown in the middle of your doorway. “I don’t feel good.”
“You feel fine, don’t give me that shit.” He shakes his head, leaning up against your doorframe. “They’re all still there, Jen is going home with San.”
“I don’t care what she does.” You look him up and down, he hasn’t changed his clothes. He doesn’t seem drunk. His hair is still perfectly styled the way it was when you saw him over an hour and a half ago. “Since when did she give you the Jen-pass?”
“Since I came inside her,” he shrugs, tone flat.
You fake a gag, turning away, covering your mouth, “You’re fucking vile.”
“Stop avoiding the question,” he presses further.
“I’m not avoiding, there’s just more conversation to have–”
“Virgin.” You don’t answer. His head tilts, “What was up with Yunho telling me to stop calling you that, by the way? That’s my nickname that I created, I can use it as I please.”
“He knows I don’t like it,” you’re defending him, and you don’t know why. You didn’t want him to defend you. “Funny how listening to what a woman wants is a foreign concept to you.”
He laughs in disbelief, “What the fuck kind of jab is that? What are you even referring to? I listened to what you wanted and I made it happen, twice.”
Your hands find your face, ignoring the heat that spreads, you pretend it’s guilt. “Do not bring that up right now. You seriously need to go, Wooyoung.”
“Why? You got to come to my house and barge into my room,” he argues. “I can’t talk to you from outside of your apartment?”
“I don’t want you to talk to me at all!” Your hands leave your face, your words exasperated, far past your Wooyoung-limit. “I want you to pretend Monday never happened, I want you to forget I exist.”
“Well, that’s gonna be a little hard since you’re doing whatever the fuck it is that you’re doing with Yunho.”
“I’m getting to know him,” you say confidently. “I like him, I like spending time with him and I’m seeing where it goes. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.” His words fill you with fire all over again. Anger, and whatever else was cocktailing in your gut. His shirt fits him too well. His chain hangs too low. “You’re going to like him when you get to know him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a whore, but he has a nice, loving side to him, too. I saw it tonight.”
“So you’re here to give me your blessing?” you ask, arms crossing over your chest again, shifting your weight to one foot. “Are you here to put in a good word, as his friend?”
“I’m here to find out why you left,” he says, and you wait, expecting more. More doesn’t come.
“I left because I didn’t want to drink at the Penny,” you respond, as short an answer as the one he gave you.
“Then why didn’t you invite Yunho home with you?”
“Why are you interrogating me?” Your brows furrow, one hand grabbing into the door again. “Do you want to hear about how he kissed me against my car? That if I kept kissing him, I would’ve begged him to fuck me in my backseat?”
Wooyoung’s lips bend, only on one side. “Yes. It convinces me that there’s a human in there, you’re not fully robotic.”
You laugh, but it’s hollow. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you make rules for yourself that do nothing to benefit you, yet you still follow them.”
“Like what? That I don’t do casual sex? You think I’m robotic because I want to get to know someone before I fuck them?”
“I don’t think it’s because you want to get to know them.” He uncurls his arms from his chest, stepping into your apartment, and he does it so confidently, you let him. “I think it’s because you don’t trust your own instincts. Hook ups, casual sex, whatever, that requires trusting your own instincts.”
What the fuck?
“Fuck you,” you spit out immediately.
He continues, stepping forward, making you take a step back. Your front door closes behind him. “You won’t fuck anyone unless they’re dating you, because that means they’re committed to you. Right?”
You swallow, feeling ice cold, refusing to answer. You don’t trust your anger enough to keep your voice level.
“But you got cheated on,” he says, like it's a new piece of information. “You’re trusting your rules like they’re fucking gospel when they didn’t save you. You’re using them as a crutch so you never have to admit what you actually want.”
You don’t care that your voice is shaky as you ask, “How would you know what I want?”
“I can see it all over your face,” he says, a little louder. “I saw it when you were talking to Jungwon, I saw it while you were arguing with me, it’s even there when you’re talking to Yunho. You’re waiting to be chosen.”
“What does that have to do with my instincts?”
“If someone chooses you first, they make the decision for you,” he says bluntly, his tone even. He's serious, and he’s reading you like a fucking book. “That’s security to you.”
No one’s ever seen you so clearly. It’s terrifying, and it hurts, but it’s true. It’s all fucking true.
“What about you?” Anger returns tenfold, the question slicing through the air. “Being chosen might be security to me, but you don’t give anyone the chance to even think about choosing you.”
“I don’t want to be chosen. I just want to fuck.”
“That’s the lie you tell everyone, huh?” Your head tilts, eyes sharp, tone cutting. “Sex is the closest thing to vulnerable you’ll ever get, I think it’s because you’re scared of what comes next.”
“Scared?” He reiterates, grinning like it’s laughable you’d even suggest it. “I’m scared of what, a relationship? Someone nagging me all fucking day long?”
“Someone knowing who you actually fucking are outside of a bedroom,” you nearly shout, strain in your voice. “That’s all anyone gets to know about you. Your friends, everyone on campus, me. You’ve curated your own reputation, Wooyoung, and it’s for a reason.”
He doesn’t answer. It might be the first time you’ve ever rendered him silent. You heave a deep, grounding breath, and finalize the argument, “We both have rules, Wooyoung.”
He steps to the side, running his hands through his hair as he glances at the door, moving for it. “I’m gonna go.”
“No.” You reach for his wrist before he can grab the door handle. His skin feels warm, soft, it sends memories playing through your mind like a fucking movie wheel.
“No?” He pops a thick, ebony brow. “You have more you need to say? I think you covered it all.”
“As if you didn’t do the same shit to me. You started it.”
“And you fucking finished it,” he pulls his wrist from your grip, reaching for the door handle again. “I’m going.”
“Wait!” you try again, skipping in front of him, inserting yourself between him and the door. “Why are you so pissed? You can dish it out but you can’t fucking take it?”
You can feel the heat radiating off of him like this, even if the door is cold against your back. As if your air conditioner couldn’t touch him, or he’s so pissed off his body is steaming, you can’t tell.
“I’m not pissed,” he defends himself, a master at keeping his voice even when his eyes prove different. Almost the same size, sitting at half-mast, darker than usual, like the heat of anger plunging through him burns his vision.
The last time you were in this position, back up against a door, him in front of you, exuding control... Your toes press harder into the hardwood beneath you as the memories turn vivid.
“I can see it,” he tells you, voice lower. “I can smell it on you. Desperation.”
“I’m not desperate,” you argue, but it has less bite to it because you’re lying. “Smell it on me? Are you a dog?”
“You’re deflecting.” His lips curve, eyes flaring amusement. “What do you want?”
Your breath turns shallow, heart picking up speed. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you,” he presses further, leaning closer. You can smell his cologne, it’s not strong, just masculine enough.
“You can’t,” you murmur. “You can only give me what I crave.”
“It’s the same fucking thing, you just don’t want to admit it.”
It pisses you off, the intrigue in his eyes, how he seems to have you all figured out. You don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to answer. You don’t want to talk.
You grab onto the thick pendant around his neck, fingers curling around the chain, and pull him down to kiss you. He meets you halfway, a collision of your lips instead of a kiss, fueled by anger, frustration. His hands fold over yours, uncurling your fingers from his chain, certain. He pulls away from you, keeping his forehead pressed to yours. You lean in for his lips again, but he pulls backward, refusing you the chance.
“No,” his tone is quiet, but firm.
You clench your fists, still swallowed by his palms. “Why not?”
He lowers your hands and takes a step back, you don’t like the way he looks at you. “I’m going. I hope you feel better.”
You’ve always thought you knew yourself pretty well. You’ve spent twenty-one years understanding your feelings, your morals, how you make decisions, what’s most important to you. Romantically you’ve always chosen stability over chaos, finding comfort in what seems mundane, but simplicity is easier to understand, it fits into a routine.
After Wooyoung left last night, you barely thought about kissing him again. What kept you awake that night, throwing your entire nervous system into a scramble of unease, is how effortlessly he read you, where the fuck that read even came from. The traits you possess, what you look for in other people, the standards you pride yourself in; your brain was grasping for straws, begging for reprieve, and it couldn’t find any. You feel like you’ve been stripped raw.
You tried to think about everything you loved about Yeonjun, what made him feel compatible with you when you met him. You only came up with surface level things, traits that fit into your life, your schedule. He wanted to marry you, yet you never truly let him in, you never let him see the side of you that you keep shielded, barricaded. Is it because you were scared that if he knew that part of you, he wouldn’t want you anymore? Wouldn’t love you anymore?
Did he ever love the real you to begin with? Did you only love him because he loved you?
You finally stopped fucking thinking when Yunho showed up at your apartment, two hours after you finished class. He texted earlier in the day, asking what you wanted to eat from the pho shop just outside of campus and brought it with him, still hot and fresh. Yunjin had left earlier in the day, letting you know she’d be out with Jihyo and the rest of the girls, and she’d either sleep there or go home with San again. Leaving only you and Yunho, all night long.
Which was perfect to eat on the couch with him, a show you’ve both already seen playing in the background in a language neither of you speak. You didn’t want to pay attention, you didn’t need to, because you’ve been talking since he showed up.
You’ve learned about his family, his brother, his parents, where he grew up, south of where you go to school. His classes, his major, communications, and why he chose it, what future he wants with it. He’s learned the same about you, your family, your mom and sister, that you’re a journalism major, and that you want to focus on digital journalism. The basic, getting to know each other shit.
He’s laughing at a story you’re telling now, both of your bowls on the coffee table, empty. He’s in comfortable clothes, sweats hanging off his body like he didn’t feel the need to impress you, which in turn made you feel comfortable in your own cozy clothes, because you didn’t have the brainwidth to perform. At all.
It doesn’t feel like performing with him, though. It feels like easing back into something familiar, something practiced. Routine. “I told her not to curse out the driver,” you’re laughing through your words. “She didn’t listen to me.”
“So now when you go out, either you drive, or the Uber is ordered with your account,” he confirms, and you nod. “I can’t believe they banned her.”
“Uber runs a tight ship,” you explain. “If you hang halfway out the window scream-singing, the driver will drop you off on the side of the street, and Uber will ban you. Just in case you were planning to.”
“I’ll tell Sannie, he’s the only one who would.” He’s sitting beside you on the couch, one cushion between you. “Maybe he and Yunjin are meant to be.”
“The more I interact with him, the more I agree,” you sigh. They would make a good couple, if either of them are interested in dating. Yunjin might get into a relationship for the right man, but you don’t know enough about San’s opinion on dating to make a guess.
“You don’t have any crazy stories?” he asks, brows high and curious. “That was the second story about Yunjin. You haven’t had any wild nights where you’ve gone off the deep end?”
Your lips scrunch, eyes wandering around your living room in thought. “I don’t think so,” you admit after a quick ponder. “I’m usually the one leaving early or keeping Yunjin on a tight leash. Dancing on a counter is probably the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done.”
His blonde hair is messy, freshly washed, frizzy and unstyled. He looks soft, especially in comfortable clothes, no jewelry. “You’re not much of a risk taker, huh?”
“No.” Your scrunched lips try to bend in a smile. “I don’t like not knowing what’s gonna happen. I’m most comfortable in situations where I can see an outcome clearly.”
He makes an ah sound, leaning forward, bending his elbow over the back of the couch to support his head, facing you. “Can you see a clear outcome right now?”
Your head tilts, “Like, with us?” He nods. “I can see a favorable outcome, but it’s not necessarily clear. Maybe I’m becoming a risk taker by hanging out with you.”
He punches out a laugh, “Oh, being with me is a risk?”
You smack your teeth, grinning. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
He smiles, too. “I know what you meant. And if it’s the same outcome as what I can see, then I don’t think it’s a risk at all.”
Your cheeks flush, smile spreading, covering your eyes with one of your hands. “You’re so corny.”
He laughs, reaching forward to pull your hand from your eyes, “You like it, you find it endearing and attractive.”
“You wish,” you jab, laughing with him. He holds onto your wrist, laying your arm flat over the back of the couch, only letting go to drag a finger over the inside of your arm. You snatch it back in a panic, blurting, “I’m ticklish, you can’t do that or else I’ll tweak out.”
His brows raise. “You should not have told me that.”
“I’ll actually beat your ass if you try to tickle me,” you bite.
His expression doesn’t change. “You’ll beat my ass? This six-foot-one ass?”
Damn. Confirmed, he’s over six feet tall. “Don’t underestimate my strength.”
“Don’t underestimate mine,” he sends right back, mimicking your tone.
Your lips bend, eyes flaring with excitement, you like how that sounds. He seems to like your reaction, because his smile grows, teasing, “I see that fuckin’ smile.”
“You don’t see anything,” you argue, turning your head to the side. “I smiled because you’re funny.”
“You smiled because you want to find out how strong I am,” he teases, leaning his cheek into his palm. “It’s okay, you can admit it. You were curious about my dick, now you’re curious about my strength.”
You gasp, turning your head back to him, feeling heat in the tips of your ears. “You’re making me sound like some kind of pervert, Yunho.”
“You are a pervert,” he says with confidence. “You just won’t succumb to your pervertedness.”
“Pervertedness?” You quirk a brow. “Is that a word?”
“It’s a word used to describe you,” he quips. “You and your pervertedness.”
“Fine.” You shift on the couch, facing him with your back straight, your legs crossed. “I admit it, I succumb to it, I was curious about your dick and now I’m curious about your strength. What now?”
“Now I wait until you’re curious enough to find out,” he says, like he was ready to give that answer. Heat pools, you resist the urge to uncross your legs and clamp your thighs together.
“How long will you wait?” you find yourself asking, thirsty for all the knowledge you can get tonight, a part of you secretly hoping he doesn’t want to wait anymore, and kisses you now.
Noticing the glint in his eye, you know he won’t. His brows furrow, lips still bent upward, “Is that a trick question?”
“Loser,” you drag. “Be honest.”
“As long as we’re still seeing each other and building a connection, I don’t mind waiting. I told you I’m patient, and I seriously wasn’t lying,” he says, and there’s honesty in his eyes, his tone even, calm. “Do you only sleep with people you’re dating? Genuinely curious.”
“I mean, in the past I’ve only slept with people I was dating,” you explain, shrugging. “It seems like an ongoing theme for me, but it’s more about comfort, opening up to someone who I know won’t hurt me.”
“I won’t hurt you,” he says softly. “And I’m not trying to get in your pants, I’m just saying that because I mean it.”
Sparks ignite in your spine, blending with the heat in your belly. You smirk, “You’re not trying to get in my pants?”
“Here we go,” he groans, full of amusement, head tipping backward. “You knew what I meant by that.”
You laugh, cuddling into the back of the couch, laying your head on the top of the cushion. “You’re sweet. Yunjin told me you’re the only good guy in your frat.”
His face bends like this is new information, and he’s impressed. “My reputation precedes me.”
“Is it true? Are you the only good guy in your frat?”
He’s quick to answer, “No.” He takes a second to think, to properly phrase his next words, “All the guys are good guys, great guys, for the most part they all have good intentions. People throw around opinions on character based on sex, and sometimes I don’t think that’s fair.”
Your brows raise. “Like…?”
“Wooyoung, for example. He’s a good guy, a really great friend, he’d give you the shirt off his back if you asked him for it, not even if you needed it. But because he’s had a lot of sex with a lot of people, that’s all he’s reduced to, and it’s used in an insulting way. Like he’s not a good person because he enjoys sex, I don’t think that’s fair.”
You nod, choosing to not add in your two cents. Instead, you comment on your observation, “You love your friends.”
“I love them all,” he says, and he means it, you can tell in his eyes, his smile. Wooyoung talks highly of Yunho, too, you wonder if they’re all close. “They’re my brothers.”
“That’s how I feel about Jen,” you explain, then correct yourself, “Yunjin. She’s my sister.”
“What about the other girls in your friend group? Jihyo, Momo, Sana…?”
You sit up to clarify, “We aren’t bonded the way your frat is bonded. They’re my close friends, yes, but Yunjin is my sister.”
“Yunjin gave me an earful about you last night,” he confesses, cheeks glowing baby pink.
“An earful?” Your brows raise, confused, scared, amused. “What the hell did she say?”
“To be patient with you,” he says, brows flat, insinuating that he was going to do that already. “She also told me you’ve never been in a relationship you were actually happy in. At least from her perspective.”
“Hm,” you start, folding your lips in between your teeth. “That’s not true, I’m not like, hard to please or something. I was fine with Yeonjun.”
“Fine?” He half-smiles, a huff of something like amusement passing through his lips. “I know you weren’t happy at the end, but to conclude the entire relationship with fine…”
“I was happy,” you correct yourself, feeling heat in your cheeks, your ears, your chest. “We don’t have to talk about him.”
His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s deciding whether or not to push the subject. “Okay,” he accepts, instead. “I’ve only been in one relationship, it was my freshman year, and it lasted like, six months. I don’t have much baggage to dig through.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Digging through baggage?” you tease. “We don’t have to talk about your past either, if you don’t want to.”
He studies you again, like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “I don’t mind,” he finally says, tone careful. “I’m a pretty open book about that stuff.”
“I can tell,” you smile, trying to smooth whatever tension has just stretched between you. “I hear you’re popular.”
“So you have heard about me?” His eyes widen like you caught his interest, brows wiggling. “What’s the consensus? Do I suck? Am I a terrible fuck?”
You laugh, folding into the couch again, but you quickly realize you don’t have an answer. You’ve only heard that he sleeps around from Wooyoung, so you bullshit, “The girls say you’re a great lay, huge down there. Hard to take it all.”
He immediately frowns, “I do my best, that’s not my fault.” It only makes you laugh harder, and his frown turns into a pout. He whines your name before continuing, “I’m serious, I really do my best to make it pleasurable.”
“They said you’re a great lay!” you try to comfort him, still laughing. “Hard to take isn’t an insult, it’s an achievement in girl talk.”
“You swear?”
“I swear,” you nod, reaching across the back of the couch. He lays his head on your open palm, making your heart squeeze. “You think I’ll be able to?”
“Probably not,” he mumbles, his lips still pouty. “But I’ll try to make it so you can, comfortably.”
You can imagine it, his fingers, his mouth, him between your legs, stretching you out. You think you might start salivating. Your tongue pokes out of the side of your mouth, caught between your teeth. “What’s that mean?”
He snorts, eyes closing as he chuckles. “It means exactly what you think it means.”
You suck in a breath through your teeth, showing your bottom row. “Unfortunately, I think you might have to spell it out for me. Or you can show me.”
You can’t believe you just said that. It was a thought slipping out, but you don’t want to wait for something to happen. You want to choose. You’re capable of choosing.
He picks his head up, surprise written across his features. “Yeah?”
Timidly, you nod. “I think so.”
“You think so, or yes?”
“Yes,” you nod, more confidently this time. “I meant yes.”
He sits up, moving over to the cushion closest to you. “Are you sure?”
“Please just kiss me,” you beg, fingers curling into your sweatpants, adrenaline rushing through you so hard your heart pounds against your chest.
He shifts upward, using the same palm against your cheek as the night before, and kisses you. It’s the familiar soft, delicate press of his lips, no intent behind it, no heat; yet somehow you’re filled with fire anyway, blood carbonated beneath your skin, melting into his hand on your cheek, leaning into him, meeting his lips with your own passion.
You let him deepen it, following his pace, his tongue sliding between your lips, carefully exploring your mouth like he’s preparing for you to take back your yes. Your hands fly to his tee, fists clenching over the fabric, pulling him toward you, silently telling him you won’t.
His hands fall to your waist, pushing you backward, crawling over you as your back hits the cushions of the couch. With his hands pressed on either side of your head, he pulls away to smirk, “Eager for someone who said I think so.”
Your knees bend backward under the weight of him, fingers still tight in his shirt. “Sorry.”
His brows knit together, like someone had hit pause. “What are you sorry for?”
“I don’t– I don’t know,” you stutter, cheeks flaming, too coy for being under someone his size. You lean into his touch, his hand on your skin, “I don’t want to seem… I don’t know.”
“You’re in your head,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t think you’ve cursed once since I’ve been here.”
“That’s not true,” you object. “I said ass at some point, I’m pretty sure.”
He laughs, chin dipping downward. “Wow, I’m telling the sailors and the truck drivers they’ve been out-mouthed. You said ass.”
Your hands slide up over his shoulders, a silly grin on your cheeks. “I’m not in my head. I just want to be… I want you to like me.”
“I like you already,” he says, tone slipping into that comforting, velvety cadence again. Then teasing, he continues, “I liked you when you were burping after shotgunning beers with me.”
You groan, full of anguish, stealing your hands back to cover your face, turning to the side. “Why did you bring that up? I already removed that from my memory.”
He laughs again, leaning back on his knees to pull your hands from your face, using his strength to push you onto your back again, pinning your wrists on either side of your head.
Your breath catches, your heart a bone drum in your chest.
“Be you,” he orders, and it’s final. “I like you.”
You take a second, letting his words settle you, fingers flexing, feeling the weight of his hold, his grip grounding. You try to move your wrists, he doesn’t budge. You joke, “You are fuckin’ strong.”
His grin is satisfied as he leans down, whispering, “You haven’t even seen it yet.”
He kisses you harder this time, needier, his tongue slipping between your lips as soon as you meet. Your legs hook over his hips, back arching into him as he moves your arms upward, over your head, fingers sliding over your palms, tangling with yours.
This closeness, this heat, it’s different. There’s intent, determination behind it, like he wants you to feel reassured in the press of his body against yours. He lets go of your hands to press his elbows into the couch on either side of your head, whispering dominance into your mouth, “Keep them there.”
Your hips twitch, bucking into him, remembering his words from the night before. “Yes, sir.”
“What a quick learner,” he muses, smirking. He drops to bury his face in your neck, speaking into your skin, “Remember that for another night.”
Anticipation consumes you, fingers flexing, reaching for pillows you can’t find as he kisses your neck, tongue poking out to lick a stripe up the side, sucking on the sensitive spot beneath your jaw. You hiss, hips bucking toward him, elbows bending ever so slightly with pleasure.
“Fuck,” you mutter sharply as he reaches one hand between you, lips working your bones into jelly as his palm splays over your stomach, beneath your shirt.
“Tell me if I go too far,” he whispers, fingers traveling upward. “If you want to stop.”
“If you stop I’ll fucking kill you,” you push out in one breath, back arching, needing to feel how big his hand feels over your bare chest.
He huffs a laugh into your neck. “That’s better.”
“Take it off?” you ask, but it sounds somewhere between an order and a request. Heat thrums beneath your skin, one touch away from begging. You’ve needed this for too long to take it slow.
He reaches for your arms to pull you upright as he sits back on his knees. Manhandling you over his lap, he obliges when your thighs land on either side of his hips, his fingers reaching for the hem of your tee to tug it over your head. You refuse to feel shy at the exposure, you don’t have any time to as he pulls you back down to his mouth by the back of your neck.
His hands travel over your skin as his mouth works your brain into fuzz. “So soft,” he whispers, palms curled over either side of your waist.
Your back arches, a soft whimper falling off your tongue, bleeding onto his. One of his hands travels through the valley of your breasts, palm flat as his fingers slide up to your jaw, taking grip on bone as his teeth clamp over your bottom lip. You gasp, hips bucking into him and he lets go, smiling into your mouth, “Is that okay?”
No one’s ever done that before. The eternal ache between your legs grows and it’s instinct to roll your hips, nodding before you can think of the words, “Yes, yes.”
His head dips under your jaw again, hands falling to your hips, grinding you against him. You find purchase on his shoulders, fingers curling into his tee as he guides you, moaning as your core bumps over the tent in his sweats. “S-shit, Yunho.”
“Just like that, keep going,” he praises into your neck, his breath hot over the line of his spit on your skin.
Your eyes screw shut, hips moving with more confidence, and he trusts it enough to let his hands travel upward again, palms closing over your breasts, squeezing. Your hips stutter, a sharp whimper escaping you, nails leaving crescents in cotton, you wouldn’t be surprised if you marked the skin beneath.
He supports you with a strong grip on your back to arch you upward, lips moving down your neck, your chest, and at this angle, you can watch. Your hands reach for his hair, pushing it over his forehead as his tongue lolls out of his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva between your breasts before his lips start working on the right. Tongue swirling, lips closing over your nipple, your brows furrow in pleasure, jaw slack.
“Feels so good,” you whimper out mindlessly, gripping at his roots, focusing on grinding against his cock in his sweats, desperate to get pleasure building.
He groans, the sound vibrating your skin, making your face scrunch at the feeling. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been touched like this, someone paying such attention to detail, focusing on every zone that brings you pleasure. Your body swarms with heat, your spine begging for more, to release the knot of pleasure you’ve been building for a long, long time.
His other hand works the left, the pads of two fingers rolling over your nipple, squeezing experimentally. “Fuck,” you curse, pitch high. “Please do that again.”
He looks up at you, dark eyes hazy with pleasure yet clear with focus. His fingers pinch again and your hips pick up speed, moaning sharply as his teeth lightly clamp over your right nipple, he watches, gauging your expression the whole time.
“You like it,” he says into your skin, coming to a conclusion. “Pain.”
“I- I don’t know,” you blink, brain scrambling at the clear words when your mind is fuzzy. “I guess so?”
“You do.” It feels good, him deciding, him telling you. “We’ll have fun, you and I.”
Electricity sparks in the base of your spine, you and I. You like the sound of that. You smile, leaning down to steal his lips again, pressing your bare chest to his clothed one. It doesn’t feel right, not having his skin against yours, you reach down for the hem of his shirt and he helps you get it over his head, breaking the kiss only to let the fabric pass between.
You sigh when your chest meets his, arms folding behind his neck, hips still rolling against him, aching for more. You want more. You need more. “Yunho,” you whisper into his mouth, holding the back of his head, slowly sliding down to his chest. “More.”
His eyes flicker up to yours, reading your face again like he’s done too many times tonight. “How much more?”
He likes you. He’s told you several times that he likes you. You laugh with him, you feel comfortable with him. He’s safe.
“Everything,” you drawl, tone certain but full of every drop of arousal pumping through you. “Wanna find out if I can take it.”
“If you take it all,” he whispers, kissing the tip of your chin, “I’ll get you a trophy.”
You smile, a tiny laugh tumbling out. “Yeah? How big?”
“As big as my dick,” he quips, hands scooping under your ass. “Hold on to me.”
You’d yelp if you weren’t laughing as Yunho stands straight, carrying you smoothly through your living room, steps memorized like he’s been here more than once. Your arms stay wrapped around his neck, legs hooked around his waist until he brings you into your bedroom, pressing a knee into the mattress before laying you down gently.
“Wanna make you cum first,” he decides as he crawls over you, swallowing your body whole. “That okay?”
You nod, vibrating at the idea, “Please.”
He bends your knees backward, holding onto your shins for purchase as he leans down, pressing a short kiss to your lips. You suck in a breath as he tugs your sweatpants under you, pulling them down by the waistband over your hips, your knees, your ankles.
“No bra, no panties…” he tsks, shaking his head. “Plan this or something?”
Your lips bend in a smile, knees knocking together. Small, you mutter, “No.”
He hums, hands landing on the stretch of skin above your knees, pulling you toward him until your ass slides into the pocket of space between his thighs. He stares in awe, pupils dilated, licking his lips as he says, “You have no idea how fucking wet you are.” Your thighs push together again and his eyes flicker upward, a warning. “Don’t hide, let me see.”
You feel the stick as you slowly spread your legs again, and your face scrunches, cringing at the feeling. His hands slide down the inside of your thighs before he brings his right hand to his mouth, licking the pad of his thumb before bringing it back down to press on your clit. You shiver, a gasp of a moan slipping through your lips, a tremor racking through your body.
He eases you into it with slow circles, adding pressure and speed with every round. “Yes,” you moan through a pleased breath, chin tipping backward, legs falling farther open, hands sliding up your stomach, grabbing onto your breasts, squeezing.
“So sexy.” His words are mindless, his eyes on you, watching as you roll your nipples between your fingers. “Shit, I could watch you do that all night.”
“No,” you whine, head snapping forward again at the idea. “Gimme more.”
His other hand, holding your thigh, slides beneath his circling thumb, the pad of his middle finger spreading your wetness through your folds, around your entrance. Your brows furrow, moaning softly, hips twitching toward him, a silent beg for more. His middle finger slips inside without warning and the breath is stolen from your chest, jaw pried open.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. “So tight, baby, need you to relax.”
“I am,” you moan out, hips rolling toward him, meeting his pace.
He curls his finger, massaging against the front of your walls, making you choke out a moan, hands leaving your chest to claw at the duvet beneath you. Looking at him, he’s focused; analyzing, watching your reactions, probably gauging how the fuck he’s gonna fit himself inside you. He leans down, pausing both hands to spit on your folds, pulling out his finger to spread it around, then adding his index, too.
“Yunho,” you cry, voice shaky. His fingers are so fucking long, so deep inside that you might as well be having sex. You buck your hips, meeting his pace, pleasure spreading in waves, heat beginning to pool in your belly. “Don’t stop, fuck.”
He bends down, replacing his thumb with his tongue and your hands fly to his hair with the first flick of your clit. “O-oh my fucking god,” you cry, still bucking your hips into his hand, his flat tongue, shamelessly. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Your fingers tug at his roots and he grunts, his free hand landing a heavy smack to the side of your ass. Your moan is deafening, body twitching, toes curling over his back. He does it again and heat boils, a knot in your belly forming, pleasure building as embers of pain spread, skin going hot where he hit you.
“I’m close,” you whisper, voice shakier than it was before. The pressure grows, blooming, he doesn’t change his pace, he keeps his rhythm, a steady thrust and curl of two fingers, licking over your clit with his tongue. Your breath catches, jaw pried open, fingers tightening in his hair, and it’s the last smack of his palm hitting the same spot it did before that pushes you over the edge.
You damn near fucking convulse. Your body shakes so hard you can hear it in the bedframe, cries growing in pitch with the peak of your orgasm, thighs clamping around Yunho’s head, but he still doesn’t stop until you push him away.
“Holy fuck,” you breathe out as he slips his fingers out, popping them right in his mouth.
He hums, then licks his lips. “So sweet.”
A smile curves your mouth, “Liar.”
He crawls over you again, your legs bending with him, toes sitting on the waistband of his sweats. He lowers himself with the question, “You think I won’t make you taste yourself?”
Still panting, lips spread in a lazy grin, your head tilts. “Is that supposed to be a threat or something?”
He kisses you roughly, your arms wrapping around his neck, toes pushing on the waistband of his sweats. “You are a liar,” you say between kisses, “tastes like pussy.”
“Sweet enough to me,” is all he responds, reaching one arm down to his sweats, pushing them down. “I want you to ride me.”
Your smile falters, just a little. “Like, now?”
“Yes, now,” he says casually, sitting back on his calves, getting his sweats and his briefs down to his thighs. You would gasp if you didn’t know how big he is already— but bare, without briefs covering him, standing tall and red like it was begging for you… “It’ll be easier for you, I swear, this isn’t a ploy so I have to do less work.”
“You sure you don’t just wanna sit back and watch?”
“Are you nervous?” His eyes flicker upward as he gets his sweats off his legs and onto the floor.
“Not anymore,” you respond instinctively, knees knocking together again. He deadpans, and you sigh. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“If you’re nervous, you’re not gonna open up for me,” he explains, crawling up beside you on the bed. Your eyes bounce back and forth between him and his cock, intimidated but excited, you can’t keep your attention where he wants it. “Come here.”
He sits up, easing you over his lap again, your knees bracketing his thighs. His cock between you, so tall, so thick, you’ll feel it in your fucking stomach. Your mouth goes dry.
“You can take it,” he encourages, reaching up for your cheeks, making you look at him instead of his cock. “You’re a big girl, you can do it. We’ll take it slow.” Heat slices through you, making your eyelids flutter, your hips twitch. He grins like he’s just discovered treasure. “Oh, you’re fun. C’mon, big girl, let me stretch you out.”
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, not out of worry, but because of what big girl just did to you. Your hands find his shoulders, sitting up on your knees, and he spits in his palm before running it over his cock, spreading it over the tip, down the shaft. You want to see how far you can fit him in your mouth. Maybe you should find out if he’ll fit inside you first.
“Slow,” Yunho reminds you, fingers wrapped around the base as you line yourself up. You suck in a deep breath, lowering yourself down slowly, and you moan in relief the second his tip passes through the first ring. “Breathe,” he coaxes you as you slowly sink downward, face scrunching up at the stretch.
He’s thick, and even though you’re one orgasm deep and practically a fucking waterfall, with every new centimeter there’s a pinch, a slight level of discomfort that makes your thighs shake. He soothes you with his hands on your hips, sliding up to your waist, then your chest, massaging, mixing pleasure with the pain. Which, apparently, you enjoy.
“So big,” you murmur, toes curling, one eye still squeezed shut.
“I know, baby,” he soothes, leaning forward, pressing his lips to yours. A distraction, keeping your brain busy as you take the rest of him, his tongue slipping into your mouth, one hand resting on your neck. You feel him in your fucking guts when you’re finally seated, painfully aware that you’ve never had anything this big inside you.
“Give it a second,” he suggests, but instead, you start lifting your hips. He curses under his breath, head falling backward before he snaps it back, “Fuck, fuck, baby, hold on–”
“So big,” you moan out, words hazy, your mind cloudier. You’ve never felt so fucking full, it’s a completely new sensation and you’ve been itching for days to have something to fill you up. Lowering yourself back down, you moan, “Feels s’good, Yunho.”
“Yeah?” he asks, stunned like he can’t believe you’re already moving. His hands find your hips again, guiding your pace, his knees bending up. “Look at you, baby, riding like a big girl, taking me so well.”
You moan through your smile, craning your head back so you can look at him over the bridge of your nose and the look on his face is priceless. Cheeks pink, hair fucked up, pupils dilated, your belly jumps at the sight, making him grunt out a sharp noise.
“Fuck,” he grits out, fingers tightening over your skin. “Clenching around me, not gonna last if you do that.”
“Too good,” you tumble out, voice layered with hazy arousal. “Look so pretty, Yunho.”
“S-shit,” he hisses, hips snapping upward, making a sharp noise fall from your lips, piercing the room. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Do it again,” you quickly blurt, leaning forward, lifting your hips. He holds them, pressing his heels into the mattress, fucking into you from below, making a serious, of pitched, stuttered cries and curses stutter out of your mouth. His cock rolls right over the front of your walls with each thrust, he reaches everywhere, making your shins lift off the bed, kicking at the air, the pleasure overwhelming. “Don’t– don’t stop, don’t fucking stop, Yunho.”
He grunts, lifting you again, turning you over in one quick motion, flattening you on your back. You yelp, but he gives you no time to process, his hands on your knees, pushing them to your chest.
Your moans die in your chest as he fucks into you, jaw slacked, brows furrowed in pleasure, only small squeaks slipping through with every other thrust. Your toes curl, watching his abdomen flex, his hips roll, the flex of his biceps on either side of your head. He’s so fucking attractive and he’s fucking you so hard it feels too good to be true.
“Kiss,” you manage to get out, reaching for him, his face. He lets go of your knees, elbows landing on either side of your head, never once losing his rhythm as he leans down, pressing his lips to yours. It’s a clash of teeth and spit and tongue, but your hands in his hair, his skin pressed to yours, his cock pressing on every spot you need it to… the knot of pleasure in your belly builds steadily, hot as hell.
“I’m gonna cum,” he whispers, his voice uneven, rough. “Need you to cum for me first.”
Mind so hazy, you reach a hand between your legs, fingers immediately rubbing circles into your clit. He looks between you, jaw slacked, panting, “You’re so fucking sexy, oh my god.”
You pull him down to kiss you again, hips rocking upward to meet his thrusts, moaning into his mouth, the band of pleasure in your gut running taut. “Gonna cum,” you whimper, your bottom lips touching, breath and saliva shared.
“Yes, good girl, cum for me,” he grits out, and the words make your jaw go slack, lips unresponsive against his, another squeak of pleasure escaping before your orgasm hits like a tidal wave. He kisses you, fucks you through it, groaning as you clench around him, thighs shaking.
He pulls back, hands on your knees again, pinning them together as he pushes himself to the edge, head tipping back. You’re still losing your fucking mind, a moaning, arching mess, and the sight of him doesn’t make it any easier. You could go again. You could go for hours, if he fucks like that, if he looks like that.
“Where do you want me?” he asks, voice edged like he was about to blow. You spread your knees, giving him skin to paint, and he pulls out at the last second, pumping the tip of his cock until thick, hot, white ropes of cum spill all over your stomach, your pelvis, your chest. He moans, face scrunched up in pleasure, hips bucking into his own hand as he fucks himself through it, and you can’t help but wish he’d done it inside you.
He collapses beside you, the both of you panting, eyes half-lidded and bodies covered in a layer of sweat. You stay there for a minute or two, just breathing, processing, feeling. You don’t think you’ve ever felt better, body spent in a state of fucked-out bliss, feeling stretched out and sated and perfect. You look to the side, his eyes closed, his cheeks pink, his chest rising and falling evenly. He speaks first.
“I’m getting you that fucking trophy.”
It takes a second for the memory to come back to you, but you arch with the punched, airy laugh that comes out of you, your hand reaching for his. “Should I put it next to the Gojo figure?”
He lays his palm open for you to tangle your fingers with his, opening his eyes, looking at you. “Do you think he just watched us?”
“I think he watched you.”
He grins, and it’s lazy, but it’s full of amusement. “Good.” There’s more to that good, but you don’t press him to explain. You don’t want to know. After another second of thinking, feeling, and breathing, he notices, “You washed your sheets.”
“How’d you know?”
He brushes his other hand over your duvet beside him, “They smell like detergent. The last time I was here, they smelled like your hair. Your shampoo, I guess.”
You coo, “Aww, you paid attention.”
He looks up, eyes calmer, softer, now. “I pay attention to more than you think I do.”
“Don’t be creepy about it,” you joke.
He laughs under his breath, a light, small chuckle. It could be easy like this, you think, with him. A calmness has spread over you, one you don’t fully trust. There’s a part of you that still isn’t sure that it’s right, but after everything, you don’t know if easy is the same thing as right anymore.
synopsis: mingi looks too fucking good, and not even the heatwave can stop you from getting a taste.
warnings. nsfw 18+, pwnp, plot what plot, dom!mg, sub!reader, some humiliation, dryhumping, coming in your clothes, slight somno bc mingi is kinda asleep at a point?, dirty talk, nicknames (angel, baby, good girl etc.) daddy kink
wc. 1.5k
an. i am BACK and as horny as ever. heres smth based on a post by @809gf , tysm for the seedling. also thank you guys for being patient and waiting for me, it has paid off! enjoy :) not proofread! taglist: @yslj1n @joongnoodle @matznana @kisssan
It started innocently enough. sitting on the lounge chair of the hotel room balcony, feeling the heat trickle against your skin. the weight of your sunglasses pushed on your nose as sweat dripped down onto the pages of your book.
the midsummer heatwave was knocking the energy out of everyone, including your, typically energetic, boyfriend, mingi. fresh out the shower, his short black hair was messy, spiked over his head as he opened the balcony door. he had slipped on his matching set of a striped shirt and shorts, the buttons hanging dangerously open.
your eyes were begging to tear away from the words on the pages, catching glimpses of mingi sitting in the comfort of a plush chair opposite from you. you hadn't spoken a word, something unsaid lingered in the air.
as beads of sweat started to run down the side of your neck, you couldn't help but use your book as a makeshift fan. the view before you surely wasn't helping. mingis eyes had shifted closed, hands resting on his lap as his head was leaned back into the chair cushions.
maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the need.
but something in you snapped. nothing crazy, yet, just a floodgate of something seeping out of you. so, you pressed your book shut, and got on your feet.
mingis eyes didn't open just yet, he was basking in the sun, it hugging his features so beautifully in this warm morning. as you stood before him, you let your other hand grip the metal railing next to mingis chair, the other holding onto his shoulder blade. his lips twitched at the sudden touch, but melting into it as your familiar warmth neared him. speaking in a mumbled tone, he muttered:
"isn't it a bit too hot to cuddle hm?" you chuckled lightly, your hips now laid on top of his, chest pressed up on his.
to admit, it was definitely not making the heat go away, more so making it worse. but you couldn't possibly tear yourself off your delicious boyfriend now, his tan toned arm now tight around your waist. you just craved being close, just being here together like this.
the trip so far had been mostly you inside, alone, reading books, since mingi was on a business trip. having these little moments together was certainly more and more rare, so you had to take what there is to take.
"but it's so comfortable like this isn't it?" you asked, tracing shapes into the exposed skin of mingis collarbones. his low laugh rumbled in his chest as he nodded, eyes still hung close.
"mhm, you could say that"
you weren't sure how long you sat there, unmoved, before something started to change. maybe it was the subtle changes in your seating position, or the way your eyes were wandering, but you couldn't help but feel a new type of heat rise in your body.
your both hands laid against mingis sweat sticky chest, your thighs spread around to straddle his. looking up to see his eyes still closed, light breaths passing his lips, you let yourself experiment a bit.
your hand slid down his torso, hanging onto the buttons that remained closed a little longer then supposed, accidentally popping one open. the newly exposed skin glistened in the sunlight, making your cheeks burn red like you've never seen him like this before.
you could feel his breath catching a little, making you pause for a moment before resuming. your other hand traced down to meet the other, slowly opening the last two remaining buttons. with slow but sure movements, you moved aside the light fabric, flashing his toned chest to your vision.
you couldn’t help but feel your mouth salivating at the sight of his exposed chest, the ridges of his muscles, the light hairs below his bellybutton, all the way to to his perked brown nipples. it was all too much.
you didn’t even notice your hips moving at first, your body taking over into an animalistic state. the fabric of mingis shorts was riding up dangerously high, the skin of his toned thick thighs meeting yours as you humped down on him like a dog in heat.
you felt a grin tug on mingis plump lips, his lengthy tongue slipping past to wet the surface before he spoke in a low voice:
" tsk, now now, that's not cuddling now is it angel?"
your breath hitched, but you couldn't bring yourself to stop moving against him, hands now eagerly tugging on the remains of his shirt that hung on his chest. mingis grip on your waist adjusted a bit, both his large palms now resting against your hipbones, guiding your movements.
"couldn't help it" you mumbled, face merely inches away from his. a smirky grin appears on his lips, before he bites down into them, pulling you closer on his lap. you fall forward slightly, your hands now laid above his chest, fingers directly on his perky nipples.
"don't you dare stop now then, even if you're caught, you dirty girl"
even if you wanted to, you couldn't. the feeling of the heat radiating from mingis body, his scent, his presence. the way his eyes were slightly opened now, that dark gaze burning into your skull as you worked your hips against him. you felt your brain melt away as you eased more into it, upping the pressure as mingis hands guided you back and forth.
as you moved, you could feel tension rise below you, the hardness of mingis cock firm against your clothed pussy as you grinded with need. a twitch rippled through mingis body as your hips met up with the sensitive spot of his tip through his flimsy shorts, his fingers digging into your flesh.
“thats it baby, faster f’me, go on”
his hands are eager to pull and push you faster, the slickness of your pussy seeping through your clothes, leaving a wet patch on his shorts. moans tear past your lips as you lean forward to lay youe forehead on his shoulder, fingers digging into his chest muscles.
“min- so good.. fuck..”
raking your hands down his torso, your nails leaving behind a red trail as your chest heaves. you’re burning up, the heat of the summer air and the burning sensation of your body against mingis driving you near passing out, but it felt so worth it.
“yeah? gonna cum untouched like a fucking virgin are you baby?”
mingis words twist your gut, his pitying tone making a new wave of arousal slick down your thighs. he just smirks knowingly, beginning to thrust up into your grinds.
you shriek, digging your nails into his stomach as the new sensation takes over. you may as well be naked from how much you can feel the imprint of mingis cock in his pants. you can feel the thick shape of it, every ridge, every vein running down its sides. and its making you lose it faster then you want to.
“p..please.. d- da.. mghm min..” your words stutter as you hold onto him, teeth grazing his exposed shoulder blade.
“mmm what was that, say that again” his words sharp as his hips slow down a bit, waiting your answer.
your cheeks flare, gulping, you try again:
“please.. please daddy more!” you muster the courage, shaking as mingi chuckles against you, picking back up his page.
“that’s a good girl, always so obedient for me”
you feel the tightness in your abdomen come scarily close at his words, your body tingling with every grind, every thrust. raising your head from his shoulder, youre met with his gaze again, eyes clouded, lips parted in a smirk while low groans tear out repeatedly.
his palm smacks your right cheek before pulling on it again, spreading you open while grinding up into you, and you feel yourself lose it.
“need to.. need to cum now daddy mgmh! m coming”
mingis face dives forward, closing you into a kiss thats almost all tongue and teeth, sucking your sounds into his mouth. you pant, repeating his name like a mantra as his cockhead grinds against your clit with ease.
“thats it, cum on daddy just like this, attagirll baby” his voice mumbles against your lips, you feel him smile into it with that devious grin.
and it completely undoes you. you feel the band inside you snap, the overwhelming heat of your body peaking as you hold onto mingi for some stability, his hands on your hips grounding you.
the wet patch is even more imminent now on mingis shorts as you lean forward to his shoulder again, hanging on like a ragdoll. his hand caresses your back, soothing the burning skin as you come down from your high.
after a minute or two, you leaned up again, meeting his attentive gaze, and that never ending smirk. you raise a brow.
“now, why are you still grinning now, what’s so funny?” mingi chuckles, running his hand down your side, the other below your chin.
“oh nothing, just imagining how you’re gonna walk once we’re done on this balcony” you smack his shoulder, pretending to be hurt.
“oh? don’t think i’m not going to have you holding onto that bar for dear life while i stuff your pussy full, you know i’ll do it.”
and with that, you knew your knees would remain wobbly, and your body heated for the rest of this damned heatwave.
SYNOPSIS ; Wooyoung’s system is flawless: temporary nights, forgotten room numbers, and absolutely no strings attached. You drew a line in the sand with a strict after-hours contract to keep yourself safe. But fourteen days of agonizing silence proves your walls aren't high enough for a boy who knows exactly when you’re lying. The contract is ash. The boundaries are wrecked. And the campus playboy is about to tear down his entire kingdom just to bow at your feet.
PAIRING(S) ; Frat!Jung Wooyoung x Fem!Reader
WARNING(S) ; 18+ only, explicit sexual content/smut, heavy angst, mutual pining, friends with benefits / messy situationship, temporary separation/hollow silence, possessiveness & jealousy, marking/bruising, rough/frenetic intimacy shifting to intense praise/worship, aftercare, and absolute devotion.
WC ; 10k-ish
Part 6/8 of THE REVERENCE SERIES
Inspired by Everyday by Ariana Grande and a tiktok I saw but I can’t find it anymore </3
The basement of the TEEZER house always smelled like old iron, frozen winter air, and the bitter, metallic tang of unspent aggression. It was barely six in the morning, the campus outside buried under a suffocating, pre-dawn fog that bled through the high, reinforced glass windows of the foundation.
Down here, the fluorescent bulbs hummed a low, erratic note, flickering against concrete walls covered in chalk dust and the black-and-crimson crest of the fraternity.
Choi Jongho didn’t care about the cold. He didn’t care about the hour.
The heavy bag swung backward, chains groaning against the ceiling joists, before it returned with the momentum of a falling boulder. Jongho caught it flat-palmed, his knuckles raw and white beneath his hand wraps. His chest heaved under his damp grey tank top, steam rising off his shoulders in the freezing room. His focus was terrifying—a straight, unbroken line of mechanical discipline that defined everything he was. He didn’t look at his phone. He didn’t check notifications. He didn’t leave room in his chest for anything that couldn't be quantified by a score or a weight.
Then the heavy wooden door at the top of the basement stairs groaned open.
"Jesus, Choi. It’s six AM on a Saturday. You’re going to give yourself a stroke before graduation."
JUNG WOOYOUNG stumbled down the steps, the heavy thud of his unlaced sneakers echoing through the hollow space. He looked exactly like the aftermath of a Friday night rager at the house next door. His dark hair was a messy, silver-streaked birds-nest, his oversized black designer hoodie smelled faintly of vanilla perfume and expensive gin, and his jawline still bore the faded, telltale smudge of red lipstick just beneath his ear.
Wooyoung didn't look tired; he looked replete. He looked like a man who spent his life moving from one warm bed to another without ever remembering the color of the sheets.
Jongho didn’t break his rhythm. He stepped into a smooth pivot, his left hook cracking against the leather of the bag with a sound like a small explosion. "Some of us actually have a season to prepare for, Woo. Go back upstairs and sleep it off."
"Can’t," Wooyoung hummed, collapsing onto a worn leather bench with a dramatic sigh, his head tilting back against the cold concrete wall. He pulled his phone out, the bright blue light reflecting off his smug, cat-like eyes as he scrolled through a deluge of unread notifications. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—the classic, effortless grin of a boy who knew exactly how much damage he was doing to the campus ecosystem. "Room’s occupied. Left a freshman from the alpha phi house in there. She was crying about how I didn't stay to watch her get her shoes on. Had to make a clean break."
"You’re disgusting," Jongho muttered dryly. He grabbed a white towel from a nearby rack, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck, his dark eyes fixing Wooyoung with a look of absolute, unbothered disdain. "Don't you ever get tired of running the same play over and over again? It’s sloppy. You're leaving blood all over the floor, and Hongjoong’s already breathing down everyone's necks about the new house rules."
Wooyoung laughed—a sharp, melodic sound that didn't belong in a room this grim. He threw his arms over the back of the bench, completely unbothered by the judgment. To Wooyoung, hearts were just trophies you collected on a Friday night and forgot about by Saturday afternoon. Love was a distraction for people who didn't know how to play the game. He'd watched San turn himself into a ghost over a girl; he’d watched Mingi choke on his own pride. Wooyoung was smarter than that. He kept his feet light, his texts at 2 AM, and his exits clean.
"It’s not a play if it works every single time, Choi," Wooyoung countered, tilting his phone screen toward Jongho. A dozen different names filled the preview boxes. "They know the rules when they step through the front door. A drink, a night, and a clean slate by morning. Nobody’s holding a gun to their heads. I give them exactly what they want, and then I walk away."
Jongho walked over to the weight rack, the heavy iron plates clinking together with a cold, definitive finality as he loaded another forty-five pounds onto the barbell. He didn't look amused. He looked at Wooyoung the way a coach looks at a talented player who refuses to run the drills—with an underlying thread of grim certainty that a heavy hit was coming.
"You think you're bulletproof because you haven't been tackled yet," Jongho said, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly weight that made even the older guys in the house listen. He bent down, gripping the cold steel of the bar, his knuckles locking into place. He tilted his chin up, his dark, piercing gaze locking right onto Wooyoung’s smug expression.
"Keep laughing, Woo. One of these days, a girl is gonna flip your whole world upside down. She’s gonna look at that little smirk of yours and not give a single shit about who you are. And I’m going to sit right on this bench and watch your legs break when you don't know how to handle it."
Wooyoung’s smirk widened, though a tiny, почти imperceptible twitch struck the corner of his eye. He stood up, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, stretching his shoulders with an easy, fluid grace. "Never gonna happen, little brother. I don't get tackled. I’m the one who sets the line."
"Yeah," Jongho muttered, his eyes dropping back to the iron before him. "That’s exactly what San said."
With a massive, explosive heave, Jongho lifted the bar off the rack, the absolute silence of his focus returning as he drove the weight upward. Wooyoung stood there for a second longer, the low hum of the fluorescent lights suddenly feeling a little colder against his neck. He rolled his shoulders, turning on his heel to head up the stairs, shaking off the weight of Jongho’s words like dust.
He was Jung Wooyoung. The golden boy of the TEEZER house. He didn't bow, he didn't stay, and he certainly didn't fall.
But as the heavy basement door clicked shut behind him, the bass from the speakers upstairs began to rumble through the floorboards, prepping the house for the next rager. The weekend was here. And out in the campus fog, a girl he hadn't even met yet was already walking toward the front gates—entirely unprepared to become his breaking point.
The air in the main artery of the TEEZER house was thick enough to choke on. It tasted like blue raspberry vodka, sweat, and cheap aerosol spray, all condensed into a sticky, suffocating humidity that vibrated to the beat of a bassline shaking the floorboards beneath your boots.
You weren't a Greek row girl. You were the girl who watched the madness from the safety of the second floor of the library, watching the red cups scatter across the quad like plastic shrapnel every Saturday morning. But tonight, your roommate had been relentless. She’d practically dragged you out of your desk chair by your hair, declaring that if you spent one more weekend analyzing structural blueprints instead of ruining your liver, she was going to sublet your room.
And now, three solo cups of a lethal, unidentifiable punch later, the structural integrity of your own brain was completely compromised.
"You're actually doing it!" your roommate screamed over the roar of the crowd, her phone screen glowing bright as she held it up, a TikTok draft open and recording. "Do the trend! Just pick a random dude and claim him!"
You laughed, the sound loud and entirely uncharacteristic, bubbling up past lips that felt slightly numb from the alcohol. The world was spinning in a pleasantly warm, blurred orbit. The liquid courage was sloshing heavily through your veins, melting away every single drop of your usual social anxiety until you felt utterly bulletproof.
"Watch me," you slurred, a devious, unbothered grin taking over your face.
You stumbled forward, your steps slightly uneven as you navigated the sea of sweaty shoulders and shouting college kids. Your eyes scanned the chaotic kitchen doorway, looking for an easy target—someone you could mess with for five seconds before disappearing back into the crowd.
And then, your gaze snagged.
He was leaning against the heavy marble island, a half-empty glass of amber liquid held loosely between long, scarred fingers. Jung Wooyoung. Even through a haze of cheap liquor, you knew exactly who he was. Everyone did. He was the house’s golden-boy playboy, wearing a slouchy black designer hoodie that hung loosely off one sharp shoulder, his silver-streaked hair falling perfectly over eyes that looked entirely too dark, too confident, and far too dangerous. He was laughing at something Yunho was saying, his head tilted back, showing off the clean, lethal line of his jaw.
He looked completely untouchable. An absolute red flag.
Perfect, your drunk brain decided with an aggressive nod.
Without giving yourself a single second to sober up or let the panic set in, you lunged across the remaining distance. Your boot caught on the edge of a rogue rug, and you practically crashed into his personal perimeter, your hand reaching out instinctively to catch his forearm to steady yourself.
Wooyoung didn't even flinch. His grip on his glass tightened by a millimeter, his laugh cutting off instantly as he felt the sudden weight against his arm.
You didn't wait for him to speak. You grabbed your roommate's phone out of her hand, flipping the camera to face the two of you. You leaned your head back, your shoulder pressing flush against his chest, and smiled widely into the lens, the bright flash capturing the chaotic flush on your cheeks.
"Guys!" you shouted over the deafening bass, your voice dripping with slurred, happy confidence as you pointed a finger right at the boy beside you. "This is my boyfriend for the night!"
A few feet away, standing near the refrigerator with a bottle of water in his hand, Choi Jongho paused mid-sip. His dark eyes flicked over to the scene, his brow furrowing as he witnessed a completely random, visibly intoxicated girl aggressively claim the most uncatchable guy in the house.
Wooyoung froze. For the first time in probably three semesters, his smug, effortless playboy smirk completely faltered.
Slowly, his head lowered. His dark, cat-like eyes locked onto your face, taking in the absolute, liquid-fueled defiance radiating off your features. He looked at your hand still clutching his forearm, then up at the phone screen, and finally back down into your eyes. The air between you instantly turned electric, the roar of the party fading into a muffled hum as his eyes narrowed, a dangerous, deeply intrigued fire sparking in the depths of his gaze.
Wooyoung’s smirk returned, sharper this time, edged with something wilder than amusement—challenge. He leaned down until his breath ghosted over your ear, the scent of whiskey and mint wrapping around you like a dare. "For the night?" he purred, voice dripping with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly how to play this game. His fingers traced the curve of your wrist where you still held his arm, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping the pulse jumping beneath your skin.
You didn’t blink. Liquid courage burned hotter in your veins, and you tilted your head back until your lips were a breath from his jaw. "Forever?" you shot back, the word a reckless, half-laughing taunt, and watched his pupils blow wide.
The air between you snapped.
Wooyoung moved fast—one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other snatching the phone from your grip and tossing it blindly toward your gaping roommate. His mouth crashed into yours before the device even left his fingers, all teeth and heat and zero hesitation. The kitchen noise faded into a muffled roar as his tongue slid against yours, tasting like sin and expensive liquor. You grabbed fistfuls of his hoodie, pulling him closer, and he growled against your mouth, his grip tightening possessively.
Three feet away, Jongho took a long, unimpressed sip of his water. His gaze flicked to the pair of you—Wooyoung’s back bowed over you, your fingers tangled in his hair like you owned him—and rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t stick. He’d seen this scene a hundred times, but never with Wooyoung’s hands shaking where they gripped you. Never with the way Wooyoung broke the kiss just to stare at you, his chest heaving like he’d just sprinted a mile.
“Upstairs,” Wooyoung demanded, voice rough. It wasn’t a question.
You grinned, drunk and dizzy and victorious. “Make me.”
His pupils dilated. In one motion, he hooked an arm under your knees and lifted you clean off the ground. The crowd whooped as he carried you toward the stairs, your laughter muffled against his neck where you bit down just to feel him shudder. Behind you, Jongho exhaled through his nose, watching Wooyoung’s retreating back with the grim satisfaction of a man watching a train wreck in slow motion. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Hongjoong’s contact—then thought better of it. Some lessons had to be learned the hard way.
The hallway upstairs was dim, the bass from below vibrating through the floorboards. Wooyoung shouldered open the first unlocked door—his, judging by the mess of clothes and the faint scent of his cologne—and kicked it shut behind you. He dropped you onto the bed, then crowded over you, one knee between yours, his hands caging your head.
“Say it again,” he ordered, voice low.
You arched beneath him, fingers tracing the waistband of his jeans. “Forever.”
He swore violently, crashing his mouth onto yours. His hands slid under your shirt, rough and impatient, mapping the dip of your waist like he was memorizing it. The alcohol burned hotter in your veins—or maybe that was him, the way his teeth scraped your pulse point, the possessive grip he had on your thigh.
Downstairs, the party raged on. Jongho remained at the kitchen counter, swirling his water bottle. He didn’t need to look at the clock to know Wooyoung wouldn’t be coming back down tonight.
The prophecy had begun.
The first thing that brought Jung Wooyoung back to consciousness was the silence.
It was a heavy, cold weight that didn’t belong in his room. Usually, Saturday mornings after a rager involved the soft, predictable sounds of a girl shifting under his sheets, the quiet rustle of someone looking for their phone, or the hesitant, hopeful breath of someone waiting to see if he’d open his eyes and give them a reason to stay. He was used to the gravity of someone else's lingering presence—a weight he effortlessly shook off the second he slid out of bed to brush his teeth.
He rolled over, his arm sweeping across the mattress to pull the warm, flushed body from last night back against his chest.
His hand hit cold, empty linen.
Wooyoung’s eyelids snapped open. The dull, throbbing ache of a whiskey hangover flared behind his temples, but it was instantly drowned out by a spike of raw, unadulterated confusion. He sat up, the heavy duvet pooling around his low waist, his dark eyes instantly scanning the grey, sunrise-shadowed corners of his bedroom.
The room was completely empty.
There was no phone left on his nightstand. No stray jewelry on his dresser. The oversized black hoodie he’d let you tear off his shoulders last night was crumpled in a heap near the door, but the girl who had spent the last six hours tangled in his limbs, gasping forever against his throat, was entirely gone.
He swung his legs out of bed, his bare feet hitting the freezing hardwood floor. His chest was laced with faint red nail scratches—a vivid, stinging map of how desperately you’d held onto him when the bass was rattling the walls—but the bed was made up like a museum exhibit on one side. Cold. Abandoned.
"What the fuck," Wooyoung muttered, his voice rough and gravelly from sleep.
He didn't check his notifications because he knew, with a sudden, sinking certainty in his gut, that there wouldn't be a 5:00 AM text from you. You hadn't slipped out to get water. You hadn't gone to the bathroom. You had vanished.
A dark, ugly prickle of agitation scratched at his pride. Jung Wooyoung didn't get ghosted. He was the one who left the alpha phi girls crying on his rug; he was the one who made the clean breaks. Girls didn't just wake up from a night in his bed and decide they had somewhere better to be before the sun was even over the stadium lights.
Slipping into a fresh pair of grey sweatpants and dragging his knuckles through his silver-streaked hair, he stormed out of his room. He practically threw himself down the stairs, his chest tight, half-expecting to find you sitting on the couch downstairs, playing some kind of sophisticated, frustrating game to get his attention.
Instead, he found the kitchen exactly how you left it.
The smell of stale liquor and cold air hung thick over the empty island. The red cups from the night before were scattered like plastic corpses across the floor. And sitting right at the marble counter, methodically packing a massive canvas gear bag, was Jongho.
Jongho didn't look up when the heavy thud of Wooyoung's bare feet hit the linoleum. He just zipped the bag closed, the sharp, metallic clack of the zipper sounding like a gunshot in the hollow house.
"If you're looking for your video partner, she’s gone," Jongho delivered flatly, finally raising his dark, unbothered eyes to take in the sheer, uncharacteristic panic rolling off Wooyoung's shoulders.
Wooyoung paused by the refrigerator, his fingers gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles turned white. He tried to force his signature, lazy smirk onto his face, but it felt entirely too tight, too hollow. "Yeah? When did she go down to the kitchen?"
"About twenty minutes ago," Jongho said, picking up his shaker bottle and taking a slow, deliberate swig of water. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his broad arms over his athletic jersey, his gaze dripping with the exact, ruthless satisfaction of a prophet watching his first prediction strike oil. "Didn't look back once. Picked up her bag, refused a ride, and walked straight out into the fog. I told you, Woo. Some girls don't give a single shit about the jersey."
Wooyoung’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped beneath his ear. The memory of your lips—all heat and liquor and reckless, half-laughing defiance—flashed behind his eyes, making his blood run hot and heavy through his veins.
"She was just drunk," Wooyoung gritted out, his voice dropping into a dark, defensive register as he reached for a clean glass, his ego screaming for a distraction. "A joke for a video. She’ll text."
Jongho let out a short, cold sound from the back of his throat—a brutal, mocking chuckle that cut straight through Wooyoung’s remaining armor. He hoisted his heavy duffel bag over his shoulder, walking toward the back door that led to the practice fields.
As his hand hit the brass handle, Jongho stopped, looking back at his older brother over his shoulder. His expression was completely devoid of sympathy.
"She didn't look like she was joking when she left you with a cold bed, Jung," Jongho muttered dryly. "Have fun tracking that one down. It looks like your perfect score just took a hit."
The back door clicked shut behind him, leaving Wooyoung alone in the freezing, ruined kitchen. He stared at the empty space where you had stood the night before, your hand gripping his forearm, your voice daring him to take you forever.
His phone sat dead in his hand. No texts. No notifications.
For the first time in his life, the king of the TEEZER house was completely, devastatingly unanchored—and he hadn't even learned your name yet.
Monday morning dawned bright and suffocatingly normal—the kind of sharp, cloudless day that made Jung Wooyoung want to punch the sky. His fingers drummed an erratic rhythm against his textbook, his gaze flicking to every passing girl with your approximate height, your hair color, the way your shoulders had felt under his hands. His knee bounced beneath the desk, the restless energy of a predator locked in a cage. The professor droned on about microeconomics; Wooyoung heard static.
Three rows ahead, a girl turned her head slightly—dark hair, familiar slope of her neck—and his pulse spiked before he registered the wrong shade of brown. He exhaled through his nose, gripping his pen hard enough to crack the plastic.
This was pathetic.
He’d never chased. He’d never needed to.
The bell rang. Wooyoung was out of his seat before the echo died, shoving through the lecture hall doors like they’d personally offended him. His phone burned in his pocket—still silent, still useless. He’d spent all Sunday combing through tagged party photos, drunk-texting Yunho to check the security footage (which, humiliatingly, showed you walking out at 5:03 AM, head high, not a single glance back).
The quad was flooded with midday sunlight, students sprawled on the grass like discarded jackets. Wooyoung scanned the crowd with military precision—and then he saw you.
There. Under the oak tree by the humanities building. Cross-legged in a cream sweater, highlighters spread around you like some kind of academic halo. You looked soft. Innocent. Like you hadn’t wrecked him three nights ago with your teeth and that fucking word.
He was moving before he thought, cutting through groups of freshmen who scattered like startled birds. You didn’t look up until his shadow fell across your notes. Your pen froze mid-equation.
"...Hi?" you tried, blinking up at him with a polite, distant smile—like he was a stranger asking for directions. Like you hadn’t gasped his name into his collarbone.
Wooyoung’s jaw tightened. "You left."
The words came out rougher than he intended, edged with something raw that made your fingers twitch around your highlighter. You glanced around—nobody watching, nobody listening—then tilted your chin up. "Yeah. Didn’t realize I needed permission."
The bite in your voice was new. Sober-you had spines.
Wooyoung leaned down, bracing a hand on the tree trunk beside your head, caging you in. "Most girls say goodbye," he murmured, watching your pulse jump. "Most girls text."
Your laugh was sharp, incredulous. "Most girls aren’t me." You uncrossed your legs, gathering your books with a calm precision that drove him insane. "It was fun. Thanks for the content."
Content. Like he was a fucking prop.
Wooyoung didn’t move. His hand remained flat against the rough oak bark, his knuckles white, his entire frame practically vibrating with an explosive mix of disbelief and infuriated attraction. He was used to girls looking at him like he was the prize, like he was the sun they were trying to catch a tan from. You were looking at him like he was a minor inconvenience on your way to an engineering lab.
"Content," he repeated, the word tasting like venom on his tongue. He dropped his chin, his silver-streaked hair falling over his eyes as he stepped even deeper into your space, his boots nearly pinning the edge of your canvas tote bag. "You think I’m a joke? You think what happened upstairs was just for a fucking video?"
"I think it was exactly what it was supposed to be," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the chaotic hammering of your heart against your ribs. You could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the familiar, expensive cologne that had stained your own skin until you’d scrubbed yourself raw in the shower on Sunday morning. You stood up, forcing him to take a half-step back, though he refused to let you out from under his shadow. "It was a Friday night at the TEEZER house, Wooyoung. You’re the guy everyone warns everyone else about. I had a few drinks, I made a mistake, and now I’m correcting it."
"A mistake?" His cat-like eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "You didn't look like you were regretting it when you were biting my neck."
A furious blush threatened to creep up your throat, but you forced it down, locking your jaw. You knew how this house operated. You’d seen San walk past your dorm with a hollow look in his eyes; you’d heard the rumors about Mingi's messy wreckage. If you let Jung Wooyoung see even a fraction of the impact he had on you, he would dismantle you. You had to draw the line deep, hard, and fast.
"I was drunk," you stated flatly, adjusting the heavy strap of your bag over your shoulder. "But if you're really that bruised about it... we can make a deal."
Wooyoung let out a short, incredulous breath, his hands dropping to his hips. "A deal. You're trying to negotiate with me?"
"You want to do it again. Don't lie, I can see it in your face," you hit back, taking a page out of the very book of confidence he’d used on you on Friday. "And honestly? The sex was good. I’m stressed, finals are coming up, and I wouldn't mind a distraction. But if we do this, we do it on my terms."
Wooyoung’s head tilted, a dark, deeply intrigued fascination suddenly cutting through his irritation. The playboy in him couldn't help but respond to the absolute audacity of what you were proposing. "Your terms? Enlighten me."
"No strings. No staying over. No morning-after lingering," you said, counting the rules off on your fingers with a clinical precision that made his chest tight. "You don't talk to me on campus. You don't wave to me in the quad. When I text you a time, you show up, we handle our business, and you leave before the sun comes up. If anyone asks, we don't know each other. We are absolutely nothing."
You took a step past him, your shoulder brushing his chest as you broke out of his cage. You paused, looking back at him over your shoulder, your gaze cool and unwavering.
"Take it or leave it, Jung. But if you break the rules once, the contract is dead."
You walked away, your sneakers crunching against the gravel of the quad, leaving him standing under the shadow of the oak tree.
Wooyoung stared at your retreating back, his chest heaving as the absolute absurdity of the situation washed over him. A no-strings, casual arrangement was exactly what he’d been running for three years. It was his signature play. It was his entire brand.
But as he watched the cream fabric of your sweater disappear into the humanities building, his phone finally vibrated in his palm with a single, un-saved text notification containing a room number and a time for tonight, his knuckles twitched.
He didn't feel victorious. He felt like he’d just handed a loaded gun to a girl who didn't even care enough to aim it at his heart.
The first time Wooyoung left his hoodie behind—black, expensive, still smelling like his cologne—he did it deliberately. He draped it over your desk chair with practiced carelessness, watching from beneath half-lowered lashes as you scooped it up without hesitation and tossed it into the hallway before locking your dorm door behind him. The sharp click of the deadbolt sounded like a gunshot in the silent hallway. His jaw tightened.
Three nights later, he tried lingering—stretching out the post-coital haze by tracing idle patterns down your spine. You rolled away, sat up, and handed him his pants. "Don't make me say it again," you murmured, your voice soft but edged with steel. The streetlights through your blinds painted tiger stripes across your bare shoulders as you stood to rinse off in the shower, leaving him alone in the rumpled sheets with his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Week two found him testing the campus rule. He "accidentally" bumped into you outside the chemistry building, his grin all lazy charm as he reached out to steady you. "Whoa, careful—" Your spine went rigid. You sidestepped his touch like it burned, muttered a clipped thanks, and vanished into the lecture hall without looking back. Yunho, leaning against a bike rack nearby, wolf-whistled. "Damn. She really doesn’t give a shit, does she?" Wooyoung’s smile turned lethal.
Midnight of the eleventh day, Wooyoung broke the biggest rule.
It was raining—the kind of cold, relentless downpour that turned sidewalks into rivers—and you’d texted him a dorm room number with no further context. When he arrived dripping onto your threshold, you didn’t comment on his soaked shirt or the way his hair clung to his forehead. You just backed into the room, let him kick the door shut with his boot, and tangled your fingers in his belt loops before he could speak.
After, when his lungs were still heaving and his pulse still hammered against your tongue, you rolled off him and reached for your phone. "It’s 1:30," you said, like a timer had gone off. "You should go."
Thunder cracked overhead. Wooyoung, for the first time in his life, didn’t move. "It’s a monsoon out there," he tried, aiming for casual as he propped himself up on one elbow. You paused mid-text, your thumb hovering over the screen. The blue light painted your collarbones in stark relief—the same collarbones he’d just bitten.
"And?"
And nothing. That was the problem.
He watched you for three more breaths—the way your lashes cast shadows when you blinked, the faint tremor in your fingers as you tucked your hair behind your ear—before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He dressed in silence, the weight of the unspoken stay pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.
The air in the varsity athletic field house was different than the TEEZER house. It didn't smell like stale liquor or desperate midnights; it smelled like heavy rubber matting, wintergreen liniment, and the cold, unyielding pressure of performance.
You liked it here. It was a space dictated by logic, injuries, and recovery—things you could map out on a clipboard. As a sports medicine intern, your job was to keep your head down, hand out ice packs, and ensure the university's prize athletes didn't snap their hamstrings before the winter qualifiers.
"Hold the heel steady," a voice commanded, low and gravelly.
You didn't look up from the tape in your hands. "I am holding it steady, Choi. If you keep twitching your calf, the anchor strip is going to buckle."
Choi Jongho sat flat on the high training table, his massive, heavily muscled thighs extending over the edge, wrapped in a compression sleeve. His dark eyes watched your fingers move with efficient, clinical precision across his ankle. There was no charm here. No games. Jongho treated you with the exact same stoic, compartmentalized respect you gave him. You were the girl who had ghosted his best friend at 5 AM, but to Jongho, you were also the only intern who didn't let the TEEZER letters on his gym bag distract them from a proper medial wrap.
"You're late today," Jongho remarked, his voice cutting through the hum of the ice machines.
"Rain delayed the campus shuttle," you lied smoothly, snapping the tape with a sharp crack.
"Right." Jongho didn't press, but one dark eyebrow twitched upward. He knew what happened on rainy nights. He lived in the room across the hall from the boy who had spent all morning staring blankly at a textbook, reeking of frustration.
Before you could smooth down the final strip of adhesive, the heavy glass doors of the training room swung open with enough force to rattle the aluminum frames.
Jung Wooyoung stepped over the threshold.
He didn't belong in the athletic wing at two in the afternoon. He was wearing his signature slouchy black sweats, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his silver-streaked hair damp from the lingering mist outside. He looked entirely too large, too sharp, and far too loud for the quiet sanctuary of the clinic. His gaze swept the room with predatory intent—until it locked onto your hands resting on Jongho's bare ankle.
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Jung," Jongho acknowledged, his posture tightening slightly on the table, his eyes instantly tracking the dark, volatile energy rolling off Wooyoung's shoulders. "Practice doesn't start for an hour. Get out of the training space."
Wooyoung didn't even look at him. His cat-like eyes were fixed entirely on you. He walked forward, his sneakers squeaking aggressively against the linoleum, stopping so close to the training table that his thigh brushed against your shoulder.
"You didn't answer my text," Wooyoung murmured. His voice wasn't lazy anymore. It was rough, stripped of the playful playboy cadence, laced with a heavy, possessive edge that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.
You kept your face a mask of absolute, icy professionalism, though your knuckles went white against your shears. "I’m on the clock, Jung. If you don't have a medical referral, you need to wait outside."
"On the clock," he repeated, a dark, dangerous laugh bubbling in his chest. He stepped directly into your personal perimeter, completely ignoring the rule of distance you'd enforced on campus. He reached down, his long, scarred fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but with enough heavy, burning pressure to make you drop the tape. "You have time to touch him, but you don't have time to look at your phone?"
"Let go of her, Woo," Jongho said. The younger boy's voice wasn't an warning; it was a command. He sat up straighter, his chest expanding, his dark eyes boring into Wooyoung’s profile with absolute, unbothered authority. "You're acting sloppy. She's working."
Wooyoung’s grip on your wrist tightened by a fraction. He finally flicked his gaze to Jongho, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle leaped beneath his ear. The sight of you treating someone else with normal, casual respect—even if it was his own fraternity brother—had snapped the last thread of his control. He was tired of being a ghost at 1:30 AM. He was tired of being nothing.
"Mind your fucking business, Choi," Wooyoung gritted out, his eyes snapping back down to yours, his pupils blown completely black. "We're leaving. Now."
You tilted your chin up, looking directly into the fire of his gaze, your voice dropping into that steel-edged register he dreaded.
"Rule number four, Wooyoung," you whispered, the words meant only for him. "No scenes on campus. If you don't let go of my wrist in three seconds, the contract is dead forever."
Wooyoung’s grip loosened like you’d burned him. His fingers twitched once—a delayed, involuntary reaction—before his hand dropped limply to his side. The air between you crackled with something volatile, something neither of you dared name. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts, his lips parted around unspoken words that tasted like surrender. For a heartbeat, he just stared at you, his dark eyes wide with something dangerously close to betrayal. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the training room, the door slamming behind him with enough force to rattle the glass.
You exhaled slowly, your fingers trembling around the discarded tape.
Jongho watched you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with deliberate calm, he reached down and plucked the shears from your stiff grip. "He’s completely undone," he said, his voice low, matter-of-fact. He snapped the tape cleanly with a sharp crack. "You didn’t just break his record. You’re breaking him." His dark eyes flicked up to yours, weighing, assessing. "Just make sure you don’t get caught in the blast radius when he finally snaps."
Your throat tightened. You opened your mouth—to protest, to deflect—but Jongho was already sliding off the table, his ankle expertly wrapped, his gaze already shifting to the next task. The conversation was over.
The gym doors swung shut behind Wooyoung with a hollow, metallic clang—too quiet for the storm he left in his wake. Jongho exhaled through his nose, fingers flexing around the shears he’d confiscated from your grip. "He’s gonna pace his room for three hours," he mused, almost to himself. "Then he’ll start throwing shit."
You swallowed hard, staring at the abandoned roll of tape. The ghost of Wooyoung’s grip still burned around your wrist. "I didn’t—"
"You did." Jongho’s voice wasn’t cruel. It was clinical, like diagnosing a torn ligament. He tossed the shears onto the tray with a clatter. "You flipped his axis. Now watch your back." He grabbed his gym bag and strode out without another glance, leaving you alone with the echo of his warning humming in your bones.
Rain lashed against the TEEZER house windows at midnight, turning the glass into a warped, liquid mirror. You shouldn’t have been there. You knew you shouldn’t have been there. But your stupid, traitorous feet had carried you across campus anyway, slipping through the side door Hongjoong always left unlocked for his late-night coffee runs.
The kitchen was pitch-black, save for the rhythmic, emerald blink of the microwave clock and the occasional flash of lightning that sliced through the shadows, painting the stainless steel appliances in sharp, skeletal silver. It was freezing downstairs. The ghost of the weekend’s rager had long since been scrubbed away, leaving behind the clinical, sharp smell of pine cleaner and industrial-grade bleach.
You leaned your back against the cool marble of the island, your damp sneakers leaving small, dark prints on the tile. Your heart was a frantic, trapped thing behind your ribs, hammering so loudly you were certain it would wake Hongjoong three floors up.
Why were you here? You had the power. You had the contract. You had him exactly where you wanted him—subjugated to a set of rules that kept your heart perfectly safe from the demolition crew that lived in this house. But the look in Wooyoung’s eyes when he’d dropped his hand in the training room—that raw, jagged slice of genuine betrayal—had festered in your mind all evening. It had made your blueprints look like static. It had made your bedroom feel too small.
A floorboard groaned above you. Not the heavy, sluggish step of a drunk frat boy, but the light, fluid, dangerous tread of a hunter who knew exactly who was standing in his dark.
You didn't turn around. You didn't need to. The air in the room thickened instantly, the atmospheric pressure dropping until your lungs felt constricted. The scent of whiskey, rain, and that lethal vanilla-and-mint cologne wrapped around your shoulders before his shadow even touched you.
"Rule number five," a voice purred out of the dark.
It was a rough, gravelly rasp, stripped entirely of the playful, cat-like melody he used to charm the campus. Wooyoung stepped into the faint green glow of the microwave clock. He hadn't changed since the afternoon; his black hoodie was still damp at the shoulders, his silver-streaked hair clinging to the line of his forehead in messy, dark spikes.
He didn't crowd you this time. He stopped three feet away, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his jaw clenched so tightly that the sharp angle of his bone looked like it could cut glass.
"No unannounced visits to the house," Wooyoung whispered, his dark eyes boring into yours with a volatile, heavy fire. "If you break the rules once, the contract is dead forever. Isn't that what you told me under the oak tree?"
You swallowed the lump of glass in your throat, forcing your chin up, forcing the cold composure back into your features. "I came to tell you the contract is dead. You made a scene in front of Jongho. You broke rule four."
Wooyoung let out a sound—not a laugh, but a sharp, bitter exhalation that rattled in his chest. He took a single step forward, the distance between you vanishing in a heartbeat. He didn't touch your wrist this time. He didn't need to. The sheer weight of his presence pinned you against the marble island just as effectively.
"Jongho?" he echoed, his voice dropping into a dangerous, velvet register that made your knees ache. "You think I give a single shit about Jongho? You think I care about the rules anymore?"
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his hot breath ghosting over your lips. In the sudden flare of lightning outside, his pupils were blown entirely black, consuming the amber of his irises.
"I tried," Wooyoung gritted out, his knuckles flexing inside his pockets. "I let you toss my hoodie into the hall. I let you treat me like a twenty-minute timer. I let you sidestep me in the quad while Yunho fucking laughed at me. I played your little game because I thought it was the only way I'd get to keep my hands on you."
He stepped closer, his chest brushing against the damp fabric of your sweater, his voice cracking around the sheer, unadulterated desperation he’d been harboring for weeks.
"But watching you touch him? Watching you look at another guy with that quiet, normal respect while you treat me like a dirty secret you have to rinse off in the shower?" He shook his head, a wild, untamed grin pulling at his lips—the look of a man who had finally watched his own walls crumble and didn't care about the wreckage. "No. The contract is dead, sweetheart. But we aren't done. Not even close."
"You're just—" Your breath hitched, fingers digging into the marble behind you. The words tasted like sawdust, like betrayal, but you forced them out anyway. "You're just a placeholder for the night, Wooyoung. That's all this was ever supposed to be."
The silence that followed was volcanic.
Wooyoung didn't move. Didn't blink. The microwave clock blinked 3:17 AM in toxic green, casting his sharp features in a ghastly glow. Then—laughter. A low, broken sound that scraped up his throat like shattered glass. "Placeholder," he repeated, voice dripping with venom. His hand shot out, caging yours against the counter, his fingers trembling where they brushed your skin. "You think I don't know you're lying? Your voice cracks on the last syllable every time you lie to me. You think I haven't memorized that too?"
Lightning flashed. In the sudden white burst, you saw it—the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes, the way his chest heaved like he'd been running for miles. Your pulse stuttered. This wasn't the playboy who charmed his way into dorm rooms. This was something feral, something unhinged.
"You want to know what I am?" Wooyoung crowded closer, his knee slotting between yours, his free hand gripping your chin. "I'm the guy who remembers you take your coffee with two sugars, even though you told me you liked it black. I'm the guy who sits through Introduction to Astrophysics in the back row every Tuesday because you bite your lip when you're concentrating." His thumb swiped over your bottom lip, rough, desperate. "Placeholder," he spat. "You built this whole fucking maze to keep me out, and I still found you. So don't lie to me now."
The microwave beeped—a single, shrill note—and you flinched. His grip tightened. Not enough to hurt.
"You're scared," he murmured, lips grazing your temple. "Scared that if you let me in, I'll wreck you like I wreck everything else." His laugh was dark, hollow. "Too late, sweetheart. You already wrecked me."
Your breath hitched. The confession hung between you like a live wire. Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed. Hongjoong's voice echoed down the stairwell, groggy and irritated. Neither of you moved.
Wooyoung's fingers flexed against your jaw. "Say it," he demanded, voice cracking. "Say you don't feel this. Say you walked here tonight to end it, and I'll walk out that door and never look back."
Lightning flashed again. This time, you saw the fracture in his mask—the way his pupils dilated, the way his throat worked around the lie he was forcing you to tell. The microwave clock blinked 3:19 AM.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the heavy, rhythmic drumming of rain against the glass. The green 3:19 AM illuminated the small bead of sweat tracing down the side of Wooyoung's neck, the fierce, trembling desperate strength in the hand holding your jaw.
"I don't feel it," you whispered.
The lie left your lips smooth, cold, and utterly dead. You didn't let your voice crack this time. You locked your vocal cords, anchoring your gaze to the center of his chest rather than looking into the blown-black abyss of his eyes. You couldn't look. If you looked, you would break, and if you broke, Jung Wooyoung would occupy every single corner of your life until there was nothing left of the girl who knew how to survive alone.
Wooyoung’s hand froze against your face.
For three agonized, agonizing seconds, he didn't breathe. The feral, unhinged fire in his eyes didn't fade; it violently imploded, leaving behind a cold, hollow vacuum that looked far worse than his rage. His fingers dropped away from your skin, slow and limp, as if the very touch had suddenly turned to ash.
"Okay," he said.
His voice didn't crack either. It was flat. Empty. The signature melody of the campus king was entirely gone, replaced by the hollow rattle of a boy who had just thrown his entire heart onto the table only to watch it get pushed onto the floor. He stepped back, the crushing, magnetic heat of his body vanishing from your perimeter so fast the sudden draft of the kitchen made you shiver.
Upstairs, Hongjoong’s heavy footsteps rounded the landing, his voice dropping down the stairs with sharp irritation. "Woo? You down there messing with the ice machine again?"
Wooyoung didn't answer his captain. He didn't look at you again. He just shoved his hands back deep into his damp pockets, turned his back to the island, and walked straight out the back door into the freezing, relentless midnight storm. The heavy oak frame didn't slam; it clicked shut with a terrifying, absolute finality.
You stood alone in the dark kitchen, the green light of the clock ticking over to 3:20 AM. The ghost of his thumb still burned against your bottom lip, but the house around you had never felt more like a tomb.
Monday morning arrived without the sun, draped instead in a thick, uniform coat of grey fog that made the entire university look like an old charcoal sketch.
You didn't go to the quad. You didn't sit under the oak tree by the humanities building. You locked yourself in the absolute back corner of the science library’s basement, surrounded by dusty, outdated journals on structural load limits and reinforced concrete. Your phone sat face down on the wooden desk, a heavy, silent brick of anxiety.
You hadn't blocked his number. That would require acknowledging the friction. Instead, you had simply deleted the thread, erasing the late-night room numbers and the clipped, precise times that had dictated the last three weeks of your life. You had returned to the routine. You were the architect. You were the good girl who didn't let red flags pull her axis out of alignment.
But your fingers wouldn't stop shaking against your pencil.
"You look like you're about to faint," a voice muttered from across the table.
You jerked your head up, your eyes wide and defensive as you met the flat, unimpressed gaze of Jeong Yunho. He was leaning back in one of the library's creaking wooden chairs, a leather-bound notebook open in his lap, a gold pen spinning effortlessly between his long fingers. He looked entirely too clean, too sharp, his classic TEEZER leather jacket draped over the back of his chair like a warning sign.
You swallowed hard, pulling your sweater sleeves down over your knuckles. "I'm just studying, Jeong."
"Right." Yunho let out a low, smooth hum, his sharp eyes tracking the dark circles beneath your lower lashes, the defensive, rigid line of your shoulders. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his smile small, knowing, and entirely devoid of his usual playful banter. "Because people usually look like they're mourning a dead relative when they're calculating structural load weights."
"I don't know what you're talking about," you whispered, turning the page of your textbook with unnecessary force.
"Woo didn't show up for the house meeting yesterday," Yunho delivered casually, his eyes never leaving your face. "First time in two years. Hongjoong nearly threw a chair through the wall. San went up to his room to drag him out, but the door was locked from the inside. The only thing coming out of there was the sound of the rain against his glass."
Yunho tapped his gold pen against the table, the rhythmic click, click, click sounding horribly similar to the microwave clock from last night.
"I don't care," you gritted out, your jaw clenching so hard it ached.
"Yeah, you do," Yunho countered softly, his voice dropping into that dark, perceptive register that made him the most dangerous player in the house. He stood up, slinging his leather jacket over his shoulder, looking down at you with a heavy, unbothered pity. "But that's the thing about this house, sweetheart. We're all built for demolition. You thought you were drawing a boundary line, but you just left a guy who doesn't know how to swim alone in the deep end. Let's see how long you can stay on the dry land before the water rises to your neck."
He walked away, his heavy boots echoing through the hollow basement stacks, leaving you alone in the silence.
You looked down at your phone. It remained completely dark. No texts. No notifications. The void had officially opened beneath your feet—and for the first time since the Friday night you’d held up a camera and laughed, you realized you were the one falling.
The silence between you stretched like a noose—tightening with every passing day, every stolen glance across the quad where Wooyoung’s gaze slid right through you like you were made of smoke. Two weeks. Fourteen days of hollow routine where the absence of his texts carved a trench in your chest deeper than any presence ever could.
You saw him everywhere. In the way Jongho’s jaw clenched when Wooyoung walked into the gym with dead eyes, no longer sparring but demolishing the heavy bag like it owed him blood. In the way Yunho stopped smirking, watching Wooyoung’s back with something too close to concern as he ghosted through parties without touching a single drink, a single girl. The TEEZER house held its breath, waiting for the explosion—but Wooyoung had become a black hole, collapsing inward with terrifying silence.
Rain slapped against your apartment window on the fifteenth night, the sound like fingers tapping a code you refused to decipher. Your sketchbook lay open on the bed, blueprints half-finished, lines wavering where your hand had trembled. You stared at the door like it might combust—because the truth was a live wire in your throat: you’d built walls to keep him out, but all you’d done was cage yourself inside with the ghost of him.
The knock came at 1:17 AM. Not the playful, rhythmic rapping of the boy who’d once charmed his way into your bed, but three sharp, desperate strikes that shook the frame. You knew. You knew. Your bare feet hit the floor before your brain could veto the motion, the cold wood biting into your soles as you wrenched the door open—
And there he was.
Jung Wooyoung looked like a storm given skin. His silver-streaked hair was soaked black, plastered to his forehead; his white tee clung transparent to the sharp ridges of his collarbones. No smirk. No pretense. Just raw, unfiltered want etched into the dark hollows beneath his eyes. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, chest heaving, rainwater dripping from his clenched fists onto your welcome mat, as if those three knocks had drained the last of his oxygen.
"You’re breaking rule six," you whispered. Your voice barely carried over the downpour. No contact outside designated hours.
Wooyoung exhaled a broken laugh. "Fuck the rules." His voice was sandpaper and whiskey, stripped of its usual melody. "Fuck the contract. Fuck everything except this—" His hand shot out, fingers brushing your wrist so lightly it burned. "Tell me to leave. Say you don’t feel it. Lie to me again."
Lightning flashed. In the stark white burst, you saw the tremor in his fingers, the way his throat worked around unsaid words. The microwave clock in your kitchen read 1:18 AM. The silence between you was a living thing, thick with every unspoken I remember and I missed you and you wrecked me.
You didn’t lie.
Instead, your fingers curled into the collar of his soaked, transparent tee, pulling him over the threshold with a force that surprised you both. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, the deadbolt clicking home like a final decree, cutting off the campus, the TEEZER house, and the fourteen days of agonizing static.
Wooyoung didn’t wait. A low, jagged sound tore from his throat as his hands found your face, his long, damp fingers framing your jaw with a possessive, crushing intensity. He tasted like cold rain and bitter whiskey, his mouth devouring yours with an unhinged hunger that completely dismantled your remaining walls. He wasn't playing a game anymore; his teeth scraped your bottom lip, marking you in the dark while his boots pinned your bare feet to the floorboards.
When he tore his shirt off, his skin was freezing against yours, but the heat rolling off his chest was a furnace. He lifted you clean off the floor, your thighs locking around his low waist, and carried you to the bed, entirely uncaring of the sketchbooks and highlighters that clattered to the floor beneath his boots.
He pinned you to the mattress, the heavy weight of his body pressing you deep into the sheets. His hands were everywhere—bruising and unyielding as they gripped your hips, anchoring you to him as if he were terrified that a single inch of distance would cause you to evaporate back into a ghost.
"Look at me," he gritted out, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. He didn't wait for your response, his mouth sliding down the column of your throat, biting a harsh, dark mark right over your pulse point. "Tell me I'm not dreaming this. Tell me you aren't going to turn the timer on."
"I'm not," you gasped, your fingers digging into the defined, trembling muscles of his back. "Wooyoung, please—"
The raw desperation in your voice snapped the last string of his control. He stripped your clothes away with frantic, rough urgency, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle pulsed beneath his ear. But the moment your skin was entirely bare beneath him, the frantic, territorial storm in his eyes shifted. The playboy completely died.
Slowly, deliberately, Wooyoung sank to his knees at the edge of the mattress.
The physical transition was absolute. The untouchable king of the TEEZER house was suddenly lower than you, his silver-streaked hair damp against his forehead as he looked up at your form in the dim, liquid light of the window. His long fingers trembled as they reached out, tracing the curve of your waist, the slope of your hip, with a shattering, silent reverence.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice gravelly and stripped of all pretense. "So fucking beautiful it hurts."
He leaned forward, his lips pressing a slow, heavy kiss to the inside of your ankle, then your calf, tracking a path of pure devotion up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Every touch was an apology; every press of his mouth was a confession of how empty his kingdom had been without you. He gripped your thighs, his knuckles white, holding you open like a sacred text he was re-learning from scratch. Your back arched off the mattress as his tongue found you, a low sob tearing from your chest at the sheer, overwhelming weight of his focus. He didn't look up, his hands tightening on your skin, drinking in your frantic gasps until you were completely unanchored.
When he finally crawled back up over your body, his eyes were blown entirely black, consuming the amber of his irises. He locked his fingers with yours, pinning your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head, caging you in with a heavy, possessive dominance that made your pulse stutter.
"No more games," he murmured, his chest heaving as he aligned himself against you. "Say it. Say you're keeping me."
"Stay," you choked out, your hips lifting instinctively against his weight. "Please, just stay."
He drove into you with a deep, heavy thrust that stole the oxygen straight from your lungs. It wasn't the fast, clinical hookup of your arrangement; it was a mutual demolition. Every roll of his hips was slow, agonizingly deep, and laced with a possessive friction that made your vision blur. Wooyoung buried his face in the crook of your neck, his bared teeth grazing your collarbone as he muttered rough, broken praise into your skin.
"Mine," he growled, the word a dark vibration against your throat. "You ruined me, sweetheart. You're the only thing that matters."
The pacing quickened, the heat between your bodies turning the chilly apartment into a furnace. Your fingers broke free from his grip, tearing down his spine, pulling him down until there wasn't a single breath of air between you. As the physical climax rushed toward him, his smooth composure shattered entirely. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his fingers digging into your hips to lock you against his pace, his breath coming in sharp, desperate bursts.
"Forever," Wooyoung choked out, his voice cracking around the word as his body went rigid. He didn't use it as a taunt like the first night. It was a plea, a binding vow dragged from the absolute bottom of his chest as he poured himself into you. "Forever. Please."
"Forever," you cried out, your own walls fracturing completely as the wave crashed over you, your body tightening around his, anchoring him deep within the only foundation that had ever mattered.
The storm outside began to clear, the rhythmic slap of rain fading into a soft, quiet mist against the window pane. Inside, the heavy, volatile static of the room had settled into a profound, exhausted quiet.
Wooyoung didn't move to find his pants. He didn't check his phone.
Instead, he carefully shifted his weight, sliding out of you with a low, satisfied hum before immediately pulling your limp body against his bare chest. He was still damp with a mixture of sweat and rain, but his skin was burning hot. He dragged the heavy duvet up over your shoulders, tucking it tightly around your neck with a clinical, protective precision that felt entirely foreign for a boy from the TEEZER house.
"Don't move," he whispered, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your damp temple.
He slid out of bed, his bare feet hitting the hardwood floor without a sound. In the pale, early morning light, you watched him walk into your small bathroom. The sound of running water echoed through the quiet space, followed by the soft rustle of a towel. When he returned, he was holding a warm, damp washcloth in his hand, his expression completely devoid of his usual smug arrogance. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his dark eyes fixed on you with an unbothered, tender focus.
Carefully, reverently, Wooyoung reached beneath the duvet. He began to wipe away the traces of the night from your thighs, his touch incredibly gentle, entirely separate from the rough, possessive grip of an hour prior. He didn't speak. He just smoothed his palm over the dark, red marks his fingers had left on your hips, his thumb rubbing absent, soothing circles against the bruising skin.
When he finished, he tossed the cloth onto the desk chair—right over your finished blueprints—and slid back under the covers.
He pulled you flush against him, his long legs tangling with yours, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to lock you against his heartbeat. He tucked your head right beneath his chin, his chest expanding with a long, deep sigh of absolute relief.
"The sun's coming up," you murmured softly, your eyes heavy as you stared at the faint amber light starting to bleed through the blinds.
Wooyoung’s grip tightened, his fingers pressing into your lower back, anchoring you to his chest with a final, unyielding certainty.
"Let it," he whispered into your hair, his voice heavy with sleep but completely steady. "We're staying right here."
DISCLAIMER | These posts are just little stories from my imagination! They are not a true representation of the members in any way. Please treat these fictions as a cozy escape and don't take them to heart!
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── 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you bring him lunch; he teaches you patience. jealousy, control, filthy praise, and a promise to keep every drop.
── 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut
── 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, consensual power dynamics (sub reader), jealousy, possessiveness, degradation, filthy language, spitting, mouth play, choking and hand-on-throat control, breeding talk, edging, orgasm denial, pacing control, creampie, hair pulling, overstimulation, biting, hongjoong refers to reader as “my problematic child” once, bratting, brat taming, rough sex, manhandling, restraint by pinning/holding, spanking, face slapping, spit swallowing
── 𝐖𝐂: 9.2k
── 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: hongjoong did not have to go this hard. neither did I. but here we are. god forgive me.
The hallway outside Hongjoong’s studio is colder than it should be, you’re balancing the takeout in one hand, nudging the lid to check for leaks when Mingi shoulders out of the door, nearly colliding.
“Whoa—” His hands land on your waist to steady you both, one arm curving around to catch the bag before it tips. “Endangered food. Tragic if lost.”
You snort, aware of how his palm is still warm against your hip. “A national crisis.”
He doesn’t step back right away, just peers at the stapled top, thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt. “Is this Joong’s bribe or yours?”
“His. If I don’t feed him, he becomes a gremlin.”
“A productive gremlin,” Mingi says, finally letting go but staying close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him. “One that mixes on three hours of sleep.” He tips his head toward Hongjoong’s studio. “He’s been feral since early morning. I almost threw a shoe at him.”
You’re both still smiling when the restroom door at the far end swings open. Hongjoong appears, sleeves shoved to his elbows, damp hands dragging through his hair. You catch his presence in the corner of your eye—his messy hair, the set of his jaw, the way he stops mid-stride when he sees you.
Perfect.
You don’t acknowledge him. Instead, you laugh louder at something Mingi didn’t even finish saying, letting the sound carry down the hallway. Your hand finds Mingi’s forearm, fingers curling around the sleeve of his hoodie as you lean into his chest, close enough that your hair brushes his chin.
“You? Afraid of him?” you ask, tilting your face up toward Mingi with a grin that’s all performance.
“Terrified,” Mingi says, leaning down so his voice drops low, intimate. His hand finds your waist again—easy, natural—and you don’t pull away. You let it settle there, warm and broad against your hip. “But don’t tell him. I have a reputation.”
You can feel Hongjoong watching. You don’t look. Not yet.
Mingi gestures at the dip in the floor with his free hand, the one not anchored to your waist. “Careful, that spot eats drinks. I lost an Americano there yesterday. Still grieving.”
You step around it with exaggerated care, and his hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, guiding you past the uneven tile. His palm is steady, fingers splayed, and you let yourself lean into the touch just a fraction more than necessary.
“May it rest,” you say solemnly, and then you let your hand trail down Mingi’s arm as you step away, fingertips dragging along his sleeve before falling back to your side.
Mingi presses a hand to his heart, playing along. “Gone but not forgotten.”
You laugh again—brighter this time, more deliberately—and turn your body toward Mingi, angling yourself so Hongjoong has a perfect view of how close you’re standing, how easy the space between you feels. You reach up, brushing invisible lint from Mingi’s shoulder, your fingers lingering a beat too long.
“You’re dramatic,” you tell him, voice warm, teasing in a way that invites him closer.
“And you’re trouble,” Mingi counters, grinning down at you. His hand finds your waist again, thumb brushing the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up slightly.
That’s when you hear it—a deliberate sound cutting through the easy banter. A throat clearing, unmistakable and pointed.
Mingi’s head snaps toward the source.
Hongjoong stands a few feet away there’s something sharp in the way his eyes move from you to Mingi and back again. Mingi’s hand drops from your waist immediately, and he takes a half-step back, suddenly very interested in adjusting his sleeve.
“Am I interrupting?” Hongjoong voice is pleasant. Too pleasant.
“I was saving your lunch,” he announces, cheerful and guilty at once.
Hongjoong stops in front of you, eyes flicking from Mingi’s hands to your face. “Were you,” he says mildly, which is the opposite of how he sounds.
“Heroic,” Mingi adds, edging back a half‑step. “I’ll… hero somewhere else.” He gives you a quick wink. “Enjoy, gremlin feeder.” Then to Hongjoong, hands up: “Hydrate or I’m hiding your laptop.”
Mingi retreats down the hall and silence folds around you and Hongjoong. He doesn’t move at first. You and Hongjoong stand there with a warm bag of food between you and something sharper underneath.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you. Then:
“You laugh like that for everyone now?” His voice is even, unhurried.
“It was a joke,” you say, aiming for casual. “He saved our lunch.”
“Mhm.” His gaze skims the corridor where Mingi disappeared. “And needed to touch you to do it?”
You huff. “You’re overreacting.”
He takes one small step closer. It isn’t threatening. It just rearranges the air. “Finish that thought without rolling your eyes.”
You try again, lighter. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“So small you did it in front of my studio.” His mouth curves without warmth. “You wanted me to see.”
You fold your arms, chin up. “I didn’t plan a performance.”
“You didn’t have to.” He tips his head.
Heat climbs your neck. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re stalling.” He glances at the studio door, then back. “Why are you here?”
“I brought you lunch.”
“And?” He doesn’t blink.
“I wanted to see you.”
“There it is.” His shoulders loosen a fraction, like a decision lands. “When you want me, you don’t play stupid.”
You open your mouth. He lifts two fingers, gentle under your chin, and you close it again.
“Try again,” he says quietly. “Tell me why you’re here. Full sentence.”
“I’m here for you.”
He nods, pleased in a way that doesn’t show in his smile. “Use my name.”
“I’m here for you, Hongjoong.”
“Better.” He doesn’t let go of your chin, not yet. “Tell me what you wanted when you laughed like that.”
You swallow. “I wanted you to come get me.”
“Good.” The word lands soft and final. “So we agree you weren’t confused.” His thumb strokes once at the hinge of your jaw, thoughtless and proprietary. “Did you like his hand on your back?”
“No.”
“What did you like.”
“You watching.”
He exhales, slow. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.” His tone stays calm, almost conversational.
You attempt a smile that can’t decide what it wants to be. “You’re dramatic.”
“Meticulous.” He leans, barely, until you can smell cedar and coffee. “And I don’t like being lied to, even by implication.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You minimized.” He releases your chin and steps back half a pace, enough to make the space noticeable. “So here’s what happens next.” He points to the door. “You’re going to walk inside. You’re going to stand by the desk. You’re going to listen while I talk. You’re going to answer in full sentences.”
A beat. “And you’re not going to pretend you don’t remember the hallway.”
You bristle on reflex. “And if I do?”
He laughs, not unkindly. “You won’t.” His gaze moves to your mouth. “One more thing,” he says, quiet. “Say you’re done showing off.”
The admission sits on your tongue like a dare. “I’m done showing off.”
“For the others,” he amends, lazy and precise. “In there, you show off for me.”
You can’t help the answering curve at the corner of your mouth. “Yes, Hongjoong.”
“That’s my smart thing.” He moves first, opening the door and standing aside, a hand light at the small of your back as you pass. Not pushing. Not quite guiding. Just there.
Inside LEDs breathe along the racks. He closes the door with a soft click and doesn’t touch you again.
“Put the bag on the couch,” he says, level. You do. “Water’s on the table. Take a sip.”
You do. Your breath evens. He waits for it.
Then he nods at the desk, voice still unhurried. “Come here.” A pause, giving you the choice he already knows you’ll make. Something in his jaw ticks briefly when you approach him. He exhales then pulls you in by the hip, mouth grazing your cheek in a kiss that’s tender and not at all gentle.
His hands bracket your hips and drag you an inch, lining you up exactly where he wants you.
His mouth finds yours—brief but claiming, a slow press that tastes like possession. When he pulls back, his thumb drags across your bottom lip, and his eyes are dark. “Open.” You part your lips. He spits slow, thumb painting it across your tongue, then presses two fingers under your jaw to close you. “Swallow.” You do, heat coiling low. His eyes darken. “Good. Learn to listen.”
You try for a bratty smile. “What if I don’t?”
His laugh is quiet, indulgent. “Then I correct you.” He plants you against the edge of the mixing desk, his body caging yours. Rings skate your waist, then slip under your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one smooth motion. He tosses it aside, eyes dragging over newly exposed skin with dark appreciation. “Hands flat. No fidgeting.”
You fidget anyway—just a little tilt of your hips. He tsks, palm flattening over your lower belly to hold you still. “Still.”
“Make me.”
He hums like you’ve given him a gift.
“Look at you, begging for consequences.” His hand slides up, warm and sure, wrapping your throat—not squeezing, just settling there. He forces your mouth open and spits again, thumb dragging down your bottom lip. “That mouth buys you trouble.” He watches you for a beat, then leans in and kisses you—slow, deep, claiming every inch. When he pulls back, his thumb stays pressed to your bottom lip.
“Pretty,” he murmurs. “Filthy little mouth and a body that tells on itself.” He lifts you onto the edge of the desk, and steps between your knees. He tugs your bottoms down, eyes on your face as cool air kisses your skin. He drags his mouth along your jaw slowly, punctuating each inch with a kiss that’s more claim than comfort. Then he squeezes your throat just enough to sharpen the edges.
His thumb strokes the hollow of your throat while his other hand trails down, fingertips skimming your inner thigh with maddening lightness. “I’m going to make you beg, and I want you to remember you asked for this.” He drags his middle finger over damp fabric of your underwear, barely there, and your hips jerk forward on instinct. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to still you.
“Greedy,” he murmurs, almost disappointed. “I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already soaked through.” He traces the outline of you through your panties, slow and methodical. “Pathetic, really. Getting this worked up over nothing.”
“Hongjoong—”
“Shh.” He presses his thumb against your clit through the fabric, circling once, twice, then stopping entirely. “You don’t get to rush this. Not after your little performance.”
You squirm, chasing friction, and he laughs—low and mean.
“There she is. So fucking desperate.” He hooks a finger under the edge of your panties, pulling them taut, the fabric pressing deliciously against you. “You were so confident out there. Where’d that attitude go?”
“I’m not—”
“Not what?” He tugs the fabric again, sharper this time, and you gasp. “Not desperate? Your body’s calling you a liar, love.” He leans in, breath hot against your ear. “I can feel how wet you are and I haven’t even bothered to touch you properly. Should I? Or should I leave you like this—aching and empty—until you learn some manners?”
“Please—”
“Please what?” His fingers ghost over you again, featherlight, and you could cry from the not-enoughness of it. “Use your words. Full sentences.”
Your breath comes in shaky gasps. “Please touch me.”
“Better.” He rewards you with one firm press of his palm, grinding the heel of his hand against you through soaked fabric, and the sound that escapes you is half-sob, half-moan. “But you’re not there yet. Try again. Tell me what you want.”
“I want—” Your voice breaks as he circles his thumb again, maddeningly slow. “I want you to stop teasing.”
“No.” His smile is wicked. “You wanted my attention? You have it. Now you deal with what comes with it.” He finally slides your panties to the side. The first direct touch of his fingers makes your head fall back. “That’s it. Show me what a mess you are.” He circles your entrance, gathering wetness, before dragging it up deliberately. “All this, and I haven’t even tried. Imagine what you’ll be like when I actually make an effort.”
“Not enough,” you whimper, bratty on purpose.
His smile flashes, sharp and fond. “There’s my problem child.” He spreads your folds and slides one finger inside, slow and deliberate, watching your face as you clench around him. “So tight,” he murmurs, almost conversational. “And still wanting to take more.” He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and your vision blurs at the edges. His thumb finds your clit and works it in slowly, teasingly in circles while his fingers pump slow and deep, setting a rhythm that has you clenching around him. The heat coils tighter, every nerve alight.
You’re trembling now, thighs shaking against his hand, and he notices—of course he does. His eyes flick down to where his fingers are disappearing inside you, then back to your face with something dark and satisfied.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, slowing his fingers to a cruel crawl. “Shaking. Haven’t even made you come yet and you’re already a mess.” His thumb lifts off your clit entirely, and you whine—high and needy—hips chasing his hand.
He laughs, low and mean. “Pathetic. You really can’t help yourself, can you?” He withdraws his fingers completely, holding them up between you. They glisten obscenely in the studio light. “Look how wet you are. Dripping down my hand like you're in heat.”
“Hongjoong, please—”
“Please what?” He brings his fingers to your mouth, tapping your bottom lip. “Suck.”
You obey without thinking, tongue curling around his fingers, tasting yourself. He watches with dark eyes.
“Good.” He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop then slides his hand back between your legs, three fingers this time, stretching you wider. The burn is delicious and you moan—loud and shameless.
“That's the sound I wanted.” he says, almost mocking. “Let me hear how desperate you are”. His fingers pump faster now, harder, and every thrust punches another broken noise from your throat. “So loud for me. What happened to all that composure? Where’s the smart mouth now?”
Your hips buck against his hand and he laughs, low and wicked. “Shh. Stay still,” he orders, voice low and commanding. “You don’t get to rush this.” He watches your face with clinical focus, adjusting pressure and rhythm like he’s mixing a track.
“I—” You’re barely coherent, grinding down on his hand.
His grip tightens on your hip. “Breathe. Take it. Show me you can follow.”
“I can’t— fuu-ck”
“Can’t what? Can’t think?” His thumb returns to your clit, circling with precision. “That’s the point, love. I’m going to fuck every coherent thought out of that pretty head until all you can do is shake and beg.” He curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and you cry out.
“Look at you, falling apart on my fingers like a desperate slut.” He leans in, teeth grazing your ear. “Maybe I should turn the mic on,” he muses, fingers still working you.“ Record every pathetic little sound you’re making. Play it back for you later so you can hear exactly how needy you get.”
The mention makes you clench involuntarily around his fingers, and his eyes light up with dark satisfaction. “Oh, you like that idea?” He curls his fingers harder, dragging a broken moan from your throat. “Of course you do. Want me to capture every whimper, every desperate plea? I could loop it, make you listen to yourself falling apart while I work.”
“Please,” you gasp, fingers curling into his shirt. “Please, I need—”
“Need what?” He slows his fingers to a torturous crawl, watching you squirm. “Say it.”
“Your dick,” you whimper, past the point of pride. “Please, Hongjoong, I need your dick inside me.”
He hums, considering, fingers still moving just enough to keep you on edge. “Look at you, begging so prettily. But I don’t think you’ve earned it yet.” He curls his fingers again, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.
“Please,” you moan.
“Denied.” A gentle pat to your cheek. “Not yet,” he murmurs, easing pressure. “Eyes on me.” You drag your gaze up, glassy. He smiles like he owns you. “That’s it,” he says softly, fingers resuming their work with renewed purpose. “Take what I give you. Nothing more.” The coil in your belly winds tighter, your breath hitching as he builds you with maddening precision.
You’re almost there when he pulls his fingers out completely. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper in frustration, hips trying to chase the friction he’s denied you. He grips your jaw, forcing your unfocused gaze back to his.
“Not yet,” he says, voice soft and final. “You don't come until I say so.” His thumb drags across your bottom lip, still slick. “Understand?”
You nod, barely. He rewards you with a slow smile, “Good girl,” he murmurs.
His hands are on your hips, lifting you up from the desk with strength. Your legs buckle but he steadies you. His mouth seals over yours, tongue filthy, and he swallows every desperate sound you make. When he pulls back, his lips are swollen, eyes dark with intent.
“Open your mouth,” he commands, voice rough and absolute.
You obey, lips parting, and he grips your jaw with one hand, holding you in place. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide as he leans over you. “Tongue out.”
You comply, and he spits directly onto your tongue—slow, deliberate, obscene. The weight of it sits heavy in your mouth as he watches you with something feral in his expression.
“Swallow,” he orders.
You shake your head, defiant even now, and his expression darkens. His hand cracks across your cheek—sharp, controlled, enough to make your head snap to the side and stars burst behind your eyes. The sting blooms hot across your skin.
“No?” His voice is dangerously soft, thumb dragging across where he just struck. “You don’t get to tell me no. Not anymore.” He grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him, eyes wild and possessive. “Try that again and I’ll make sure you can’t sit tomorrow.”
Your cheek throbs, the heat of it spreading, and you feel yourself clench around nothing. His eyes catch it—the way your body betrays you—and his smile turns savage.
“Oh, you liked that,” he murmurs, almost surprised. “Getting wetter from being put in your place.” He smirks, caressing your redden cheel. “Should’ve known. My pretty little masochist. Swallow. Now.”
This time you do, throat working, and his smile turns wicked. “Good girl.” He spits again, this time letting it fall onto your chest, the warm wetness sliding down between your breasts. His hand follows the trail, smearing it across your skin possessively. “Such a mess for me.”
“Hongjoong—”
“Say thank you.”
“Thank you,” you gasp, shaking.
He reaches for the front clasp of your bra with practiced fingers, the small hook giving way instantly. The fabric falls loose and he drags it off your shoulders, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking. Cool air hits your skin and you shiver.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, hands cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they peak. His touch is possessive, mapping every inch like he’s committing it to memory. “Been wanting to see you like this. Bare and desperate under me.”
He leans down, mouth hot against your collarbone, teeth grazing as he works his way lower. When he takes one nipple between his lips, sucking hard. His other hand pinches and rolls the other, the dual sensation making you writhe.
“Stay still,” he orders against your skin, releasing you with a wet pop. “Or I’ll stop.”
You force yourself to comply, trembling with the effort, and he rewards you by switching sides, tongue flicking over sensitive flesh before biting down just enough to make you gasp. His hands never stop moving, kneading and squeezing, marking you with his touch.
He pulls out abruptly, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. Before you can protest, his hands are on your hips, spinning you around to face the desk. “Hands flat,” he commands, his voice rough now, fraying at the edges. “Bend over.”
You comply, palms pressed to cool wood, spine arching as he steps close behind you. His hand slides up your back, slow and possessive, then fists in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you gasp. “So obedient when you’re desperate,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Should’ve fucked the attitude out of you weeks ago.”
His hand slides up your spine, possessive and slow, before his mouth follows—hot and deliberate. He presses open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your back, teeth grazing skin between each one. When he reaches the dip of your lower back, he bites down—hard enough to make you gasp, hard enough to leave a mark.
“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, soothing the sting with his tongue before moving lower, trailing more kisses and bites along your spine. Each one is a brand, a claim, possessive and absolute. His hands grip your hips as he works his way back up, teeth finding the junction of your neck and shoulder. “Going to cover you in marks,” he rasps against your ear, biting down again. “Want you to feel me every time you move tomorrow. Want you to remember exactly who did this to you”.
Behind you, fabric rustles — his sweats being pushed down. Your pulse hammers in your throat. “Stay just like that,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush with the desk. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.”
You hear him spit into his palm, the obscene wet sound making you clench around nothing. His other hand grips your hip, rings cold against overheated skin. “That’s my good thing,” he says and then you feel the blunt press of him against your entrance. He doesn’t push in—not yet—just drags the head of his cock through your wetness, coating himself, letting you feel every inch of what you’re about to take.
“Beg me one more time,” he says, voice rough.
“Please—” Your voice breaks. “Please, Hongjoong. Use me. Fill me up. I can take it. I’m yours.”
“Yeah, you are.” He drags the head back and forth through your slick, mean and patient. “Again. Slower.”
“I’m yours,” you whisper. “Please. I’ll be good.”
“You’ll be perfect.” His palm presses between your shoulder blades until your ribs kiss the desk. He nudges just the tip in—heat, stretch—then pulls out with a quiet laugh. “Greedy little thing. Already trying to take me.”
“Please— I can take it.”
“You’ll take what I give you.” His hand slides to your nape, warm and absolute. “Count down from five. You get me on one.”
“F-five,” you breathe as he pushes the tip in and holds. “F-four—” He withdraws, smears himself through your wet, a tease that makes your knees tremble. “Th-three—” Your thighs quake; his grip tightens, steady as a collar. “T-two—”
“Ask me what one is.”
Your mouth goes dry. “What’s one?”
“One is mine.” He sinks into you on the word, slow and devastating until he’s seated deep. Your breath shatters silent against the desk. He stays there, grinding once, lazy, letting your body learn the shape of him.
You shift your hips deliberately, trying to take him deeper, and feel his hand tighten warningly on your hip. “Impatient,” he mutters, but there’s a thread of amusement beneath the command. You do it again, grinding back against him, and his grip turns bruising.
“What did I say about staying still?” His voice is dark, edged with warning.
“Can’t help it,” you whine, deliberately petulant. “You’re going too slow.”
He stills completely, buried deep, and you feel him throb inside you. “Too slow?” he repeats, voice dangerously soft. “You think you can do better?”
“Maybe,” you breathe, bratty despite yourself. “If you’d actually—”
His hand cracks across your ass, sharp and sudden, cutting off your words with a gasp. “Finish that sentence,” he dares, grinding into you slowly. “I want to hear what my desperate little brat thinks she deserves.”
“Harder,” you manage, voice breaking. “Want you to fuck me harder—”
“There it is.” His laugh is dark, satisfied. “All that attitude just because you’re too cock-hungry to be patient.” He pulls out almost completely, then drives back in with bruising force that makes you cry out. “This what you wanted? This hard enough for you?”
“Yes,” you manage, voice breaking on the word. “Wanted you—to fill me up.” The admission tears out of you as he drives deeper and you whine, helpless.
He pulls an inch out; your hips chase immediately, greedy and impatient. His hand wraps around your throat, stilling you with a warning squeeze. “Uh-uh. Don’t chase.”
“Then go faster,” you shoot back, breathless but defiant. “If you’re going to tease me all day, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” His grip tightens just enough to make you gasp. “Finish that sentence.”
“I’ll find someone who can actually—” You don’t get to finish before his hand cracks across your ass again—harder this time—the sharp sting making you cry out.
“Count,” he orders, voice rough. “Every single one.”
“One,” you gasp, trembling.
Another slap, same spot, the burn blooming across your skin. “Louder.”
“Two,” you sob, hips jerking forward.
“Good girl.” His palm soothes over the heated flesh before delivering another sharp crack. “Keep going.”
“Three—” Your voice breaks, thighs shaking.
He doesn’t wait, landing another immediately. “What do you say?”
“Thank you,” you whimper. “Four—thank you—”
“That’s better.” One more, vicious and perfect, and you’re crying out, the mixture of pain and pleasure making you clench around him. “Five—fuck—thank you—”
“Perfect.” His hand slides over the marks he’s left, possessive and soothing. “Look so pretty covered in my handprints. Going to feel this every time you sit down tomorrow.”
“Now try again,” he growls against your ear. “Be a good girl and beg properly.”
You turn your head as much as his grip allows, meeting his eyes with a challenging glare even as your body trembles. “Make me.”
His laugh is dark, dangerous. “Oh, I will.” He pulls almost completely out, making you whimper at the loss. “You want more? You know what to do.”
You bite your lip, stubborn, but another slow grind has you breaking. “Please,” you finally gasp, honest and wrecked despite yourself. “Please move. I’ll be good.”
“That’s better.” He rewards you by slamming back in at a vicious angle that knocks a cry out of you. “Now tell me—who’s the only one who can fuck you like this?”
“You,” you pant.
“That’s right.” He sets a rhythm—deep, measured, each thrust deliberate. His hand slides from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face to the side so he can see your expression. “Look at you, taking me so well. Knew you would.” His other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he drives into you again, harder this time. He pulls back slowly, then drives in hard, setting a rhythm that’s deliberate and punishing. Each thrust pushes you further into the desk, the edge biting into your hips as he fucks you with the same precision he brings to everything else—calculated, relentless, perfect.
You try to shift, to meet his thrusts but his hand keeps you pinned.
“Did I say you could move?”
“No,” you breathe, going still.
“That’s better.” He presses a kiss to the curve of your shoulder, then bites down lightly, soothing the sting with his tongue. “You’re learning. Knew you would once I fucked the attitude out of you.”
His pace turns relentless, each thrust driving you harder against the desk, and you’re past coherence now—just desperate, broken sounds spilling from your lips. “Please,” you gasp, the word barely recognisable. “Please, please, please—”
“Please what?” he taunts, hand fisting tighter in your hair. “You’re not even making sense anymore.”
“Anything,” you sob, hips trying to push back to meet him despite his grip holding you down. “Whatever you want—just don’t stop—”
“Look at you,” he growls, satisfaction thick in his voice. “So desperate you can’t even tell me what you’re begging for. Just please over and over like that’s going to make me fuck you harder.”
“It will,” you whimper. “Won’t it? Please—I’ll do anything—”
“Anything?” His laugh is dark. “You’d let me use you however I want?”
“Yes,” you cry, shameless. “Yes, yes, please—just don’t stop—”
“Not planning to.” He drives in deeper, the angle devastating. “Going to keep fucking you until you can’t remember your own name. Until the only word you know is please.”
You’re already there, reduced to incoherent begging, each thrust pushing another desperate plea from your throat. Your fingers claw uselessly at the desk, searching for something to anchor you as he takes you apart piece by piece.
“I want to cum,” you sob, shameless. “Want you to fill me. I’ll keep it. I’ll be good.”
“Yeah, you will.” His thrusts turn relentless, precise. “Here’s what happens. I fuck you deep and slow until you’re soaked and stupid, then I make you say thank you with it still inside you.” A hard, perfect snap. “Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” the praise is filthy in your ear.
He sets a rhythm that’s brutal and perfect, each thrust deliberate, and when your back arches too much he yanks you back down by the hair, fist tangling in the strands at your nape. “Stay the fuck down,” he growls, using the grip to angle your head to the side so he can see your face. The pull on your scalp sends sparks down your spine, pleasure and pain blurring together. You whimper, and he tugs harder, enough to make your eyes water.
“That’s it,” he rasps, his other hand sliding around to your throat, tilting your head back further. “So fucking pretty when you take my cock.” His hips snap forward, the angle deeper now, and you cry out, the sound raw and desperate. He releases your hair only to gather it again, wrapping it around his fist like a leash, using it to pull you up, your chest lifting off the desk.
“Mine,” he grits out, “Say it.”
“Yours,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I’m yours.”
“This greedy little pussy milking my cock? Mine." He punctuates the word with a brutal thrust that makes you see stars. “This perfect body taking everything I give you? Mine.” His hand slides from your throat to your jaw, forcing your head back further, his breath hot against your ear. “Say you love it. Say you love being fucked like this.”
“I love it,” you sob, past shame, past pride. “Love your cock inside me—love how you use me—”
“That’s my good slut,” he growls, releasing your hair only to shove your face down against the desk, palm flat between your shoulder blades. “Stay down and take it.” The new angle drives him impossibly deeper, each thrust hitting that spot that makes your vision white out. “Going to fill this greedy cunt until you’re dripping. Going to pump you so full you’ll feel me for days.”
His other hand snakes around to find your clit, circling with ruthless precision. “And you’re going to thank me for it, aren't you? Going to be grateful for every drop.”
“Yes—fuck—yes, please—”
He slows his pace to something torturous, grinding deep. “Use your words.”
“Please fill me up,” you beg, coherence shattered. “Want to feel you come inside me—want all of it—”
“Greedy slut.” His rhythm turns savage again, the desk creaking under the force. “Going to give you exactly what you’re begging for. Going to fuck you so full you’ll be leaking me all the way home.” His fingers work your clit faster, building you toward something catastrophic. “And when you do, you’re going to remember who owns this perfect pussy. Remember who made you shake and beg and break.”
You clench around him, your body shaking, vision going white behind closed lids. Each thrust punches a broken moan from your throat, sounds you don't recognise as your own.
“That’s it,” he growls, rhythm never faltering. “Let me hear you. Want everyone to know who’s making you fall apart.”
Your fingers scrabble against the desk, searching for purchase as pleasure builds to something unbearable. Another thrust and you’re crying out his name, shameless, your body tightening around him like a vice.
“Keep squeezing my cock just like that.” he pants, hand sliding up your spine. You can’t do anything but take it, each drive of his hips dragging you higher, your moans punctuating the obscene slap of skin on skin. The coil in your belly winds impossibly tighter.
“Say what you are,” he demands, voice rough and commanding.
You try to form words, but nothing coherent comes out—just broken syllables and gasps, your brain too fucked-out to string together a sentence. Your mouth opens but all that escapes is a whimper.
He laughs, dark and delighted, the sound vibrating through his chest against your back. “You’re so cock-drunk you can’t even talk. Can’t even tell me what a desperate little thing you are.” His hips slow to a deliberate grind, making you feel every inch. “Try again. What are you?”
“I—I’m— ” Your voice breaks, words dissolving into another moan as he drives deep.
“That’s what I thought.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your bottom lip. “Fucked you stupid, didn’t I? Can't even remember how to use that pretty mouth for anything but begging.”
You can barely form words, vision blurring at the edges as his hand finds your clit again, circling with devastating precision. “Can I come,” you manage to whimper, voice breaking on the syllables. “I’m—please—close.”
“Yeah?” His voice drops, thick with satisfaction. “Going to come on my cock like a good girl? Going to squeeze me tight while I fill you up?”
“Yes—please—” You’re trembling, balanced on the edge of release.
“Then come,” he commands, fingers working faster, hips driving deep. “Come for me. Now.”
Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and devastating. Your body locks up, clenching around him as pleasure tears through every nerve. You’re vaguely aware of crying out, of your hands scrabbling against the desk, of the way he groans your name like a prayer.
He fucks you through your climax with ruthless precision, his own rhythm faltering as you clench around him. “Take it all,” he groans.
You’re still peaking when the last of his control tears away. He yanks you up by the throat and hair, arches you over his chest, and drives up into you with single-minded purpose. Breath jagged, words scraped raw. “Gonna fill you— keep you stuffed—” hips stutter as he spills inside you with a broken curse, filling you exactly like you begged for. He snarls, triumphant, and buries deep, grinding as cum spills, thick and undeniable.
He stays pressed to the hilt, lazy afterthrusts ensuring you feel every pulse. One hand bands over your ribs; the other slides down, palm heavy on your lower belly, possessive.
“Jj-oong… S’too much,” you whimper, oversensitive, trying to shift away from the pressure of him still inside you. Every aftershock feels like lightning, your body twitching with each involuntary clench around his softening cock.
“Shh,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t pull out. Instead his hips rock forward in a shallow thrust that makes you cry out, hands scrambling against the desk. “You said you’d keep it all, remember?”
“I can’t—” Your voice breaks as he grinds deeper, the drag of his cock against oversensitive walls bordering on painful. “Please—”
“You can.” His hand slides from your belly to your clit, circling with the lightest touch. It’s too much and not enough, pleasure sparking into something that makes your thighs shake. “You’re going to give me one more.”
“I can’t,” you sob, even as your hips betray you, rolling back to meet his lazy thrusts. Everything feels raw, exposed, every nerve ending screaming.
His fingers work you with maddening gentleness, each circle of his thumb making you jolt. “You’re going to come again with me still inside you. Going to squeeze every last drop deeper.”
You’re shaking your head but your body is already climbing again, that impossible coil tightening despite the overstimulation. You moan.
“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice dropping to something dark and sweet. “Feel how full you are? Feel me dripping out of you?” His other hand presses your lower belly again, making you whimper at the pressure. “Give me one more and I’ll let you rest. Be good for me.”
The orgasm builds different this time—slower, deeper, something that feels like it might break you apart. Your tights are shaking. Your whole body shivering. You’re crying, you think, tears tracking down your cheeks as his fingers work you higher.
“Please—” You don't even know what you're begging for anymore.
“I know,” he soothes, but his hips are already moving with purpose again, his cock hardening inside you with each shallow thrust. “Just a little more. You can take it.”
You feel him growing harder, filling you impossibly fuller, and a broken whimper escapes your throat. “You’re—you’re getting hard again—”
“I know,” he groans, fingers still working your clit in maddening circles. “Can’t help it. You feel too good—squeezing me so tight.” His voice is strained, almost reverent. “Think you can take another load? Think this greedy pussy can handle being filled twice?” He punctuates the question with a deliberate thrust that makes you keen.
His hand leaves your clit to grip your hip bruisingly tight, holding you in place as he pulls out almost completely before slamming back in with enough force to shove you forward on the desk.
You cry out, the sound torn from your throat as he sets a punishing pace again—no build-up, no mercy. Each thrust is brutal, deep, the angle changed just enough that he hits something devastating inside you that makes your vision white out.
“This what you wanted?” he snarls, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. “Wanted me to fuck you like I own you?” The desk is moving now, scraping against the floor with each violent snap of his hips. “Going to use this perfect pussy until you can’t remember anything but my cock.”
“Ah-Mmph-Fuck—” You can barely breathe, each thrust driving the air from your lungs. Your hands scrabble uselessly against the desk, searching for something to hold onto as he rails you.
“Fuck,” he growls, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair again, yanking your head back. “Take it. Take every fucking inch.” The pull on your scalp makes tears spring to your eyes, mixing with the ones already tracking down your cheeks.
His other hand snakes around to your throat, fingers tightening with deliberate pressure, constricting your airway as he keeps you arched back against him. You gasp, the sound choked and desperate as he drives into you relentlessly. “Going to fuck you until you break,” he promises, voice ragged, grip tightening until dark spots dance at the edges of your vision. “Until the only word you remember is my name.”
You’re full on sobbing now, overwhelmed by sensation—the stretch of him inside you, still so sensitive from before, the relentless rhythm that doesn’t let up for a second. The pressure on your throat makes your head swim, vision blurring as oxygen becomes scarce. Your eyes roll back, consciousness flickering at the edges as your body goes pliant in his grip, caught between the devastating pleasure and the dizzying lack of air.
He releases your throat abruptly and you gasp for air. Your vision floods with white-hot clarity as oxygen rushes back. His hands move to your breasts, palms hot and possessive as he cups them roughly, thumbs circling your nipples with maddening pressure.
You gasp another please, voice wrecked and trembling. He doesn’t slow down, if anything he speeds up, each thrust harder than the last.
“I don't—I can't—” Words are impossible, your brain too scrambled to form coherent thoughts. All you can do is feel—the brutal pace, the way he’s using you, the building pressure that suggests impossibly you might come again.
“You can and you will,” he commands, releasing your hair to grip your hip with both hands, using the leverage to slam you back onto his cock with each forward thrust. "Going to make you come on my cock again until you can’t stand. Until you’re so fucked out you can’t even crawl."
The obscene slap of skin on skin fills the room, punctuated by your broken moans and his ragged breathing. You can feel yourself getting wetter, your body responding despite the overstimulation, or maybe because of it.
He groans, feeling you clench around him. “Knew you could take it. Knew this greedy little cunt would beg for more no matter how much I gave you.” His hips snap forward viciously. “Going to fill you again. Going to pump you so full it’ll be dripping down your thighs for days.”
“Don’t stop—”
“Greedy slut. Already so full of my cum and you want more.”
“Yes—” The word comes out broken, desperate.
His hips slow to a torturous grind, making you feel every inch as he pinches your nipples hard enough to make you cry out.
“Fill me again,” you sob, beyond shame, beyond coherence. “Please—want it—want you to use me—”
“Fuck,” he groans, his control splintering at your words. His hands tighten on your breasts, kneading roughly as his pace turns savage again. “Going to give you exactly what you're begging for. Going to breed this perfect pussy until you can't take anymore.”
You’re crying out with each brutal thrust, your body wound so tight you think you might shatter. His fingers roll your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure-pain straight to your core.
“Touch yourself,” he commands, voice ragged. “Shit— Make yourself come on my cock while I fill you up.”
Your hand trembles as it slides between your legs, fingers finding your clit with desperate, clumsy movements. The moment you touch yourself, oversensitive and swollen, your body jerks violently, a broken sob tearing from your throat.
Hongjoong moans, his rhythm faltering as he feels you clench around him. “Good girl—come for me one more time.”
The orgasm crashes through you with devastating force, tearing a scream from your throat as your body convulses around him. You feel him stiffen, a guttural groan ripping from his chest as he buries himself to the hilt, his release flooding you in hot, pulsing waves. His hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, holding you against him as you both shudder through the aftershocks, completely wrecked.
You collapse forward, boneless, only his arm around your waist keeping you from sliding off the desk entirely. You can feel him softening inside you, feel the slow leak of cum starting to drip down your thigh.
“Stay just like this,” he murmurs breathlessly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. His hand slides down your spine, possessive and slow, before he finally pulls out. The loss makes you whimper, and he hushes you softly, fingers spreading you open to watch his cum leak out. “Look at that,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “Full of me.”
You’re too wrecked to respond, just trembling as he gathers the mess with two fingers and pushes it back inside, making you jolt at the intrusion. “Can't waste a drop,” he says, voice thick with satisfaction. “Keep it in,” he murmurs against your temple, voice still rough. “All of it. Don’t waste a single drop.”
You’re too wrung out to do anything but nod, trembling.
“Say it.”
You know what he wants. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice hoarse.
“For what?” His hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up.
“For fucking me. For filling me up. For making me yours.”
“My good girl.” He kisses you then, slow and thorough, tasting like pride and possession
He eases you upright slowly, keeping one arm locked around your waist when your legs threaten to give out. “Easy,” he murmurs, steadying you against his chest. “I’ve got you.”
You’re still catching your breath, head spinning, when he guides you to the leather couch in the corner. The cool material feels like heaven against your overheated skin as he lowers you down carefully, brushing damp hair from your forehead.
“Wait,” he says suddenly, pulling back. He’s reaching for the black hoodie draped over his chair. He shakes it out, then gently guides your arms through the sleeves. The material is warm, soft, swimming on your frame as he tugs it down over your torso.
“There,” he murmurs, sitting back to admire his work. The hoodie swallows you whole, sleeves hanging past your fingertips, the neckline slipping off one shoulder. His eyes soften at the sight. “Better.”
He kneels between your legs, and you instinctively try to close them, still sensitive, but his hands on your thighs stop you.
“Stay still,” he says it softly this time, hands sliding up your thighs in a soothing motion. Your body twitches at his every touch. His gaze drops between your legs with satisfaction as he watches his cum still leaking out despite his earlier efforts to keep it in. “Let me see.”
You’re too spent to protest, thighs trembling as his thumbs trace slow circles on your inner thighs. “So pretty like this,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He caresses your tights softly, calming you down when suddenly his thumb brushes deliberately over your clit and you jolt, hand flying to his wrist.
“Hongjoong—” you whine.
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. There’s a glint in his eyes, satisfaction all over his face. “Couldn’t help myself. You’re so reactive right now.”
He reaches for something off to the side—a water bottle from his desk—and twists the cap open before pressing it to your lips. “Drink,” he instructs gently, tipping it just enough for you to swallow. The cool water soothes your raw throat, and you manage a few sips before he pulls it away, setting it aside to brush his thumb across your lower lip. “Better?” His voice has lost its commanding edge, replaced with something softer, more concerned.
When you nod weakly, he shifts to sit beside you on the couch, pulling you against his chest with careful hands. You curl into him instinctively, boneless and sated, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. His fingers card through your hair in slow, soothing strokes, and for a long moment neither of you speaks.
“You’re terrible,” you breathe, but there’s no heat in it.
“Mm, you weren’t saying that five minutes ago.”
You don’t have the energy to argue, just humming against his chest as his fingers continue their lazy path through your hair. After a moment, he shifts, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.
There’s mischief there, sparking beneath the satisfied warmth. “Though I have to say,” he continues, thumb tracing your jawline, “the way you begged was particularly inspiring. Should I save that for future reference?”
“Don’t you dare,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck despite your exhaustion.
He grins, unrepentant. “Too late. It's burned into my memory. ‘Please, Hongjoong, fill me up—’”
You clap a hand over his mouth, face flaming. “I hate you.”
His eyes crinkle with amusement as he pulls your hand away, pressing a kiss to your palm. “No you don’t. You love it when I make you fall apart.” He leans in, breath warm against your ear. “Love it when I fuck you so good you forget how to talk.”
Your body betrays you with a shiver, and his knowing chuckle tells you he felt it. “See? Already thinking about next time.”
“Stop being smug,” you mumble, though you’re already relaxing back into him, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.
“Never.” He shifts you more comfortably against his side, one hand settling possessively on your hip. “Besides, someone has to document your complete lack of self-control.”
You pinch his side in retaliation, earning a low laugh that vibrates through his chest.
“You’re impossible,” you say, but there’s fondness bleeding through the exasperation. His hand slides up your back, tracing idle patterns that make you melt further into him.
“And you’re stuck with me,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
The studio settles into comfortable silence around you, broken only by the soft hum of equipment and your gradually steadying breaths.
After a moment, you pull back just enough to look at him, a spark of defiance flickering to life despite your exhaustion. “You know what? Maybe I should’ve just gone home with the takeout.”
His eyebrow arches. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Let you work through the night, skip meals, turn into that gremlin we talked about.” You trace a finger down his chest, feeling him tense. “Maybe I would’ve texted Mingi instead. Asked if he wanted company.”
The change is immediate. His hand tightens on your hip. “Careful.”
“Why?” You smile innocently, even as your heart kicks up at the possession flickering across his face. “He did offer to help me with that thing earlier—”
You don’t get to finish the sentence. He moves fast—hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back as he captures your mouth in a bruising kiss that swallows whatever smart remark you had lined up. When he pulls away, his grip doesn’t loosen, keeping you right where he wants you.
“You want to play that game?” His voice drops to something dangerous, thumb pressing against your pulse point hard enough to feel your racing heartbeat. “Go ahead. Text him. See how far you get before I bend you over this couch and remind you exactly who you belong to.”
Your breath catches, body already responding to the threat-promise in his words despite how thoroughly he’s just wrecked you. “Maybe I like reminding you to work for it,” you manage, though your voice wavers.
His laugh is dark, fingers tightening in your hair. “Work for it? Baby, you were crying my name five minutes ago, begging me not to stop.” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “But sure—keep testing me. See what happens.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Thought I’d fucked all the attitude out of you.” His grip in your hair tightens fractionally, a warning. “Guess I didn’t do a thorough enough job.”
Heat coils low in your belly despite yourself, and his satisfied smirk tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
“You’re insatiable,” you breathe, even as your fingers curl into his shirt.
“Only for you,” he murmurs, finally releasing your hair to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip with surprising gentleness. “Now stop talking about Mingi before I actually get jealous.”
You smiled, a soft thing that felt too honest in the aftermath of everything, and leaned in to kiss him. This time it’s different—not hungry or demanding, just warm and slow, like you have all the time in the world.
He responds in kind, hand sliding up to cradle your jaw as he deepens it just slightly, tasting you with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. When you finally pull back, his eyes are softer than you’ve seen them all day, thumb stroking your cheekbone.
“There she is,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
“Who?”
“The girl who walked in here with takeout and terrible timing.” His lips quirk. “The one I’m stupidly gone for.”
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. “You’re such a sap when you’re tired.”
“Only for you,” he repeats, but this time there’s no heat behind it—just truth, quiet and unguarded.
You settle back against him, letting the moment breathe between you. His hand resumes its gentle path through your hair, and you can feel his heartbeat steadying beneath your palm.
“Hey,” you murmur after a while, tilting your head to look up at him.
“Mm?”
“I love you.” The words come out quiet, simple, but they fill the space between you with something warm and certain.
His hand stills for just a second before his fingers curl around yours, bringing them to his lips. “I love you too,” he says against your knuckles, and there’s no teasing in his voice now—just that same quiet truth.
Your head lolls against him, eyelids growing heavy, and Hongjoong notices immediately. His hand pauses in your hair. “Baby” he murmurs, voice tinged with amusement. “You going to sleep here?”
You manage a lazy smile, words slurring slightly with exhaustion. “You fucked me so good I need rest.”
His chest shakes with a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you. “Can’t argue with that logic.”
“Didn’t think you would,” you mumble, already drifting.
He shifts carefully, adjusting so you’re more comfortable against him, one arm secure around your waist. “Sleep then,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got you.”
𓏵‧₊˚ summary: ❝Hey, I'm new here ^^I loooove your work. I'm not really sure if it's something you accept but is it okay if we request something that is inspired by a song ? Idk if I'm clear (english isn't my first language)❞ req by anon<33 𓏵‧₊˚c/w: smut, 18+, mdni!! Big!dick!mingi, daddy kink!!!, training, uses of toys, spitting once, nicknames, fingering, mention of safe word (not used), “I will make it fit,” light dacryphilia, overstimulation if you squint, tummy bulge (this has me in a chokehold, istg), size difference kink( is that what its called?), praises^^ 𓏵‧₊˚a/n: this is inspired from EN-’s song, “Big Girls Don’t Cry” hehe :3
“Relax, sweet bunny,” Mingi groans, biting his lips as he inched deeper into you, gummy walls pulsing around his hot cock.
You whine, turning your head to the side at the discomfort. ‘‘Daddy’s too big,” you pout, tears already gathering at the corner of your eyes.
Mingi laughs, shaking his head. “I know, babygirl, I know,” pride laced in his words.
How many times has Mingi trained you to take his cock?
At the beginning of your relationship, Mingi started with his fingers; thick digits opening you up ever so slowly.
“Feel me inside, sweet girl?” He used to ask when he had you sit in his lap, legs splayed open on his lap. “Sucking in Daddy’s finger so good,” he praised, kissing the skin on your neck.
You nod, a sense of pride swelling in your chest. Of course, you want to make your Daddy proud. “Yes, daddy,” you nod, eyes rolling to the back of your head.
When Mingi felt fingers were enough, he proceeded to the next step: dildos.
The man knew he was big. And he wanted to make sure when he actually fucked you, you were ready and trained for him.
Starting with a six-inch dildo, he had you lying open before him, pussy leaking all over the sheets. But Mingi didn’t mind, though; that is exactly how he wanted you. Lubing up the silicon toy, he knelt before you, fingers strumming against your abdomen.
“You remember our safe word, right, darling?” He asked, pressing a hot kiss to your thighs.
You nodded fervently, skin burning from his touch alone. “Strawberry!” You answer quickly.
Mingi smirked. “Good girl,” the words went straight to your pussy.
“Tell me if it ever gets too much, okay? My babygirl comes first and foremost,” with another reassuring kiss to your inner thighs, he rubbed the tip of the toy up and down your slick folds, a gasp spilling from your lips.
Mingi’s eyes perked up, a sick glint in them. “Does it feel nice, Bunny?”
You whine, hips bucking against the toy. “Y-yes, Daddy.”
Tutting, Mingi held you down, big palm pressing down on your abdomen. “Not so quick, now,” he chided softly.
Slowly, Mingi pushed the toy inside your awaiting pussy, his mouth watering as your hole moulded around the toy, the cold from the lube a stark contrast against your burning hot skin, sending a shiver down your spine.
“F-fuck,” you moan out, eyes closing shut.
Mingi laughed, spitting on your cunt, rubbing it all over with his fingers. “We just got started, baby.”
Increasing the length every other week, Mingi was finally sure you were ready to take him.
That is how you landed up in this position, crying underneath him as he struggled to fit inside you.
“Won’t fit, daddy,” you pout, writhing uncomfortably around him.
“I will make it fit,” groaned Mingi. A promise.
Rubbing tight circles on your clit, Mingi whispered sweet nothing in your ear, distracting you as he pushed in further. As the tears rolled down your face, you gasped as his cock grew inside you, eyes wide.
“S-sorry, baby,” Mingi struggled out the words, face scrunching. “You’re just too cute.”
You pout, batting your wet lashes at him.
Wiping away your tears, Mingi pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Big girls don’t cry, right, Bunny? Now relax for Daddy, mm?”
You nodded, counting your breaths. Mingi has spent such a long time training you. You can’t disappoint him, right?
Somehow, Mingi finally bottomed out, a deep sigh leaving his lips. “My brave girl, doing so good for daddy,” he praised.
He kissed every inch of your skin, giving you time to adjust to his cock. When at last you nod. “M’ready now, daddy.”
Mingi smiled down at you, proud. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright? My baby always comes first.”
Mingi pulled back, thrusting in slowly. Even if his cock was hurting from how hard he was, he didn’t want your first time with him to be bad.
“Fuck, bunny,” he groaned, throwing his head back. You were making this harder by the way your face scrunched up in light discomfort.
As Mingi fucked you slowly, the discomfort slowly dissolved into pleasure. “More, Daddy,” you whine, pussy gushing around his cock. “Need more!”
Mingi smirked. “Alright, baby.”
Pistoning his cock quickly, Mingi leaned down, drinking in your moans. “Daddy fucking you so good, ain’t it, Bunny?” He asked, biting on your earlobe.
You nod, nails scratching on his back. “Yes, daddy, so good!”
Leaning back, Mingi smirked as he pressed down on your lower abdomen, feeling his dick touch his palm from the inside. “Daddy so deep inside you, baby. My tiny little bunny.”
“Gonna cum, daddy,” you gasp out, feeling the coil tighten.
“Come for me, bunny.”
His words alone are enough to push you to the edge, gushing around his cock. But he doesn’t stop, fucking you through your high.
“Too much, daddy,” you whine out, oversensitive pussy flutering uncontrollably.
“Daddy’s close, babygirl,” He moans, holding you down as you thrash around him. “So close, fuck.”
Mingi’s climax came in hot ropes of cum, painting your insides with white. Fucking his seeds in as they spilled out, a white ring forming around the base of his cock.
“Bunny is doing so good for me, my sweetest girl.”
This won’t be the last time you’ll struggle to take him. Mingi needs to train his little bunny a bit more.
escapism is an artform, a blessing, a superpower, but unfortunately not one you possess. if you could stop thinking about jung wooyoung, you would.
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 6/?
🎤︎︎ 18+ | 10.3k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, yunho is an angel sent from god above
“HOLY SHIT, IT FEELS GOOD to be sitting at my mic again, it’s been too long. Sorry for going MIA, everybody, I hope you didn’t miss me too much, I’ve just been feeling a little… overstimulated.”
A shiver runs down your spine at the thought, a smile curving your lips upward. Your first episode back in over two weeks and you’ve been itching since Monday to sit down on your bed, your mic and your laptop in front of you, to say the words hanging so close to the tip of your tongue they’ve threatened to spill to everyone you’ve spoken to in the last two days.
“There are two kinds of rebounds that exist: a physical one, and an emotional one. You need the physical one just to feel wanted again, a quick fuck, a pump and dump if you will, because there’s nothing sexier than a man seeing you and deciding he needs to know what it feels like to be inside you. It’s usually mid at best, because no random man of your choosing is going to give you the best fuck of your life, but it doesn’t matter, because he wants you. And you want him. And you fucking got him.”
“The emotional one… that one is a little different. The emotional rebound is scary, because you just gave your heart and a half to someone else, and now you’re expected to do it all over again? So you might fuck up, and you might not be able to give him your entire heart, but you’ll assure him that you can. How is it that every single emotional rebound ends up liking you a hell of a lot more than you like them? So, even though you can’t give your entire heart, even though you assured them you could, they’ll hand you theirs on a silver platter.”
You’re speaking from Nayeon’s experience with her last boyfriend, she was with him longterm, but college longterm, so like, six months. It destroyed her for all of two weeks, until she went on her rebound bender and found two guys: one she wanted to fuck, and one she wanted to like. The one she liked, liked her just a little bit more than she liked him.
“My favorite is the physical rebound, I know, shocker, but especially if he’s worth it. You know that period of time after an orgasm, when your body is shaking, your breath is caught in your chest, when pleasure is consuming you so thoroughly you can’t remember your own name? For the longest time, for forever I didn’t think anything was better than that feeling. I wanted to pause time, to stay in that state of euphoria for as long as I could; when it washes away and reality returns and you remember who you are and where you are… that’s the worst feeling in the world, I think.”
“But imagine someone… elongating that for you. We’ve talked about squirting on here, we’ve talked about fingering, we’ve talked about female anatomy enough that all my vagina-pleasing listeners should be a pro at finishing their partners off. Seriously, if you’re not educated enough that you could teach a master class, I need you to do some re-listening. Study some more.”
“We’ve never focused solely on what comes first, though. What it takes to get your partner in the mindset, to get them comfortable enough to cross heaven’s gates with you. Or should I say the gates of hell? I guess it depends on who, exactly, is between your legs.”
A smirk tugs at your lips, a spark igniting at the base of your spine, pins and needles spreading around to your hips at the memory.
“I never even considered that I’d be a fan of overstimulation. And that’s sad, because what, I’ve gone my whole life being grateful I got one orgasm out of a partner, in one session? Well, what about two? It takes a lot to surprise me, it’s gotta be some real freaky shit, something that my disgusting brain can’t even comprehend. It’s wild to me that something as simple as an orgasm is throwing me for a loop. Maybe I’ve never been with a real eater before.”
Today was truly unscripted, you decided that after two weeks you’d leave the index cards on your desk and just speak, recall, recite from memory, because every single detail is burned into your mind. You can’t stop thinking about Wooyoung, being pressed up against that door, having his mouth on you, his fingers inside you. For the past two days, in the morning when you wake up, and at night before you go to bed, you replay the movie. Thoroughly.
“There’s a difference between something being fast-paced and rushed. Like if a partner pushes you into a bedroom, presses you against the door and kisses you breathless, it feels fast. But if that partner is kissing you with purpose, their hands roaming your body, whispering shit in your ear, things that no one else has ever said to you, time seems to slow. It’s only you and your partner in that room, and their focus is solely on you, their only goal is making you feel good. That’s hard to come by in a hook up these days, at least in my opinion.”
This might be the first time that you’re speaking from experience, and the words seem to flow out of you like water.
“Without even taking my clothes off, I was scarily close to the edge. He had a knee between my legs, his mouth on my neck, his hands under my shirt, I didn’t give a fuck that I was humping his fucking leg like a bitch in heat because he made me comfortable enough to. He encouraged me, he put his leg there for that reason, he praised me for being selfish, focusing on my own pleasure. Have any of you ever experienced a man praising you for humping his leg like a fucking dog? Have you ever genuinely considered that grinding on a guy’s thigh–with clothes on, mind you–might not be humiliating?”
“I’ve said walk ‘em like a dog at least four times now in the eight months I’ve been the host of this podcast, and this is the first time that I’ve ever felt like I was the one being walked like a dog. I need a new euphemism, if I keep talking about dogs, you guys are gonna start thinking I’m a furry. I’m not a furry, I swear, I just think that’s the closest animal to the male species. But this one… he might be different. A dog, but not a slobbering, begging, whimpering dog, he’s not a chihuahua. He’s like… a German shepherd. A well-trained working dog whose job is breeding. No, I don’t like this, I don’t fuck with dog breeding and fuck this is still giving furry vibes, or like we’re heading down a path to bestiality or something. I’m scared. I’m going back to the story.”
Okay, fuck. You shake your head furiously, this is why you keep index cards.
“My bad, for real. He took his time before he finally got on his knees, yes, he got on his knees because I was standing the whole fucking time. Up against that same door. But thank god for that door, because I needed something to keep me upright while he took my shorts off, when he threw my leg over his shoulder. The entire time, he’s speaking. Verbally. Comments on how I looked, how wet I was… I’ve never felt so sexy in my life. Don’t skimp out on what words can do for your partner, guys, my panties were stuck to me when he went to take them off.”
Your body does a full shiver, from your head to your toes. You remember your hands in his hair, feeling so tightly wound just from what he said to you while pressing his lips against your thigh, your legs already shaking, you don’t think you’ve ever been so horny in your life. And he didn’t even do anything yet.
“He teased me, kissing me everywhere except where I needed his mouth. And that was part of it, too, because the entire time he wore a shit-eating grin, like driving me insane until I begged for it was just a part of his head-giving routine. When he finally had enough and gave me what I needed, I don’t think I’ve ever come so quickly. It was like I blinked, and he had finished me off. What the fuck? This is what I mean, the difference between fast-paced and rushed. I was in that room for maybe ten minutes, but I had been worked up so efficiently that it was like I was a bottle of Sprite shaken up, and he unscrewed my lid.”
You shift your position, legs uncurling from where you sat criss-cross applesauce. Your hips tilt downward, needing the pressure of your mattress to keep your head clear while you recall the memory.
“I thought it was done, over. I didn’t want it to be, because I was still fucking cumming. And it was like he read my mind, because he took his mouth off me and used his fingers inside me, then started speaking again… I thought I was going to be the first woman to fucking die of an orgasm. Okay, not the first, but I thought my name was going to be added to the list. I could picture the news title: Woman Dies from Orgasmic Heart Attack. Maybe a brain hemorrhage. I didn’t think I was real for a solid eight seconds. Do you know how long eight seconds is while you’re having an orgasm?”
“I’ve never been fingered like that, no man has ever been so skilled. It was like he could see through my skin, like he knew exactly where to touch, how to curve his fingers to make me cum again. I don’t know if I ever stopped, honestly, the two orgasms might have bled together into a really, really long one. By that point, my legs were shaking so hard I could have shifted tectonic plates, I could have caused an earthquake. If I did, I don’t think I would have cared, I was so thoroughly fucked out without even fucking him that anything could have happened and I wouldn’t have noticed. I needed at least five minutes on that floor for my breath to even out, for my heart rate to settle into a non-alarming rhythm. And he just smiled like he was proud of himself. Shit, I was proud of him, too.”
“It’s been days and I can’t stop thinking about it, and we didn’t even have sex. We won’t have sex. But because he took his time before he got my shorts off, that experience shot straight to the top of my list of high-ranking hookups. We think so much about the act of sex, how to pleasure someone else, what exactly we should do when we’re sitting in front of a partner, butt-ass naked. But we don’t pay as much attention to what comes first, what comes after. Sex doesn’t start when clothes come off, and sex doesn’t have to end when someone finishes.”
“Now, imagine all of that right after a breakup. This is before I deleted pictures, before I blocked his number, before I even accepted the fact that I’m single again. Surprise, guys, the situationship I talked about last episode? Yeah, that got a little serious for a second there. But fear not, because it’s over and I’m back on my bullshit. A physical rebound is necessary, it’s essential in the process of getting over a man, you know what they say— do I have to say it? The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Damn, I hate it when those old sayings are right, but it’s fucking true.”
“It’s been two days, and I’m still thinking about it. Part of me is considering DMing him on Instagram and just saying hey, wanna come over and do that again? But that’s when you shift from rebound, to a consistent hook up situation, and you can’t hide behind the rebound title anymore. Then it becomes its own thing, with emotions and thoughts and worries and strategies and honestly, I’m so over that mentality. It’s weird, coming out of a breakup, and having that strong feeling of I don’t wanna do this ever again. Everyone feels it, and it doesn’t last forever, but it’s such a strange mindset to have, because you really can’t picture yourself with anyone else or feeling that kind of emotion again. But one day, you wake up, and your brain has decided you’re ready. You get no control over it. Then you just walk outside and start loving people again, what the fuck is that?”
There’s honesty in your words, the best lies are half-truths. It reminds you of Yunho, who you haven’t seen again after he left Tuesday morning. There’s no urge to text him, no need to see him, even if there’s a string being tugged on somewhere in your chest. You don’t know why you asked him to stay– maybe part of you felt bad for inviting him over to fuck and then changing your mind. He quickly proved that he’s a sweetheart with at least what you think is good intentions, but your brain works a very certain way and if you wind up at the point where you’re wanting to have sex with him, you’re already going to be in another relationship. Even if it’s not serious, or it’s not going to extend longterm, it’s still a relationship, and there’s no part of you that you’re willing to trust in someone else’s hands right now.
Other than at night, when it hits just after one in the morning and you’ve already gotten yourself off twice, but you still have the itch. The need for more, to be filled so thoroughly that you can’t breathe, you don’t know if you’ve felt it before, but you can imagine it, and you need it. And you know Yunho’s fucking packing.
The Wooyoung thoughts push you past the finish line, but thoughts of Yunho come when you’re still tingling, aching for more. You don’t know what that says about you. This is why you don’t hook up with people.
The rest of the podcast goes by fluidly, words and ideas and comments pouring from your lips. You even included a spitfire question answering segment which you haven’t done in a few episodes that your listeners always love. It feels good to be back in the groove, to talk to your mic, imagining all your viewers in your room with you. Refreshing in a way, like you haven’t had a good, solid girl-talk in ages. Even though you’re the only one talking.
Sometimes you wish someone could respond.
By the time you close your laptop, thoughts of Wooyoung are still rattling through your mind. You’ve rewatched the memory twenty times in your head in the past forty-eight hours and it’s just as vivid, just as fucking hot as it was when it happened. You can’t stop hearing his voice, the way he looked up between your legs and muttered so pretty, his voice layered and heavy and fuck.
There’s a reason people talk about Jung Wooyoung the way they do. You’ve never paid much mind to it because you’ve always had a boyfriend, but the claims that your friends have made, the things they’ve told you that he’s done, you understand. All he did was eat you out and you understand. You can only imagine what– you won’t imagine, because it’s never happening.
No matter how good you felt Monday night, no matter how hard he made you come, he’s still Wooyoung. He could never give you more than one night, he’ll never give you more than an experience, an orgasm. Or two orgasms. You still can’t believe he gave you two.
Replaying the memory again, you lay back on your bed, knees spread, and shove your hand under the waistband of your shorts.
“I haven’t gotten hard since I woke up this morning.”
San, Yunho and Mingi all stare at Wooyoung like he has three heads.
“You’ve been in class all day,” Yunho says it like it’s obvious.
“Yes, but Minatozaki Sana is in my investments lecture and nine times out of ten, if I stare at her for long enough, I get hard. I stared.” Wooyoung hands are over his head, in his hair, staring at his friends on the couch in the living room who couldn’t give less of a fuck. He thinks he might start pacing out of panic. “I had sex Monday, but I haven’t had sex the last three days, and now I’m losing the ability to use my dick. That’s something that can happen, right? If you don’t use it, you lose it?”
Mingi laughs a little, “I don’t think two days–”
San, who already brought his attention back to his phone, shrieks. “Unscripted posted a new episode!”
Wooyoung groans in frustration, hands rubbing at his face. “Who gives a fuck?” he nearly shouts. “My dick is about to fucking fall off!”
“Go jerk off then!” San yells back, sitting up now, feet planted on the floor. “Let’s put it on the TV.”
Yunho’s face is halfway inside San’s phone screen, hands clawing at the couch cushions like Unscripted might jump out of the fucking phone and join them. Wooyoung’s lips scrunch in frustration, he might curse the three of them out, but he thinks about it for a second, and a conversation about sex might wake his dick enough for it to at least half-chub. He can work with that, he can fuck with that. Literally. Kinda.
“You’re staying?” Mingi asks, fully confused as Wooyoung sits beside him.
Face flat, bothered but not uninterested, Wooyoung shrugs. “Maybe she’ll read porn out loud or something.”
Like he’s debating it in his mind, Mingi’s bottom lip folds over, nodding. “Actually, that’s fair.”
San fumbles with the remote, the black stick doing three circles in the air before he secures it in his palm. Yunho yells, “Put it on already!”
“I’m fucking trying!” San yells back, pointing the remote at the TV across the room, pressing the on button.
Wooyoung sinks into the couch, spreading his knees, fingers resting over his stomach. He can’t live without jerking off, without sex, if he loses his dick he might as well die. He closes his eyes, trying to soothe himself, trying to shift his mind to anything else other than his dick shriveling up and turning to a ball of dust on the floor.
The jingle of her intro plays, a soft sigh playing through the speakers of the living room. Then her annoying fucking voice starts clawing at his eardrums. “Holy shit, it feels good to be sitting at my mic again, it’s been too long. Sorry for going MIA, everybody, I hope you didn’t miss me too much, I’ve just been feeling a little… overstimulated.”
He can’t remember the last time he’s gone three days without sex, it was probably before his freshman year of college. He hasn’t gone out, and he hasn’t been in the mood to text anyone on his contact list, his Instagram DMs. He was in the mood for a lay he didn’t have to work for. He refuses to think about the fact that he can’t get the taste of you out of his mouth.
“There are two kinds of rebounds that exist: a physical one, and an emotional one. You need the physical one just to feel wanted again, a quick fuck, a pump and dump if you will, because there’s nothing sexier than a man seeing you and deciding he needs to know what it feels like to be inside you.”
He groans internally, great. This is going to be another personal-talk episode. If it’s not going to wake his dick up, he might as well fucking leave.
“It’s usually mid at best, because no random man of your choosing is going to give you the best fuck of your life, but it doesn’t matter, because he wants you. And you want him. And you fucking got him.”
His brows furrow above his closed eyes. No random man is going to give you the best fuck of your life? He would have to disagree. There are plenty of random women who would protest that statement.
“How is it that every single emotional rebound ends up liking you a hell of a lot more than you like them? So, even though you can’t give your entire heart, even though you assured them you could, they’ll hand you theirs on a silver platter.”
He groans out loud this time, cracking his eyes open, turning his head. “Are you guys seriously into this bullshit?”
“Shut up or leave.” San doesn’t even look at him. Wooyoung crosses his arms, holding his elbows, and decides to give Unscripted a few more minutes before he leaves.
“You know that period of time after an orgasm, when your body is shaking, your breath is caught in your chest, when pleasure is consuming you so thoroughly you can’t remember your own name? For the longest time, for forever I didn’t think anything was better than that feeling.”
His lips curl ever so slightly, he can agree with that. If it was possible to permanently stay in a state of bliss, the euphoria of an orgasm, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Finishing inside, warmth spreading, a tingle in his spine, he’d stay there forever if he could, he’d keep going if his dick would allow it.
“What it takes to get your partner in the mindset, to get them comfortable enough to cross heaven’s gates with you. Or should I say the gates of hell? I guess it depends on who, exactly, is between your legs.”
He giggles a little at that, eyes opening to find three sets already on him. His smile falls. “What?”
“Nothing,” Yunho responds, face bent to prove his disinterest.
Wooyoung’s eyes thin, “It’s clearly something.”
“I think you like Unscripted,” Yunho teases, lips curling in a smirk.
“So do I, very much,” San interrupts. “Can we shut up now?”
“I don’t like Unscripted,” Wooyoung huffs, uncurling his arms from over his chest to push him off the couch. That’s enough. “In fact, this episode is stupid. No one gives a fuck about her situationship-breakup-rebound whatever the hell she’s talking about. I’m going to get ready for the Penny.”
“Bye!” San shoos him off with one hand, not even glancing at him as he crosses the living room, headed for the stairs. So rude. He’ll just listen to the episode on his own later.
Two kinds of rebounds… he wonders if out of all of your four boyfriends, if you’ve ever needed a rebound. You’d probably be the emotional type, though, and you’d probably be the one to give more of yourself or whatever. Wooyoung wonders if he was a rebound for you, the first physical rebound, the only real rebound. For some reason, there’s a sensation of pride that spreads through his chest at the idea.
He knows you didn’t fuck Yunho. He heard all about the fucking anime figures, the pizza, the TV watching, the cuddling. He listened to Yunho drone on and on about it, wondering when he’d get to the good shit. Turned out there was no good shit to get to, other than some kissing.
He liked that more than he thought he would.
Especially since he can still fucking taste you.
Fuck, it really was like hooking up with a virgin. You were so timid at first, like you didn’t know what to do until you finally gave in and lost yourself to the pleasure. Wooyoung knows he’s good, he knows he’s great. But if he didn’t, you would have given him such a superiority complex that it would have been the starting block to building who he is now. Maybe you boosted his confidence impossibly higher, you made him feel like a pussy-eating god.
The way you were grinding yourself against his thigh, moaning into his ear like he was inside you, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever forget it. You’re always so uptight, angry, yelling at him or scolding him or arguing with him. You looked so blissful, sounded so fucking undone, even when you were telling him to shut up and get to work. He’s never been more eager to obey.
He wonders if you’ll be at the Penny tonight. Part of him wants to confirm, or invite you or something now that he follows you on Instagram. He wants to see how you’ll act around him, if you’ll be your normal, argumentative self, if you’ll ignore him completely… his dick opens an eye at the idea.
Brows lifting, a wide grin stealing his entire face, with as much relief and excitement as he’s feeling, he screams back down the stairs, “My dick still works!”
On your way back from class, you spot Yunjin with her headphones in, walking ahead of you in the same direction. She must be on her way home, too. You pick up into a jog, bumping her shoulder when you get close enough. “You shouldn’t walk with headphones in, dumbass. What if someone creeps up on you from behind?”
Yunjin grins, ripping out a wired earphone. “Only you would creep up behind me, so I think I’m safe.”
You laugh, bumping her shoulder again. “That’s incredibly naive. What are we doing tonight? Can we order in?”
“You’re not gonna invite Yunho over?” she asks, brows furrowed. “Thursday gives date night vibes.”
She’ll never let you hear the end of it. She walked in Tuesday morning right when Yunho kissed you goodbye and it was like a fucking bomb went off when he left. A thousand questions rolled off her tongue at once, barely giving you time to answer one: What’d you do? Did you have sex? Did you meet him at the party? You’ve never brought a guy home, do you like him?
“I’m good off dates for a while,” you look straight ahead, and you pray she lets it go.
She laughs instead. “Good off dates? You just got cheated on, you deserve to be wined and dined and then fucked. I’ll leave, I can see what San is doing, don’t worry about me.”
You roll your eyes, “I’m not worrying about you, I just don’t want to.”
She stops in her tracks. “He looks like that, and you don’t want him? He’s literally the only good guy in that frat.”
“Says the girl who just said she’ll see what San is doing tonight,” you argue.
“I’m cool with casual sex,” she says matter-of-factly. Brows raised, pointing at you, she says, “You’re not.”
You keep walking, leaving her in your periphery. “Just because I don’t do casual sex doesn’t mean I’m a relationship hopper, Jen. I need time to heal.”
You hear her laugh again behind you. “You mourned that relationship while you were still in it. Go on some dates, see what’s out there, there are so many guys who will treat you better than Yeonjun did.”
There are plenty of guys who will eat you better than Yeonjun did, too.
“Okay, I’ll text him,” you stop, shivering as the thought crosses your mind. “Happy?”
She catches up to you, grabbing onto your wrist, “I want you to be happy. I want you to be twenty-one, hot, sexy, and a fucking maneater. If he doesn’t wine and dine you, then you leave him at the restaurant. No more accepting mediocre shit.”
“I was not accepting mediocre shit!” you argue, pulling your wrist away, offended. You absolutely were, but it feels like an insult to your character. “I was just… in love.”
“Well, you’re not anymore.” Her hands find her hips. “And the next time you are in love, you are going to be fucking happy. Deal?”
“Deal,” you frown, defeated. “Damn.”
Her lips spread in a sly, mischievous grin. “Text him. Now.”
“Now?” you basically whine.
“Now,” she reiterates, tone firm.
You curse under your breath, fishing your phone out of your back pocket. He left you a kiss and his phone number, he said to let him know when you wanted to see him again… you have no choice, you guess. The time is now.
You speak out loud as you type, “Hey, are you busy tonight?” You look up at Yunjin for confirmation. She nods, and there’s a surge of terror that starts in your chest, spreading to your fingers as you press send. Almost immediately, the typing bubble starts, and you gasp as you read, “He said ‘who’s this’!”
“Have you texted him yet?” Yunjin pops a brow, arms crossing.
You can feel your cheeks flush. “No,” you mumble, then type out your name, sending it.
The typing bubble starts again, and the terror doesn’t subside as you read, “He said they’re all going to Lucky Penny tonight.”
“Ask if San’s going,” she demands, coming to your side, looking at your phone screen.
You type out the question, and his response is immediate. “San, Mingi, Wooyoung…”
“They’re all fun.” Yunjin’s eyes flare with excitement, speaking as if you don’t know them at all. She starts walking again, and the excitement makes her talk faster, “That means we’re gonna have fun. Tell him I’m coming, too.”
“You said I should go on a date, not go to a bar.” It sounds like an argument, you can only pray she doesn’t hear the panic in your voice. You don’t want to see him. You can’t see him. You ignore the adrenaline that feels a lot like excitement.
“The Penny is respectable enough,” she shrugs, the wire of her headphones swaying with her stride. “It’s basically a date spot for a bunch of twenty year olds. Plus, all of his friends will be there, so it’ll take the pressure off. A buffer.”
Take off pressure? If she knew what you did Monday night, that sentence would be laughable. You don’t want to know how he’ll act, he’s too unpredictable, it’s either he’ll tease you all night or– that might be the only option, actually. You trust that he hasn’t told anyone since Yunho replied to you, but to put yourself between the same four walls as him, to face him from across the table again…
Yunjin turns around, “Didn’t Yeonjun take you there?”
“That’s actually the night I met Yunho. Technically.”
Yunjin giggles, “When San had to pick you up off the floor?”
You shoot her an obvious fake smile, “Yeah, when he forced water down my throat and I had to eat in order to be set free. Fantastic first impression.”
“San’s so nice,” Yunjin sighs dreamily. “It’s a shame he’s a whore, I’d pay to turn him into a housewife. Plus, Yunho probably thought you were like a damsel in distress or something, that’s attractive to guys.”
“Pale and about to vomit because my boyfriend wants to marry me?” you muse, words dripping in sarcasm. “So sexy.”
“Text him back,” she orders, pointing at you. “I know you’re avoiding it.”
Your face falls, phone already in your back pocket again. She knows you too fucking well.
you: yunjin and i will see u there
yunho: can’t wait !!!
yunho: hopefully u don’t almost pass out this time
You sigh, showing Yunjin your screen. “I’ll never live this down, will I?”
“He’s trying to keep the conversation going,” she deadpans. “That’s a funny meet-cute. Imagine if you guys get married, at your wedding he can say he saved you from your ex that your body physically rejected.”
“He wouldn’t say that,” you mumble, trying to not sound as irritated as you feel. You should have put up more of a fight, you should have said you have an assignment due or something. Now you’re willingly putting yourself in a situation where you have to interact with Wooyoung, forced to pretend Monday didn’t happen. Hopefully he’ll already have someone to occupy him by the time you get there.
Lucky Penny is busier than it was last time, and you can’t tell if it’s a good thing. On one hand, it’s so busy that you might not even be able to find Yunho and his friends. On the other hand, it’s so busy that you can’t get to the bar.
Yunjin’s beside you, dressed in an outfit that’s almost twin to your own. Her toffee colored hair is curled again, pinned up the way she likes it, showing off her neck, the necklaces layered over her chest. Her shorts are longer than yours, her top fitted while yours hangs off one shoulder. You’re both in boots, tall ones that nearly kiss your knees. She wears sunglasses on the bridge of her nose, a deep brown color, shading her eyes from the lights, but also hiding her wandering gaze. She’s feeling nosy tonight.
“This is so ass,” she grumbles, arms crossed over her chest. “What does it take to get a fucking drink in here?” She looks around, taking in the college boys that wore shirts already stained with liquor. Cringing, her top lip lifts, “Are they running a deal on Natty Light or something?”
You huff a laugh, “I can’t believe you just called it Natty Light.”
“Apologies.” She clears her throat, standing tall. “Are they running a deal on Natural Light, the American-style light lager from Anheuser-Busch?”
You laugh out loud at that, head tipping forward, fighting to not actually snort. Someone bumps into your side, shooting you straight into Yunjin, who yelps. You apologize immediately, head whipping around to see who bumped you, ready to curse them out, but they’re already gone.
“See?” She leans in close. “That’s what Natty Light does to men. It makes them fucking animals.”
“They’re animals anyway.” You sigh, shifting your top, pulling up your shorts. “We should just go.”
“I’m not leaving,” she says, like you offended her. “Are you crazy? We have men to find and fuck.”
You laugh again, and you know it’s not fully Yunjin that you’re speaking to, it’s Yunjin with about three shots of vodka warming her stomach. You’re behind, the last one you took with her, but you weren’t in the mood to get drunk tonight, not only because you drove, but also for what lies ahead. You need a clear mind.
There’s three layers of people between the two of you and the bar, rock music pumping through the low-lit space, the vibe completely different from the night you met Yeonjun here. You think the only reason you’re actually here is to rewrite the memories of that night, so when you think of Lucky Penny your mind doesn’t immediately jump to the dimming, pink neon sign, Yeonjun threatening you with marriage, or raging at Wooyoung from across a table.
“Ooh!” Yunjin points ahead, slightly to the right. “There’s yours, that means mine isn’t far behind.”
You lean into her, eyes following her finger, standing on your tippy toes to catch the head of blonde hair currently standing at the bar. Your stomach flips at the sight of him, no headband, hair slightly wavy, frizzy. You can see the slope of his nose, the pout of his lips, his broad shoulders… fuck.
“Let’s go,” Yunjin says too quickly for you to stop her from pushing through bodies. You mutter a curse, grabbing onto the strap of her purse as she cuts through the crowd, the two of you receiving look after look because you’re cutting the fucking line.
“Jen,” you hiss, loud enough for her to hear. “They’re going to fucking kill us.”
“I’d like to see them try!” She’s grinning as she turns her head. “Yunho’s big enough to scare them off.”
“Until they see his outfit,” you add, because you know the only intimidating thing about him is his build. You can see it now, the slice of skin between his shirt and his wide-leg jeans, his uniform. You can’t blame him, if you had his body, you’d wear the same clothes.
“Yunho,” Yunjin sing-songs when you’re both close enough, just a few more bodies between you. His head snaps to the side, eyes wide and alert, cheeks already a light shade of pink. He grins when he sees her, then moves slightly to the side to get an eyeful of you behind her, and his grin spreads.
“You made it!” He shouts, reaching a hand out for Yunjin to grab onto. You hold her purse like your life depends on it, Yunho stringing the two of you closer like he was an anchor and you were at sea.
“Of course we did,” Yunjin answers as you settle into the small space beside her. Instead of his normal jeans, he has on a pair of baggy sweats hanging low on his hips. That same slit of skin… it might be the death of you. Gray sweats, white tee, skin like moonlight pouring in through the cracks, you could swallow him whole.
You don’t know if he doesn’t catch you ogling, or if he just doesn’t say anything about it. Smiling, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “Finally decided you wanted to see me again, huh?”
Your lips part to answer, but Yunjin cuts you off, “She wanted to see you the whole time. Didn’t want to come off as desperate.”
Your jaw falls open. “Jen!”
She shrugs, her grin sly. Even if she has your best interest at heart, bending the truth to fit how she wants the night to go is not a part of the plan.
His smile turns coy, one of his hands lifting to toy with a piece of his hair. “I wanted to see you, too. I was waiting for you to text me.”
Fuck, he’s so cute. That’s so cute. Your lips scrunch to one side in an attempt to hide your smile, “Sorry it took me so long.”
His brows wiggle, “Don’t apologize, I told you I’m patient. Do you two want a drink?”
“Please,” Yunjin begs, and you’re grateful she answers because your stomach has dropped even further. He knows your situation, your feelings, your boundaries, and instead of deciding that he doesn’t want to bother with you, he’s choosing to let you come to him. He’s allowing you to set the pace.
And you find it really fucking sexy.
“I can’t believe I’m about to order a martini at the Penny,” Yunho fake-sighs, facing the bar now, looking over his shoulder at you with amusement in his eyes. “How do you like it?”
“Extra dirty, three olives,” you respond, and there’s no hiding the smile on your cheeks, the giddiness in your voice. Maybe Yunjin’s right about opening yourself up instead of shutting out the idea of romance.
“You’re literally thirty, stuck in a twenty-one year old’s body,” Yunho shakes his head, turning back to the bar. “I should be ordering you a beer, they’re three for five bucks tonight.”
Yunjin turns to you, probably wide-eyed beneath her shades. “I fucking told you!”
“I didn’t doubt you for a second, Miss All-Knowing,” you praise, then turn to Yunho. “You can order Jen a beer, she’s not thirty years old, only I am.”
Yunho laughs, “Are you holding that against me?”
“You aged me for liking olives,” you tease, leaning towards him. “Of course I’m holding it against you.”
“I’ll make up for it.” Yunho winks and your heartbeat picks up. “No more thirty, no more v-word, either.”
“I’m finally free.” You tilt your head back, and it bumps into something, someone. Turning, already rushing out, “My bad,” your face drops as soon as you see him.
“Virgin,” he nods his head in greeting, and not only has your face dropped, but your stomach drops, your knees wobble in panic and surprise. Dressed in all black, a contrast to his golden, tanned skin, he holds a beer bottle in his right hand, empty. Calling over your head, his voice piercing your ears, he shouts, “Order me another!”
“Where’s San?” Yunjin asks, and Wooyoung smirks at her like he expected the question.
“What, are you over me already?” He holds his other hand over his heart like his feelings are hurt. “What does San have that I don’t, Jen-Jen?”
Yunjin gags, sticking out her tongue. “Probably two hundred less bodies.”
“A clean medical record,” you add under your breath.
Wooyoung’s head snaps, lips parting like his rebuttal is on the tip of his tongue. Looking over your head to glance at Yunho, he doesn’t say a word, but you can read the comeback on his face, in his flexed jaw. You didn’t seem to mind when my face was between your legs.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” his tone is mischievous as he looks at Yunjin. “You’re not the only person San and I have both fucked.” Turning to you, there’s amusement dancing in his eyes now, “There’s plenty of women Yunho and I have both fucked, too.”
“Good for you,” you snap, reigning in the I won’t be one of them.
“Yunho’s the opposite of you,” Yunjin cuts in, arms crossed over her chest. “He’s not sleazy, he’s a gentleman.”
Wooyoung cracks a grin, a sharp huff of a laugh tumbling off his tongue. “Yeah? You think so?” His brows lift high as he looks back at you. “You think he doesn’t fuck because he talked about your anime figures and cuddled with you all night long?”
Heat crawls up your spine, cheeks flushing, embarrassment prickling at the back of your neck. “He told you?”
“He likes you, relax,” Wooyoung eases, rolling his shoulders. “He only told us because he was excited. What’s your boyfriend count now? Five?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” you mutter. “I’m gonna stay single for a while.”
Wooyoung pops a brow, “So it’s just you and your right hand until you decide to date again?”
Your face feels ten degrees hotter like you’re naked all of the sudden. It’s like he knows what you did just last night, what you’ve done every night before bed since Monday, like he can see the frustration and arousal still burning away inside you, bringing it right to the surface.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Yunjin scoffs, reaching to push his shoulder. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
Wooyoung giggles to himself, his smile bright as he glances up at Yunho who returns with your martini in one hand, the other hand holding the necks of three bottles of beer. His elbows bend high over the shoulders of the crowd, your martini filled to the rim.
While you grab your martini, thanking him, Yunjin asks, “Do you two know each other? You sound like you do.”
“No,” you answer, just as Wooyoung replies, “Yeah.”
You look at him, lips flat. He looks at you like you’re stupid for lying.
You blurt, “We met a few weeks ago and I haven’t been able to get away from him since.”
Yunjin’s brows furrow until Wooyoung adds, “She tried fucking her boyfriend in my bedroom and I caught them.”
“Can you please stop saying it like that?” you bark out, whipping your head toward him.
His brows furrow, “How else am I supposed to fucking explain it? That’s what happened.”
“Whatever,” you huff, carefully raising your martini to your lips.
Yunjin lifts her sunglasses over her forehead just to let you and Wooyoung see her confused expression. Brows slanted, furrowed, top lip curled. She glances at Yunho before dragging out a confused, “Okay… Let’s go find San. And Mingi, I guess.”
Yunho reaches for your glass, “Let me carry that so it doesn’t spill, there’s too many heads here.”
“Smart,” you mumble, cheeks still hot as you pass the glass into his hand, he slips behind you to let you follow Yunjin who’s following Wooyoung. Cutting through the swarm of bodies, you don’t see San or Mingi until you get closer to the bathrooms, in the same area San dragged you to the last time you were here. Instead of seated tables, they’ve been replaced with higher, standing tables, freeing up more space in the bar without chairs.
San and Mingi are already in conversation when you spread out around the circular table, barely acknowledging their friends’ return as they talk. Yunho places your glass back in front of you and takes his place beside you, Wooyoung slipping between San and Mingi. Yunjin stays close to your other side, leaning into the table, head bouncing back and forth between the two men to figure out what the conversation is about.
“...She deserves a real eater,” San’s speaking with his hands, biceps flexing in his black tee, showing off his swollen, sculpted chest. His hair isn’t styled, parted in the middle, messy but frames his sculpted face.
Mingi nods in agreement, sunglasses over his head, parting his dark, choppy locks. A tee sits snug on his upper half, choking his arms, his chest, silver necklaces layered over the deep fabric. “Apparently she found one. You want to be next or something?”
“Imagine you hooked up with her and fucked her so good she made an episode about you,” San shakes his head, then reaches for his beer. Pausing before taking a sip, he asks, “Wouldn’t you be hype as hell if that happened to you?”
“Are you talking about fucking Unscripted again?” Wooyoung hisses, face wrapping up in disgust.
If your stomach drops one more time you think your organs will empty out on the floor beneath you. You shouldn’t have come out tonight, not one fucking thing has gone well for you so far.
“Oh!” Yunjin interrupts, “Isn’t that the podcast everyone’s talking about? I haven’t listened to it, is it good?”
San seems to finally realize Yunjin’s there, his face softening, eyes lowering. Yunho retorts, “Is it good?” He laughs a little before continuing, “It’s incredible. It's entertaining, funny, witty, and thorough. It’s like listening to a woman’s innermost thoughts.”
“It is not her innermost thoughts,” Wooyoung barks back. “It’s bullshit, is what it is.”
“How is it bullshit?” you find yourself asking, annoyed by his annoyance. “She’s just talking about her own experiences.”
“Wooyoung thinks she’s just lying,” Mingi leans his elbows over the bar, explaining. Wooyoung isn’t wrong. “He thinks her voice is irritating and none of her stories are true.”
Rude, your voice is not irritating, and only half your stories are lies. The other half of your stories are things that happened to your friends.
Wooyoung nods from beside him, then tells you, “Yunho’s obsessed with it, obsessed with her. That’s your competition, just so you know.”
Cool cool cool. Competing with yourself.
Yunho’s voice raises in pitch as he defends himself, “I am not obsessed.” He looks at you, “There is no competition.” He looks back at Wooyoung, snapping, “Shut up, asshole.”
You can’t help but laugh, because there really isn’t any competition. At all.
But they’ll never know that.
“I’ve never listened to it,” you shrug, and you’re impressed by yourself for keeping it casual. Worry lingers in your stomach, but talking about Unscripted, you seem to be able to handle it. There’s absolutely no way of pinning her identity back to you.
“Why would a virgin listen to a sex podcast?” Wooyoung asks, rhetorical. “There’s no reason for you to listen to it, Jesus freak.”
Yunho interrupts, curious, “You’re religious?”
You shake your head, “He just thinks my view on sex is tied to religion.” Turning back to Wooyoung, you scowl, “And I’m not a fucking virgin.”
“Lay off the virgin shit, Woo,” Yunho nods his chin toward the younger man. “It’s getting old.”
Wooyoung pops an eyebrow, lips bending, impressed. He hums, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips. Before he takes a sip, dripping in sarcasm, he sings, “Wow.”
You look up to Yunho, giving him a small smile. You should be grateful he stood up for you, his words should send a wave of comfort over your body, but instead your stomach curls with the opposite.
“So you two, like, really know each other,” Yunjin says again, brows tied over her deep brown shades. “You’ve never mentioned him before.”
“What’s there to mention?” you shoot back, tone clear. A little sharper, sounding more defensive than you want to, you add, “We go to the same school, Jen, it’s not like we’ve never been around each other.”
“Anyways,” San cuts in, one of his palms landing smack-ass in the center of the table. “Her new episode is about rebounds. Is it really true that women seek out two? One physical, and one emotional?”
“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” Yunjin shrugs, then all eyes at the table turn to you.
You blink. The physical one might be across from you, the emotional one might be beside you. “I think it depends on the woman,” you answer honestly. “I’ve never really done the rebound thing, but I know a lot of women who have.”
“Boo,” Mingi throws you a thumb pointing down. “What about talking during sex? Or like, during a hook up?”
“Talking?” Yunjin reiterates, leaning forward.
San nods, “Like, dirty talk. Praise… the opposite of praise.”
You snort, “Degradation?”
“Yes!” San grins. “Do women like that, for real?”
“Are we the first women you’ve ever talked to?” you ask, confused now. “Do you not ask women what they enjoy before you have your pants down?”
“That’s what I said,” Wooyoung cuts in, and you think it might be the first time he’s ever agreed with you. “Your life will be easier if you just ask the person you’re hooking up with.”
He didn’t ask, you think. He seemed to just know. Maybe he’s slept with so many people that he could tell what you’d like just because he knows your personality, or rather he was trying to bring that side of you out before he even got on his knees.
There you go… Use me… So pretty… Give me one more, baby, you can do it again…
You swallow, toes curling in your boots, nails tapping against the base of your martini glass. His clothes match his hair, a single chain with a thick silver pendant hanging between his pecs, his shoulders broad, his lips pink and plump. You can still see it, in your head, those same lips between your legs, his eyelids fluttering while you grind up against his nose.
“You okay?” Yunho leans in, his voice low.
You snap back to reality, looking up at him, “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I’m good.”
“You sure?” His head tilts, concerned. “You just zoned out.”
“I’m actually gonna go to the bathroom,” you give him a thin-lipped grin and make for the direction of the bathroom before he can respond. The bright, pink neon lights feel like a beacon to safety, you walk faster, running a hand through your hair.
You shouldn’t be thinking about him, especially standing next to Yunho. You shouldn’t have anything to do with him in general. Every time you’re around him you’re reduced to your instincts, the innermost part of you slicing through every word like you never had a filter to begin with. There’s a line for the bathroom and it’s a mile long, but you’re grateful for it because the less time you have to spend at that table, around him, the better. You can’t focus on Yunho, you keep forgetting Yunho’s even there because Wooyoung is across from you.
This is why you don’t hook up with people– this is exactly fucking why. He knows a part of you now, a part of you that only four other people on the planet know, the part that takes time to hand over to someone else. Yet you still don’t necessarily feel regretful, you can accept that you might have made a poor choice, but it’s not one that you would take back.
You don’t like Wooyoung. You don’t like his personality, his sharp wit, his perverted behavior. You like Yunho, his smile, his kindness, his generosity, you like him enough that you want to pursue knowing him better, you want to learn more things to like. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, your mind is too hazy, too distracted, and it confirms your belief that sex makes everything complicated, even though you didn’t even fucking have sex.
You huff, leaning against the wall, staring at the line ahead of you. The girl in front of you turns around, eyes big and round and doe-like. “Are you okay?”
She’s cute, right off the bat. Soft features, long lashes, full cheeks. You nod, “I’m fine, thanks.” She goes to turn back around, but you interrupt her, running on instinct alone. “Wait,” you blurt, and she turns again, still doe-eyed and pretty. “What would you do if you were currently hanging out with a guy you’ve hooked up with, and a guy you’re interested in?”
“I’d probably blow up the bar,” she replies, with such a straight face you think she’s serious. She cracks a smile, and your following laugh is delayed. “I’m joking, kinda. I’d probably just not interact with the one I hooked up with as much as possible. Keep my focus on the guy I’m interested in.”
“What does it mean if I can’t stop thinking about the one I hooked up with?” you ask instead, eyes darting all around you to make sure no one from your table was nearby.
She shrugs, “Honestly, you might not like the other guy that much. Have you fucked him?”
You shake your head, “No.” Then you quickly fix your statement, “Not yet.”
She hums. “That’s why.”
“Thanks,” you smile, and at least it’s partially genuine.
Why is the answer always sex? Why is sex so goddamn relevant?
You leave the line, strutting back to the table, still reeling but you don't want to stand behind someone you don’t know, who knows too much about you. It’s your fault for telling her. Everyone’s mid-conversation, the air buzzing between them, and you can feel your energy sucking the charge away from your presence alone.
“I’m gonna go,” you announce to the table.
Yunjin and Yunho both turn toward you, asking, “What? Why?”
“I don’t feel good,” you lie, your lips bending somewhere between a smile and a frown, eyes bouncing between them both. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”
One of Yunjin’s hands lands on your shoulder and you know she knows you’re lying. She insists anyway, “We have meds in the cabinet, make sure you take something when you get home.”
“I just need some sleep.” You turn to the rest of the table, “Have a good night, guys.”
Wooyoung’s eyes feel more analyzing than anything as he sips his beer. He doesn’t respond, his voice absent in San and Mingi’s song of goodbye, he lowers his beer back to the table with a steady, straight expression. Like he knows you’re lying, too.
“Can I walk you out?” Yunho asks, brows bent upward in concern, his lips pouty.
You nod, “Sure, I mean yes, please.”
You wish you used any other excuse so you could down the rest of your martini. Following behind him, he reaches for your hand as he slips through bodies, and without even thinking about it, you tangle your fingers with his, palms pressed together.
His fingers almost reach down to your wrist, his hand swallowing yours completely. It’s an innocent touch, but it’s not the kind of touch that a man who wants to just get in your pants gives. You could just be a romantic, or seeing what you want to see, but him guiding you through a crowded bar, attached to you for anyone and everyone to see… It makes you feel lighter.
Leaving through the front, the sidewalk packed with people smoking, laughing, your ears ring from the loss of music. He keeps holding your hand, though, as he walks you down the sidewalk, away from listening ears, wandering eyes.
“I can wait with you if you’re ordering a car,” he suggests, coming to a stop at the corner.
You smile, “Oh, I actually drove.”
You point behind you to the parking lot behind the building and his eyes follow your finger. “Oh,” he responds, suddenly shy again. “I’ll walk you to it, then.”
Your walk is silent, other than the vibration of bass seeping through the walls of the Penny, your shoes scuffing against the pavement. You’re leading him now, stopping when you get to your car, leaning up against the driver’s side door. “This is me.”
“Cute,” he grins, letting go of your hand to check out your car. You dig for your keys through your purse, shoving it over your shoulder again after finding them. “This is nice as fuck, actually.”
You laugh a little, “Thanks. It was my mom’s before it became mine, she’s a hand-me-down.”
“I drive a beater,” he admits, sucking in air through his teeth. “This is a car.”
It’s not anything special, but you thank him anyway. “I’m sorry I’m leaving so early.”
His head snaps up from checking out your car, brows furrowed in disagreement. “Don’t apologize for feeling shitty. Go home and sleep.”
“I will,” you nod. “Have fun.”
He walks closer again, leaning up against your car, mirroring your stance. “It won’t be as much fun without you.”
You can’t tell if he’s trying to get invited back to your place or not. Your head tilts, “Of course not, but I hope you have fun anyway.”
“Can you tell Gojo I miss him?” His lips spread, teeth showing in a smile.
You laugh, “He told me he misses you first, actually, I forgot to relay the message. He also said you snore in your sleep.”
“He’s a fucking liar,” Yunho muses. “I’ll have to come tell him myself.”
You nod, “You can definitely come tell him yourself. When I feel better.”
“When you feel better,” he reiterates, agreeing.
You both look at each other for a few seconds, and you swear there isn’t any lighting he looks bad in. So pretty, with his hair hanging messy over his forehead, a smile on his cheeks, a glimmer of happiness in his eyes. Like a kid getting candy. You want to kiss him stupid.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice breathy, soft. You want to tell him he read your mind, but you nod, too impatient to speak. His palm finds your cheek first, thumb brushing against your skin as he leans in, “You look really pretty tonight.”
Your cheeks burn, spine lighting up with fire. “So do you.”
His lips press softly against yours, no heat behind it, no intent. Like he wants to remind you that he’s patient, he’s kind, he’s not like any of the other guys inside the bar. He’s not like Wooyoung.
Can you do anything without thinking about him?
Your hands find his chest, deepening the kiss, keys jingling as your hands slide up to his shoulders, finding solace curled around his neck. He moves, one hand on your hip pushing your back against your car, closing you in as he moves in front of you. It’s cold against your back, pulling a soft sound from your chest, arching off the car.
“Don’t do that,” he grits out, and it’s not an order, but a plea.
You smile, stealing his lips again, “Sorry.”
He bends, his hand sneaking under your thigh, hands ghosting your skin just to feel you before he tugs it upward, hooking your leg over his hip. You gasp, and his tongue slips into your mouth, his body pressing against yours.
He feels so fucking big like this, towering over you, like he’s swallowing you whole. Your leg holds him close as his fingers dance over your skin, finding your ass, squeezing. He can’t come home with you, and if you keep kissing him, you’re going to want to fuck him. You’ll lose your restraint if you keep going.
“Hold on,” you whisper, panting. “Fuck.”
He kisses your cheek, “‘m sorry, my fault, you don’t feel good.”
“Don’t apologize,” you murmur as he lets go of your leg, letting you drop it back to the pavement. You keep your arms hooked around his shoulders as you admit, “If I keep going, I won’t want to stop.”
He smiles, pecking your lips again, “And here I thought you weren’t into me.”
Your hands slide to his shoulders, putting space between you. “You thought that?”
“You’re leaving, and I know you don’t feel good–”
“I don’t,” you enforce, letting him see the honesty in your eyes. “I’m just… it’s not that I’m not into you, I promise. I am definitely into you.”
“Then… Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks, brows going high with the possibility.
You smile, nodding, “Yes, you can absolutely see me tomorrow. I have class until three, then I’m free.”
“I’ll come over,” he insists, excited again. “We don’t even have to go out.”
You laugh, and it’s genuine. “We can go out if you want to.”
“Honestly, I’d rather spend the night just hanging out with you,” he admits. “If that’s okay.”
You kiss him one last final time, then pull your hands from his shoulders. “That’s more than okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Text me when you get home,” he points, backing away from your car.
“Yes, sir,” you say as you turn to your car, unlocking it.
“Watch what you say,” he says, a few steps away from you now. “Some people are into that.”
Submission for @lapydiaries 2026 Summer event "Unexpected Journey"
Dark blue marker
*Pairing: Hongjoong x reader
*Genre: adventure, romantasy
*AU: Demon, multiverse
*Word count: 1,969
*Warnings/Rating: 16+. Very slight body horror (a brief description), past manipulation, descriptive threats/thoughts of harming someone else.
*Summary: after wasting years with your ex, calling the wedding off a week before, you take advantage of the fully booked honeymoon you paid for traveling a whole continent. Your anger and desire to get back at your ex somehow got you pulled into another realm where a charismatic demon lord likes the idea of your revenge a bit too much.
*AN: normally i do longer ones and I really could have delved into this but for now I am happy with this. Honorary tagging someone i think will love this very much. Also, i finally wrote a piece off the iconic look above. I am complete as a Hongjoong simp writer now <3
*Tags: @yourfatherlucifer , @sanjoongie
Banners and dividers made by me!
How the fuck did you get here?
That was the question, the answer one you would need to be open-minded to understand. More open minded than socially acceptable at least.
Because there was no way that they were human. Or that you were on earth. Not your earth at least. Not your realm.
How else do you explain the living walls that moved if you stared too long. How else do you explain this… pressure in the air that felt like it was seeping your soul out from your pores? How else do you explain… him.
You could almost write it off as some models or actors playing some sick and twisted game. Some method acting on an extreme scale. But there was just too much other-worldly for it to be true. There was probably even more that your human brain just couldn't comprehend right now. Maybe it never will.
The man—thing— on the throne was plenty of reason not to focus on anything else. You had been dragged to this stone like podium by 6 others, the red chains pinned to it, and then they stood equally on either side of the man on the throne. Black leathers and furs with chains and jewels of monochrome nature. Black smokey makeup like charcoal around his eyes and a cross on his lips to make him even more intimidating.
Well, the long black horns protruding from his temple and curved back much like his dark ash hair was another give away this man was not human.
He did not have to be staring you down and licking his lip like you were prey of his next meal. Or like you insulted his ancestors and was ready to skin you alive for it. Dramatic? Perhaps, but a situation for this called for dramatic thoughts.
A tall gorgeous man stood behind him peering down his nose at you with disdain, also in black leathers and furs. He had only one horn, smaller in size and almost dainty with how it swished back. The rest of his hair was pushed to the other side to accommodate the horn. It was that man that had found you, bleeding and lost in the most horrific forest you had been in.
Forest- much like the forest you had been in before coming here. But the old forests in Europe on the hiking trails that were supposedly save should not have led you here.
The supposed witch's spell book that you had been reading during a break… okay maybe that would have been the cause for this. That's on you for believing the it was just a fake tourist book in an old shop in one of the oldest most history ridden parts of the continent.
Also proves cursing your ex with the passage you read was more than just blowing off steam and appeasing your desire for revenge long enough to continue your supposedly wholesome hike.
While that might be the answer to how you got from one forest to the next, you never believed in magic or demons or whatever the fuck these men were so how could simply wishing harm for someone with an old book have you tumbling through that horrific black forest?
The man(thing) that had found you running through the black gooey vines and plants and choking on miasma(if you could call it that) leaned over to say something to the man on the throne. The other six hadn't moved a muscle, not even blinked, from their positions lining the stairs.
Whatever they were, the throne was pretty self explanatory. And for who sits on it. This man(thing) was a king of something. And you were probably his responsibility to handle.
You knew better than to think about asking for mercy. They did not seem like the type of people—or place— where mercy was a concept. It was probably laughable. If you looked like the devil incarnate, you probably would laugh in the face of a pitiful human asking for mercy too. Like looking at a cockroach squirming in chemicals as it's life is pitifully torn from it.
To your utter surprise, the first words spoken to you have nothing to do with death or mercy. "Who did you seek revenge on so deeply?"
Blinking owlish at the tall man that had spoke, your eyes were immediately drawn to the one on the throne who was now leaning forward, twisting his head as if he was trying to figure you out or like he was looking for the best angle to devour you. The look on his face implied the later. What sort of person grins like that? Like a madman who could tell things were about to get to his level of interesting. Chaotic.
Even if the one behind him spoke, you knew it was him that you were to reply to. By some… odd intuition. "Someone who deserves it."
"That's not for you to decide." One of the men(things) on the stairs barked out, narrowing their already fierce eyes on you. He was taller than the others, only equal in height to the man directly across from him, neither standing on the stairs but just before.
You glared back, your ire burning hot as you thought of the same people you considered friends take *his( side as if he hadn't done anything wrong. "That's not for you to decide either. I am the one wounded by him, not you."
"You insolent-"
"That's enough Mingi." The man on the throne spoke, silencing the room, even their breathing. "How did he hurt you? I see no scars deserving of what you wished."
"My scars-" you started, turning your burning gaze on the demon on the throne "-are of the heart and ego. A betrayal worth everything I wished upon him."
His grin somehow turned more wicked and wider, teeth growing sharp before your very eyes. "You were loyal to him?" You nodded. "But he was not loyal to you? Words, Darling, I want to hear the emotion in your voice as you recount his misdeeds."
And you did.
It was jarring how easily you opened up about your ex fiance. The man you gave much to. So many years of your life, promising your body, heart, and loyalty when you were still too naive to understand how much weight those carry. How his lies you dismissed because he, and your friends, all said it wasn't as you said. Their word against yours. How he made you believe yourself mad, that you were lucky a man like him loved you.
It took only one weekend for you to realize how much of a fool you had been. How you ignored stranger's concerns eventually because your pride demanded that after all this time, after all you had given him, that walking away would be the worst mistake of your life. It took just one weekend to realize that staying was your biggest mistake.
"The wedding was about a week out. One of my bridesmaids bragged while she thought I was drunk that she was pregnant with his kid, and that the money he made through me as my trophy husband would support that kid. And if I ever tried to stop it, that would just make me a horrible person for denying a child food." You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "I called the wedding off the next morning. Racked him with what debt I could of the event even though I paid for most of it. I was hiking through Europe since I booked it all as our honeymoon. Just me, felt like a waste.
"The real waste was all I gave him. I might be the fool who fell for it, but he's the fucking bastard that willing manipulated me. For that, he does deserve the things I curse him with. I can't get that time, that money, my dignity and self-respect back. I get to carry the scars of the wounds he left on my heart, the self-doubt he taught me is only mine to break. To make sure he never amounts to anything, that he loses all he cares for and suffers any time he starts to have hope, seems like a fair exchange. Doesn't it?"
You ended your long winded tirade with a matching tilt of your head to the demon on the throne. Because that's what he had to be. There were flashes, brief moments where the perfect pixie visage of his features distorted to one of horror. Bone and shadow.
He seemed to be feeding on your anguish over your ex. Seemed to devour your ire, maybe even encourage it with the way he leaned forward and motioned with two fingers for more.
Why you indulged it all was beyond you. If it was just because they were demons, that could be it. But you suspected it was because your pride was so hurt that you just wanted someone to be angry with you. Wanted someone to believe you when you said this man needed to be castrated and eat the detached junk. That he should vomit at the taste and choke on it.
"I like that imagery." The man on the throne said, pushing himself off the throne and making his way to you. You realized he was on the smaller side(compared to the others) and yet the energy rolling off him filled the room. Larger than life. "Let me offer it to you, your revenge."
He held his ring clad hand out, the tips of his fingers dainty but as if they were soaked in charcoal. You realized the chains that had bound you were no more, leaving you to take his hand should you wish.
Hesitating, you stared up at him with a look of skepticism. "What is the payment? I have given him much of my life that he does not deserve. I refuse to give more of myself in regards to him."
"Of course, he has given you plenty of reasons to doubt an offered hand. If I say that I will simply give you the tools to torture him for an eternity and all I ask is to watch? Would you believe me?" He tilted his head inquisitively.
You shook yours. "I need a how. Devil is in the details isn't it?"
He laughed, like a maniac giggle more than anything, almost cute in it's pitch. "Oh I really like you. Very well, we can argue the details later. How about we start with letting you enjoy a few days here for rest. After all, it is my fault you are here. I just liked the way your conviction tasted so much I couldn't help myself. It's so rare a witch's emotions entice me so deeply, or even reach me at all.
"Witch?"
"Oh… I have so much to teach you Darling. Come. You're on vacation. Enjoy it."
So you took his hand, letting him haul you up and against his chest. He was sturdy and soft, smelling like a sweet wine with just enough aged musk to be intoxicating. He chuckled as you unintentionally breath him in. "My name is Hongjoong by the way, and I am the lord of this realm."
"What realm is that?" You asked, watching as he brought your wounded palm to his lips, a pointed tongue flicking up to lick at the blood and wounds. You flinched at first contact, just to shiver at the feeling of his tongue between your fingers.
"One of the many demon realms you could say." He replied, voice suddenly heavy with something heated and husky.
It distraced you only for a moment before it hit: you were now "vacationing" in a demon realm. Huh. What a way to have a solo honeymoon.
SYNOPSIS ; You’re a hyper-independent student pulling back-to-back shifts just to keep your head above water. He’s Park Seonghwa—the untouchable, clinical heir to a multi-billion-won empire, suffocating inside a golden cage. When his family’s corporate meddling forces you into a high-stakes, transactional fake-dating contract, you think you’ve negotiated the ultimate hustle. Rule one: it’s just a performance. Rule two: no touching. But between quiet, reverent midnights in the dimly lit campus lab and the suffocating pressure of his world, the lines of the contract don't just blur—they catch fire. Old money plays dirty, but they underestimated a girl who has nothing left to lose.
PAIRING(S) ; Frat!Park Seonghwa x F!Reader
WARNING(S) ; !! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!, explicit content/smut, heavy angst, emotional manipulation (by family members), financial sabotage, classism, temporary heartbreak/breakup (but a very happy ending), light violence (bruised knuckles/shattered glass), alcohol consumption, praise/worship, unprotected sex, and mutual desperation.
WC ; 14k
Part 5/8 of THE REVERENCE SERIES
Inspired by everytime by Ariana Grande
The front door of the frat house didn’t just close; it practically shuddered on its hinges, the echo reverberating through the crown molding of the foyer like a physical blow.
Upstairs, PARK SEONGHWA didn’t blink. He stood by the grand arched window of his room, buttoning the cuffs of a crisp, tailored shirt with practiced, clinical precision. Down the hall, he could hear the faint, exhausted murmur of Hongjoong’s voice—the infamous campus kingpin, the man who had literally written a rulebook to keep his heart under lock and key, now completely dismantled. Defeated. Whipped.
Hongjoong had broken his own rules for a girl. And the terrifying part? Looking at the quiet, breathless peace settled over the hallway, Seonghwa knew Hongjoong didn't regret a single second of the ruin.
Seonghwa’s phone vibrated violently against the mahogany dresser, shattering the silence.
[1] New Message: Lee Jiyeon Your father said you haven't confirmed the venue for Friday. Don't be childish, Seonghwa. We have a timeline to keep.
Right on cue.
He stared at the screen, a muscle feathering in his jaw. For months, he had played the dutiful heir, dodging his father’s corporate matchmaking and Jiyeon’s passive-aggressive ownership over a life he hadn't even chosen. But Hongjoong’s sudden surrender had lit a fuse. The clock had officially run out. He needed a shield, a distraction, a weapon to throw into his father’s meticulously planned boardrooms—and he needed it before Friday.
A sharp knock at his open door cut through his thoughts. Hongjoong was leaning against the frame, looking exhausted but clearer than he had in months.
"You're still brooding," Hongjoong observed, his voice quiet. He didn't need to ask to know what was on Seonghwa's phone. The whole house knew about the impending Park empire merger. "You need to figure something out, man. Fast. Before your old man locks you in a contract you can't claw your way out of."
"I'm working on it," Seonghwa replied smoothly, adjusting his collar.
Hongjoong let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Right. With who? Because the last time we talked about this, you mentioned that girl from the campus diner. The one working three jobs who looked at you like you were dirt beneath her shoes when you tried to tip her a hundred bucks." Hongjoong crossed his arms, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "You've been tracing her schedule for a week, Seonghwa. The guys think you're losing your mind. She’s a hustler. She doesn't have time for your family drama."
"She has a tuition deadline on Friday," Seonghwa said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, calculated hum. "Everyone has a price, Hongjoong. I’m just going to find out hers."
He snatched his keys off the dresser, leaving Hongjoong shaking his head in the doorway. His reflection in the mirror was a mask of cold, unyielding desperation. If his father wanted a transactional relationship, Seonghwa was going to give him one. He just needed to secure his asset.
The neon sign of The 24-Hour Grind buzzed with a low, irritating hum that perfectly matched the headache building behind your eyes.
It was 9:00 PM. You had been on your feet since your 8:00 AM lecture, survived a mid-day shift at the library, and now you were balancing a tray of greasy burgers and lukewarm coffee for a booth of rowdy frat boys who thought a whistle was an appropriate way to get your attention.
"Hey, sweetheart," one of them smirked as you set down his plate, his eyes traveling entirely too slow down your apron. "You forgot the extra ranch. And maybe you can give us your number with it?"
You didn't flinch. You didn't smile, either. You simply leaned over the table slightly, your posture entirely relaxed, projecting an aura that was pure, unfiltered trouble.
"The ranch is fifty cents extra," you said, your voice smooth, calm, and terrifyingly sharp. "And my number costs more than your monthly allowance, kid. Eat your food before it gets as cold as your game."
The booth went dead silent, his friends instantly bursting into a chorus of mocking 'ohhhhh's' at his expense. You turned on your heel without waiting for a comeback, your posture rigid with a spine made of absolute steel. You didn't have time for this. You had a past-due tuition notice sitting in your backpack, and exactly forty-two dollars in your checking account.
From a secluded booth in the far corner, hidden in the shadows of the dim lighting, Park Seonghwa watched your every move.
He had a pristine leather folder resting on the tabletop, his long, elegant fingers lightly drumming against the surface. He had heard the rumors about you around campus—the girl who couldn't be bought, the girl who treated the wealthy elite like minor inconveniences, the badass who ran this town on pure, unadulterated hustle.
Seeing you in action, he realized Hongjoong was wrong. You weren't a risk. You were a masterpiece. You were exactly the kind of chaotic, unbreakable force he needed to completely shatter his father’s pristine, suffocating world.
As you grabbed a rag to wipe down the counter, a shadow fell over your station.
"I believe we have some business to discuss," a smooth, deep voice slid over the noise of the diner.
You looked up, locking eyes with Park Seonghwa. He looked entirely out of place amidst the peeling vinyl booths—wearing a coat that probably cost more than your rent for the entire year, his dark hair perfectly styled, an aura of wealthy, detached arrogance radiating off him.
You let out a long, exhausted breath and tossed the rag onto the counter. "Look, rich boy. I already told your little frat friends I'm not on the menu. If you want a coffee, sit down. If you're here to waste my time, the door is behind you."
Seonghwa didn't flinch at your tone. Instead, a slow, dangerously handsome smirk spread across his face. He slid the leather folder across the counter, tapping the top of it.
"I'm not here for coffee," Seonghwa murmured, leaning in just enough that his expensive cologne cut through the smell of grease. "I'm here to pay off your university tuition. In full. By tonight."
You froze, your eyes dropping to the folder. Through the clear plastic sleeve, you could see the exact dollar amount of your outstanding balance, printed out in bold, terrifying red ink.
"What's the catch?" you asked, your voice dropping its edge, replaced by a cold, protective suspicion. You knew guys like him. Nothing was free.
"The catch," Seonghwa said, his eyes locking onto yours with absolute, clinical focus, "is that for the next three months, you belong to me. You will sit at my father's dinner tables, you will wear the dresses I buy you, and you will play the role of the most terrifyingly devoted girlfriend this campus has ever seen." He tilted his head, his smirk widening. "Do we have a deal, sweetheart?"
Your laughter wasn’t the soft, flattered kind Seonghwa was used to hearing—it was a sharp, mocking bark that cut through the diner’s low hum like a switchblade. You leaned over the counter, close enough that the scent of his cologne tangled with the fryer grease clinging to your apron. “Let me get this straight, Park,” you said, voice dripping with venomous amusement. “You’re so insufferable you need to use Daddy’s corporate expense account just to get a girl to sit next to you at dinner?”
His mask cracked—just for a heartbeat. A flicker of something raw flashed behind his eyes before he smoothed it over, but his jaw tightened. Interesting. You’d struck a nerve.
You snatched the pen from your apron pocket before he could recover, flipping the folder open with a snap. The tuition amount glared up at you in bold, accusatory red. You circled it hard enough to leave an indentation in the paper. “Rule one,” you said, tapping the pen against the counter like a gavel. “This is a performance. Outside your family functions, you don’t touch me, you don’t control who I talk to, and you don’t show up at my jobs unless it’s part of the gig.”
Seonghwa watched you, rapt, as if you were a wildfire he couldn’t look away from.
“Rule two,” you continued, “if Jiyeon or your father even look at me sideways, I walk. And I keep every cent.”
His silence stretched a second too long—your jab had landed deeper than expected. Seonghwa's fingers twitched against the leather folder, the only crack in his polished facade. "You misunderstand," he said, voice dripping with practiced indifference. "This isn't about my inability to get a date. It's about my father's inability to accept that I won't marry a spreadsheet with legs." His gaze flicked to the diner's stained ceiling, then back to you with renewed intensity. "And you, sweetheart, look like the kind of chaos that would give him an aneurysm."
You snorted, uncapping the pen with your teeth. The plastic tasted like fryer oil and defiance. "Rule three," you added, scribbling violently next to the circled amount. "You don't call me sweetheart. Ever." The pen tore through the paper slightly.
Seonghwa's lips parted—then curved into something dangerously close to genuine amusement. He leaned in until his tie brushed the counter's grime. "Fine. But when we're in that dining room," he murmured, "you look at me like I hung the moon. Can a hustler like you fake that, or is a man like me too much to handle?" The challenge in his voice sent an unwelcome spark down your spine.
With a fluid motion, he produced a black credit card from his inner pocket. The embossed platinum caught the fluorescent light as he tapped it against his phone screen. Your own phone buzzed in your apron seconds later. The university's payment confirmation glowed back at you: *$0.00 BALANCE*. Your throat tightened. Freedom. Shackles. Same thing now.
Seonghwa stood abruptly, straightening his cuffs with a snap. He slid a velvet-lined box across the counter—inside, a phone so thin it looked like a credit card. "My driver will deliver your dress tomorrow. Seven sharp." His shoes echoed on the linoleum as he walked away, pausing only to toss over his shoulder: "Wear your hair down. My father hates ponytails."
The bell above the diner door jingled cheerfully as it swung shut behind him, a grotesque contrast to the suffocating weight that had just settled into your chest.
Through the smudged glass window, you watched him slide into the back of a sleek, midnight-black sedan that had no business idling in this neighborhood. The taillights flared, bleeding red into the rainy asphalt, and then he was gone. Left behind was the lingering scent of sandalwood, a brand-new phone glowing like a tiny piece of an alien spaceship against the sticky formica, and a clean slate you’d spent the last three years destroying your health to earn.
Zero balance. You were free of the debt, but as you stared down at the velvet-lined box, you knew you’d just traded a digital prison for a human one.
"Holy shit," a voice hissed from your left.
You didn't even look up as Minji, your co-worker, practically tackled the counter, her eyes wide enough to pop. "Was that... was that Park Seonghwa? From the TEEZER house? The guy whose family literally owns the hospital downtown?"
"It was a customer," you said flatly, shoving the velvet box into the deep pocket of your apron next to your order pad.
"A customer who just made you look like you were about to commit murder or faint," she shot back, leaning over to catch your eye. "What did he want?"
"To buy a headache," you muttered, grabbing the damp rag and wiping down the spot where his expensive tie had just brushed the counter. You scrubbed hard, trying to erase the ghost of his presence, but the challenge in his voice was still echoing in your ears. Can a hustler like you fake that?
You’d fake it. For that kind of money, you’d make his father think you were ready to die for him.
Meanwhile, the interior of the sedan was dead silent, save for the quiet purr of the engine. Seonghwa sat back against the leather, his eyes fixed on the rain tearing across the window glass. His fingers were still tapping a restless, uneven rhythm against his knee.
He pulled his personal phone from his pocket, the screen immediately lighting up with three more missed calls from Lee Jiyeon. He ignored them, dialing a number he knew by heart instead.
It rang twice before a deep, gravelly voice answered. No greeting. Just the heavy, expectant silence of a man who ruled by fear.
"Father," Seonghwa said, his tone instantly shifting into the smooth, perfectly modulated cadence of a dutiful son. The cold arrogance he’d thrown at you in the diner was gone, replaced by something rigidly controlled. "Tell Jiyeon to cancel the reservations at L'Avenue for Friday."
A sharp exhale came over the line. "And why would I do that? Her father is flying in from Seoul specifically to discuss the merger's press release."
"Because the press release is going to have to change," Seonghwa replied, his gaze flickering back toward the fading neon sign of the diner as the car rounded the corner. A small, dangerous smirk played at the corner of his lips. "I won't be bringing Jiyeon as my date. I'm bringing my girlfriend."
The silence on the other end of the line became deafening. "You don't have a girlfriend, Seonghwa. You have distractions. If this is another one of your pathetic attempts to delay—"
"She's not a delay," Seonghwa interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a sudden, unyielding steel that even his father hadn't heard before. He thought of the way you had looked at him—the absolute lack of fear in your eyes, the razor-sharp edge of your tongue, the beautiful, chaotic defiance of your posture. You were going to tear their pristine boardroom to pieces, and he couldn't wait to watch. "She's my guest. And I suggest you tell Jiyeon to get used to the view from the sidelines."
He hung up before his father could reply, tossing the phone onto the empty leather seat beside him. He let out a slow breath, his chest loosening for the first time all day.
The game had officially begun.
The knock at your apartment door came at exactly 4:03 PM—precise enough to make your teeth grind. You flung the door open to find a man in a black suit standing rigidly in your shitty hallway, holding a garment bag so sleek it looked photoshopped against the peeling paint. He didn’t speak, just extended it toward you like a ceremonial sword.
“What, no ‘have a nice day’?” you muttered, snatching the bag. The driver blinked once—his only reaction—before turning on his heel and disappearing down the stairwell. You almost laughed. Seonghwa’s people were just as robotic as he was.
The zipper hissed open like it was offended by your cramped studio. Inside, the dress was a deep emerald green, the fabric pooling across your bed like liquid wealth. A handwritten note fluttered out: Seven sharp. Don’t forget the hair. You crumpled it in your fist before grabbing the dress by its straps, holding it up to the dim light. It was backless, slit thigh-high, and probably cost more than your entire semester’s rent.
You almost didn’t put it on out of spite. Almost.
The silk slid over your skin like a second heartbeat. The mirror reflected a stranger—someone sharp and dangerous, all long lines and simmering intensity. You left your hair down as ordered, but dug out your grandmother’s antique silver cuff from the bottom of your jewelry box, snapping it around your wrist like armor. The bold red lipstick was pure defiance.
Outside, the black car arrived at 6:59 PM. The driver didn’t speak. Neither did Seonghwa when you slid into the backseat—at first. He was a silhouette of sharp angles and tailored black, his profile etched against the city lights. Then he turned. His breath caught, just once, before he locked it down.
“Take a picture, Park,” you said, crossing your legs deliberately. The slit fell open, revealing a flash of skin. “It lasts longer.”
His fingers twitched against his knee. “The dress fits,” he said, voice perfectly level. “At least I know my money didn’t go to waste.”
You smirked, tapping your cuff against the window. “Don’t get used to it. This isn’t my color.”
The car pulled into traffic. Seonghwa’s mask slipped back into place as he briefed you, his voice clinical. “Jiyeon will go for your throat. My father will test your spine. Neither of them will believe this is real.”
You snorted. “Because it isn’t.”
“Exactly.” His hand landed on yours without warning—warm, heavy, possessive. Your pulse jumped. His fingers laced through yours, pressing your palm flat against the leather seat. “Which is why we practice now. If you flinch when we walk through those doors, he’ll know.” His thumb stroked your knuckles once, deliberate. “Look at me like you love me.”
You laughed, sharp and humorless. “I don’t even like you.”
“Then you’re a better actress than I thought.” His grip tightened. “Try again.”
The challenge in his eyes was infuriating. You leaned in, close enough that your perfume clashed with his cologne. Your free hand landed on his thigh, fingertips pressing into the wool of his slacks. His breath hitched—just once. “Better?” you purred.
Seonghwa’s jaw flexed. “Too obvious.” His thumb traced your wrist, slow, deliberate. “Subtlety sells the lie.” His gaze flicked to your mouth, lingered, then dragged back up. “You look at me like I’m the only thing in the room.”
Your pulse betrayed you, hammering against his fingers. “You’re not.”
The car slowed. Outside, the restaurant loomed—all marble columns and gold-lit windows. Seonghwa’s hand slid from yours to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. His lips brushed your ear. “Then lie better.”
The door opened. Cold air rushed in. Seonghwa stepped out first, his posture shifting seamlessly into arrogant elegance. When he turned back, offering his hand, his expression was a mask of practiced devotion. You took it, letting him pull you close. His palm settled at the small of your back, burning through silk.
“Showtime,” he murmured.
You stepped onto the pavement, the slit of your dress parting just enough to make the valet glance away. Seonghwa’s grip tightened—approval or possessiveness, you couldn’t tell. The hostess bowed, her smile faltering when she recognized him. “Mr. Park. Your party is already seated.”
The lobby smelled like money—crisp linen, aged whiskey, the faintest hint of cigar smoke. Your heels clicked against polished floors. Seonghwa’s thumb traced idle circles against your spine. “Jiyeon wears pink when she’s angry,” he whispered. “Consider yourself warned.”
The private dining room door swung open.
Lee Jiyeon sat perfectly poised in blush silk, her diamond choker glinting under the chandelier. Her smile froze when she saw your intertwined fingers. Across the table, Father Park didn’t look up from his wine glass. “Late,” he said, voice like gravel. “Your mother would be ashamed.”
Seonghwa’s fingers twitched against yours. You squeezed back—once, sharp—before sliding into the chair he pulled out. “Traffic,” you said, smiling sweetly at Jiyeon. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”
Jiyeon’s manicured nails tightened around her champagne flute. “How...unexpected.” Her gaze raked down your dress like she was pricing the stitching. “I didn’t realize Seonghwa had such...eclectic taste.”
You leaned forward, letting the slit in your dress part just enough to make her blink. “He doesn’t.” Your cuff flashed silver as you reached for the bread basket. “But I do.”
Father Park finally looked up. His eyes—sharp, calculating—lingered on your wrist. “That cuff,” he said slowly. “Where did you get it?”
“Stole it,” you deadpanned, tearing into the bread with your teeth. The crust crackled loud enough to make Jiyeon flinch. “From a museum.”
Seonghwa kicked your ankle under the table. You kicked back harder.
The silence that followed was a glorious, suffocating vacuum.
Jiyeon actually stopped breathing, her mouth parting in a tiny, horrified ‘O’ as her eyes darted to Father Park, practically begging him to call security. Underneath the heavy mahogany table, Seonghwa’s shoe remained pinned against yours, his weight pressing down as if he could physically force you into compliance. You didn't budge. You just chewed, holding the old man's gaze with the same unblinking stare you used on the midnight-shift drunks who refused to pay their tabs.
A slow, terrifying tick developed in Father Park’s jaw. For three agonizing seconds, the only sound in the private room was the soft, rhythmic hum of the restaurant’s air conditioning.
Then, the patriarch let out a sound. It wasn't a laugh—it was a dry, raspy bark that sounded like sandpaper on wood.
"Honesty," Father Park murmured, leaning back into his leather chair, his sharp eyes crinkling at the corners with a deeply unsettling amusement. "A rare commodity in this family. Most people spend their entire lives trying to lie to me about where they get their things." He flicked his gaze to Jiyeon, whose blush-pink silk dress suddenly looked very washed out. "And their intentions."
Jiyeon’s cheeks flushed a violent, blotchy red. "Father Park, surely you aren't—"
"Eat your salad, Jiyeon," the old man cut her off smoothly, not even looking at her. He tapped his wine glass, signaling the waiter standing rigidly in the corner. "Fill the lady’s glass. And bring our guest something that isn't bread. She looks like she hasn't eaten a full meal since the semester started."
Checkmate, round one.
You glanced at Seonghwa out of the corner of your eye. His perfect, aristocratic profile was completely rigid, but you could see the faint, frantic pulse point throbbing at the base of his throat. He was stunned. His father didn't praise people; he dismantled them. The fact that your reckless, IDGAF energy had actually bypassed his defenses was a variable Seonghwa hadn't calculated.
As the waiter glided forward to pour the wine, Seonghwa finally shifted his leg, his hand sliding beneath the table to find your knee. His fingers dug into your bare skin through the high slit of your dress—not in a reprimand, but with a sudden, heavy desperation. His palm was burning hot.
"She has an appetite," Seonghwa said, his voice dropping into that smooth, velvety cadence he used when he was playing the devoted boyfriend. He leaned into your space, his shoulder brushing yours, his scent completely clouding your senses. "It's one of the things I find most... captivating about her."
He looked at you then, and for a split second, the sheer intensity in his dark eyes made your breath hitch. It wasn't the fake, rehearsed look from the car. It was sharp, dark, and heavy with a strange kind of hunger.
"Is that so?" Jiyeon sneered, her voice trembling with suppressed rage as she gripped her fork. "And what department did you say you were in? I don't recall seeing your family name on the alumni donor list."
You leaned back, letting Seonghwa’s hand ride up your thigh just an inch higher, the physical friction sending a jolt of pure adrenaline straight to your core. You looked Jiyeon dead in the eye.
"I'm on the 'working forty hours a week to avoid drowning in debt' list," you said, matching her icy tone note for note. "But don't worry. I'm sure your family's spreadsheet covers that."
Beside you, Seonghwa choked on his wine.
Jiyeon's champagne flute trembled against the linen tablecloth as she forced a smile sharper than her diamond choker. "I do hope you appreciate opera, darling. The Seoul Arts Center is hosting La Traviata next weekend—though I suppose balcony seats are rather hard to come by without connections." Her gaze flicked to your silver cuff like she was pricing the scrap metal.
You speared a bite of seared scallop—deliberately using the wrong fork—and shrugged. "Never been. Though I did catch an amazing drag queen performing Bohemian Rhapsody at a dive bar last month." You tilted your head, grinning as Jiyeon's manicure dug into her napkin. "The costumes were probably cheaper than this scallop, but damn, could she hit those high notes."
Father Park's wine glass paused halfway to his lips. A muscle in Seonghwa's jaw twitched as his fingers flexed against your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, burning circles beneath the table.
Jiyeon rallied like a cornered viper. "How...quaint. Though I can't imagine Seonghwa slumming it in some bar." She fluttered her lashes at him. "Remember our private box at the Met last summer? You said the acoustics were—"
"—Overrated," Seonghwa interrupted, his voice dripping with lazy disdain. His hand slid higher up your thigh, fingers pressing into bare skin. "I prefer venues with...personality."
Jiyeon's champagne flute cracked against the table. The waiter rushed forward with a fresh glass, but Father Park waved him off, his gaze locked on you with unsettling focus. "And where else does our guest enjoy spending her time?" he asked, the question a blade wrapped in silk.
You leaned forward, letting the candlelight catch your grandmother's cuff. "Last weekend? I spent eight hours in the library basement fixing citations for a professor who paid me in stale granola bars." You smirked at Jiyeon's horrified blink. "Though I did swing by the museum after—free student tickets on Fridays."
Seonghwa's fingers dug into your skin hard enough to bruise.
Father Park set down his fork with deliberate precision. "Which exhibit?"
"The textile archives." You swirled your wine, watching the legs streak the glass. "Most people skip them for the flashy Impressionists, but there's a 15th-century hanbok in there with stitching so tight, it's survived five wars." You glanced at Jiyeon's designer dress. "Unlike some modern art."
Jiyeon's knife screeched across her plate. "How...quaint. Though I can't imagine Seonghwa wasting time in a museum." Her smile turned venomous. "Unless he was desperate to avoid—"
"—Boring people," Seonghwa interrupted, his thumb stroking your inner thigh. "A fatal flaw of mine."
Father Park's chuckle was a low, dangerous rumble. "You have your mother's taste for...unconventional beauty." His gaze lingered on your grandmother's cuff. "And her spine."
The air in the room shifted. Jiyeon's manicure clicked against crystal as she excused herself, her blush silk dress whispering like a threat. You counted to three before pushing back your chair. "Restroom," you murmured, catching the murderous glance Jiyeon threw over her shoulder.
The bathroom was all marble and orchids, the kind of place where rich women went to cry into gold-plated sinks. Jiyeon was already waiting, her reflection warped in the polished mirrors. "You pathetic little—"
"—Gold-digger?" You leaned against the counter, uncapping your lipstick with deliberate slowness. "Try harder, Jiyeon. Your insults are as stale as your champagne."
Her diamond choker trembled. "Do you really think this charade lasts?" She stepped closer, her whisper venomous. "You're a temporary amusement. Men like Seonghwa don't keep girls like you. They marry girls like me."
The lipstick snapped shut. You tilted your head, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "Then you better start praying," you murmured, swiping red over your bottom lip. "Because right now, he's paying my tuition just to avoid looking at your face."
Jiyeon's breath hitched—once—before she slammed her clutch down hard enough to crack the marble. "You have no idea what you're playing with."
You smirked, tucking the lipstick into your clutch. "Neither do you."
The heavy, gold-trimmed door of the restroom clicked shut behind you, cutting off the sound of Jiyeon’s ragged, furious breathing.
The moment you stepped back into the quiet hallway, the badass posture you’d been holding since seven o’clock slipped just a fraction. Your shoulders dropped. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You had just completely humiliated one of the wealthiest heiresses in the city, but the rush of adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the stark, cold reality of what you were actually doing. You were a mouse playing in a nest of vipers.
"You're late," a voice slid out of the shadows.
You gasped, your hand flying to the emerald silk at your chest. Seonghwa was leaning against the wood-paneled wall just a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest. The pristine jacket of his suit was unbuttoned now, his tie loosened just a fraction. He looked less like the untouchable heir and more like a predator waiting in the dark.
"I was busy," you snapped, recovering your edge instantly as you walked past him toward the dining room. "Your little spreadsheet has a really foul mouth when she's angry."
Seonghwa didn't move to follow you. Instead, as you brushed past him, his hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist—right over your grandmother’s silver cuff. The metal bit into your skin, but his grip wasn't malicious. It was desperate. He pulled you backward, anchoring you against his chest in the dim hallway.
"What did she say to you?" he murmured, his breath hot against the shell of your ear.
"Nothing I couldn't handle," you said, trying to pull away, but his other hand found your waist, his palm burning through the backless slit of your dress. Rule number one was screaming in your head, but the way his chest rumbled against your back made your knees dangerously weak. "Let go, Park. No touching behind closed doors, remember?"
Seonghwa let out a low, breathy laugh that sounded completely devoid of his usual arrogance. "My father just asked the waiter to pack up the rest of the dinner," he whispered, his lips brushing the column of your neck. You shivered, your eyes fluttering shut for a terrifying second. "He said he’s seen enough. We're leaving."
"Did we lose?" you whispered, your fingers curling into the fabric of his suit jacket.
Seonghwa leaned down, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the rest of the hallway blur into nothingness. "No," he murmured, his thumb tracing a slow line down your jaw. "You won. He told me to keep you because you have more balls than I do."
The car smelled like leather and rain—and him. Seonghwa didn’t slide into his usual spot across the sedan’s expanse. Instead, the moment the door shut behind you, his arm hooked around your waist, hauling you sideways until you were straddling his lap, your emerald silk dress riding up your thighs. His breath hitched, warm against your smudged lipstick. "You completely destroyed her," he murmured, thumb dragging across your bottom lip, staining his skin crimson.
You smirked, pulse thundering where his fingers traced your jaw. "I told you, Park. I don’t bow to spreadsheets."
His grip tightened, pulling you closer until your chests brushed. "No," he agreed, voice rough. "You set them on fire." The car hit a pothole, jolting you against him. His exhale was ragged, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then his fingers slid into your hair, tilting your face up. "Tell me to stop," he whispered.
You didn’t.
His mouth crashed into yours—hot, desperate, nothing like the calculated kisses at dinner. This was hunger, pure and unguarded. Your fingers twisted in his ruined tie as he licked into your mouth, tasting wine and victory. The partition was up, the driver oblivious, but it didn’t matter. The world narrowed to his hands gripping your hips, the way he groaned when you rocked against him—
The car slowed. Seonghwa tore away, lips swollen, his usually immaculate hair disheveled. Outside, rain sheeted against the windows of a massive Tudor-style house, its gabled roof cutting into the stormy sky. The Teezer House. You knew it by reputation—Sigma Nu’s lion’s den, where trust fund babies threw parties that made the campus gossip for weeks.
"Stay," he said, thumb wiping smudged lipstick from your chin. His voice was wrecked. "Just tonight."
You should’ve said no. Should’ve reminded him of Rule #4: No sleepovers. But the adrenaline was fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake. And the way he looked at you—like you’d hung the goddamn moon—made your chest ache.
"...Fine. But I’m taking the couch."
Seonghwa smirked, opening the car door. "It’s leather. You’ll hate it."
Raindrops caught in his lashes as he guided you up the stone steps, his palm burning through the silk at your waist. The Teezer House loomed—all dark wood and stained glass, smelling of cedar and spilled whiskey. A burst of laughter echoed from somewhere inside, followed by the thump of bass. Seonghwa ignored it, steering you down a shadowed hallway.
His room wasn’t what you expected. No Greek letters tacked to the wall, no neon beer signs. Just a massive four-poster bed, a sleek desk littered with finance textbooks, and—weirdly—a vintage record player spinning something soft and instrumental.
"You live like a retired professor," you muttered, toeing off your heels.
Seonghwa shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over a chair. "My father’s decorator has opinions." He hesitated, then tossed you a folded T-shirt from his dresser. It smelled like his cologne. "Bathroom’s through there if you want to change."
The fabric slid over your skin like a whisper. When you emerged, Seonghwa was perched on the edge of the bed, rolling up his sleeves. Moonlight caught the silver in his rings as he reached for you—then stopped himself, fingers curling into his palm.
"You should take the bed," he said, voice rough. "I’ll—"
"Don’t be an idiot." You snatched a pillow from the mountain of them, tossing it onto the leather couch with more force than necessary. "We both know that thing costs more than my tuition. I’m not kicking you out of—"
His hand closed around your wrist. Not hard. Not demanding. Just... there. Warm. "Then share it," he said, so quiet you almost missed it.
The mattress dipped when he lay down, leaving a careful foot of space between you. You stared at the ceiling, acutely aware of every shift of fabric, every uneven breath. Outside, rain lashed the stained-glass windows, painting blue fractals across his profile.
"You were..." Seonghwa swallowed. "At dinner. When you talked about the hanbok stitching. You lit up." His fingers brushed yours—testing, retreating. "I didn’t know you studied textile conservation."
The admission startled you. He’d paid for your entire academic record, yet he remembered this detail like it mattered. "Minor," you muttered. "Just a hobby."
A lie. You’d spent three summers interning at the conservation lab, breathing in the scent of aged silk and parchment until it lived in your pores.
Seonghwa turned his head. Moonlight caught the silver chain around his neck—the one he always wore under his shirts. "Show me."
"What?"
"The hanbok stitches. You said they survived wars." His voice dropped. "Prove it."
You exhaled sharply through your nose. "You want a lecture on textile preservation at midnight?"
His fingers brushed yours again—lingering this time. "I want to know what makes your eyes light up when you're not pretending."
The rain drummed harder against the windows. You rolled onto your side, facing him. His dark eyes tracked the movement, pupils swallowing the silvered light. "Fine," you muttered. "But only because you're paying my tuition."
Seonghwa's lips twitched. You launched into an explanation—15th-century warp threads, indigo dye extraction methods, how the underlayer stitches formed geometric patterns invisible to the naked eye. Halfway through, you realized his breathing had slowed. His fingers were still tangled with yours.
"You're not even listening," you accused.
“I’m listening,” Seonghwa murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that brushed against your skin in the dark.
He didn’t blink. His dark eyes were fixed on your face, tracking the animated curve of your lips, the sudden spark in your expression that had nothing to do with defiance and everything to do with passion. Under the heavy duvet, his thumb began to stroke the side of your hand—slow, rhythmic, and devastatingly gentle.
“Warp threads,” he repeated softly, proving him right. “Indigo dye. Hidden geometric patterns.” He shifted closer, the distance between you evaporating until the heat of his chest was radiating against yours. “I’m listening to every word. I just... I’ve never seen anyone care about something that doesn’t have a price tag attached to it.”
Your throat went dry. The cynical, street-smart armor you wore every day felt incredibly heavy, and for the first time, you could feel it cracking. “Everything has a price tag, Park,” you whispered, though the edge was entirely gone from your voice. “Some things are just bought with time instead of black cards.”
Seonghwa’s gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there for a long, agonizing second before dragging back up to meet your eyes. “Then you’re wealthier than anyone I’ve ever met,” he breathed.
He didn’t try to kiss you again. Instead, he simply closed the remaining inch of space, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his forehead resting against your collarbone. His arm wound around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his large hand splaying flat against your lower back. It wasn't the possessive, dominant grip from the sedan. It was the desperate, exhausting surrender of a man who had been holding his breath for twenty-three years and had finally found oxygen.
You froze, your pulse hammering against his forehead. Rule number one. Rule number four. Every boundary you had painstakingly drawn in that grease-stained diner was dissolving into the expensive silk sheets. Slow, steady, your hand lifted, your fingers hovering over the soft dark hair at the nape of his neck before finally sinking into it.
Outside, the storm raged, but inside the four-poster bed of the Teezer House, the silence was absolute. You fell asleep to the steady, rhythmic beat of Park Seonghwa’s heart beneath your palm, completely oblivious to the fact that dawn was about to bring the wrecking ball.
The smell of rich, dark espresso and sizzling butter was what finally woke you.
Sunlight was streaming through the stained-glass windows, painting fractures of gold and amber across the bed. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cold, but the oversized T-shirt you were wearing still carried the faint, intoxicating scent of sandalwood.
You sat up, rubbing your eyes, the events of the previous night rushing back all at once. You swallowed hard, a sudden wave of panic hitting your chest. You needed to get out of here. You needed to find your clothes, put your armor back on, and get to campus before you forgot who you actually were.
Stepping out into the hallway, your bare feet made no sound against the polished hardwood. You followed the scent of coffee toward the grand, open-concept kitchen.
You didn't expect to find an audience.
"I'm telling you, he's losing his mind," a voice laughed from around the corner. It was loud, chaotic, and entirely too energetic for 9:00 AM. Wooyoung. "He spent thirty minutes adjusting the espresso grind size. Thirty minutes. Who does that?"
"Someone who has a guest," a deeper, much calmer voice replied. Hongjoong.
You rounded the corner, freezing in the archway. Wooyoung was sitting on the marble kitchen island, swinging his legs, a bowl of cereal in his lap. Hongjoong was leaning against the counter, a mug in his hand. And there, standing in front of a high-end espresso machine, was Seonghwa.
He was wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants. The silver chain around his neck caught the morning sun, dangling against the sharp, defined planes of his chest and the rigid lines of his abs. He looked devastatingly handsome, entirely unbothered, and completely domestic.
The moment your bare feet clicked against the kitchen tile, all three pairs of eyes snapped to you.
Wooyoung choked. A stray piece of cereal literally flew out of his mouth as he gagged, his eyes widening to the size of saucers as he took in the sight of you—wearing Seonghwa's oversized shirt, your hair a messy, sleep-tousled halo around your shoulders.
Hongjoong didn't choke, but his eyebrows shot straight up into his hairline. A slow, deeply knowing smirk spread across the captain's face. He looked at Seonghwa, then back to you, silently acknowledging that the legendary, untouchable campus kingpin had just met his match.
Seonghwa didn't flinch. He turned smoothly, holding a pristine porcelain cup filled with perfect latte art. His eyes raked down your legs, a dark, possessive warmth flaring in his gaze before he masked it.
"You're awake," Seonghwa said, his voice a deep, morning purr that made your stomach do a violent flip. He walked past his gaping friends, completely ignoring them, and slid the cup into your hands. "Black, right? No sugar?"
"Yeah," you muttered, your face burning as Wooyoung finally recovered, letting out a dramatic, high-pitched cackle.
"Oh, so this is the contract?" Wooyoung teased, leaning forward on the island. "The one who thinks we're all minor inconveniences? Good morning, sister-in-law. Nice shirt. Looks better on you anyway."
"Shut up, Wooyoung," Seonghwa said flatly, but there was no real venom in his voice. He kept his body positioned between you and them, a subtle, protective barrier. His hand briefly brushed the small of your back—a lingering, hidden touch. "Go change. I'll drive you to campus."
The engine of Seonghwa's Mercedes purred to a stop outside your apartment building—a crumbling brick structure with a flickering neon sign that had read "VAC NCY" for as long as you'd lived there. You reached for the door handle, but his hand closed over your wrist. "Wait," he said, already unbuckling his seatbelt. "I'm coming up."
"You're not," you scoffed, but he was already rounding the hood, his designer shoes crunching over broken pavement. The lobby smelled of mildew and old takeout, the elevator perpetually "out of order." Seonghwa didn't comment as you took the stairs two at a time, your key already poised between your knuckles—a habit from too many late-night returns.
Your studio was exactly as you'd left it: textbooks splayed across the fold-out desk, a single burner stove with a pot of half-eaten ramen, the ceiling leak in the corner dripping steadily into a dollar-store bucket. Seonghwa stood frozen in the doorway, his sharp eyes cataloging every detail—the patched radiator, the thrift-store armchair with duct-taped seams, the three alarm clocks lined up on your nightstand because you couldn't afford to oversleep.
You shoved your notebook into your bag with too much force. "Satisfied? Now you know where the scholarship money goes."
His fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up. There was no pity in his gaze—just a simmering, quiet fury. "You don't have to go back to the diner tonight," he said, thumb brushing the dark circles under your eye. "Let me take care of it. Just for this week."
You scoffed, but his hand slid down to your wrist, pressing against your racing pulse. "Not charity," he murmured. "A renegotiation. Addendum to the contract—you get sleep, I get..." His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Cooperation."
The textile lab was silent except for the hum of the HVAC system. Midnight oil was nothing new to you—spending hours under the magnifying lamp, carefully restoring a 19th-century silk sleeve with micro-stitches. What was new: the soft click of the door, the scent of lemongrass and chili wafting through the sterile air.
Seonghwa slid onto the stool beside you, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal the delicate silver watch that cost more than your rent. He set the takeout container in your peripheral vision without speaking. You didn't look up from your work. "You're blocking my light."
He shifted obediently. "Show me," he said, nodding at the fragile fabric stretched across the conservation frame.
You hesitated, then guided his hands over yours, adjusting his grip on the tweezers. "Like this. You'll tear the warp if you—" His fingers trembled under yours. You glanced up—and froze.
He wasn't looking at the fabric. His dark eyes traced the furrow between your brows, the way your bottom lip caught between your teeth when you concentrated. The intimacy of it burned hotter than the magnifying lamp between you.
"Seonghwa."
He kissed you. Not like the performative press of lips at the fundraiser. Not like the desperate, angry clash in the car. This was slow—a question against your mouth, his hands cradling your face like you were the fragile artifact. When he pulled back, his breath was uneven. "I don't think I can go back," he admitted, voice raw. "To before."
Your throat tightened. The contract was supposed to be bulletproof. But here, in the dim lab with Thai food cooling on the desk and his thumb brushing your cheekbone, the lines had dissolved completely.
For the next four days, the world outside the Teezer House didn’t exist.
The contract had become a ghost, an unspoken joke neither of you referenced as you essentially moved into his room. The guys in the house learned to stop knocking. Even Wooyoung stopped making his loud, cackling jokes in the kitchen after he walked into the living room on Wednesday afternoon and found Seonghwa sitting on the floor, his head resting against your knee as you read aloud from a textile history journal, his long fingers mindfully tracing the silver cuff on your wrist.
By Thursday night, the domesticity felt terrifyingly real.
A fresh storm was battering the stained glass, casting deep indigo shadows across the four-poster bed. You were tangled together beneath the heavy duvet, the vintage record player humming a low, jazzy instrumental that filled the spaces between the thunder claps. Seonghwa’s chest was warm against your back, his strong arm wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t a single pocket of air between your bodies.
He was kissing his way up your spine, his lips soft, warm, and painstakingly slow. Every press of his mouth against your bare skin felt like a confession, completely stripped of the cold, arrogant heir you’d met in the diner.
"Seonghwa," you breathed, your fingers tightening in the silk sheets as his lips found the sensitive spot at the crook of your neck. "We're going to break the bed."
He let out a low, vibration of a laugh against your skin, his grip on your waist tightening just enough to pin you down. "Let it break," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and an intense, heavy devotion. He rolled you onto your back, hovering over you, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at you. The silver chain around his neck dangled, brushing against your collarbone. "I'll buy another one tomorrow."
"Rich boy," you whispered, reaching up to cup his jaw. Your thumb traced the sharp line of his bone, and instead of flinching or pulling away, he leaned into your palm, his eyes fluttering shut.
"I used to think that was all I had," Seonghwa whispered into the dark, his forehead coming down to rest against yours. His breath hitched—just once—as his fingers tangled with yours, pressing your hands into the mattress. "The money. The name. I thought everything in my life had to be a transaction because that’s the only way people knew how to love me. But you..." He opened his eyes, and the sheer, raw vulnerability in his gaze made your chest ache. "You look at me like I'm just a man. And I don't think I can ever go back to the way things were before you. I don't want the empire if you're not in it."
You didn't answer with words. You pulled him down by his neck, kissing him with a fierce, desperate intensity that felt like a dam breaking. You loved him. The realization slammed into your ribs like a physical blow, terrifying and beautiful all at once. For that one night, wrapped in his arms, you believed the hustle was finally over.
The wrecking ball arrived at 6:00 AM on Friday.
The mattress dipped as Seonghwa shifted, sitting on the edge of the bed. The morning light was gray and clinical, cutting through the room. He was already dressed in his crisp, tailored suit, the unyielding armor of Park Seonghwa fully back in place. But when he looked back at you, tangled in his sheets, his expression softened into that tender, helpless gaze from the night before.
He leaned across the bed, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I have to go to the estate," he whispered, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "My father called an emergency board meeting about the merger documents. I'll be back by midnight. Wait for me."
"Don't let them bore you to death," you muttered sleepily.
He smirked, a flash of his usual playfulness returning. "Impossible. I have a reason to come back now."
But midnight came and went. The instrumental on the record player clicked off, leaving the room entirely silent.
By Saturday afternoon, the silence had turned into a suffocating weight. You texted the velvet-boxed phone—no response. You called—straight to voicemail. By Sunday night, a sick, cold knot of dread had settled deep into your stomach. You went back to your apartment, unable to sit in his empty room any longer, staring at the ceiling leak as the minutes ticked by. He had vanished into the golden cage of his family empire, and the door had slammed shut behind him.
On Monday morning, the floor completely dropped out.
You walked onto campus, your body aching from a lack of sleep, your mind spinning with worst-case scenarios. You headed straight to the library for your shift, desperate for a distraction. But the moment you walked through the doors, your manager met you with a pale face and a tight, sympathetic expression, holding a pink slip of paper.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, looking genuinely sick. "The university administration handed down a directive an hour ago. Budget cuts across the student employment sector. Specifically from the Park Foundation. We have to terminate your contract immediately."
Your heart stopped. "What?" you whispered.
Before she could answer, your personal phone buzzed violently in your pocket. It was an automated alert from the university registrar. With trembling fingers, you pulled it out.
NOTICE OF REGISTRATION HOLD: ACADEMIC YEAR 2026 Your account balance of $12,500.00 is strictly PAST DUE. The previously processed corporate transfer has been reversed due to 'unauthorized account activity.' You have 24 hours to clear the balance or your current enrollment will be permanently revoked.
The room tilted. You stared at the red text on the screen, a cold, venomous understanding washing over you.
It hadn't been a glitch. It hadn't been a mistake. Jiyeon and his father hadn't just discovered the fake contract—they had weaponized it. They had tracked every single detail of your life through Seonghwa's transaction records and systematically dismantled your survival. They were crushing you like a bug under a designer heel, showing you exactly how powerless a hustler was against old money.
And Seonghwa had been silent for three days.
Furious, terrified, and fueled by a raw, burning betrayal, you turned on your heel and sprinted out of the library. You didn't care who saw you. You didn't care about the rules anymore. You marched across the campus quad, your breath ragged, heading straight for the only place you knew he might be.
You stormed through the iron gates of the Teezer House, bypassing the front door and walking straight around to the private stone courtyard in the back.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Seonghwa was standing by the fountain. But he wasn't alone. Lee Jiyeon was standing right beside him, looking radiant and untouchable in a flawless white designer dress, her manicured hand hooked tightly, possessively through the crook of his arm.
Seonghwa’s father stood a few paces away, talking quietly on a sleek phone, his presence casting a suffocating shadow over the courtyard.
The sound of your heavy breathing made Seonghwa snap his head around. For a fraction of a second, when his dark eyes locked onto yours, a flash of pure, agonizing horror ripped across his face. He took a single, instinctive step toward you, his lips parting as if he wanted to scream your name.
But Father Park slowly lowered his phone, his sharp, calculating eyes flicking from you to his son, a silent, deadly warning hanging in the air. One wrong move, and I destroy her permanently.
You saw the exact moment Seonghwa’s soul died.
The soft, vulnerable boy who had held you in the dark vanished. A cold, frozen wasteland washed over his features, his jaw tightening into a rigid, unbreakable mask of wealthy arrogance. He deliberately relaxed his posture, letting Jiyeon lean closer into his side, his eyes turning into two pools of dead, unfeeling black as he looked right through you.
"What are you doing here?" Seonghwa said. His voice didn't just sound cold—it sounded like glass snapping under a boot.
You took a step forward, your hands clenching into fists, your voice trembling with a mixture of rage and heartbreak. "The tuition check, Seonghwa. My job. What the hell did you do?"
Seonghwa let out a short, lazy chuckle, the sound entirely devoid of warmth. He reached up with his free hand, casually adjusting the cuff of his suit shirt—the exact same clinical motion he’d used the day you met.
"Did you really think that little performance was going to last forever?" he asked, tilting his head with a cruel, patronizing smirk. Beside him, Jiyeon let out a smug, quiet snicker. "My father saw right through the lie the moment we sat down at dinner. You played your part well enough to get your little bills paid for a week, but the game is over. I'm finalizing the merger with Jiyeon's family this afternoon."
The words felt like a physical blade ripping through your chest. You couldn't breathe. "You're lying," you whispered, searching his dead eyes for a single crack, a single trace of the man who had whispered that he loved you into your skin just three nights ago.
There was nothing.
"You're a temporary distraction, sweetheart," Seonghwa slid the word out like venom, his gaze dragging down your faded jeans and old sneakers with practiced disgust. "A street-smart girl with a sharp mouth. It was amusing for a few days, but a Park doesn't marry the help." He flicked his eyes past your shoulder, his voice dropping into a flat, dismissive command. "Wooyoung. Get her off the property. She's trespassing."
From the shadows of the courtyard porch, Wooyoung stepped out. His usual smirk was completely gone, his face pale and heavy with a dark, furious reluctance. He looked at Seonghwa like he wanted to kill him, but he walked over to you anyway, his hand gently touching your shoulder.
"Come on," Wooyoung muttered quietly, his voice cracked with a rare, genuine pity. "Let's go."
You didn't cry. Your badass pride—the only thing you had left—kept your chin up. You tore your shoulder away from Wooyoung's grip, taking one last, long look at Park Seonghwa. You looked at the silver chain around his neck, the one hidden beneath his tie, and you realized the absolute luxury he lived in was nothing but a golden graveyard.
"Keep your blood money, Park," you said, your voice steady, razor-sharp, and completely devastating. "You're right. You can't buy a girl like me anyway."
You turned on your heel and walked out, leaving the lion's den behind you, completely blind to the fact that the moment your back was turned, Seonghwa’s hand gripped the edge of the stone fountain so hard his knuckles bled, his chest heaving as he suffocated in his own ruin.
The first thing you noticed when you slammed your apartment door shut was the sound. That damn ceiling bucket—still dripping, still counting down the seconds like a metronome for your unraveling life. You threw your backpack onto the kitchen counter with enough force to send a stack of overdue bills fluttering to the floor. Fuck dignity. Fuck composure. You were done playing by anyone's rules but your own.
Your hands didn't shake as you yanked open the dresser drawer where you kept your student files. No tears. Just the cold, clinical detachment of a soldier packing up camp before the enemy artillery hit. Your fingers brushed against something hard in the bottom of your backpack as you reached for your ID. Not the cheap plastic card—no, this was the velvet-lined weight of betrayal itself. The goddamn phone.
You almost hurled it across the room. Almost. But the screen lit up like a flare in the dark, casting blue shadows across your peeling wallpaper. One message. Unknown number. Your thumb hovered—then stabbed the notification like it owed you money.
*DON'T WITHDRAW. CHECK YOUR PORTAL. HE'S LYING.*
The words burned your retinas. You fumbled for your laptop, nearly cracking the screen in your haste. The university login page loaded at agonizing speed. When the balance flashed up—$0.00—your breath left your body in one sharp exhale. Not corporate funds. Not the Park Foundation. The transaction ID was a string of numbers you recognized from nights spent half-listening to Seonghwa mutter about offshore accounts, his lips tracing your shoulder blade as he complained about his father's controls. His personal trust. The one locked until his wedding day.
You slammed the laptop shut. The velvet box hit the wall with a satisfying thud.
Outside your window, campus security lights flickered on. Somewhere across town, Seonghwa was probably sitting through another torturous dinner with Jiyeon’s hand clamped over his wrist like a branded cuff. You imagined him—back straight, eyes dead—while his father toasted the merger. The mental image should have satisfied you. It didn’t.
You yanked open your closet, fingers closing around the one item you’d sworn never to touch again: the silver cuff. The metal was cold against your palm. Your grandmother’s voice echoed in your skull: "You don’t bury your weapons when the war’s not over."
The Teezer House loomed under amber porch lights. You bypassed the front door entirely, heading straight for the basement studio where Hongjoong composed his merciless beats. The bass shook the doorframe. You kicked it open without knocking.
Hongjoong didn’t look up from his mixing board. "Took you long enough," he said, slamming a track into silence. His eyes flicked to the cuff in your hand. "You here to cash that in or throw it at someone’s head?"
"Both," you said, your voice a flat line that cut right through the residual hum of the studio speakers. You marched over to his desk and slammed the silver cuff down onto the mahogany console, right next to his thousand-dollar mixing board. "Seonghwa thinks he’s the only one who knows how to play dirty because he has a trust fund. But he’s currently playing the martyr at his daddy's estate, and I don't let people fight my wars for me."
Hongjoong leaned back in his leather chair, laced his fingers together behind his head, and looked up at you. The smug, knowing smirk that usually lived on his face was entirely missing. In its place was a heavy, calculated curiosity. He looked at the antique silver, then up at the raw, unyielding fire in your eyes.
"He emptied the offshore account," Hongjoong stated, it wasn't a question. "Paid the twelve-grand directly to the bursar from a private terminal in his father’s study while the old man was asleep. If his dad tracks the IP, Seonghwa gets legally disinherited by morning. He knew that. He did it anyway."
"I didn't ask him to save me," you spat, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "And I sure as hell didn't ask him to call me a 'temporary distraction' in front of that walking pink spreadsheet."
"He had a wiretap on his phone, sweetheart," Hongjoong said quietly, the sudden drop in his tone making your anger hitch. "His father had people outside your apartment. If Seonghwa didn't make you look like a discarded toy right then and there, his dad wasn't just going to pull your tuition—he was going to have the university board blacklist you from every academic institution in the country. He was protecting your hustle."
The air left your lungs in a sharp, painful rush. You stared at Hongjoong, the cold realization settling into your stomach like lead. Seonghwa hadn't broken the contract because he was bored. He had broken his own heart to keep you from being collateral damage.
"So what's the play?" you demanded, leaning over his desk, your face inches from his. "Because I'm not sitting in my studio apartment listening to a ceiling leak while he signs his life away to Lee Jiyeon."
Hongjoong’s lips slowly curved into a dark, dangerous smile—the exact look he wore when he was about to ruin a rival house's entire reputation. He pulled a sleek, encrypted flash drive from his pocket and tapped it against the desk.
"Lee Jiyeon's family empire isn't a fortress; it's a house of cards," Hongjoong murmured, his eyes flashing. "Her dad’s shipping company has been laundering money through dummy textile corporations in Europe for three years. Seonghwa’s been digging, but he can't get the internal authentication codes without triggering an alarm on his father's server." He slid the flash drive toward you. "But you... you have a student credential that gives you unrestricted remote access to the university's textile conservation archives. The exact archives where Jiyeon's family secretly hosted their 'cultural donation' appraisals last month."
You looked at the flash drive. A badass, lethal smile slowly spread across your face, matching his note for note. You uncapped your lipstick with your teeth, swiping a fresh layer of defiance over your lips.
"Tell Wooyoung to get his car ready," you whispered, snatching the drive. "If Seonghwa is going to burn his empire down, tell him I brought the matches."
The basement smelled like stale energy drinks and vengeance. Hongjoong’s fingers flew across the keyboard, his screens reflecting in his glasses like some cyberpunk prophet of chaos. You leaned over his shoulder, watching as the university’s archival portal flickered to life, your student credentials granting access to the digital vault of textile conservation records.
“There,” you muttered, stabbing a finger at the screen. “The ‘cultural donation’ logs from last month—those appraisal records are bullshit. Jiyeon’s family didn’t donate a damn thing. They just needed a paper trail to cover the money laundering.”
Hongjoong’s smirk was razor-sharp. “And here I thought you were just a pretty face with a lipstick arsenal.” He pulled up the metadata, isolating the authentication codes embedded in the files—codes that matched the dummy corporations Seonghwa had been tracking. The evidence was so blatant it was almost insulting.
You snatched the flash drive from his desk, plugging it in with a satisfying click. “Send it to the old man’s inbox. Right in the middle of his little gala.”
Hongjoong’s laugh was dark as he queued the file. “Timed delivery. Five minutes from now—just when they’re about to toast the merger.”
The gala would be in full swing by now—crystal chandeliers, orchestral pretension, Seonghwa suffocating in a tuxedo while Jiyeon clung to him like a gilded noose. You imagined Father Park’s phone vibrating discreetly in his pocket, the way his expression would freeze mid-sip when he saw the evidence. The way Jiyeon wouldn’t even understand why the room had gone silent until it was too late.
“Done.” Hongjoong spun his chair toward you, his fingers steepled. “Now what?”
You stood, tucking the flash drive into your back pocket like a loaded weapon. “Now we watch.”
The Park Estate ballroom glittered like a gilded tomb. Seonghwa stood statue-still at the head table, his champagne flute untouched. Jiyeon’s fingers dug into his arm, her smile venomous beneath the chandelier light. Father Park raised his glass, his voice carrying across the hushed room. “To the future of our families—”
A soft chime cut through his toast.
Father Park’s phone screen illuminated in his breast pocket. He frowned, retrieving it with the practiced grace of a man who never let anything disrupt his theatrics. Then he froze. His thumb hovered over the file labeled JY Holdings—Fraudulent Appraisal Records.
Jiyeon giggled, oblivious. “Father Park, surely business can wait—”
“Silence.” The word cracked like a whip.
Seonghwa’s breath hitched as his father’s gaze sliced across the room—not to Jiyeon, but to him. The old man’s lips curled into something between a snarl and a smile. He turned the screen toward Jiyeon’s father. “Explain this.”
The room held its breath as Jiyeon’s father paled, his fingers trembling around his champagne flute. The glass slipped, shattering on the marble floor. A server flinched. Seonghwa didn’t move. He watched, pulse hammering, as his father leaned in and murmured something that made Jiyeon’s father physically recoil.
Jiyeon’s manicured hand tightened on Seonghwa’s arm. “What’s happening?”
Seonghwa didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on his father’s phone—on the unmistakable university archive watermark in the corner of the screen. His chest tightened. He knew that watermark. Knew the hand that had accessed those files.
Father Park pocketed his phone with deliberate slowness. Then he did something Seonghwa had never seen in twenty-three years: he laughed. A dry, rasping sound that made the entire ballroom stiffen. “Lee,” he said, still chuckling, “your daughter’s family is a liability wrapped in a couture dress.” He flicked his fingers toward Jiyeon like she was a speck of dust. “The merger is terminated.”
Jiyeon’s shriek shattered the stunned silence. “You can’t—”
“I just did.” Father Park’s voice cut through hers like a blade. He turned to Seonghwa, his gaze sharpening. “That girl of yours—she pulled these records?”
Seonghwa’s throat went dry. He nodded once.
Father Park exhaled, shaking his head. Then he smirked. “She just saved our family ten billion won by playing dirtier than me.” He leaned in, lowering his voice so only Seonghwa could hear. “Go get her before someone else does.”
Jiyeon was still screaming when Seonghwa wrenched his arm free. He didn’t look back.
The velvet-boxed phone sat on your desk, a silent testament to the wreckage you’d just caused. You stared at the dripping ceiling bucket, the steady plip, plip, plip sounding like a countdown for the fallout. You had successfully detonated a bomb in the middle of the Park family empire, and now the silence in your cramped studio apartment was suffocating. You paced the linoleum floor, your knuckles white, waiting for the world to end. Waiting to see if your gamble had ruined you completely.
And then, the door didn't just receive a knock—it violently rattled off its hinges.
The sound was desperate, a frantic pounding that made the old wood groan. Your body went rigid. You didn't reach for a weapon; you didn't need one. You strode across the room and yanked the door open, ready to face whatever fury Father Park had sent your way.
Instead, you froze.
Park Seonghwa stood in your dingy hallway, a breathtaking wreck. He was a stark, brutal contrast to the peeling paint and flickering fluorescent lights of your building. He was still wearing his gala tuxedo—a garment that probably cost more than everything you owned—but it was entirely ruined. The expensive jacket was unbuttoned, his silk bow tie torn open and hanging loose around his neck. His hair was completely soaked from the pouring rain outside, dark strands plastered to his forehead, and his chest heaved as if he had run the entire way to your building. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding slightly, a testament to how hard he had gripped the steering wheel of his car just to reach you.
For a heartbeat, neither of you breathed. He just stared at you, his dark eyes wide, frantic, and entirely undone, as if he were checking to make sure you hadn't evaporated into thin air.
Before you could utter a single razor-sharp defense, Seonghwa stepped across your threshold, reached back, and slammed the door shut behind him. The click of the lock had barely registered before he collapsed.
He didn’t try to pull you into an arrogant embrace. He didn’t try to smooth things over with a transactional smile. With a heavy, devastating finality, Park Seonghwa dropped straight to his knees on your cheap, cold linoleum floor.
Your breath hitched. You stepped back instinctively, but his long, ring-adorned fingers shot forward, wrapping around your thighs with a terrifying, loose desperation. He buried his face straight into your stomach, his broad shoulders instantly starting to violently shake. He was weeping. It wasn't the quiet, dignified crying of a wealthy heir; it was the raw, ugly, gut-wrenching sobriety of a man who had just escaped an execution.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice a broken, ragged whisper that tore through the quiet of your room. His hands gripped your denim jeans tighter, pulling you flush against him as he hid his face. “I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
You stood frozen, your hands hovering over his soaked hair, the badass armor you had painstakingly built up over the last three days suddenly feeling too heavy to hold. “Seonghwa—”
“I thought playing the villain would keep him away from you,” he interrupted, his voice cracking as he looked up.
When you met his gaze, the sheer, unadulterated angst behind his eyes made your chest ache. His face was stained with a mixture of rainwater and genuine tears. The cold, unyielding mask from the courtyard was entirely gone, replaced by a vulnerability so deep it was almost terrifying to look at.
“My father... he had people outside your door,” Seonghwa whispered, his fingers trembling against your skin. “He was going to blacklist you. He was going to ensure you could never step foot on a university campus again. I didn’t care about the money. I didn’t care about the inheritance. But I couldn’t let them break your spirit. I couldn’t let them destroy your hustle because of me. So I lied. I said the cruelest things I could think of because I knew you’d walk away. I knew you’d be safe from him if you hated me.”
You reached down, your fingers finally sinking into his wet, dark hair. You gripped his jaw, your thumb wiping away a stray tear mixed with rain, forcing him to stand up. He rose unsteadily, his hands instantly coming up to cradle your face, his palms burning hot against your cheeks.
“I spent my entire life surrounded by gold, thinking everything in this world had a price tag,” Seonghwa breathed, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the room tilt. He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven and smelling faintly of the expensive champagne he hadn't drunk. “But being in that ballroom tonight... looking at Jiyeon, looking at my father... I was suffocating. I realized it then. All of it is worthless. The name, the empire, the luxury—it’s nothing but a golden graveyard. Your love is the only true luxury I’ve ever had in my miserable life.”
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained fiercely devoted. “And then my father’s phone chimed. I saw your watermark on those files. You didn't run, sweetheart. You stayed and you fought. You played dirtier than all of them.” He slid his hands down to your neck, his thumbs tracing your pulse point, which was hammering wildly against his skin. “The merger is dead. Jiyeon is ruined. And my father told me to come get you before someone else does because you’re the only person who’s ever managed to out-hustle him.”
Seonghwa’s gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb lightly brushing your bottom lip, smudging the residual red lipstick you wore like war paint.
“If I have to burn the entire Park empire to the ground to keep you,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a deep, velvety promise that sent a shiver straight down your spine, “I’ll let you light the goddamn match.”
The first kiss was a collision—not the practiced, staged performance of the gala, but something desperate and ravenous. Seonghwa’s mouth crashed against yours with the force of a man who had been drowning for years and finally breached the surface. You tasted rain on his lips, the salt of his tears, the faint metallic tang of blood from where he’d bitten his own tongue holding back your name all this time. His hands—those elegant, ring-adorned hands that signed million-won contracts without flinching—trembled as they gripped your waist, lifting you onto the fold-out desk with a single, ruthless motion. Textbooks and overdue bills scattered across the floor, forgotten. His tuxedo jacket hit the ground with a wet slap, the silk lining ruined by the storm.
For a breathless moment, all you could feel was the heat of his palms branding your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt, the way his fingers dug into your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish if he loosened his grip even slightly. Then his mouth was at your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse point as he muttered a litany of broken apologies and ragged praise. “I’m sorry—god, I’m sorry—you’re so fucking perfect—”
And then, just as suddenly as it began, he slowed.
Seonghwa pulled back, his chest heaving, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. Without a word, he slid his hands under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off the desk and carrying you the three stumbling steps to your narrow bed. He laid you down like you were made of something precious, his fingers trailing over your skin with a reverence that bordered on worship. The contrast was dizzying—the cold silver of his rings against your flushed skin, the rough calluses on his fingertips from years of gripping pens and steering wheels and the edges of his own control.
He kissed every part of you like it was a confession. Your jaw, where you clenched it tight during exams. Your collarbone, where the strap of your work apron had left a permanent tan line. The dark circles under your eyes that he traced with his thumb before pressing his lips there, whispering, “Beautiful.” His mouth moved lower, down the slope of your breast, over the quickening flutter of your stomach, until you were arching off the mattress with a gasp.
“Seonghwa—”
“Let me,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Let me give you this.” His hands slid under your hips, lifting you to his mouth with a groan that vibrated through your skin. His tongue was relentless, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs with just enough bite to make you whimper. You tangled your hands in his hair, tugging hard, but he didn’t stop—not until your thighs were shaking and your voice had cracked around his name.
When he finally pulled away, his lips were slick, his breathing ragged. He stripped off his ruined dress shirt with impatient hands, revealing the lean muscles of his torso, the faint scars from a life lived under scrutiny. You reached for him, your fingers tracing the lines of his body like you were memorizing him. He shuddered under your touch, his eyes closing briefly before he caught your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm.
“Look at me,” he whispered, guiding your legs around his waist. “I want to see you.”
The first slow thrust stole the breath from your lungs. Seonghwa’s head dropped to your shoulder, his groan muffled against your skin as he buried himself to the hilt. He held still for a moment, trembling, his fingers lacing through yours and pinning them to the mattress—not to restrain you, but to anchor himself. When he finally moved, it was with a deliberate, aching slowness, his hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that had you gasping. Every drag of his body against yours was a promise, every whispered praise a vow.
Outside, the storm still raged, but inside your cramped apartment, the world narrowed to the space between your bodies. The dim light from your desk lamp cast shadows across Seonghwa’s face, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his eyelashes fluttered when you tightened around him. He cursed under his breath, his grip tightening on your hands as he leaned down to capture your mouth again.
“You feel—” He broke off with a groan when you arched beneath him, your nails scraping down his back. “—like heaven. Fuck, you’re perfect.”
The friction built slowly, torturously, until every nerve in your body was alight. Seonghwa’s movements grew more erratic, his control fraying at the edges. His lips found your pulse point, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as he murmured your name like a prayer. When you finally fell apart, his arms locked around you, holding you close as he followed you over the edge, his voice breaking against your neck.
Afterward, he didn’t pull away. He stayed buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath still uneven. His thumb traced your cheekbone, wiping away the sweat there before he kissed you softly, almost chastely.
“Mine,” he murmured against your lips, the word more a statement than a question.
You didn’t answer with words. You couldn’t. Instead, you simply tightened your arms around his bare neck, pulling him down until his heavy chest was resting completely against yours, the steady, thudding rhythm of his heartbeat echoing the frantic pace of your own.
The storm outside finally began to pass, the violent thunder tapering off into a soft, rhythmic patter against the glass. Inside your studio, the suffocating weight that had hung over you for days evaporated completely. Seonghwa shifted slightly, rolling onto his side but refusing to break the contact between your bodies. He pulled the cheap, faded duvet up over your shoulders, tucking you securely against his side as if the rest of the world might try to steal you away the second he let go.
His long fingers, still adorned with the expensive silver rings that had grazed your skin moments ago, traced idle, soothing circles along your bare arm. He stopped when his thumb hit your wrist, his touch lingering on your grandmother’s antique silver cuff.
“My father wants to meet with you,” Seonghwa murmured into the quiet room, his voice a low, post-coital rumble that vibrated through your chest.
You stiffened slightly, your badass instincts immediately flaring back to life. “If he thinks I’m going to sit across from him and apologize—”
“No,” Seonghwa interrupted softly, a low, genuinely amused chuckle vibrating in his throat. He leaned over, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head. “He doesn’t want an apology. He wants a negotiation. On your terms. He’s officially stepping down from the university board, and he’s handing the primary management of the domestic firm over to me. But he made it very clear that he won't finalize the paperwork unless you're standing in the room to witness it. He told me he’s never seen anyone dismantle a ten-billion-won merger with a student credential and a laptop.”
You let out a dry, quiet laugh, your fingers wrapping around the silver chain at his neck—the one that had dangled against your skin while he worshipped you. “I told you, Park. I don’t bow to spreadsheets. I rewrite them.”
“I know,” he whispered, his eyes dark and fiercely devoted as he looked down at you. He caught your hand, lifting it to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles. “And you’ll never have to look at a past-due notice again. I’m yours. Everything I have, everything I am—it belongs to you.”
Three weeks later, the air inside The Iron Lotus was thick with the scent of expensive liquor, heavy smoke, and the deep, vibrating thrum of the bass. The exclusive, high-end campus club was packed to the brim with the university’s wealthy elite, but tonight, the hierarchy had completely shifted.
Up in the central VIP booth, you sat like royalty.
You weren't wearing the emerald dress anymore; tonight, you were in your own clothes, a sharp, badass outfit that screamed confidence, but the sheer luxury surrounding you was undeniable. Seonghwa didn't sit across from you. He sat right beside you, completely unbothered by his pristine reputation, his long legs tangled with yours. His expensive tailored suit jacket was unbuttoned, and as he reached over to pour your drink himself—completely ignoring the VIP hostess waiting on him—the gold strobes caught the light on his wrist.
Tangled directly into his expensive silver wrist chain was your grandmother's antique silver cuff, worn proudly like a charm of absolute ownership.
The Teezer boys were crowded around the table, the atmosphere loud and celebratory. Hongjoong raised his glass toward you from across the booth, a rare, highly respectful smirk on his face. He knew exactly what it took to win a war against the world, and he appreciated the way you’d handled the matches.
Seonghwa picked up his glass, his other arm securely winding around your waist to pull you directly into his lap. He didn't care who was watching. He didn't care about the whispers passing through the crowd below. He looked down at you, his dark eyes entirely whipped, radiating a heavy, breathless adoration that money could never buy.
"To the real boss," Seonghwa said smoothly, his deep voice carrying over the music as he raised his glass to the table. The boys cheered, clinking their glasses together. Seonghwa leaned down, pressing a lingering, possessive kiss to your temple, whispering into your ear,
"My ultimate luxury."
You smiled, clinking your glass against his, completely content. The hustle was finally over. You had won.
The bass dropped heavily, the crimson and amber strobe lights slicing through the thick smoke of the club. As you and Seonghwa laughed, completely lost in each other’s space, the cinematic energy of the room naturally shifted away from the VIP booth. The camera panned down the velvet-lined stairs, moving past the dancing crowd, and landed squarely on the sleek, polished marble of the main bar.
Leaning against the counter was Wooyoung.
His pristine white shirt had the top two buttons undone, his dark hair slightly messy as he watched the VIP booth from a distance. A smug, deeply satisfied smirk played on his lips. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, genuinely happy to see his best friend finally breathing, finally free of the golden cage.
Wooyoung set his glass back down on the marble, his smirk widening as he prepared to turn back to the crowd.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over his space.
A girl stepped directly into his personal perimeter, completely ignoring the unspoken rule of giving the campus playboy his distance. She was significantly shorter than him, but she didn't look intimidated. Not even close. She wore an aura that screamed pure, unfiltered trouble, her posture rigid with an unbroken, badass confidence.
Without hesitation, she stepped so close her boots nearly brushed his, effectively cornering Wooyoung against the edge of the bar counter.
Wooyoung’s smug smirk instantly faltered. His posture froze, his glass hovering half an inch above the marble. He slowly lowered his head, his dark, piercing eyes locking onto hers, taking in the absolute defiance radiating off her small frame. She looked up at him, her chin tilted high, her gaze challenging him without uttering a single syllable.
The air between them turned electric, the heavy thumping of the club’s bass fading into the background as Wooyoung's eyes narrowed, a dangerous, deeply intrigued fire sparking in his gaze.
DISCLAIMER | These posts are just little stories from my imagination! They are not a true representation of the members in any way. Please treat these fictions as a cozy escape and don't take them to heart!
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🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 5/? 9.4k words
🎤︎︎ 18+ reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore | smut minors dni oral f!receiving, dirty talk, lots of kissing, fingering, multiple orgasms, thigh riding, Other Sex Happening™. we're getting somewhere. hi yunho
YOU’VE DECIDED YOU AND UNSCRIPTED are no longer two separate people. Tonight, right now, in the bedroom at the very end of the frat’s dimly lit hallway, Unscripted is with you. She is you, she’s a very real part of you, not a figment of your imagination or an alter-ego. She’s been you the whole time, banging on the steel beams of her cage, waiting to be let out, to be put to use.
Tonight was supposed to be about overcoming change, about listening to your instincts, your desires. It was about becoming the truest version of yourself, unabashed, shameless, letting all of your walls down and demolishing every filter. It’s impossible to build her level of confidence within minutes, to rework your mind, to step into her shoes, but you’ve got plenty of vodka inside of you and a man who just begged to get his head between your legs. Close enough.
You’ve barely got the door behind you before Wooyoung presses his lips to yours. Your brows lift high, hands reaching for his chest, back flat against the wooden door behind you, you were expecting at least a short conversation first. Maybe a small discussion on how this actually goes. You suppose he isn’t the type to need one, he already knows how this goes, he does it on a daily basis.
“Wait, wait,” you push on his chest, but all it really does is push you farther into the door. “That’s it? You just bring me in here and start making out with me?”
Panting, his brows furrow, hands lowering where they’d taken root on your hips. “Yes? What else is there to do?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug your shoulders, arms stretching on either side of you. “Talk about it? I don’t want anyone to know you went down on me.”
“I’m so gross and nasty that no one can know you hooked up with me?” he teases, amusement in his eyes. “I won’t tell anyone, Virgin. It’s just a favor, a one-time thing.”
So close, you’ve never noticed his eyes are two different sizes, like the angel and devil on his shoulders control each half of him. His eyes that are usually a warm, glazed amber are deepened to a woody, husky brown, but still soft, not impatient, not brash.
“Okay,” you blink, swallowing. “I’ve never hooked up with anyone before. Every guy I’ve ever fucked was my boyfriend, longterm.”
“If you don’t want to do this, then we don’t do it,” he says honestly. Then he grins like he just remembered, “I’ve got another appointment after this, anyway.”
Your skin burns, cheeks flaming, the tips of your ears threatening to melt your skull. You should hate each word he just said, you should hate that he’s fucking someone after he hooks up with you, but part of you finds it reassuring. That this, whatever was about to happen, was casual. A one time thing. A favor. Something inside you enjoys that you’re taking precedence, though, that he was putting off his own pleasure to tend to yours first.
“No,” you shake your head, certain. Despite the slight discomfort, the newness of it all, you’ve already imagined how this goes, you’ve already pictured his head between your legs. “I want to do this.”
He nods, eyes dancing over your features, you can only assume he’s checking to see if there’s any part of you that physically doesn’t want him. But he won’t find any proof in your quickly rising chest, the flush on your skin, your dilated eyes.
“Good,” he whispers, leaning close to you again, so close his lips brush yours. “Because I really want to see how fast I can make you cum.”
His lips meet yours again, hands heavier on your hips now, using his grip on your shorts to push you flat against the door. You gasp, hands finding purchase on his shoulders, balancing yourself on your tippy toes to reach his mouth.
He uses your parted lips to push his tongue past, and his rhythm, not frantic, controlled in a way that makes you feel how badly he wants this, how badly he wants you. You don’t know if anyone has ever kissed you like this, with such purpose, intent behind it that wasn’t half-assed. If you have, it’s been a long, long time.
He explores your mouth like he could get lost in it, hands sliding up to your waist, tucking beneath your top, hands roaming your skin just to feel. He dips down below your chin, lips pressing along your jaw and your head falls backward, hitting the door with a thump. Neither of you pay any mind, especially not as he shifts his hips, slotting one of his legs between yours, trapping you between him and the door, lining you up with his thigh.
You choke on a whimper, hips instinctively twitching against him.
“Yes,” he encourages, his breath hot on your neck, one of his hands finding purchase in the hair at the back of your neck. “Do it again.”
You roll your hips again and heat spreads like wildfire, stimulation bubbling inside your gut, reaching each nerve ending. Even through your shorts, his pants, your clit catches mercifully against the fabric, forcing a staggered sound of pleasure from your throat.
One hand hits the door behind you, nails clawing at the wood while the other reaches for his hair, fingers tangling in his roots. His lips move softly, rhythmically down your neck, never once moving his strong thigh, never twitching, never shifting.
“Use me,” he whispers into your neck, breath cooling the area where his mouth had just been. “Do whatever feels right.”
Your hand that’s in his roots pulls. He groans, head tipping back, dark eyebrows knitting together, his face so blown out in pleasure it makes a sharp noise escape your chest. Your eyes widen, silencing yourself with your lips smacking shut and he’s quick to shake his head no.
“Let me hear you,” he leans in close again, teeth grazing your jawline, making your hips snap against his thigh. “Wanna hear all those pretty sounds you make.”
“Wooyoung,” you arch into him, fingers tightening in his hair again. “Oh my god.”
You get it now— he’s barely done anything and you get it now. There’s an air about him, or maybe his saliva is laced with heroin, but the moment his hands touched your body something inside you relaxed. He’s never been shy about how much he loves sex, and you personally know six women who have had nothing but good things to say about his skills, all of which you’ve ignored because it never pertained to you, you never cared. Now, experiencing it for yourself, with all of your clothes still on your fucking body, you understand.
He smiles into your skin, you can feel the stretch of his lips, his teeth against your neck. He reaches for the hem of your top, lifting it upward, folding it over your bra, and takes a second to explore the stretch of skin across your stomach, the indent of your spine with his hands.
“So soft,” he murmurs, then pulls away, taking a good look at you, eyes zeroing in on your chest. “Damn, you’ve been hiding these.”
Your cheeks burn, you ignore how badly you want to cross your arms over your chest. “Shut up.”
“What?” His eyes find yours again, a smirk on his lips. “I can’t appreciate?”
“If you’re gonna use your mouth, use it between my legs, not to speak,” your back arches again, impatience radiating off of you.
“There she is,” he smiles all teeth, eyes flaring with amusement, thumbs tucking into your shorts. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me.”
“I’ve been here, just waiting for you to do something that actually feels good,” you quip, rolling your hips toward him.
He chokes on a punched, disbelieving laugh. “Right. Sure.”
He doesn’t fumble with the laces of your shorts, quickly untying them, you arch your back off the door to help him get them down your thighs. He sinks to his knees, lifting one of your legs to shimmy your boot out of your shorts, leaving them hooked around the other one.
Looking upward, his brows tie in, letting out a long, groaned, “Fuuck.” He meets your eye again to taunt, “You soaked through your panties, baby. Thought you said you were waiting for me to do something that actually feels good?”
“Shut up already, fuck,” you hiss, bending yourself toward him, itching for him to finally touch you where you need him. As much as he had to convince you to get you in here, the tables have turned too quickly for your liking.
His fingers dance along your skin, up the backs of your thighs until he throws one of your legs over his shoulder. Looking down at him, he keeps your eye while he presses his mouth softly to your inner thigh, then another one, inching closer, then another one, so close you could feel his breath on your underwear.
“Stop fucking teasing,” you nearly whine, voice raw with impatience, and the leg that’s over his shoulder begins to shake. The anticipation is eating you alive, it’s right where he wants you.
He laughs to himself before planting his final kiss over your panties, at the apex of your thighs, directly above your clit. You whimper, the knee holding you steady threatening to buckle. His other hand softly lands over it, holding it straight. He smirks, “How am I gonna eat you out if you can’t even stand up straight?”
Your chin tilts toward the ceiling, eyes closing, a harsh breath escaping your lungs, a whine wanting to crawl up your throat. “Please,” you mumble, without looking at him.
His tone is taunting as he asks, “What was that?”
“Please,” you whine this time, back pushing off the door, rolling your hips toward him. You look down again and he’s wearing a shit-eating grin like he’s proud of his ability to get you in this state, begging for him.
He presses another kiss over your panties, this one perfectly over your clit. A verbal breath escapes you, a soft noise of pleasure. Then his tongue pokes out from between his lips, and he licks a stripe over the fabric, along the seam of your center.
“Fuck.” You twitch like a livewire, hands reaching for his hair, fingers tightening in his roots. “More, take them off, Wooyoung.”
His hand that was holding your knee reaches upward, tugging the thin fabric covering you to the side. He groans at the sight— a true, full-chested, shameless fucking groan.
“So pretty,” he whispers, not even looking up at you, and it’s all he says before he leans forward, sticking his tongue out to collect every ounce of wetness from bottom to top.
Your fingers curl in his hair, hips bucking toward his face, a moan just as shameless ripping from your lungs. Both of his hands go to your thighs, your panties tucked away, he flattens out his tongue to lick over your clit.
“Yes,” you nod, jaw dropped, holding his eye as he softly but intentionally flicks at your clit with his tongue, slowly adding more pressure, circling it just right. “S-shit, Wooyoung.”
He groans into you, fingers sinking into your thighs harder, burying his fucking face between your thighs. His tongue drops down to your entrance before licking his way back up, circling your clit, closing his lips around it, making noises that should be embarrassing.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chant, eyes squeezing shut. There’s no testing the waters, he doesn’t need to try to figure out what you like, he uses his tongue at a perfect pace with perfect rhythm like he already knows how your body works.
He lifts your leg off his shoulder, stretching you wider, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking harshly. Your toes curl in your boots, a shrill sound piercing through the room, hands leaving his hair to find the door again, clawing at it, needing to find purchase in something, anything— it feels too fucking good, and it’s too fucking soon for your stomach to be filling with warmth. Your moans heighten in pitch, breath heavier, the leg hanging from his strong arm shaking like a fucking leaf, it would be mortifying how quickly he’s pulling you to the edge if you weren’t so focused on how good it feels.
With your shoulderblades against the door you roll your hips into him and he meets your movement like he expects it. You watch with lips pried open, and then experimentally roll them again, and he follows your hips with his lips suctioned to your clit. Holding you steady, he watches you while your hips pick up speed, grinding yourself against his face like he was only there for you to use. His eyelids flutter, dilated pupils beneath them like he was enjoying every second of it, like the whole reason he kept you against the door was so you would ride his face.
“You want me to fuck your face?” you ask, breathless, then you hiss a strangled moan when he nods his head, his nose bumping against your clit. “F-fuck, do that again, do that again.”
Shameless moans and staggered breaths pour from your lips in symphony, fingers back in his roots as he nods his head in rhythm with your hips, his nose hitting your clit perfectly with every stroke. The warmth in your stomach amplifies, abdomen clenching, both of your legs shaking now, your breath catching in your throat.
He doesn’t stop, nor does he speed up, he keeps the same pace, the same rhythm, you think he can taste your fucking orgasm, it’s so close. You don’t want it to be over, you don’t want to finish but you have no choice with his hands on your body and his nose sliding over your clit.
Euphoria looms, muscles growing taught, you swear your heart stills in your chest before your orgasm hits like a tidal wave. Your back launches off the wall, curses flying off your tongue, you ride his face like it’s yours and he eats you through it, never once faltering.
You don’t know how you missed his hands leaving your thighs, the movement was lost somewhere in nirvana, but as one hand travels behind his tongue, two fingers slipping inside you, your body ignites all over again.
“No,” you whisper, voice shaky beyond belief, eyes wider than saucers. The pleasure was too much, your orgasm hasn’t properly ended yet and his fingers curl perfectly, pressing, massaging against your walls. You’re shaking your head in panic as you stammer, “W-Wooyoung, I can’t– I’m not–”
He finally pulls back for air, his chin soaked in you, eyes hazy. “Give me one more, baby, you can do it again. One more.”
Your legs are shaking, knee threatening to buckle, wobbling where you stand. The rest of you is rigid, high off euphoria, stuck somewhere between foreplay and post-orgasm bliss. “I can’t!” you shriek, hips twitching beyond control, your breath staggered, body in fight or flight. “It’s too much.”
His fingers pump into you steadily, curling into your walls, he gives you only a moment of reprieve before his tongue is poking out between his lips again.
“F-fuck you,” you grit out as his tongue flicks at your clit, and it makes him smile. The pleasure hurts, overstimulation bleeding into something hot. “You’re– you’re s-such a– fucking asshole– ah!”
The last word is broken by a sharp moan, stars blinding your vision, another orgasm creeping up too quickly for you to breathe. You could shift tectonic plates with how hard you’re shaking, nails surely leaving crescents in the door behind you, your eyes squeeze tight with your jaw pried open as he brings you close to the edge for the second time.
“I’m g-gonna, I’m gonna cum,” you manage to get out, and it’s the last reserve of air in your chest before another orgasm rocks through you. He must be able to tell that you’re legitimately about to cry, because lets you come down slowly, slipping his fingers out of you after pressing one last kiss to your swollen, buzzing clit.
You deflate into the door, chest heaving, legs still shaking hard enough to shake the entire house. He takes time kissing your thighs after lowering your leg to the floor, your knees, hands roaming your skin, laughing under his breath when your legs don’t let up.
“Why are you laughing?” you finally croak, running a hand through your hair.
“I think you should sit,” he looks up at you through his brows, pride in his grin, his chin still soaked. “I’m scared that if you try to walk, you’ll fall.”
“Don’t look so smug about it,” you mutter but reach for his shoulders anyway, lowering yourself down to the floor slowly. Around the mid-way point you feel the loss of strength, but you’d rather die than fall in front of him, so you let your nails sink into his shoulders instead.
He sucks in a sharp breath, but reaches for your hips, not touching but holding his hands out, just in case you tumble. You land softly with your knees spread, boots sprawled out behind you, and you quickly reach for your underwear, moving them back into place, then slide your top back over your bra.
Looking up at an uncharacteristically quiet Wooyoung, his eyes are glued between your legs as he sits back on his calves. Heat spreads, shame, need, you aren’t sure. “I’m not fucking you,” you remind him.
“I know,” he nods, eyes sliding back up to yours. He licks his bottom lip, his chin, “Just taking one last look so I can remember the time I ate virgin pussy.”
Your jaw drops as you reach forward to smack his arm, “I am not a fucking virgin!”
“Not anymore,” he smirks, wiping the rest of you off his chin with his thumb. “Everyone’s a virgin before me.”
“I can’t believe I just let you do that,” your palms find your face, shame spreading. “You’re fucking disgusting.”
“Disgusting, maybe, but skilled? Absolutely,” he teases, voice playful. He sucks on his thumb, and then the two fingers that were inside you before musing, “I just made you cum twice and you thank me with insults?”
“Why should I thank you?” You rip your hands from your face that’s scrunched up in revolted confusion. “You asked, and I let you. You should be thanking me.”
“Fair,” he nods, bottom lip folded over. “Thank you for letting me eat your pussy.” Oh, your ears fucking burn. His head tilts back like he’s daydreaming, “Taste so sweet, coulda eaten her for hours. Same time next week?”
This can’t be real. He can’t be real. You shake your head, pushing yourself up from the floor, “I’m getting the fuck out of here.”
“Boring,” he frowns, uncurling his legs from beneath him, his arms stretching behind him. He watches as you try to shove your shaky leg through your pant leg, “You sure you don’t want another one as a parting gift?”
There’s a pang in your gut, arousal mixing with shame, an ugly cocktail prickling at your skin. “Please forget this ever happened,” you look at him earnestly while lacing up your shorts. “This never happened. Okay?”
“Whatever you say, Virgin,” his head falls to his shoulder, cocky amusement radiating off him. “Remember this the next time you have sex and he doesn’t play with you first. Remember how easy it was for me to get you begging.”
Right. He had a point to make, something to prove, and he did. With you. Easily. The words send butterflies swarming through your stomach, a firework show of sparks up your spine and you fucking hate it, how easy it was for him, how easy it was for you to let go. You don’t answer, you reach for the door handle behind you and rip it open instead, he has someone else to fuck tonight. Another name to scratch off his list.
You can’t believe your name is one of them.
Your heart is pounding against your chest as you walk down the hallway, thighs still trembling, you think adrenaline and shame might be the only things keeping you upright. Your ex boyfriend is upstairs, and you just came twice on another man’s face. Wooyoung’s fucking face. Reaching for the handle at the end of the hallway, you let out a verbal sound of frustration before pulling it open.
This should feel liberating. People your age do this every single day, casual sex is normal, but it’s not normal for you. You thought that you could step into Unscripted’s shoes for a night, you thought the two of you might be one person, but you were wrong. This doesn’t feel good. Maybe you chose the wrong person, maybe if you had hooked up with someone else you’d feel better, possibly even proud of yourself for letting go of the strict rules you made for yourself.
Doubtful. You’re a relationship girl for a reason, hooking up with someone you have no ties to just feels… hollow. But that’s how you felt every time you slept with Yeonjun, too.
When was the last time your blood boiled with so much arousal?
You can feel it in your fingertips, mixed with the anger, the shame, you can feel your body itching for more. His fingers inside you, they were enough to make you finish, but they weren’t enough to fill you.
You bee-line for the bar, you need something to take the edge off. Ignoring the naked people on the couch, you refuse to look to see what the fuck they’re doing now, you walk behind the bar and grab a bottle of vodka, pouring at least three shots into a crystal glass. Your fingers are trembling, breath short, body tight with stress. What if people find out? What if your friends find out, all of who have already fucked him? No, he promised not to tell anyone, and you most certainly won’t tell a soul. You take a long sip from the glass, almost choking on the taste, the burn, but it’s necessary.
You need to stop the panic before it spreads. Is the feeling really anxiety about what you’ve done, or is it just terrifying that a man actually took care of you for maybe the first time in your life? He did exactly what he said he was going to, without expectation of more, and made you feel better than anyone has ever made you feel. Your thighs are still fucking trembling and you didn’t even have sex.
The way he looked up at you, the way he purred so pretty… you send the rest of the glass of vodka back and your body racks a full shiver. That wasn’t about you, that was about proving a point. It wasn’t about you. But is that even possible? Can someone really put that much effort into pleasing a partner if it isn’t about them?
You leave the glass on the bar, making your way through the basement, ignoring the smoke and the people and the laughter and the sound of ping-pong balls bouncing. You’re wearing your shame like a cloak, keeping your head down as you walk up the staircase, back into the screaming living room vibrating with bass. The music has since shifted to house, a bright beat, accompanied by lights and bodies and a maze you need to push through.
All you’ve had is long-term boyfriends, but none of them have made you feel a fraction of what you felt in that room. In that room, you felt wanted, needed, you felt so fucking sexy. Like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered, your body an instrument to be played, he was on his fucking knees to coax you to orgasm. You can’t remember the last time Yeonjun laid down on the bed to attempt to make you cum.
You need to get out of here before you go back down there.
Wooyoung hears your scoff of frustration at the end of the hallway, and he can’t help the way it makes him laugh. Head tipping back, he laughs from his chest, because that’s the only reaction he could have imagined you to have. You just came on his face twice, yet you’re still stuck in your eternal irritation.
He picks himself up, makes sure there’s nothing on his shirt, then leaves the room. He plays eeny-meeny-miny-moe on the doors, then pushes the one he lands on open. To his surprise, not only is he right, but she’s still there, sprawled out across the bed, playing on her phone.
Her head whips toward the door, smiling, turning on her side when she sees him, “Finally. You’re lucky I didn’t leave.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” He shoots her an apologetic smile, closing the door behind him. “Had to take care of something real quick.”
“Take care of me,” she whines, throwing her phone across the bed, sinking deeper into the mattress, legs prying open. “You promised.”
If his dick wasn’t already rock fucking hard, then it would have jumped at the sight. It still jumps, pressing against his nylon briefs, begging to be let out of his jeans. His hands go to the neck of his tee, tugging it over his head, throwing it at the end of the bed as he walks toward her. “You know I will, baby.”
He can’t kiss her yet, he knows he can’t. So he pulls her by her ankles to the edge of the bed, unbuttons her denim shorts, and kneels.
He meant it, everything he said to you about this being for his pleasure, something he enjoys. You thought he was bluffing, lying, but this is where he loves to be. Of service, on his knees, hearing the sweet song of pleasure that’s like a hymnal in his honor, he adores it. Gets off on it.
Except he’s not hearing it, because he’s too busy thinking. He uses his hand, making her arch, her cries louder, borderline pornographic, he grinds his hips against his jeans, or tries to, he’s starved. He works harder, not in the mood to drag it out, he stills his mind, his body, working at the same pace, using the same pressure until she’s clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking on either side of his head.
“Wanna ride you.” She stops him with a hand on his chest as he crawls over her, and who would he be if he denied a woman of anything? So he lays down beside her, grabs his wallet from his pocket before he shimmies his jeans down his legs, and rolls the condom from his wallet onto his cock.
She watches like she wasn’t expecting it. But Wooyoung’s had too many experiences, made too many mistakes to not at least put on a fucking rubber.
It’s routine, the dirty talk, his hands on her body. It’s a rhythm, the way she bounces, how his hips snap upward to meet her. It’s a dance, lips, tongues, hands, angles and stretches, the background music cries, moans, grunts, curse words filling the air.
He wonders if you regret it. You didn’t stay– part of him thought, maybe part of him hoped you would ask for more. That you were curious if he could use his cock as well as he used his mouth. It wasn’t the plan to make you cum twice, but the first one was too quick, and the second was even quicker, he felt like he was in that room for ten minutes, tops.
He isn’t finished after he fills up the first condom, and to his satisfaction, neither is she. On all fours, Wooyoung behind her, his hands on her hips, fingers sliding up her spine, taking root in her extensions, it was like he had an itch he couldn’t scratch.
It really was like looking up with a virgin. How timid you were in the beginning before you finally gave in, losing yourself to the pleasure, the way you shook with relief, euphoria… he’ll see that in his dreams tonight. He thinks that’s what has him hooked; knowing what he could do, a physical proof of his own skills.
At a ninety-degree angle, he feels like he’s piercing her. She wails, nails clawing into the bedsheets, toes curling, legs lifting to kick at his thighs, he gets proof of his skills every other day. She clenches around his cock a second time, and he focuses on following, brows furrowed, hips angled.
After tying the second condom and throwing it in the trash, he’s beat. She throws her clothes back on and kisses him goodbye, and it dawns on him that he never got her name. Shame. She was a pretty good fuck. He stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, letting his chest rise and fall until it evens out. He still feels like the scratch isn’t itched, he doesn’t know if his balls have more to spill, or if it doesn’t have to do with sex at all. Did he turn in his assignment before he left the house?
He finds his jeans, pulling out his phone, and on top of the bed, butt-ass naked, he scrolls. He finds your profile after some digging, but he doesn’t follow you, and you’re private. He clicks follow, the button turning to requested, and then he wonders if you’re still at the party. Maybe you re-thought your decision, and were curious about what else he can do with his hands or his mouth. He could probably make you cum without even touching your cute little clit.
He dresses himself, then passes the series of half-opened doors, those who didn’t mind people who took a step inside and watched the show. The same people who were on the couch, fully having sex now, those that Wooyoung can’t judge because he’s been one of those people his sophomore year. With his hands in his pockets, he makes his way upstairs, and it’s too cloudy, too loud, the multicolored lights too blinding for him to make out any faces at all.
Oh, well. He’ll try to find at least one of the guys from his frat, instead.
His walk is pointless until he finds San, currently taking a body shot off of a new round of women in the kitchen. He’s shirtless now, and Wooyoung isn’t sure if the sheen on his skin is from sweat or liquor.
“Woo!” he yells, grinning wide. Definitely liquor. “You’re next!”
He looks at the island, the girl laying on her back, and his brows furrow before realization sinks in. “Yunjin?”
“Wooyoung!” she throws an arm out, manicured nails clasping around his wrist. Her top is over her bra, shorts rolled down beneath her belly button, splayed out for anyone who has eyes to see. “Pour him a shot, Sannie.”
“Is Virgin still here?” he finds himself asking, doing his best to sound curious without any ulterior motives. “I mean– your roommate.”
“Nooo.” Yunjin pouts, shaking her head. “She texted me that she wasn’t feeling well, so she went home. Why do you call her that? She’s not even a virgin.”
Wooyoung shrugs, “Close enough.”
Yunjin thins her eyes. “You’re rude.”
“And you’re drunk,” he argues back. “Enjoy Sannie tonight.”
“I will!” she calls after him, and he’s sure none of them watch as he turns, heading for the living room which is a fucking maze, but it’s the only way to the front door. He drank, he fucked, he’s over it. He’s ready to lay his head down and go to sleep– after making sure he turned his assignment in.
He slips through bodies, going through his usual motions. Winking, scouting for next time, making promises he may or may not keep, all of them pretty, all of them hammered. It skeeves him, the idea of hooking up with some piss-drunk girl who won’t remember his name tomorrow. When he fucks, he’s remembered, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
He finds Mingi lounging on a couch by the door. His hair is a little fucked up, most likely by the girl he’s sitting next to, pretty, olive-toned. Wooyoung recognizes her, and it’s for reasons Mingi wouldn’t enjoy hearing if he's planning on getting laid.
“Hey, baby.” He shoots a wink to the dark-haired woman, then looks at Mingi. “Yunho still here?”
“Oh my god, scandalous.” Mingi’s eyes flare with excitement. “Guess who he went home with?” Wooyoung shrugs, as if to say tell me, I guess. “Virgin.”
Wooyoung’s jaw drops. Mingi laughs, “I know, scandalous, right? He’s had a thing for her since the cuff party.”
“Like, went home together, as in they’re fucking right now?” Wooyoung asks, head shaking in disbelief.
Mingi shrugs, “That’s what it seemed like, I don’t know.”
“Ain’t no way,” Wooyoung laughs under his breath. “Good for her. Didn’t think she had it in her.”
He doesn’t really believe it. There’s no way that you have four bodies in total, and you not only hooked up with Wooyoung tonight, but you’re also hooking up with Yunho. There’s just no way. It’s too out of character, too bold, too… un-virgin-like. He’s going to have to think up a new nickname.
“I’m heading out.” He dips his chin toward Mingi, reaching out a hand for the older man to clasp. “See you.”
He doesn’t wait for Mingi’s returning see you before he turns again, the area around the front door sparse, less bodies, more space to walk through. He doesn’t spot Yeosang’s SUV where he parked it along the street, and he wonders if you and Yunho took it back to the house with the rest of them.
“Need a ride?” He hears from feet away, a woman’s voice, one he knows.
Minatozaki Sana. He grins, skipping toward the SUV her head was hanging out of, realizing too late that it’s filled with people he’s had sex with. “Ladies,” he announces, nodding his head, looking in through the windows. “Seems we all have something in common.”
“Not me,” the dark-haired one says from the backseat. “Get in or don’t, I’m tired.”
Wooyoung doesn’t think twice about climbing into the backseat, sitting on the end, next to Momo. The drive is quiet for the most part, Sana focused as she drove, Nayeon in her passenger seat. In the back was the dark-haired woman, Momo, Chaeyoung, and Tzuyu who was sitting on the dark-haired one’s lap. A tight squeeze, but Wooyoung has fit in tighter, like Chaeyoung, sitting beside Momo.
She pulls up at the curb of his frat, parking the car, and not a single head turns to Wooyoung. It doesn’t feel hostile, though; every woman in this car was well aware who Wooyoung is when he fucked them.
“Goodnight, ladies,” he teases as he climbs out of the passenger seat. He winks before closing the door, pointing at the tattooed, dark-haired woman in the middle, “Chae, text me later.”
The car erupts as he jogs away, and he smirks to himself, kinda wishing he could listen. He opens the front door with purpose and the living room is empty, the kitchen empty. He wonders if they’re in Yunho’s room. He doesn’t know why he’s tip-toeing up the stairs, or why he feels like he’s doing something wrong. He’s just curious.
He passes his room, tip-toeing further, praying to fucking god he doesn’t step on one of the squeaky parts of the floor. He just wants to know. He presses his back to the wall beside Yunho’s room, craning his head closer to the crack, straining to hear anything. A moan, a grunt, a whimper. Anything.
But there’s nothing.
“The fuck are you doing?”
He jumps, clasping a hand over his mouth, eyes almost falling out of their sockets. Hongjoong eyes him from across the hallway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, completely confused.
“Nothing, fuck,” he mutters as he jumps away from Yunho’s door. “I wanted to see if he was still up.”
“No, he went back to that virgin girl’s house, the one you guys are always talking about.” He’s using his hand as he speaks, clearly annoyed like he’d just woken up. “I heard someone creeping, I thought we were getting robbed by one of your scorned hookups.”
“I don’t have any scorned hookups, asshole,” Wooyoung scoffs as he walks past him, towards his room. “They all know very well that I’m romantically unavailable.”
“Not all of them,” Hongjoong looks over his shoulder. “Trust me.”
“Virgin!”
Your brows furrow, head turning every which way in the midst of the maze, bodies surrounding you, none you recognize. It’s like a fucking nightclub and you’re in someone’s house. Can’t they get fined for this?
A hand on your wrist has you whipping around, ready to tell whoever it is to fuck off. Blonde hair greets you, sticking to his forehead, a loose tee leaving another sliver of skin before his baggy, wide-leg jeans. You yell over the music, “Do you have any shirts that fit you?”
“I like them this way!” Yunho yells back, his grin wide. “Are you okay?”
Your head tilts, brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Your blood that was boiling minutes ago seems to settle, slowing into something calmer. The heat shifts from arousal to the comfort of vodka, a warm blanket, like a hole was drilled into your head, setting the pressure free.
He shakes his head, his shoulders relaxing. “Nothing. You look pretty.”
“Thanks, so do you,” you smile, head tilting, giddy all of the sudden. “I mean, not pretty, you look–”
“No, I’ll take it,” he cuts you off, still holding onto your wrist. “I like pretty. Yunjin was looking for you, but do you wanna dance?” You glance around to the crowd, it really is like a fucking nightclub. People are grinding, jumping to the music, like the beat was hypnotizing them all. You start to shake your head, but Yunho cuts you off, “Don’t say no.”
Your lips flatten, caught in the act. “I’m not a dancer!”
“Liar,” he yells back, his smile impossibly wider, brighter. He tugs on your wrist, dragging you further into the crowd and you giggle as if you weren’t just tweaking the fuck out. “Follow my lead.”
Finding an open spot between bodies, thighs still twitching and lacking their full strength, you follow his lead. His hips sway from side to side, and he watches as yours try to mimic his, focused. He pops a brow, “Follow my lead, don’t copy me.”
“What the fuck else does follow my lead mean?” you bark back, standing straight again, hands on your hips, unmoving.
“Your body is as stiff as your attitude,” he yells, shaking his head as he removes your hands from your hips, replacing them with his own. Your arms shoot upward, bent over your chest, eyes glued to where his hands swallow your hipbones, moving you closer to him, shifting you slightly to the side so your shoulders line up. “Now do it again.”
You bend your knees, arms lowering, eyes lifting to see him. He grins, “Try actually moving to the beat, Virgin.”
“Do you have to call me that, too?” you frown, but listen, waiting a beat to start swaying your hips again. “I’m suffering enough right now.”
“That’s what they all call you, San, Wooyoung.” Your cheeks feel hot at the sound of his name, that same burning kissing up your spine. Your back arches into the movement. Yunho grins, “There you go, you’re learning.”
Yunho’s leg between yours… if you lowered yourself just a little, you’d be transported to fifteen minutes ago, when you were grinding yourself against Wooyoung’s thigh. Is the mere mention of his name going to send you free diving into your memories for the rest of your life?
Yunho’s hands find your hips again, leaning close to your ear. “He’s here.”
“I know,” your brows furrow. I spent fifteen minutes with him in a sex room. “I saw him.”
“Is that why you stopped dancing on the counter?” Yunho pulls back, hands sliding up to your waist, keeping you moving. “Not a dancer, my ass. Who cares if he’s here? Let him see you.”
“Why would I stop because of Wooyoung?” you ask, running your hands through your hair, arching into Yunho’s touch, letting the music guide you instead.
Yunho’s brows furrow. “Wooyoung?”
Your smile is lazy, “Who else?”
“Your ex.” Yunho’s fully confused now. “Are you drunk?”
“Oh!” Your eyes blow wide, smile dropping. “Yes, yeah, I drank… I drank a lot.” Right right right, tonight started off with you worried about seeing Yeonjun. “I didn’t want to see him, it’s not that I didn’t want him to see me.”
“I saw him with another guy.” Yunho’s lips snag to one side. “Is that why you broke up?”
You nod. “Caught ‘em in bed together.”
Yunho’s jaw falls open, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you say in a sigh, head tipping backward, and somewhere deep inside you, you mean it. “At least I don’t have to marry him anymore.”
Yunho laughs, his grip on your waist tighter with your head dipped backward. “You don’t want to get married?”
“When I’m old enough,” you’re smiling as you bring your head upright, reaching for Yunho’s biceps. You think the vodka might be hitting you now. “I’m not old enough yet, just wanna have fun.”
“Are you having fun now?” Yunho sounds playful, teasing. He pulls you closer to him, your abdomen against his. “Dancing?”
You bring one hand up to his neck, palm grazing his soft, sweaty skin, wondering if he’s anything like Wooyoung. Does he view sex the same way? Something casual, fun, like a hobby? If he found out that your boyfriend never cared enough to make you finish, would he get on his knees for you, too?
There’s still an ache in the pit of your stomach, space Wooyoung’s fingers had left, you want more. The thrum beneath your skin that you’re confused, maybe even disgusted by, has the wires of your brain tangled, like all the rules you made for yourself no longer exist, a wall broken down.
You nod, eyelids heavier, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. Yunho’s different from Wooyoung, softer, kinder. Like he’s capable of more than one night with a woman, he’s capable of feeling, he’s interested in knowing. He looks at you like he’s curious, like there’s more to you than the girl with a boyfriend, the girl who got cheated on, the Virgin.
Wooyoung was just interested in seeing how fast he could make you finish, and Yeonjun was just interested in getting you out of his bed so Beomgyu could take your place. Yunho seems to be interested in you.
“Do you want something to… take your mind off the situation?” His cheeks turn a dusty rose color, clear under the lights that flicker white. His lips curl, “Or is dancing enough fun?”
“Is it bad if I do?” you find yourself asking. “Want a distraction?”
The distraction is for two completely separate purposes, you think.
He shakes his head, smile growing, leaning closer to you. “Is it bad that I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night of the cuff party?”
“I wish you had,” you whisper. “Trust me.”
He smiles before leaning in, pressing his lips to meet yours, and there’s a fraction of the haste Wooyoung used. It’s slow, a curious exploration, like he isn’t sure if you’re fully okay with this and he doesn’t want to push you too far. Your hand on his neck slides up into his hair, the other glued to his bicep following as his hands lead down to your hips, keeping you moving to the music.
He tastes like beer, but there’s a sweetness to it, like he was chewing gum, or took a shot of something flavored. Your tongue slips between his lips, tasting him, bending toward him, you’re sure he can taste your desperation, your need. The part of you still left unsatisfied.
“You taste like vodka,” he whispers into your mouth, his lips still touching yours.
You smile, a breath of amusement tumbling off your lips, “Caught.”
He kisses you again, harder this time, using his height to tip you backward. Your hips tilt toward him, arms hooked around his shoulders, meeting his pace with a need of your own. His hands sneak around you, taking two fistfuls of your ass, grinding you into him and it forces a sharp gasp from your lips, a streak of red-hot warmth up your spine.
You’re too aware of the people around you. You need more, and you need it now, but you don’t need extra eyes watching it all unfold.
“Yunho,” you whisper through your panting.
“Mind all empty yet?” he muses, smiling.
Yes, this is about you. This is about you.
“No,” you bite your lip, pecking his lips again. “Gonna need more than that, I think.”
“Don’t worry,” he leans in close, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “I’m good at making pretty girls go dumb.”
“Let’s go,” you blurt, hands finding his wrists, holding onto them. “Jen will stay out late, I wanna go, let’s go to my apartment.”
“Are you sure?” His brows raise, raising his arms you were still holding onto. “You– are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” You’re nodding rapidly, and maybe you’re trying to convince yourself, too. “You said you wanted to be my distraction, right?”
“I do, but you’re–”
“I’m fine,” you drop his wrists. “I promise. Let’s go.”
He nods, hands finding your shoulders, turning you around before he guides you through the crowd. With his height, he can see where to move, where the small pockets of space are, and there’s a part of you that kinda enjoys not having to think, that likes just being guided in the right direction, without having to figure out for yourself what it is.
“Those are my friends,” he says in your ear, guiding you toward four guys standing together. All pretty small, there’s one with bright, orange hair, a blonde one, a taller one with dark hair, and one you recognize from the night at the Penny.
The blonde sees you and Yunho first. “Good timing, if you’re looking for a ride.”
You can hear Yunho’s grin behind you, “We are, but it’s to her place.”
The brunette stares you down, brows knitted together like there are many pieces floating around and not one of them is being put together. You keep a small smile on your cheeks, not in the mood to explain.
Yunho puts his elbow on your shoulder, pointing at each one of the men in front of you. “Hongjoong, Yeosang, Seonghwa, Jongho.”
You nod, storing the information for later, and introduce yourself. Jongho asks, “Don’t they call you Virgin?”
Your lips flatten. “Unfortunately.”
The three other heads look up to Yunho, confused, maybe concerned. Yunho quickly fixes the misconception, “She’s not a virgin, Wooyoung came up with it.”
Then there’s a chorus of ah’s like that just makes sense to them or something. And knowing Wooyoung, you guess it makes sense to you, too. Fuck. You don’t want to think about him right now.
“Guys!” Another man approaches, massively tall like Yunho, but thicker with muscle. His hair is dark, short, choppy, in a hot way. The sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose are really doing something for you. He asks, “Have you guys seen Sannie?”
“I heard there’s a stripper pole in one of the side rooms,” Seonghwa responds, his voice cool, calm. “Check there.”
The man pushes his sunglasses over his head, and you realize he’s noticed you, standing small in front of Yunho. His eyes thin out as he asks, “Is this Virgin?”
Your lips flatten again. Does everyone know now? Is this becoming a thing?
“In the flesh,” you respond, then ask, “Who are you?”
“Mingi,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re really cute.” He looks up at Yunho. “She’s really cute.”
“I know,” Yunho says from behind you, matching Mingi’s tone, filled with giddiness. They must be close. Yunho turns to the rest of the group, “Are we going? Can we go?”
“Please,” Hongjoong says, already making for the front door.
It’s like they’re split down the middle, the introverted ones and the extroverted ones. Although, you don’t really think Wooyoung is extroverted, you think he might just be a whore. Fuck. You did it again.
Yeosang’s SUV is parked at the end of the driveway, you give him your address for him to put into the GPS after squeezing into the backseat, knee bouncing. In the crowd, with his lips, his hands on you, you were certain you wanted this. A thousand percent certain. Now, it’s more like… five hundred percent.
The ride to your apartment is quiet, Jongho already asleep by the time Yeosang dropped you off, even if the drive was only seven minutes long. Hongjoong looked like he was drifting, too, his eyes half open. You thanked Yeosang and climbed out, Yunho following you up to the second floor.
Your kitchen still had remnants of your pregame scattered across it, and you can only imagine what your bedroom looks like. Then it dawns on you that you had another man’s mouth on you an hour ago.
“I’m gonna go freshen up,” you tell Yunho, hoping your smile doesn’t look nervous. You point to your door, “My bedroom is right through there.”
You skip into your bathroom, immediately turning on the shower and undressing. The water may be hot, but it might as well be ice cold with how reality is pouring over your head, and there’s a man in your fucking bedroom. A man you barely know.
And you made him come here.
You shower quickly, washing the remnants of Wooyoung off of you, and then swish some mouthwash around, removing him from you completely. You feel better after, but there’s still a level of uncertainty that you can’t shake.
In your towel, you walk back to your bedroom, and he’s poking around on your shelf, looking at all of your figures, your trinkets, your music albums. “Hi,” you say from the doorway, and he jumps back like you scared him.
“Fuck,” he clutches his heart with a laugh. He points to your figures, “You like Jujutsu Kaisen?”
“No, I just love Gojo,” you tease, stepping into your room. “Have you seen the new season?”
“Yes,” his smile spreads, excitement in his eyes. Like a puppy. “Still don’t understand the Culling Games, though.”
“Then you aren’t reading enough Reddit threads,” you respond, tone snarky. His eyes sink down to your towel, your bare feet. Your lips scrunch to one side, heartbeat picking up, “Will you be mad at me if I maybe changed my mind?”
His face immediately bends into concern, “No, fuck no, are you kidding? Do you want me to go? Yeosang is definitely still awake, I can ask him–”
“No,” you interject. “I don’t know if it’s weird, and I understand if not, but… you don’t have to go. I just don't want to… do anything until I know you a little better, if that’s okay.”
He walks toward you with a genuine smile, one so comforting that it makes the unease in your chest disappear. “Of course that’s okay, it’s not weird at all. You’re lucky I saw the Gojo figures, though, ‘cuz I might have left if I didn’t know I’d be sleeping beside them.”
“Don’t fucking rob me.” You raise a finger between your bodies in warning. “I paid, like, four hundred bucks for the prison realm one.”
“Let me take a picture and I won’t,” he argues, raising a finger back at you. “Do you want me to step out while you change?”
“Oh.” You look down at your towel then back up at him. “Sure, whatever, that’s fine.”
He does step out while you change into a pair of shorts and a tee, clean ones you got from the clean pile of laundry in the corner of your room. That pile was growing smaller by the day. You climb into your bed, calling him back in, and he joins you so comfortably it’s almost like he belongs here. He radiates comfort, kindness, nothing like the fuckboy energy Wooyoung gives off, or the detached energy Yeonjun has.
“Wanna watch TV? We can order a pizza or something,” you wonder, looking over at Yunho lounged out next to you, his arms behind his head, jeans still on his body. “I might have an old pair of Yeonjun’s sweatpants or something.”
You crawl off the bed without waiting for an answer, digging through your drawers. Finally finding an old pair of dark green sweatpants that were absolutely Yeonjun’s, you throw them at him, and he catches them swiftly as he sits up. “Are these from Urban?”
You shrug from the floor, “I dunno. They look long enough, though.”
Yunho stands, unbuckling his belt, then unzips his jeans. You know you should give him privacy, but he’s in briefs, and even soft– even soft he would probably tear you apart. He hears your intake of breath, looking up, then a smirk tugs at his lips as he pulls the sweats up his legs. “Are you peeping, you fuckin’ pervert?”
“I’m sorry!” you squeak, cheeks flushing, quickly looking away.
“You can look,” he says coolly, his voice a genuine threat to your wellbeing. “I don’t mind.”
You still ache. “I’m just happy I got a warning.”
He laughs at that, from his chest, genuine. “You think you need one?”
You still don’t turn your head. “I know I do. I need… preparation for that.”
“Why so shy?” You hear the bed squeak like he’s laying back down, and reluctantly, you turn your head. He’s on his side, head propped up on his hand, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “First time seeing a dick in real life? Don’t tell me you’re really a virgin.”
“No, asshole,” you scowl, standing up, even though you know he’s joking. You press a knee to the mattress, crawling toward him. “Yours is just terrifyingly large.”
“Terrifyingly?” He grins, laying on his back as you crawl closer to him, the upper half of your body leaning over him. “I think you’ll be able to take it, when you’re ready. I’ll prepare you.”
“We were supposed to be hooking up,” you frown, sitting back on your calves. “I feel bad making you wait.”
He shakes his head, “I’m patient, and I like you. I don’t mind waiting.” His face drops after he realizes what he just said. “I know you just got out of a relationship, please don’t get freaked out. I mean I like you in a friendly way, not in a serious way, I’m not trying–”
You laugh, head dipping forward. “You basically just met me, Yunho.”
“I had a lot of time to snoop in here,” he answers, looking around your room. “I can tell you’re cool.”
“You can tell from my four hundred dollar Gojo figure?” You pop a brow, still laughing a little.
“That, and your music taste, and your other anime figures,” he grins. “Great music taste, great taste in anime, terrible taste in men. Besides me, of course.”
You laugh again, then decide to shut him up by leaning down, pressing a kiss to his lips. His hands come up to your cheeks as you kiss him deeper, moving your hair out of the way, shifting so you can crawl over him easier. Your tongue splits his lips and his knees bend, hands moving to your hips, shifting you forward to what you presume is away from his length.
You stop kissing him before it gets any heavier, and press your forehead to his. “You’re cool, too. For waiting.”
“Wooyoung is the only asshole in our frat,” he looks at you, his eyes honest, warm. “He shouldn’t represent the rest of us.”
The evil part of you hopes he represents them in the one area it matters.
“Let’s order pizza,” you smile, crawling off his torso.
SYNOPSIS ; Kim Hongjoong is the ruthless dictator of the TEEZER house, and his latest decree is simple: Absolute emotional detachment. No situationships, no distractions, no exceptions. It’s a foolproof system, except for one detail—the rules weren't written to keep his men in line. They were built to keep you out. Three months after breaking off your secret, late-night arrangement to protect his pride, Hongjoong finds himself trapped in a pitch-black room with you during a violent campus storm. Armed with ice-cold compliance and zero intention of backing down, you’re about to prove that you can’t regulate a heartbeat. The fortress is cracking, the paperwork has hit the floor, and the great Captain is about to learn exactly what it means to bow.
PAIRING(S) ; Frat Captain!Kim Hongjoong x Fem!reader
WARNING(S) ; Exes-to-lovers, secret history, forced proximity (trapped in a storm), corporate/fraternity au, mutual pining, malicious compliance, fake/hidden emotions. Explicit sexual content !!MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!, rough/frenetic intimacy, biting, slight blood (lip biting), marking/bruising, language/profanity, public display of affection/groveling.
WC ; 10k-ish
Part 4/8 of THE REVERENCE SERIES
Inspired by Rules by doja cat !
The air in the TEEZER house kitchen smelled like stale beer, expensive cologne, and immediate regret.
It was 10:00 AM on a Sunday, and the sunlight cutting through the blinds was entirely too bright for the seven men gathered around the scarred oak island. At the head of the space stood KIM HONGJOONG, looking less like a college senior and more like a corporate executioner. He hadn’t slept. His leather jacket was slung over the back of a chair, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the sharp lines of his forearms as he aggressively smoothed down a crisp, printed sheet of paper against the stainless-steel refrigerator.
Magnetic tape snapped against the metal.
"Look at it," Hongjoong commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that immediately silenced the low groaning from the hangover brigade. "Read it. Memorize it. Because as of five minutes ago, this house is under a strict goddamn lockdown."
Song Mingi, slumped so low in his chair his chin was practically resting on the table, let out a miserable whine. "Hongjoong, man, my head is literally splitting open. Can we do the dictatorship speech at noon?"
"No," Hongjoong fired back, his dark eyes snapping over to Mingi with zero mercy. "We do it now. Because last night, half of our executive board missed the alumni mixer because you were 'otherwise occupied' upstairs, and San was apparently too busy playing prince charming to notice someone threw up in the downstairs foyer. We are losing control. The TEEZER house has a reputation, and I am not letting a collective case of sudden, pathetic heart-eyes ruin our standing on this campus."
Choi San, sitting cross-legged on a barstool with a mug of black coffee cupped in his hands, didn't even look guilty. He just smirked into his mug, a faint, whipped softness around his eyes that only validated Hongjoong’s fury.
"So, what is that?" Jeong Yunho asked from the kitchen island, leaning forward with a smug, knowing grin. "A manifesto?"
"It’s a corrective measure," Hongjoong said coldly, tapping his knuckle against the paper.
Centered at the top of the page, bolded and unyielding, were the words: THE NEW RULES.
Rule 1: No overnight guests past 2 AM on weeknights.
Rule 2: No domestic privileges (cooking, laundry, or clothing borrowing) for non-residents.
Rule 3: Absolute emotional detachment. No situationships, no placeholders, no distractions that interfere with house duties.
"You've got to be kidding me," Mingi muttered, squinting at the page. "You literally wrote out an anti-feeling clause?"
"I wrote an anti-stupidity clause," Hongjoong corrected, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you can't keep your head straight, I’ll keep it straight for you. The next person who breaks a boundary or lets a girl dictate their schedule answers directly to me."
The front door clicked open down the hall, followed by the soft, familiar scuff of sneakers on the hardwood. Hongjoong didn't think much of it—until you walked straight into the kitchen.
You stopped dead in your tracks, a tote bag slung over your shoulder and your hair tied up in a messy clip. You had only come by to retrieve a denim jacket you’d left on the living room couch the Friday before, completely unprepared to walk into what looked like a high-stakes mafia tribunal.
Every eye in the room shifted to you.
Hongjoong’s posture went instantly rigid. The collective breath in his lungs hitched, his jaw tightening so hard a small muscle ticked beneath his skin. It had been three months since he abruptly ended the secret, late-night arrangement the two of you shared—three months of him pretending you were just another face on campus, and three months of you treating him like white noise.
You looked at the tense circle of boys, then at Hongjoong, and finally, your eyes drifted to the fresh piece of paper pinned to the fridge.
You walked over, entirely unbothered by the suffocating silence, and read the bolded title. Then, you read the three rules.
A short, genuine laugh burst from your lips—loud, mocking, and completely lethal to Hongjoong’s carefully constructed authority.
"The New Rules?" you murmured, looking back at him with an raised eyebrow, your eyes dripping with sharp amusement. "What is this, Hongjoong? A fraternity or a corporate internship?"
"It doesn't concern you," Hongjoong said, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous edge cutting through his tone. "It's house business. Grab your things and leave."
You didn't flinch. Instead, you took a step closer to him, entirely immune to the "Captain" persona that kept the rest of the campus in check. You knew exactly what he looked like when he wasn't playing dictator; you knew the exact cadence of his breath against your neck at 3 AM.
"Oh, it does concern me, considering your little disciples usually come to me to complain when you have a power trip," you countered smoothly, crossing your arms. You tilted your head toward the fridge. "Emotional detachment? No situationships? Let's be real—if you can't text someone back, you should just look them in their face and say it, instead of printing out a manifesto because you’re terrified of a little vulnerability."
A collective, quiet 'oh shit' seemed to ripple through the boys. Yunho hid a laugh behind his hand, and San suddenly found his coffee very interesting.
Hongjoong’s eyes darkened, a flash of pure, unadulterated frustration breaking through his icy exterior. He stepped into your space, his chest practically brushing yours, trying to use his height and his position to crowd you out.
"Out," he ordered the room, not breaking eye contact with you for a fraction of a second. "Everyone. Out of the kitchen. Now."
Nobody argued. The boys scrambled out of their seats with frantic urgency, Mingi practically tripping over his own feet to escape the incoming blast radius. Within three seconds, the heavy swing door clicked shut, leaving just the two of you in the suffocating heat of the kitchen.
"You think you're exceptionally clever, don't you?" Hongjoong hissed, his voice low and dangerous as he leaned down, his face inches from yours.
"I think you're a hypocrite," you whispered back, matching his fire with a cold, steady gaze of your own. "You want to play the cold king who doesn't feel anything? Fine. Let’s see how long your little kingdom stands when you try to regulate the one thing you can't control."
Hongjoong’s fingers twitched at his sides, the only crack in his otherwise immovable posture. The scent of his cologne—something expensive and sharp—mixed with the residual musk of last night’s party, wrapping around you like an unspoken dare. "You don’t get to walk in here and act like you know how I operate," he said, voice rough-edged, the kind of tone that sent underclassmen scrambling.
You didn’t scramble. Instead, you leaned in, close enough that your next words brushed against the shell of his ear. "I don’t act," you murmured. "I know." And just like that, you stepped back, pivoting toward the living room like none of it mattered—like he didn’t matter. The denim jacket was right where you left it, slung over the arm of the couch. You snatched it up, folding it over your arm with deliberate nonchalance.
Behind you, Hongjoong let out a slow, controlled exhale. "Those rules apply to everyone," he said, quieter now, almost to himself. "Especially past mistakes."
You don’t stop walking. You let his words hit your back, but you refuse to let him see you stumble. You throw a sharp, careless smile over your shoulder as you reach the front door.
"Then you better pray I don't catch you breaking them, Captain," you fire back, the heavy front door clicking shut behind you.
Once you're gone, the narrative should shift briefly to Hongjoong's internal state. He is left alone in the quiet house, completely unraveled by a girl who didn't even have to raise her voice.
The kitchen door creaked open with theatrical slowness, Yunho peering in first with a smirk splitting his face. "Coast clear?" he stage-whispered, already laughing when Hongjoong threw a dish towel at his head. The boys flooded back in like a pack of hyenas circling wounded prey—San biting his lip to hide his grin, Mingi wolf-whistling under his breath as he grabbed a protein shake from the fridge.
"Clean this disaster up," Hongjoong snapped, kicking a toppled beer bottle toward Mingi’s feet. His voice carried enough venom to send them scrambling, but Yunho—always the boldest—lingered just a second too long.
"You can print out as many rules as you want, Hyung," Yunho murmured, tapping the fridge with his knuckles. "But she just rewrote them in five seconds."
Hongjoong didn’t dignify that with a response. He stormed upstairs, the weight of their laughter pressing against his ribs like a physical ache.
His office door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the empty room. He braced his hands on the edge of his desk, head bowed, fingers digging into the wood. The air still carried traces of your perfume—something citrus and sharp, clinging stubbornly to the space like it had every right to be there. Three months. Three months of cold shoulders and calculated avoidance, and yet the second you walked into a room, his pulse spiked like he was some lovestruck pledge.
He wanted to regulate the house because if he couldn’t control his own heartbeat when you walked into a room, he had to control everything else.
His phone buzzed on the desk—San sending him a picture of Mingi dramatically clutching the fridge door with the caption, [Rule #4: No mocking the captain’s fragile ego.] Hongjoong flipped the phone face-down with a muttered curse. He’d always been good at compartmentalizing, at locking away inconvenient desires in neat little boxes labeled Later or Never. But you? You were the exception that unraveled every rule, the glitch in his system he couldn’t debug.
A sharp knock at the door snapped his head up. "I swear to god, Yunho, if you’re here to—"
Park Seonghwa stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with deliberate quiet. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his usually immaculate blazer wrinkled at the elbows. He didn’t glance at Hongjoong’s tense posture or the way his knuckles were still white against the desk. Instead, he pulled a cream-colored envelope from his pocket and dropped it onto the polished surface between them.
"You’re dealing with a ghost, Hongjoong," Seonghwa said, voice flat. "I’m dealing with a legal contract." The paper crinkled as Hongjoong flipped it open, skimming the dense corporate language until the final line leapt out: Failure to comply with marital arrangements by December 31st will result in forfeiture of all inheritance rights.
Seonghwa exhaled through his nose, loosening his tie like it was choking him. "My father is giving me six months to marry into the corporate line, or I’m cut out entirely."
Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. This wasn’t just about money—Seonghwa’s entire identity was wrapped up in that legacy. "Who’s the unlucky debutante?"
"Lee Jiyeon." Seonghwa’s lip curled at the name. "Finance VP’s daughter. Same age as Mingi’s little sister, if that makes you nauseous."
The hypocrisy was almost impressive. Seonghwa’s father had three mistresses Hongjoong could name off the top of his head. "We’ll find a loophole," Hongjoong said automatically, already scanning for soft spots in the contract’s wording.
A bitter laugh. "There isn’t one. Unless—" Seonghwa hesitated, running a thumb over the embossed family seal. "Unless I prove I’m already in a serious relationship. But we both know my dating history reads like a fucking champagne commercial."
Hongjoong exhaled through his nose. Outside, Mingi’s dramatic wailing echoed up the stairs—something about unfair tyranny. He tuned it out, focusing on the sharp lines of Seonghwa’s shoulders, the way his knuckles whitened around the envelope. This wasn’t just stress. This was panic.
"You need a placeholder," Hongjoong realized aloud. "Someone credible enough to stall."
Seonghwa’s smile was razor-thin. "Preferably someone who’d make my father’s monocle pop out." He glanced meaningfully toward the kitchen, where San was now loudly debating the ethics of Rule #2 with Yunho. "But your circus is currently on fire."
Hongjoong let out a dry, humorless chuckle, finally leaning back against his desk and crossing his arms. "The circus is always on fire, Seonghwa. I’m just the guy holding the matches."
He looked down at the contract again, the cold weight of corporate greed practically radiating off the heavy cardstock. It was the ultimate irony. Here he was, trying to force his fraternity into a state of clinical detachment to keep them from crashing and burning, while his best friend was being legally suffocated by a family that viewed love as a poor return on investment.
"A placeholder," Hongjoong repeated, the wheels in his mind already turning. He was a fixer by nature; give him a crisis and he’d give you a strategy. "It can't just be some girl from a mixer. Your dad has investigators on retainer, Seonghwa. He’ll sniff out a fake relationship in twenty-four hours if she looks like she belongs in a champagne commercial with you. You need someone... disruptive. Someone who needs the arrangement as much as you do, so she won't crack under the pressure."
"And where exactly do I find a girl willing to play sacrificial lamb to the Park empire?" Seonghwa asked, running a hand through his dark hair, completely exasperated. "Most girls on this campus would jump at the chance to marry into the name. I don't need a gold-digger who's going to try and turn the fake contract into a real one."
"We'll find her," Hongjoong said firmly, his eyes darkening with that familiar, calculating spark that made him the undisputed captain of the house. "But right now, I need to handle my own perimeter."
Seonghwa pushed off the doorframe, his eyes scanning Hongjoong's face with a sudden, knowing intensity. The panic in his expression faded, replaced by the sharp, protective intuition of a best friend. He tilted his head toward the window, where the faint sound of your car engine revving in the driveway echoed through the glass.
"You're talking about finding loopholes for me," Seonghwa murmured, his voice dropping into a quieter, heavier register. "But you're bleeding out right here. You think you can control this house with a piece of paper, Hongjoong? You're trying so hard to play the dictator because you're terrified that if you let your guard down for even a second, she'll walk right back in and burn down everything you've built."
The words hit exactly where Hongjoong was weakest. His jaw tightened, a hard, defensive wall dropping over his features. "I'm doing what's best for the house."
"No," Seonghwa countered smoothly as he turned the doorknob, looking back over his shoulder with a pitying smile. "You're doing what's safe for your pride. But out of the two of us, you're the one giving your future away willingly. At least I'm being forced into my cage."
The door clicked shut, leaving Hongjoong alone with the silence.
Safe for his pride.
Hongjoong pushed away from the desk and walked over to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain just in time to see your car pull out of the TEEZER house driveway. He watched the taillights disappear around the campus bend, his throat tight.
He could still feel the phantom sensation of your breath against his ear from only ten minutes ago. I don’t act. I know. You knew him. You knew that beneath the leather jacket, the captain's title, and the unyielding rules, he was just a man who used to hold you until the sun came up, whispering promises into the dark that he was now too cowardly to honor in the light.
He looked down at his desk, where a copy of THE NEW RULES sat waiting to be filed.
Rule 3: Absolute emotional detachment.
Hongjoong picked up a black marker, his hand steady even as his heart hammered violently against his ribs. He gripped the paper, his mind flashing to the mocking, beautiful laugh you’d left behind in his kitchen. If this was going to be a war of malicious compliance, he was going to make sure he survived it.
He walked over to his office corkboard and pinned the manifesto right at eye level.
"Let's see who bows first," he muttered into the empty room.
The bass from the Alpha Sigma mixer was vibrating through the floorboards of the off-campus venue, a heavy, rhythmic thud that Hongjoong could feel in his teeth. He was standing on the mezzanine balcony, a lukewarm solo cup sweating in his hand, his eyes scanning the sea of sweaty, dancing bodies below like a hawk mapping a hunting ground.
"You look like you're about to authorize a drone strike," Yunho said, leaning his forearms on the wooden railing next to him. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the crowd with an easy, untroubled grin. "Relax, Hyung. San is checking IDs at the door, and Mingi hasn't broken anything in at least forty minutes. The house is perfectly compliant."
"Compliant," Hongjoong muttered, his voice a low gravel under the music. "Right."
He wasn't looking at San, or Mingi, or the pledges. He was looking at you.
You were standing near the makeshift bar under the dim red neon lights, wearing a top that caught the light every time you laughed, your hair down and falling over your shoulders. And you were laughing at something a tall senior from the lacrosse team was saying, your fingers brushing lightly against his forearm.
Hongjoong’s grip on his solo cup tightened until the plastic groaned.
For the past seven days, you had followed The New Rules with terrifying, clinical perfection. You hadn’t texted him at 2 AM. You hadn’t shown up at the house to study. When you passed him on the quad on Tuesday, you didn't even look his way; you just kept walking, your shoulder brushing right past his like he was nothing but a stranger taking up space on the sidewalk.
It was exactly what he had demanded. And it was driving him completely, unevocably insane.
If you can't text me back, then look me in my face. It played like a taunt in his head. You weren't hiding behind a screen anymore. If he wanted your attention, you were forcing him to come down from his castle and take it in broad daylight—or under the suffocating heat of a crowded red-lit room.
"Hey, isn't that—" Yunho started, but before he could even finish your name, Hongjoong set his cup down on the railing with a sharp thud.
"I'm going down," Hongjoong said coldly.
"To check the perimeter?" Yunho called out, his smirk widening as Hongjoong pushed past him.
"To enforce decorum," Hongjoong shot back, his leather jacket cutting a path through the crowded stairs as he descended into the heat of the floor, his eyes locked entirely on the target.
The lacrosse player was mid-sentence—something about his summer internship in Monaco—when Hongjoong materialized at your elbow like a pissed-off shadow. His presence didn’t ripple; it ruptured the air, cutting through the bass-heavy thrum of the party with the precision of a scalpel.
"Greek life matter," Hongjoong announced, not bothering to look at the guy, his voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite authority—more like territorial possession wrapped in bureaucratic bullshit. "She’s needed."
The lacrosse player blinked, his tanned forehead wrinkling. "Uh, we were kinda—"
"Now." Hongjoong didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Three years of running this campus had honed his tone into a weapon that made even seniors flinch.
The guy hesitated, glancing at you for confirmation. You shrugged, sipping your drink with deliberate slowness, the ice clinking like a countdown. "Guess I’m being summoned," you murmured, your voice dripping with saccharine compliance. "Duty calls."
Hongjoong’s jaw ticked as the guy wandered off, shooting one last confused look over his shoulder. The second he was out of earshot, Hongjoong pivoted toward you, his leather jacket creaking with the movement. "You’re violating house decorum."
You didn't lower your cup. You just tilted your head back against the wood paneling of the hallway, letting your eyes slowly track the hard line of his jaw up to his dark, dangerous eyes.
"House decorum?" you echoed, your voice barely louder than a whisper, yet carrying perfectly over the muffled bass vibrating through the walls. "Remind me, Captain—since when does a Sigma Chi mixer count as TEEZER house property? Last I checked, my presence here doesn't violate a single piece of your precious fine print."
Hongjoong stepped closer, entirely unbothered by the fact that anyone walking down the hall could see him crowding you into the shadows. He placed one hand on the wall right beside your head, his leather sleeve brushing against your bare shoulder. The heat coming off him was immense, a sharp contrast to the cold condensation on your fingers.
"You know exactly what you're doing," he hissed, his face inches from yours. He smelled like his signature expensive cologne and the bitter edge of black coffee. "You’re making a scene. You've spent the last hour treating this place like your personal audition tape, and you're doing it right in my line of sight."
"I'm socializing," you corrected smoothly, meeting his glare with a level of calm that you knew was actively draining his battery. "Isn't that what we're supposed to do when we're absolutely emotionally detached? I haven't sent you a 2 AM text. I haven't asked to borrow a shirt. I’m practicing perfect compliance, Hongjoong. I'm leaving you alone."
You brought the cup to your lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip while looking at him over the rim.
"Unless," you murmured, lowering the cup until it rested against his chest, right over his hammering heart, "you're having trouble following your own rules."
Hongjoong’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second—a desperate, telling slip in his armor—before snapping back up. His fingers curled against the drywall, the plaster groaning under the pressure.
"Don't flatter yourself," he growled, though his voice lacked its usual clinical weight. It sounded rougher. Desperate. "I wrote those rules to protect the house."
"Then go protect it," you whispered, using your free hand to gently tap his cheek, a mocking, affectionate gesture that felt like a slap to his pride. "Go find Seonghwa. Go check the budget. Because right now, you look a lot less like a dictator and a lot more like a hypocrite."
You didn't wait for his response. You ducked under his arm, your hip deliberately brushing against his thigh as you slid past him. You walked down the hallway, the heels of your shoes clicking rhythmically against the floorboards, leaving him standing alone in the dim, neon-lit corridor with his hand still pinned to the wall and his chest heaving.
Behind you, Hongjoong let out a low, ragged breath, his fist slamming quietly against the wood.
He was losing. And the worst part was, he hadn't even realized the game had officially begun.
The rain hadn't just started; it had broken over the campus like a dynamic assault, sheets of heavy water hammering against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the student union’s multi-purpose room. It was 11:45 PM on a Thursday, four days after the Sigma Chi mixer, and the cavernous space was entirely dead except for the low, hum of a single vending machine and the sharp, rhythmic clack of your laptop keyboard.
The tables around you were a disaster zone of floorplans, vendor invoices, and color-coded seating charts for the upcoming Greek Gala. Because you were the student senate liaison and Hongjoong was the Interfraternity Council president, the university administration had forced the two of you into a shotgun marriage of logistics.
Across the table, Hongjoong sat behind his own laptop, the blue light of the screen catching the dangerous, exhausted sharp angles of his face. He’d shed his leather jacket hours ago, leaving him in a black ribbed tank top that showed off the tense, coiled muscles of his shoulders every time he reached for a highlighter.
Neither of you had spoken a word of substance in three hours. It was professional compliance at its most toxic.
"The catering invoice is missing the security deposit line," Hongjoong said, his voice a low, gravelly friction that seemed to scrape against the quiet of the room. He didn't look up from his screen. "Did you file it?"
"It’s in the blue folder right in front of your face, Captain," you replied smoothly, not pausing your typing for a single beat.
Hongjoong’s fingers froze over his trackpad. Slowly, he raised his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours through the dim light. The silence between you didn't just linger; it suffocated. The storm outside seemed to fade into a dull, white noise, leaving nothing but the high-voltage current running between your chairs.
"I asked you a direct question," he murmured, his tone dropping into that quiet, dangerous register that usually signaled an execution.
"And I gave you a direct answer," you said, finally stopping your fingers to look back at him. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms, completely unbothered by the predatory focus of his stare. "It's right there. Unless your little rulebook doesn't allow you to look at things that are convenient for you."
Hongjoong closed his laptop with a sharp, controlled snap. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, invading your space across the paperwork. "You've been pushing your luck for a week."
"I've been doing my job," you corrected, tilting your head. "And I've been following your rules. No calls. No distractions. Absolute emotional detachment. I'm practically a saint, Hongjoong."
"You're a menace," he hissed, his jaw clenching so hard a small muscle jumped beneath his cheek. "You stand in my hallway looking like that, you touch my chest in front of forty people, and then you come in here and act like we're just two bureaucrats shuffling paper. You’re trying to make me look like a fool."
"No," you whispered, leaning in just enough that he could see the cold, mocking amusement dancing in your eyes. "I'm letting you see exactly what you gave up when you decided your pride was worth more than my time. You wanted a robot, Hongjoong? You got one. Enjoy the clinical efficiency."
A sudden, violent crack of thunder shook the glass panes behind you, the building’s overhead fluorescent lights flickering once, twice, before dying completely.
The room plunged into near-total darkness, saved only by the eerie, ambient glow of the emergency exit signs and the rhythmic flash of lightning outside.
In the shadows, you heard the sharp drag of a chair against the linoleum. Before you could even blink, a heavy, calloused hand wrapped around your wrist, his grip hot and unyielding as he yanked you out of your seat.
Hongjoong's grip on your wrist was iron, his fingers pressing into your pulse point like he needed the proof of your heartbeat to believe you were real. In the storm-darkened room, the only light came in fractured bursts—lightning flashing across his sharp cheekbones, the whites of his eyes burning with something feral. You barely had time to suck in a breath before he wrenched you forward, your chest colliding with his so hard the impact rattled your teeth.
"Tell me why," you hissed, palms braced against his ribcage, fingers curling into the thin fabric of his tank top. The words weren't a question; they were a blade pressed to his throat. "You ended it like I was a liability. Was I just another loose end for the great Captain to tidy up?"
Hongjoong’s breath came in ragged bursts, his other hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, fingertips digging into the base of your skull. "Because I was losing my goddamn mind," he snarled, the admission ripped from him like a confession under torture. "Because I stayed up until sunrise memorizing the way you laughed when you were half-asleep. Because I couldn’t look at the goddamn budget spreadsheets without wondering what you’d say about them." His voice cracked, raw and furious. "The rules were never for them. They were for me—to stop myself from tearing apart every boundary I ever built just to get you back."
Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the desperate twist of his mouth for one searing second before darkness swallowed you both again. You could feel the wild thrum of his pulse where your thumb brushed his collarbone, the heat of his skin branding you through his clothes.
Somewhere in the chaos, your knee hit the edge of the oak desk. Hongjoong didn’t pause—he crowded you against it, his hands dropping to your hips to lift you onto the surface in one brutal motion. Paperwork scattered to the floor in a rain of spreadsheets, his forearm braced beside your head as he leaned in, his nose skimming your jaw. "You win," he growled, the words vibrating against your throat. "I broke my own rules. Now tell me to stop, or I swear to god, I’ll—"
You bit his lower lip. Not a kiss—a punishment.
Hongjoong made a sound like a gutted man, his fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to leave marks. The desk creaked dangerously as he surged forward, his mouth crashing into yours with three months of pent-up fury. He kissed like he fought—all precision and teeth and calculated violence, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that bordered on starvation.
Rain lashed the windows in relentless sheets, the storm’s rhythm syncing with the sharp hitch of his breath when your fingers twisted in his hair. He shuddered, his hips pressing forward instinctively, the hard line of him dragging against your thigh in a way that made you both gasp.
"Tell me you thought about this," you demanded, arching into him as his mouth moved to your neck, his teeth scraping over your pulse.
Hongjoong laughed—a dark, ragged thing—and wrenched your shirt collar aside to bite down on your shoulder. "Every goddamn day," he admitted against your skin, his voice wrecked. "Every time I walked past your dorm. Every time I heard your voice in the goddamn library." His hands slid under your thighs, hauling you flush against him as he ground into the heat of you. "I wrote those rules because I knew—" His breath hitched when your nails scored down his back. "—one look from you, and I'd fold."
The admission hung between you, suspended in the charged air before you shattered it by yanking his tank top up over his head. His chest was a map of taut muscle and shallow breaths, his skin fever-hot under your palms. Lightning flashed, illuminating the desperate way his pupils swallowed all but a sliver of gold around them.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate grind that tore a groan from his throat. Hongjoong's forehead dropped to yours, his breath coming in uneven bursts as his hands flexed on your hips—half restraint, half surrender. "You don't get to be smug about this," he muttered, even as his fingers slipped under the waistband of your jeans.
"I'm not," you lied, arching into him. "I'm just proving a point."
His mouth crashed into yours again, all teeth and tongue and three months of pent-up frustration. The desk groaned under your combined weight, pens skittering to the floor as he crowded you back onto the scattered paperwork. His hands were everywhere—tugging at your clothes, skimming up your ribs, thumbing over your nipples through the fabric until you gasped into his mouth.
Hongjoong dragged his lips down your throat, his breath hot against your racing pulse. "Tell me you thought about this too," he demanded, his voice rough with want. His teeth grazed your collarbone, his hands sliding under your thighs to hike your skirt up around your waist.
"Every damn time you walked past me in the library," you admitted, tangling your fingers in his hair. "Every time you pretended not to stare."
He groaned against your skin, his hips rolling against yours in a slow, deliberate grind that made you both shudder. The thick ridge of him pressed against your core, separated only by layers of denim and restraint. "Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. "I tried so hard to hate you."
The confession hung between you, suspended in the charged air before you shattered it by yanking his belt open. His breath hitched as your fingers brushed the hard line of him through his briefs. "Too bad," you murmured, dragging your nails down his stomach just to watch him tremble. "Because I think you like me."
Hongjoong's hands tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into bare skin where your skirt had ridden up. "I don't like you," he growled, even as he rocked into your touch. "I'm fucking obsessed with you."
The raw honesty of it punched through your chest. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the desperate hunger in his eyes—gold swallowed by black, his pupils blown wide. You could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips, the way his breath stuttered when you palmed him through the fabric.
He didn't wait for permission. One hand fumbled between your bodies, popping the button of your jeans with practiced ease. His fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties, calloused fingertips dragging through slick heat. "Still this wet for me?" he rasped, his voice wrecked. "After everything?"
You arched into his touch, biting back a moan as his thumb circled your clit. "Shut up," you gasped, tugging his briefs down just enough to free him. The first brush of his cock against your inner thigh sent a shudder through both of you.
Hongjoong exhaled sharply, his forehead dropping to yours. For a heartbeat, he hesitated—eyes searching yours in the fractured light. Then the storm outside roared, shaking the windows, and whatever restraint he had left snapped. He lifted your hips, the head of his cock dragging through your folds before he thrust in with a single, brutal stroke.
The desk groaned beneath you. Hongjoong swore violently, his arms trembling as he braced himself above you. "Fuck," he choked out, his hips stuttering. "You feel—" His words dissolved into a groan when you clenched around him.
Rain pounded against the glass in relentless sheets, the rhythm syncopated with the sharp slap of skin as Hongjoong set a punishing pace. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your neck. Every snap of his hips was a confession—three months of denial unraveling with each desperate thrust.
"You thought you could walk away," you gasped, nails scoring down his back. "But you were always coming back to me."
Hongjoong growled low in his throat, biting down on your shoulder as his fingers dug into your thighs. "Shut up," he panted, though the way his hips stuttered betrayed him. Lightning flashed, illuminating the sweat-slicked planes of his chest, the wild hunger in his eyes.
You laughed—a breathless, triumphant sound—and arched against him. "Make me."
His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and tongue and the copper tang of blood where you'd bitten him earlier. The kiss was a battle—messy, frantic, alive—and when you moaned into his mouth, he shuddered like a man coming undone.
Hongjoong's rhythm faltered when you rocked up to meet him, your legs locking around his waist to drag him deeper. "Fuck," he gasped, forehead dropping to yours. "I can't—" His voice broke as you rolled your hips, dragging him impossibly closer. "I'm not gonna last."
"Then don't," you whispered against his lips.
Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the wrecked expression on his face—eyelids heavy, lips parted, every muscle straining with the effort of holding back. His hips stuttered, his fingers digging into your thighs as he lost the fight for control. With a ragged groan, Hongjoong buried his face in your neck and came apart, his body shuddering against yours in violent, helpless waves.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the rain pounding against the windows and your mingled breaths. Then, slowly, Hongjoong lifted his head. His fingers traced your jawline with a tenderness that contradicted the possessive grip he'd had on your hips moments ago. In the dim emergency lighting, his pupils were still blown wide, his lips swollen from your teeth.
"You're impossible," he murmured, but the words lacked any real bite. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, catching the faint smear of blood where you'd bitten him. "You ruin everything."
You arched an eyebrow. "You're welcome."
The overhead lights flickered once, twice, then buzzed back to life with a harsh fluorescent glare. Hongjoong flinched, his body tensing as reality crashed back in. The desk was a disaster of scattered papers and discarded clothes. His hands were still braced on either side of your hips, his skin damp with sweat.
Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, the air was thick with something heavier—something irreversible.
Hongjoong exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze darting to the door, then back to you. For a split second, you saw it—the panic. The frantic, fleeting urge to rebuild the walls before anyone noticed they were gone. His fingers twitched against your thigh, like he couldn't decide whether to pull you closer or push you away.
"You're thinking too loud," you said, tracing the tense line of his jaw.
His breath hitched. "I'm calculating damage control."
You laughed, low and knowing, and watched the way his pupils dilated at the sound. "Too late for that, Captain. The damage is done."
Hongjoong didn’t move for a long three seconds. The harsh, hum of the fluorescent lights overhead felt like an interrogation, exposing the raw, red marks your nails had left across his shoulders and the dark bruises his fingers were already leaving on your thighs.
Slowly, the mechanical gears of his brain tried to clank back into place. He pulled out of you with a low, wet sound, immediately turning his back to pull up his briefs and fasten his belt. The sudden absence of his heat made the air-conditioned room feel freezing.
"We need to clear this out," he said. His voice was no longer the rough, wrecked rasp that had begged you to hold him tighter a minute ago. It was flat. Corporate. The Captain was trying to put his armor back on, piece by jagged piece. "Someone could walk in. Security does rounds at midnight."
You sat up on the edge of the desk, your clothes rumpled, watching him with a cool, dangerous detachment that made his hands slightly tremble as he gathered the scattered gala papers from the linoleum.
"Damage control," you murmured, adjusting your skirt. "Right."
He didn't look at you. He couldn't. "I'm being practical. What happened here... it changes the logistics. But the house still needs to function."
"The house," you repeated, a cold, mocking smile twisting your lips. You slid off the desk, your heels hitting the floor with a sharp, final click. "You just spent an hour burying yourself inside me, telling me you're fucking obsessed with me, Hongjoong. And the second the electricity turns back on, you’re worried about the logistics?"
Hongjoong froze, a stack of invoices clutched in his hand. His jaw clenched so hard the bone looked sharp. "I have a responsibility to eight men who depend on me to keep this house from sinking. I can't let a personal... distraction..."
"Don't finish that sentence," you interrupted, your voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register that effectively cut the air out of his lungs. You walked up to him, yanked your tote bag off the chair, and looked him dead in the eyes. "You want to play the cold king who hides his mistakes in the dark? Fine. Sleep with your rulebook, Hongjoong. Because from this second on, you don't even get to look me in my face."
You turned on your heel and walked out of the multi-purpose room, the heavy double doors swinging shut behind you, leaving him completely hollowed out in the blinding white light.
The coffee maker hissed like a wounded animal at 6:03 AM, spitting steam and grounds across the counter. Hongjoong didn't flinch. He'd been standing there for seventeen minutes already, palms flat against the Formica, staring at the fridge where his manifesto hung—the ink slightly smudged now at the edges from where someone had splashed vodka on it during last night's party.
San shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and immediately froze at the sight of Hongjoong's rigid silhouette against the dawn light. "Uh. Morning?"
"Kitchen closes at 9 PM," Hongjoong said without turning. His voice was scraped raw. "There's a mold culture growing in the sink that could qualify for its own PhD. Clean it."
Mingi, trailing behind San, choked on his own spit. "It's literally sunrise—"
"Now."
The sharpness of it made Mingi stumble back a step. His gaze darted to San, who just shook his head in silent warning. Yunho leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, watching Hongjoong's stiff shoulders with the focus of a bomb squad technician.
"You look like you got hit by a bus," Yunho said casually. "Or fucked by one. Those scratches on your neck are—"
Hongjoong whirled. The coffee pot shattered against the wall inches from Yunho's head.
The silence was atomic.
San grabbed Mingi's elbow and hauled him backward out of the kitchen. Yunho didn't move. He just tilted his head, studying the fresh, ragged marks peeking above Hongjoong's collar—the same ones disappearing beneath his shirt.
"You're bleeding," Yunho said mildly.
Hongjoong's knuckles whitened around another mug. "Get out."
Yunho didn't. He stepped closer instead, lowering his voice. "She's not answering your texts, is she?"
The ceramic cracked in Hongjoong's grip.
Across campus, you sipped iced coffee in the library courtyard, laughing at something your study partner said. You hadn't checked your phone once. Not when it buzzed at 3:17 AM. Not when it lit up with a seventh call at sunrise. The screen faced down on the table, buried under your economics textbook like a corpse.
Back in the kitchen, Hongjoong's throat worked silently. He turned the mug in his hands—once, twice—before setting it down with unnatural precision. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit." Yunho grabbed a rag to wipe coffee off the wall. "You reek of her perfume. And before you snap again—" He held up a hand when Hongjoong's shoulders tensed. "I don't care. But you look like you got run over by the feelings bus, and it's fucking with the house vibe."
The fridge hummed. Somewhere upstairs, Mingi's panicked whisper carried down the stairwell—"Dude, we are not going back in there."
Hongjoong stared at the manifesto pinned to the fridge door. Rule #3 glared back in bold font: NO EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENTS. The paper was pristine. His knuckles were split.
Seonghwa chose that moment to walk in, crisp dress shirt rolled to the elbows, a manila envelope tucked under his arm. He took one look at the shattered coffee pot, the tension strung tight between Yunho and Hongjoong, and sighed. "Christ. Do I need to separate you two?"
Hongjoong didn't turn. His voice came out flat. "Kitchen's closed."
"Not for me." Seonghwa dropped the envelope on the counter with deliberate weight. "Legal team found three loopholes in my father's contract. Thought you'd want to see them."
The silence stretched. Yunho wiped coffee off his jaw, eyes darting between them. "I'll just..." He jerked a thumb toward the exit, abandoning the rag as he fled.
Seonghwa waited until the door swung shut before speaking again. "You look like hell."
Hongjoong's fingers flexed against the countertop. "Not now, Seonghwa."
"It's 6 AM," Seonghwa said evenly. "You're bleeding through your shirt." He reached for the envelope, sliding it closer. "The clauses circled in red? They're actionable. My father can't enforce the marriage if I prove financial independence."
Hongjoong didn't move. His gaze remained locked on the fridge, where Rule #4—NO OVERNIGHT GUESTS—hung crookedly next to a Polaroid of last semester's formal.
"You're not listening," Seonghwa observed. He stepped closer, voice dropping. "Look at me."
The order—the exact tone Hongjoong himself used during house meetings—made his shoulders tense. Slowly, he turned. The morning light caught the shadows under his eyes, the raw scrape of teeth marks disappearing beneath his collar.
Seonghwa exhaled sharply. "Christ. Did you even sleep?"
Hongjoong’s fingers twitched toward the manifesto. "We have a chapter meeting at noon. The alumni liaison is coming—"
"You’re spiraling," Seonghwa interrupted. He jabbed a finger at the envelope. "My father is blackmailing me into an engagement. And you—" His gaze flicked to the fridge, to the fresh nail marks on Hongjoong’s knuckles. "You’re self-destructing over a girl who won’t even look at you."
Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. "This isn’t about her."
"Bullshit." Seonghwa grabbed the manifesto, shaking it once. The paper rattled like a surrender flag. "You wrote these rules to punish yourself. Because you couldn’t handle wanting her." He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "She walked out because you’re a coward. Not because of the house. Not because of the rules. Because you won’t admit you love her."
The hiss of the burner was the only sound left in the kitchen.
Hongjoong stared at Seonghwa, his chest rising and falling in shallow, sharp increments. For a fraction of a second, the Captain persona entirely fractured, leaving him looking exactly like what he was: a twenty-two-year-old kid who had built a fortress out of pride, only to realize he’d locked himself inside it alone.
"Watch your mouth," Hongjoong whispered. The threat was empty, his voice too thin, too wrecked to carry any real malice.
Seonghwa didn't even blink. He dropped the manifesto back onto the counter, the paper fluttering against the stainless steel. "I’m the only one in this house who isn’t afraid of you, Hongjoong. And right now, you look pathetic. You’re trying to manage my crisis because you’re completely incapable of handling your own."
"I am fixing your life!" Hongjoong suddenly roared, his hand slamming down on the counter so hard the remaining mugs rattled. The outburst seemed to drain the last of his artificial energy. He dropped his head, his damp fringe falling into his eyes as his shoulders slumped. "I am fixing it because I can't... I can't fix this."
"You haven't even tried," Seonghwa said softly, the harsh edge leaving his voice, replaced by the heavy, grounding weight of a brother. He reached out, his hand gripping Hongjoong’s tense shoulder, squeezing tight. "You didn't fix anything with her. You just ran damage control until she decided she was done being treated like a hazard."
Hongjoong closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, all he could see was the way you looked under those unforgiving fluorescent lights a few hours ago. The cool, absolute finality in your eyes when you told him he didn't even get to look you in the face.
You hadn't just walked out of the student union. You had taken the air in the room with you.
"She won't even look at me, Seonghwa," Hongjoong confessed, his voice barely a breath. The admission felt like drawing blood. "I called her seven times. She turned her phone off."
"Then stop calling her like a coward from the safety of your office," Seonghwa said, pulling his hand back and adjusting his cuffs, his stately composure perfectly restored. He picked up his manila envelope, tucking it back under his arm. "Go find her. Tear that stupid piece of paper off the fridge, walk across campus, and bow down. Because if you don't, someone else is going to give her the worship she actually deserves."
Seonghwa turned on his heel, his pristine loafers clicking against the tile as he exited the kitchen, leaving Hongjoong alone with the wreckage of the coffee pot and his own suffocating thoughts.
The crumpled manifesto hit the trash bin with the finality of a gunshot. Hongjoong didn't pause to watch it land—he was already striding past the gaping faces of Mingi and San in the living room, out the front door, into the brutal clarity of morning sunlight. His knuckles throbbed where the paper edges had bitten into his skin. He didn't care.
You were sprawled on the union steps with your study group, highlighters strewn across your notebook, when a shadow fell across your page. The chatter around you died mid-sentence. You didn’t need to look up to know who stood there—the scent of his cologne (bergamot and something burnt, like he’d been chain-smoking all night) preceded him.
"Move," you told your friend, nudging her knee aside without glancing up. "You're blocking my light."
A beat of silence. Then Hongjoong dropped to his knees on the concrete in front of you, his hands braced on either side of your sprawled legs. The collective inhale from your study group was audible. His forehead pressed against your thigh, his breath hot through the denim.
"I don’t care about the house," he said, voice rough. The words weren’t whispered; they rang clear across the steps. "I don’t care about the rules. Tear me apart if you want, but don’t make me go back to pretending I don’t—” His fingers flexed against the concrete. "I’m completely undone without you. Please."
Your highlighter rolled off the notebook. Someone’s phone clattered to the ground. Hongjoong didn’t move, his shoulders bowed under the weight of surrender, the morning light catching on the fresh scratches peeking above his collar.
You closed your notebook with a snap. "Get up."
He did—immediately, like your voice was a leash around his throat. His eyes were wild, gold swallowed by black. You stood, shouldering your bag, and walked past him without a word. He followed like a shadow, his fingers brushing yours once, twice, before you let him tangle them together.
By the time you shoved him through your apartment door, his composure had fractured entirely. He crowded you against the wall, his mouth desperate on yours, his hands shaking where they gripped your hips. "Tell me you're mine," he demanded between kisses that tasted like salt and sleepless nights. "Tell me I didn't ruin this."
You bit his lower lip hard enough to make him groan. "Shut up and worship me properly."
He did. Everywhere. His mouth traced the arch of your foot, the delicate bones of your ankle, the soft skin behind your knee. He lingered there, teeth scraping, until your thighs trembled. "You own me," he whispered against your inner thigh, his breath hot. "You have since the first time you laughed at my rules."
When his tongue finally slid between your legs, he moaned like he was the one being unraveled. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you open as he licked into you with slow, deliberate strokes that had your back arching off the bed. "Fuck—Hongjoong—"
"Say it again," he growled, lifting his head just enough to watch your face as his thumb circled your clit. "Say my name like I'm yours."
You came with his name on your lips, his fingers fucking you through it, his eyes locked on yours like he was memorizing the way you fell apart for him.
Later—much later—when he was buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips moving in slow, grinding rolls that made you both gasp, he choked out the words he'd been swallowing for months: "I love you. I love you, I love you—" Each confession punctuated by a thrust that stole your breath. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry—"
You silenced him with a kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as he trembled above you. His pace faltered, his rhythm breaking apart as he came with a ragged groan, his body collapsing against yours. For a long moment, he just breathed against your neck, his lips brushing your pulse point between exhales. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes damp. "I didn't ruin this?" he whispered.
You traced the curve of his bottom lip with your thumb. "You ruined everything else. But not this."
His laughter was rough, relieved, as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. Your legs tangled together, your head pillowed on his chest where his heartbeat still raced beneath your ear.
A week later, sunlight streamed through the cafe windows, catching the steam rising from your lattes. Hongjoong's arm was draped over the back of your chair, his fingers absently playing with the ends of your hair as you quizzed him on midterm material. He answered every question wrong on purpose just to make you groan.
The bell above the door jingled. Seonghwa looked like he hadn't slept in days—his usually pristine dress shirt wrinkled, his tie loosened. He collapsed into the chair across from you with the grace of a collapsing building.
"They're flying her in next week," he said without preamble, rubbing his temples. "Legal team found another clause. If I don't formally meet her by the end of the month, my trust fund defaults to my cousin."
Hongjoong's fingers stilled in your hair. You exchanged a glance—his raised eyebrow asking permission. You nodded.
You leaned forward, stirring your latte. "I have a friend," you said casually. "Brilliant girl. Triple major, works three jobs. She's exactly the kind of girl your parents would hate."
Seonghwa's head lifted slowly. "Define 'hate.'"
"She's loud," you counted off on your fingers. "Has tattoos. Once threw a drink at a senator's son for grabbing her ass. Needs rent money."
Hongjoong snorted into his coffee. "Perfect."
Seonghwa's tired eyes sharpened. "You're joking."
"She's also fluent in three languages and can debate political theory better than your father's lawyers," you added. "Imagine the look on his face when you bring home a scholarship student who outsmarts him at dinner."
Hongjoong's fingers trailed down your arm, pride evident in the way his thumb circled your wrist. "Pay her to be your fake girlfriend. Your parents will combust."
Seonghwa exhaled sharply through his nose. "This is insane."
"So was Hongjoong's rulebook," you countered, smirking when Hongjoong nipped at your earlobe in retaliation.
Seonghwa's eyes flickered between you both—the way Hongjoong's hand now rested possessively on your thigh, how you leaned into his touch without hesitation. Something in his expression shifted. "You're serious."
"Deadly," Hongjoong said. He nudged your coffee closer to you, the gesture almost subconscious. "She's right. Your parents want a docile society girl who'll smile and breed heirs. Bring them a hurricane instead."
You twisted in your seat to face Seonghwa fully. "I'll text her tonight. She'll want contracts drawn up—payment, boundaries, termination clauses."
Seonghwa stared at you. "You've done this before."
"Not personally." You smirked, tapping your nails against your cup. "But I know someone who spent six months pretending to date a senator's daughter for tuition money."
Hongjoong choked on his coffee. "That was you?"
"Different lifetime." You waved a hand. "Point is, my friend will eat your parents alive and enjoy it. But she won't do it for free."
Seonghwa exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples again. When he looked up, there was something dangerously close to hope in his exhausted gaze. "How soon can I meet her?"
"Tomorrow." You pulled out your phone, already composing a text. "She works the morning shift at the campus coffee kiosk. Come hungry—she'll poison you if you order anything basic."
Seonghwa’s hand froze halfway to his forehead, his knuckles locking as he stared at your screen. "Define basic."
"Caramel macchiatos, anything with extra whip, and talking down to her while she’s holding a steaming metal pitcher," Hongjoong answered for you, his chest vibrating against your back as he chuckled. He leaned his chin on your shoulder, entirely unbothered by the fact that they were in public or that his best friend looked like he was about to have a stroke. "Trust her, man. If she says the girl is a hurricane, you better start boarding up your windows."
A slow, tentative exhale slipped past Seonghwa’s lips. The crushing weight that had been bowing his shoulders for weeks didn't vanish, but for the first time since his father had dropped that legal ultimatum on his desk, the panic in his chest receded, replaced by a cold, calculating curiosity.
"Contracts," Seonghwa repeated, the word tasting familiar and solid on his tongue. "I can do contracts. Boundaries, timelines, financial compensation—I’ll have my personal attorney draft a non-disclosure agreement by tonight."
"Don't bother," you said, sliding your phone back into your bag with a decisive click. "She writes her own terms. Just bring your checkbook and an open mind, Park. You're about to meet the best thing—or the absolute worst thing—that's ever happened to your family name."
Seonghwa stood up, the wrinkles in his blazer suddenly seeming less like a sign of defeat and more like armor after a battle. He adjusted his tie, his regal, untouchable composure locking back into place like a shield. He looked at Hongjoong, then down at you, a faint, genuine glint of amusement finally breaking through the exhaustion in his dark eyes.
"If she manages to make my mother spill her tea at dinner next week," Seonghwa murmured, picking up his manila envelope, "I’ll pay her double her asking price."
"Consider it done," you smirked.
With a final, lingering nod, Seonghwa turned and walked out of the cafe, his posture straight, his stride carrying the familiar, commanding authority of the richest man on campus. The glass door jingled behind him, letting in a brief gust of warm summer wind.
The second he was gone, Hongjoong turned his head, his lips instantly finding the sensitive skin right beneath your ear. He nipped at it softly, his fingers digging into your thigh under the table with a possessive, heavy pressure that made your breath hitch.
"A hurricane, huh?" he whispered against your skin, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made your pulse spike. "You really like orchestrating chaos in my house, don't you?"
"I'm just fixing your friends, Captain," you murmured, tilting your head back to give him better access. "Someone has to look out for the TEEZER boys now that your little manifesto is in the dumpster."
Hongjoong groaned softly, wrapping his arms fully around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. He didn't care about the rules, he didn't care about the standings, and he certainly didn't care about the onlookers in the cafe. He was completely, irrevocably whipped—and as he pressed a deep, bruising kiss to your lips in the bright morning light, he knew he’d spend the rest of his life gladly bowing down to the only girl who had ever refused to be a placeholder.
DISCLAIMER | this is no way of a true representation of any of the members. This is purely fiction and for the enjoyment of the reader and not to be taken seriously.
a/n ; Hi.. Hello.. Is this thing on..? Sorry guys for the late update, I’ve recently changed jobs and haven’t had the time to finish up but I promise more is coming sooner than you think!!
Spacer from @celcero !!
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✮⋆｡°✩ pipe dream - college au!song mingi x fem reader
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 song mingi is a lot of things. he’s top of the class you hate the most, a mutual friend of your roommates, probably the best dressed guy on campus… and now he’s haunting your dreams, too.
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 smut 18+ MDNI, angst, reader has insecurities, EMOTIONAL CONSTIPATION, everyone smokes weed it’s a college au but it’s also kind of all they do, that being said college kids = drinking, brief toxicity? if you squint
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 wc 26.6k
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a/n: here is a college stoner romance comedy mingi fic fueled with insanity. it means a lot to me so i hope you like my brainchild. furthermore this is for my dear @sungbeam college collab and i had so so much fun with it & also meeting such lovely ppl thru it <3!!! ALSO hm to @minkieater for the hard fucking banner she's goated and also thank u for telling me not to scrap this fic. OK ENJOY AH
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a lot of graphic wet dreams it’s the whole plot, so much dirty talk bc i headcanon he’s a talker, daddy kink (sorry), but freak4freak like mingi’s technically dom but they’re both dirty freaky, pervy reader pervy mg, dry humping, so much praise, oral (f rec), vaginal fingering, size kink he’s big, big dick!mingi (he knows it), fingering (f rec), unprotected sex, oral (f rec), unprotected p in v including creampie
It starts off like any other dream.
You’re lying on your bed, comfortably spread out with the same old pyjamas you had on when you fell asleep - a t-shirt stained with hair dye and shorts that have worn elastic, sagging down over your hips. The air’s a little dense at first when you try to move, like you’ve been doing some heavy lifting and your limbs haven’t quite started to work again, and it takes you a moment to come into yourself, fighting through the haze.
Immediately, it feels more real than your dreams normally would. Smoking weed before bed means that you don’t often get any dreams at all, really, and your two best friends-turned-housemates are loud enough at all points of the day that your sleep can be interrupted at regular intervals. However, you can feel the softness of your sheets, the lilac floral set you put on when you got home from class, and you rub your feet against it. It’s nice, comforting, and so normal that you quickly forget what it is - a dream.
A soft brush against your side, and you feel like a fish out of water. There’s someone here with you. On your bed. It’s rare for San and Wooyoung to sit there, and this person definitely isn’t either of them.
It’s blurry initially, so hazy that you can’t quite focus on his face, but his long limbs are splayed across your bed like he’s been here a million times before. The touch was his fingers, and his hands are big too, dexterous and clad in bulky silver rings and drumming a beat you can’t recognise against your skin. It’s too comfortable, familiar in a way that feels almost too vulnerable - it’s almost like you’ve dreamed about this before.
He speaks, and you can’t make out what he’s saying. His voice is a deep, gravelly tone, making you feel like you’re drifting asleep all over again. With insane willpower you blink rapidly, forcing yourself to look at his face.
You finally see him. He’s staring at you like you’ve done something silly, plump lips curled up with the hint of a smile, and his hair is messy and dark and cascading over his forehead. You can just about make out two beauty spots on his honey toned face. He’s not wearing much, not really, clad in a tank top and baggy, below knee shorts for ultimate comfort, lensless glasses sitting on a sharp nose.
He blinks at you rapidly, scrunching his nose into a silly face to get your attention, lips forming a line, and all you can think is pretty, pretty, pretty.
“Are you listening to me, baby?” He says again, and you hear him this time, loud and clear. Baby. It makes a chill run through your body. He’s your type - steady, cool, teasing and big and… he’s so handsome, soothing your skin with his fingertips as if he knows you, has known you for a while and-
“Mingi,” You croak, unable to help yourself. It’s Song Mingi from your economics class, that tall, cool kid who’s always late to class but still really fucking smart, gets amazing grades; unlike you. He dresses really nice, chic, lots of bulky rings and these big chains, like the one he’s wearing now. You think you’ve heard San and Wooyoung say they were friends before, and if you think harder it’s like you’ve seen him drive San home before, but have you ever really paid attention?
Song Mingi from your economics class who is your mutual friend and also… your boyfriend? Right, yeah. That feels right. “Sorry, honey. What were you saying?”
“I was saying,” He sing-songs, but it’s raspy, like he smoked just before he came over. “It’s always nice being here with you. You’re beautiful, you know that? But it makes me…”
His eyes move to your lips. You think you know what he’s going to say, and maybe it’s a little cliche, straight out of a show you’ve seen, but the butterflies still flitter in your tummy.
You rub your feet against the blanket again - it’s exciting, sue you. “Makes you what?”
Mingi’s leaning in before he speaks again, shuffling across your blanket until his breath is tumbling across your face. He’s closer now, but it’s not intimidating, it’s exciting. If you focus you swear you can smell him, something like cedar and vanilla, sweet but enriching and you want more of it, now.
His hand moves to your hip, just barely dipping underneath your sleep shorts. Is he going to kiss you? Even better, is he going to touch you? Your mouth feels dry, and his hands are a little calloused on your skin. He goes to the gym, you remember through the fog. San goes with him sometimes - it’s from the weights. You feel dizzy, head spinning, inching even closer.
“It makes me want more,” he breathes tentatively, “I want to do more with you, if you’ll let me.”
“I’ll let you.” You blurt, and he smiles. He wriggles his way on top of you, your arms closing around those broad shoulders - he is big. While your cunt starts to slick up dumbly at the first sign of a big, strong man, he finally kisses you, a sweet peck to the corner of your lips before a deeper, proper one, tangling his tongue with yours, and it feels so fucking real. Letting out a keen, you squirm underneath him, managing to pull away from his lips to speak. “I’ll let you, please,” you whimper against his lips, messy, “more, Mingi-”
He groans in disbelief, kissing you sloppy again, again, again, finally moving his hand down, cupping your pussy through your sleep shorts and balancing on one forearm. His lips slide against yours a little messily but it’s still amazing, making you whimper when his tongue moves against yours, more than igniting that fire in your belly. You can feel the pressure of his fingertips against your core, sure that nothing’s ever felt like this in your life. “So pretty. You sound so fuckin’ pretty, baby, saying my name like that, shit-”
His fingers slide underneath your shorts, and of course you haven’t got panties on. He meets your pussy bare, slick and sensitive under his touch, and he starts to rock against your fucking leg before he can even get a finger in.
He feels big, from what you can make out, pressing into your thigh. Big, hard, and god - does he leak too? Is he getting so worked up that he can’t help but soak a pool in his boxers? You try to reach down to them, but he pins your hands back to the pillow with one big palm.
You can feel the cold metal of his rings biting against your hole when he adds a second finger. He finds your g-spot effortlessly, curling his long digits upwards, and tap tap taps until your eyes cross.
“Like this,” He murmurs, cheeks flushing. His lips part and his eyebrows knit in admiration when he looks back to your face and sees the way your own expression can’t be controlled in your haze of lust, mouth falling open, letting out a wrecked whimper. “Can you cum like this? Drench your fucking shorts and let me suck ‘em clean after?”
He talks frantically, viciously almost, fucking into your pussy faster, trying to give you more stimulation. It’s filthy and you can’t believe it’s happening to you, hurtling into an orgasm that you know is going to be unsatisfying because he hasn’t even brushed your clit but fuck, you want to be good. Is he doing this deliberately? His spare hand cups your breasts, palm jiggling the flesh with a noise of disbelief.
“I can! F-fuck, I can,” You hiccup, and he pushes your thighs back, uses his thumb and finger of his other hand to pinch your clit in such a way that you think you might cry. It would normally be not enough but it’s the sight of him, the way he pants on top of you from just humping your leg and wants you to cum so badly - you’re done for.
Digging your nails into his shoulders, you seize, crying out - and you wake up in a pool of your own sweat.
Your pyjamas are sticking to you, shorts drenched between your legs and you’re not sure where you are. For a second you think you’re still high, or even still dreaming, but now this is definitely real.
Alone in your room, your chest heaves as if you’ve run a marathon, and when you slide your feet against your blanket it doesn’t feel as good as it did before. What the fuck was that? You just had a sex dream about a guy that you’ve spoken to maybe twice, and it was so real. The surroundings of your room feel like an entirely different dimension, even though you were just there, with him, with his scent and his large presence, almost too overwhelming.
Are you going crazy? Are you smoking too much weed? Probably the latter, but that doesn’t change how that felt. You groan, rolling over to reach blindly for your phone. Knocking over a few things on your bedside table, you finally find it, and the time reassures you.
7:02. Still two hours until class, two hours to sort yourself out.
It would be great if it wasn’t a Wednesday. Your first class is economics, where you normally sit just a few seats over from the main character of your all consuming dream. Can you ignore him for the whole class? Shit, could you just skip it? Did it really matter?
No, you’re close to failing that stupid class already. It’s too complicated, it just doesn’t go into your brain. It would be hard to get a tutor when everything costs money, too, and you’re committed to spending a large part of your student loan on getting high and ordering pizza with Wooyoung and San.
With yet another loud groan, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and bring yourself to go to the bathroom to wash up. In the mirror, your hair is sticking multiple different directions and you have that recently fucked look, eyes half lidded, t-shirt hanging off of one shoulder.
Is this rock bottom?
“What’s up with you today?”
Wooyoung’s gaze feels like the sharpest daggers shooting into your face. Considering you walked from your house together and managed to converse quite well until you got to class, you’re not really sure what you did wrong. You even complimented him on his bleached hair that he did himself at midnight because it really did look good. Despite that he still doesn’t look happy, plump lips pursed in a scowl and fingers tapping on the table.
He sits to your left, and only three seats to your right is his seat. He hasn’t shown up yet, he’s always late, but you already feel like the class is getting a little too hot. You’re determined to persevere, despite the fact that your jeans feel too tight and even though you’re wearing them, it still feels like your legs are sticking to the plastic chair.
Clutching the signature banana milk you always get from the vending machine outside, you grumble - even the delicious taste isn’t helping.
“Nothing. Nothing’s up,” You mumble, licking sugary milk and banana flavouring from your lips, “Woo, should we just go?”
“Baby, you’re nearly failing,” He coos, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. You don’t know why he’s talking, because he hasn’t even got a bag with him, only a single sheet of paper from your notebook and one of your sparkly pens. Looking at the big clock on the wall, you sigh deeply - he’s going to be here soon - and your friend nudges you under the table with his knee. The movement jostles your milk and you scowl. “What’s the matter? Seriously.”
“I’ll tell you later, but it’s fucking stupid and you’ll laugh.”
Wooyoung seems satisfied with this, grinning and ruffling your hair, but it’s then through messy strands that you see him. Well, the professor walks in first, but Mingi trails in behind her as if he’s got all the time in the world, and you frantically smooth your hair down.
His chains jingle with his movement, and his bag hangs off one shoulder. He looks confident, prepared, probably with books and his laptop in the bag. He’s smart, you know he is, he’s top of the class, probably going to have a really stable analytical job after college that you’d never be able to comprehend. Thinking about it makes you want to giggle like a schoolgirl, and you wish Wooyoung knew what was going on so he could slap you awake.
You drink your banana milk diligently.
The professor begins the lesson while Mingi’s walking to his seat, taking no notice of him as she arranges her things on the stand, and when he sits down you realise no one’s sat between you this time. Low attendance, you suppose, looking around the entire room to see that not many seats are filled at all. He doesn’t even look at you when he sits down and throws his bag to the floor. You’re not sure why you expect him to, but you take the time to analyse him fully.
He never dresses casually. Shrugging off his leather jacket and letting it drape over the chair, the cheap plastic creaks with his movement, and the light glints off the bulky silver rings adorning his long fingers.
It’s suddenly getting really hot now, and your banana milk is doing nothing to cool you. Your eyes scan over his hands and up his arms to his chest. His black turtleneck is tight on firm muscles and such a contrast to his silver chains, so pleasing to your eye. Mingi’s dark hair drapes over his eyes, but you can still see them, chocolate brown and striking and narrowing at you.
At you? You blink, and no, really, he is looking at you, and you’re not sure what to do. He doesn’t give you a chance, thankfully, because he gives you a small smile and a little wave and turns to listen to the lecture.
Wooyoung practically chases you out of class by the end of it, even launching your carton in the bin for you. You manage to get him to a bench outside and once he’s situated, you clear your throat. He has his head in his hands, waiting, foot tapping against the floor. He’s never been good with patience; San always teases him about the time you told him you’d tell them something in class the next day and he didn’t sleep all night.
“I had a wet dream last night.”
Wooyoung groans loudly, kicking you in the shin. You squeal, falling onto the bench with an affronted stare, and he scowls at you. “Is that it? I probably have a wet dream every other night!”
“Woo, listen- listen to me. It was about Mingi. Your friend, Song Mingi. Be honest, is it over for me?”
His eyes light up. His face straightens, and then he leans forward, and you know you’re done before he even starts laughing, but the noise is still so loud that it makes your ears ring when he’s off. Multiple people in the quad turn towards you both, making you scowl at your housemate. He claps a few times in joy before he’s done.
“That’s- that’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, baby,” He giggles, hitting your shoulder playfully. “Have you spoken to him? At all? You never come to our friends’ parties. Not one, actually, now that I think about it.”
The birds in the campus trees tweet a rhythm mockingly. Your eye twitches. Wooyoung’s lips curl again.
“Maybe once or twice, in passing,” You frown, voice soft and timid, “Woo, it’s not my fault. We don’t choose our dreams, it’s your subconscious or something. Y’know scientists have literally said that?”
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about, do you?” He’s still smiling, and you shake your head. He’s right, you don’t, but you’re still sure you read that somewhere. “I guess you’re right though. Maybe- oh my god, maybe you do have a crush on him or something, a repressed one, and now it’s coming to the surface because it’s time. Like fate or something.”
You hum, thinking, deciding that Wooyoung’s insane. “Still, it felt real. Like, insanely real, Woo. It was better than anything I’ve had in person, and now I feel like I’m seeing him differently.”
Wooyoung raises his eyebrows, but still rubs your knee comfortingly. You’re thankful that he’s still being nice despite finding it very amusing. “It’s just a dream anyway. I don’t think you have to worry about it that much, baby, you’ll forget about him in a few days. I’ve had dreams that have given me crushes before too.”
“What if I don’t? You don’t get how intense it was.”
“Well, then we can talk to him,” He nods confidently, nudging you. “I can put a good word in, get you your dream boyfriend-”
“That is literally the worst idea you’ve ever had,” You deadpan, shaking your head, “I have a solid two friends for a reason, I’m not a people person, I am just trying to get through college with zero problems. And he’s- Woo, he’s… cool. Like you two. I don’t get cool guys.”
“You got us, didn’t you?” He pulls you into his side, kissing your forehead, then adds, “and we love you. You’re our best friend,” It comforts you enough to quell your insecurities for a moment. He checks the time on his phone and whoops triumphantly, “let’s go home. San will be back from the gym and we can smoke and order food. My treat. Oh also, can I tell him?”
“... I don’t think I have a choice.”
“No, you don’t. There's three of us in this relationship.”
Despite the fact that you fall asleep in some form of a puppy pile with Wooyoung and San in the latter’s bed, it happens again.
This time, you’re on the sofa in your living room. Mingi’s positioned underneath you, in a black compression shirt and grey sweatpants like an anime character you’d fantasise over, and you’re on his lap.
What are these fantasies?
Has your brain taken note of outfits he’s worn before?
You know it’s him from the size of his body and the way it feels, intense and all consuming, although you haven’t managed to see everything yet, still fuzzy at the edges with sleep. The sweat drips down your collarbone already, and he seems just as wrecked from the squirming he’s doing, moving upwards into your body while he pulls you down against him by your hips. His hands move up your oversized t-shirt, settling on your flushed skin.
“Feels so fuckin’ g-good,” He huffs, “even just- just like this,”
His deep voice makes your head spin, and when you see his face it feels like a relief. His cheeks are flushed, lips kiss bitten, and you place another few pecks on his lips for good measure. He’s yours, after all, your boyfriend. “Is your little hole wet? Can you feel it, b-baby, drenching these cute little panties?” He whines, nosing into the crook of your neck, licking over the skin, “Is it begging for me? F-fuck, talk to me, please.”
He babbles incoherently but you can make out that it’s filthy, and you can’t fucking believe it. Is he like this, really? Your hips grind down against him sharply, needing more, because he’s right. Panties drenched, too delirious to even think about it, your hands scramble against his shoulders. You can see everything in that t-shirt, the way his biceps bulge against the fabric and the way his chest clenches as he ruts himself against you, nipples poking through, tempting. He’s got that expression again - eyebrows furrowed, lips parted, but this time he’s looking directly down at where you’re connected, bottom lip slick with spit. The pressure of his cock against your core in his sweatpants is so much, and you can’t help it, eyes rolling back to your head.
“Want you, want you so bad,” You pant. It feels like the most honest thing you’ve ever said. He nods, thrusting harder. He wants more, wants you to say more, his hands pulling you down against him. It’s a dirty rhythm, a sinuous grind. “I want it so fucking bad, Mingi, you don’t even-“ you buck, whining, “-don’t even know how bad, please, please-”
“Yeah? Did you touch your little clit thinking about me?” He pushes you upwards, still letting you move against him but slipping his hand underneath his waistband to rub over his cockhead. He’s desperate too, teeth biting into his lower lip. He wants it just as bad. You feel wet, and you look down to see you’ve leaked right through your panties onto his sweatpants. Have you ever been this fucking wet before? “Did you think about my cock stretching you open, ruining you until you can’t even remember your own- own fucking name?”
“I d-did, fuck,” You can’t move, eyes fixated on where his hands move under the wet fabric. “Fuck, Mingi, baby, please show me, I’ll do anything, please.”
His hand pauses, and your gaze flits back up to his face. His eyes narrow at you, just like they did in class, and his teeth have released his lower lip so that he can smirk at you, teeth white as snow. It’s promising, but it’s like a threat, and your hands feel a little sweaty against his broad shoulders.
“Really, pretty thing?” His voice is hopeful, and his other hand begins to move his waistband down. You see the beginnings of his dark smattering of pubic hair and almost shaking, you whimper, nodding eagerly. “You’ll do anything for me?”
“Anything, I promise, please, fuck.”
Your eyes shoot open on a particularly loud snore from San. His leg and his arm are both slung over you, head resting on your shoulder with a steady stream of drool pooling on your t-shirt. When you glance at him, he sniffles out a snore, nose scrunching up and thick eyebrows knitting together. He’s lucky you love him.
Once you’ve spluttered yourself awake enough, the warm light of the desk lamp bathing the room catches your attention, and you see Wooyoung sitting on the chair by San’s desk. He’s eating something, and the smell of bacon is the next thing that you register, slowly unwrapping yourself from the older man to crawl towards the younger at the desk.
He’s already clocked you, a smile pulling at his lips as he loads the fork. “Good morning, sunshine.”
You snatch the fork from his fingers, munching before you can even talk. Eggs and bacon, and you wonder who Wooyoung learned to cook from. You make a mental note to ask, because it’s delicious. After you swallow, you mumble, “time?”
“Nine in the morning,” Relaxed as ever, he stretches out on the chair with an overpronounced yawn. He’s still scrutinising you, and you know for sure that you haven’t gotten away with it. “Two nights in a row, huh?”
“How’d you know?” You raise an eyebrow. Wooyoung looks pleased with himself and takes the fork back from you, continuing to eat his meal. Is it your hair? Were you… God, were you making noise?! He still hasn’t said anything! “Oh my fucking- Wooyoung?!”
“All I’m saying is I’m surprised Sannie didn’t wake up with all that squirming,” He finally responds, and the mentioned man grunts in his sleep at being mentioned, always alert, but goes back to snoring almost immediately after. “Don’t worry, it was cute. I think you do have a crush. Subconsciously and all that.”
“I hate you,” You grumble, and he sighs, patting his lap. You still climb onto him, and he hums until you start to doze, stroking your hair in rhythm to San’s snores. It would make you laugh if you weren’t nearly falling asleep again, but every time your eyes flutter shut you see big hands and a sharp nose and those beautiful dark eyes. Sighing, you stretch your legs out to wake yourself back up, “Wooyoungie, I think I’m going crazy. I don’t even know the guy.”
“It’s okay,” He coos, and you can hear how amused he is. Still, he entertains it. “He’s kind, very loyal. Smart, as you know. Sometimes he’s a little unsettling, but it’s endearing, in a way. A little like you.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”
“Well, I love you both dearly, if that counts for anything.”
Still, this doesn’t solve your problem, “Wooyoung, what do I do?”
“I think it’ll surprise you how easy this is going to be.”
It is a surprise to find yourself done up in a cute dress at a party not ten hours later, San and Wooyoung on each arm. You knew they knew people, sure, but they’d been such good friends to you that they’d sworn to be by your side through college, so you’d never bothered to ask to be introduced to their other friends.
From what you can gather, they’re not frat boys but normal college students, too - Wooyoung told you that the two guys that live here are some of their good friends, and that makes you feel a bit better about arriving uninvited. It’s quaint but well decorated, with music memorabilia on the walls, but you don’t get a chance to take it all in because the house is absolutely packed.
San waves and hugs a few people as he walks through, and you see Wooyoung smiling at a group of people that you think must be in his dance classes, because they look as cool and sculpted as him. Still, they pull you through the throes of people into the kitchen, tipsy and stoned and honestly, a content smile on Wooyoung’s face that he finally got you in this position.
You’re not even sure who’s party this is, but the boys help themselves to drinks and San keeps a comforting hand on your lower back, leaning in close so that you can hear him while your other friend pours you a drink.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Sannie, I have been to parties before, I’m not a total shrew,” You tease. He pulls you into a sort of half-hug and you smell him, something earthy with a hint of jasmine, comfortable and grounding, familiar. Different to… you’re trying not to think about that.
The younger man hands you both the finished drinks, a concoction of something purple, and well, liquid confidence you suppose. You knock half of it down before you can think. He seems satisfied with this, but you hiss at the aftertaste, sticking your tongue out. “I’m definitely a smoker, not a drinker. This is fucking nasty. You guys drink this stuff all the time?”
“He does, I kinda hate it too,” San huffs, swirling his cup in his hand and watching the liquid move.
Wooyoung scoffs, “that and you can’t handle your drink. You pass out after a few.”
San’s already flushed, but you swear he gets redder, shooting Wooyoung a dirty look with a too-cute pout before turning back to you. “Refresh me on the situation again by the way. You had a dream about Mingi? Song Mingi?”
Right, Wooyoung had caught him up over the course of the day while you napped and attempted to study. You lick your lips, trying to somehow clean yourself of the drink’s bitter aftertaste but only getting a mouthful of sticky lipgloss.
“Two dreams,” Wooyoung corrects, pointing at San, smiling so wide you can see his teeth in the dim light of the kitchen. They’re practically shouting over the music, and you want to tell them to be quiet but you are in a quieter area. No one can hear you, you hope, groups having filtered into the back garden, bedrooms and the living room. “And I think she liked him before. Fate, science - look, you had to be there. Anyway, we should go talk to him.”
“Wooyoung, I do not know this man.”
“We know him,” San smiles. He’s too easy. “Hey, this is cute! Is this your first crush? He’s a good guy.”
You swat him away when he tries to pinch your cheeks. “Not my first crush or my first party. You have literally met some of my exes. I also don’t think this is a good idea.”
“First, all of your exes were assholes so I didn’t like them and therefore they don’t exist. Second, you have to think it’s a somewhat good idea because you did come - to the party, I mean,” Wooyoung grabs your hand, pulling you to the back door. “I think they’ll probably be out here.”
Wooyoung’s right, about both things. All of your exes were assholes, men that only cared about getting their dick wet and their own feelings and not at all about yours. You’ve always thought it would be nice to have a man who takes notice of the things you like, the way you feel; the longer life dwindles on it seems to become less attainable.
He’s also right that you came to this party with the idea that your friends were setting you up. You don’t expect them to be subtle about it though - a fact that daunts on you as they lead you through the kitchen.
As soon as the back door opens, you’re hit with the sight of what seems to be a much cooler, more private party. The smell of weed and the sound of softer, less overwhelming music are the first things you can process and yeah, okay, this might be more your type of scene. There’s a cute, shorter guy wearing flared jeans and a shiny tiara, chatting with a group of people enthusiastically; surely it must be his party.
You’re pulled over to a section of outdoor seating where there’s a few people sitting down. There’s a small fire going, contained in a silver pit, and the warmth is welcomed on your skin, cold from the outside air biting at your skin in the cute dress you’re wearing. Really, you don’t clock him at first, but Wooyoung and San are eager to take you over to that area and there can only be one reason why.
“Yunho!” Wooyoung’s way too chipper, but Yunho falls for it, springing up from one of the chairs to wrap his arms around the shorter male. San’s hugging someone too, and from the corner of your eye you see it’s fucking Mingi, and you’ve never felt so betrayed in your life.
“Fancy seeing you here, huh?” San says, way too exaggerated, and you hover in confusion as he continues, “we finally brought our cute friend, look.”
Cute friend? Suddenly all of the attention is on you. Yunho and Mingi are both peering at you, and Mingi is - he has to be assessing you, eyes scanning your frame. You can’t see them properly due to the sunglasses. Does he recognise you? You’ve only spoken once or twice before, in passing. He probably doesn’t even know your name.
Yunho seems to know who you are, grinning from ear to ear and pulling you into a hug before you can even introduce yourself. You can’t help but laugh, throwing your arms around him while avoiding spilling your purple drink on his white satin shirt.
“It’s so good to meet you!” He shakes you happily. Mingi still hasn’t said anything, but he’s clutching a bottle of jagermeister and a cup with a different drink, looking at you as if he’s waiting for the moment. You try not to be uncool right in front of his eyes, smiling at Yunho politely. “Wooyoungie kept talking about you, all nice things, I promise. You have some good friends here.”
“I can’t really get rid of them, kinda like the plague,” You smile, and you’re glad Yunho detects your sarcasm and lets out a loud laugh, a bit too loud to be normal. He ushers you all to sit down, and when everyone’s situated the only available spot left is next to Mingi.
How convenient.
In your peripheral vision, you can see your best friends have already roped Yunho into a conversation, leaving the subject of your fantasies free and still fucking looking at you.
Hesitantly, you sit down. The fire is nice you suppose, warming up your legs quite quickly, and you keep your knees firmly planted together and far away from him. The other three chatter away, preoccupied in such an intentional way that it makes your blood boil. It’s time to consider rooting through your bag in a way that looks like you’re doing something.
He says your name, and it feels like time stops. He’s speaking to you. This is the worst possible situation, how are you even meant to talk to him? Slowly, you turn to look at him. He’s in a black zip up jacket, bottle of Jagermeister in hand, sunglasses pushed down to the end of his nose. Those chains glint in the light again, and he leans forward, saying your name again, pushing the sunglasses onto his head. They push his hair back in the most delicious way that you shiver. No. Not right now. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re in my economics class too, right? You sit with Wooyoung.”
He knows you. “R-right,” You blurt, smiling nervously. “I am. Mingi, right?”
“You sit just a few seats over from me, with Wooyoung. I wanted to say hi to you, but to be honest, I never knew how,” He scratches the back of his neck. He’s cute, a little shy despite how big and scary he looks. Just like Wooyoung said. It feels like that makes it all even worse - he really is a dream, delightful traits rolled all into one. “It’s good to all get together though, right? I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these before.”
“Oh, no. I don’t really get out much, to be honest. I’m a homebird,” You say, and cringe inside. What the fuck are you saying? You need to be cool.
But Mingi only smiles, letting out an ‘ah’. “Me too, to be honest. I’m an anime in bed guy, but I live here, so I have to leave my room. It’s really sad.”
Not only is he actually so easy to talk to, but he reassured you quickly - he’s the same. Wooyoung was right again.
He lives here, though, which means… Wooyoung and San brought you to a party at Mingi’s house? This is some sort of next level interfering that you never even considered, but you have to act normal, so you clear your throat.
“You live with that guy wearing the tiara, then?”
“His name is Hongjoong,” Mingi laughs. “You don’t know who’s house you’re at?”
Fiddling with the clasp of your bag, you look down at your lap. “I told you, I don’t normally go to parties. I got dragged to this.” White lie.
“It’s fine, I’m only kidding. Anyway, you know me,” He grins playfully. You flush, suddenly too warm from the fire, a little too awkward but also with such deep desperation in your belly. His zip-up slips from his shoulder and you see a bit of tanned skin that makes you inhale. “So you drink. You smoke too?”
You laugh. “Oh yeah, I smoke.”
Mingi’s eyes narrow at you again, perceiving you. Is he impressed? Flustered? He’s still smiling, like he knows something about you, but you’re not sure what.
The conversation is interrupted by Yunho, who’s pulling a bong out from by the side of the table with a loud cheer. Wooyoung’s already dragging the bong from his lap. San has fallen asleep next to him, cheeks flushed and shoulders slouched over. Wooyoung doesn’t take any notice, giggling as he readies the pipe. He spills some weed on his lap but doesn’t look bothered.
You point at San. “Is he okay?”
Everyone chimes in at once - “He does this”.
Mingi leans closer to you, and you manage not to tense up when he speaks easily, “What are you drinking?”
You motion at the plastic cup of Purple Concoction on the floor, and he sucks his teeth, shaking his head. While the others carry on, Mingi leans down and you immediately seize up.
“I’m not drinking jager,” you panic, “that’s way too-“
He chuckles and hands you his plastic cup, with a liquid not dissimilar in appearance to coke, and you want to laugh in his face.
Is this like… inadvertently sharing spit?
Reaching for the cup, you take a sip of the drink, and he watches you, waiting for your reaction.
It’s surprisingly nice. A lot better than whatever the fuck the guys gave you in the kitchen, and definitely not jager. It’s some sort of rum with coke and you hum at the taste, handing the cup back to him. He’s still watching you, keeping eye contact as you swallow the liquid down.
When he lets you get this close, you notice the two beauty spots on his face from your dream, one by his eye and one on his cheek, and it makes your heart soar. He’s so cute, despite the way he dresses, rough and raw on the exterior and kind and gentle inside.
“Much better, right?”
“Much better,” You agree. For a second, the ugly, rearing insecurity appears in your head again - what are you doing? He’s so out of your league.
Before it can fester, Mingi clicks his tongue, taking a sip himself. “See, you should stick with me tonight,” he leans back, then smiles, “I’ve got the good stuff, and I’m cooler than San. He’s fallen asleep already.”
Stick with him tonight. Just as you think there might be something there, a little flickering of intrigue in his eyes as well as yours, the guy with the flared jeans rushes over out of nowhere.
“Mingi-ah, I’m so sorry, but someone’s throwing up in the living room and I need your help.”
The gentle voice brings you both out of your trance, and he immediately spins his head to the other man. Hongjoong, you think you remember him saying. Mingi all but rolls his eyes - does he look disappointed? - but swings his legs over the edge of the seat, leaving you with the nice tasting drink.
“Sorry, I better go,” He says, and Hongjoong gives him a look full of something that you can’t work out. Mingi looks awkward, eyebrows raising in expectation for you to say something, so you nod politely and he shoots you a grin. You think you’ll replay that grin forever, late at night when you’re trying to remember all of the angles of his face. “I’ll see you in class, yeah?”
“Yeah.” You nod, licking over your lips. “it was really nice talking to you, Mingi.”
He shoots you a smile that looks a little too upset, but he’s off then, housemate in tow; Wooyoung wordlessly passes you the bong, eyes pink and limbs stretched over the sleeping San. It’s hard not to go over the events with the sudden silence and your clammy fingers wrap around the cup he left you, taking another gulp of the alcohol as it pops into your head.
Apologetic.
Hongjoong looked apologetic that he was interrupting you both, and you want to tell your friends and deepen that and make it more than it is; but you’re reminded that in reality, you’re just another girl Mingi was talking to at a party.
It’s been a couple days with no dreams now, which feels good, because you only saw him in passing again during the party. You have thought about him, in fleeting thoughts where you’ve gone over the events of the party, but it’s good not to let it linger. Just two dreams, that’s all it was, and you sit in economics class the following Wednesday with a relatively clear head and a nice skirt on, determined that you definitely do not have a crush.
Additionally, another decision - you will not fail this class. Two simple resolutions; last week was just a minor setback.
He walks in, and sits in his seat, and there’s actually people sitting between you this time. This is reassuring because you can’t focus on how his thighs fit in those jeans, or how nice his hands look when he types, or how his hair falls over his forehead in such a mysterious way-
No. You stare at your notes, flicking over the pages. It’s good to refresh before the professor starts, you think, and you really think it works when she begins her lesson and does a brief recap… before she starts talking about a test a few weeks after break. Huh?
“Since it’s the last week before fall break, I thought I’d give some of you a chance to study and get your grades up,” She explains, and you think you see her glance towards you and Wooyoung. Everyone groans, and she tuts, laughing. “This test isn’t that hard, I’m being really nice to you guys!”
You zone out again. Now you’re going to have to do a stupid test on something you don’t care about, and you’re either going to let yourself down or just not show up to do it at all, to be honest. You sigh and huff and puff, scribbling a doodle on your page.
To everyone, you included, the bell ringing after the rest of the boring lesson is a welcome sound. You huff when you put your books into your bag, you huff when you sling your bag over your shoulder, and you’re still huffing at Wooyoung as you both walk out of the door.
That is, until a firm hand stops your path and a very clear, deep voice says your name.
Looking up, you see Mingi, lensless glasses on his nose again and that little shy smile on his lips, and the last few days of progression are forgotten.
How could you ever forget how pretty he is? Love songs start playing in your head, intricate violins and piano, and it’s jarring how nervous you feel all of a sudden, uncertain of yourself. He’s so beautiful and he dresses well and he’s smart and kind and easygoing, but you still have that looming feeling of it’s never gonna happen, hopping from foot to foot in your boots.
Wooyoung keeps walking, pretending to be occupied on his phone, and you realise you’re staring at Mingi and not saying anything. “Mingi. Hi!”
“Hi, it’s good to see you again,” He seems a little flustered himself, fingers pulling at the collar of his t-shirt and you can’t help but smile. He’s so endearing. “How have you been since the party?”
“Good,” You shrug easily, like it hasn’t been destroying your nerves for the past few days, “I’ve been good. I- you’re good too, I hope?”
Inwardly cringing, you flush, but Mingi seems to find it amusing, lips curling up. “I’m great. Hey, listen, couldn’t help but overhear you’re not doing too well in economics, and well, I’m not too bad at it myself,” he snaps his fingers, and your eyes widen. No. “I can study with you for the test, if you want.”
“Is that a good idea?” You’re straight to the point, and Mingi offers a pout, confused, and you want to cry. “I mean, Mingi, I would just take up your time-”
“I want to study with you,” He seems to straighten up then, and you remember how big he is, towering over you. “No offence, but I know you’re not doing too well, and I want to help you,” He seems determined, and you can’t work out why, but he continues, “We could bump your grade up a little if you do well on the test.”
You let out a strangled noise, tapping your foot. “… Fine.”
“I- I could come to yours later on today? If you’re free, that is.”
You stare. That’s the second worst fucking idea you’ve ever heard, next to Wooyoung’s that got you talking to this tall, beautiful man in the first place. Why not the library? But you’re going to have to, aren’t you, because you can’t deny that face anything, and what other choice have you got?
The idea of being in close proximity to him like that and being able to trace every single line and dot on his face with your eyes is anxiety and arousal inducing and he’s staring at you hopefully, waiting for an answer-
“Mingi, I’m bad at this class,” You blurt. He only tilts his head in question. “I could bring your grade down, distract you so badly by asking so many questions that you end up at the bottom just like me.”
He’s quick to respond, as if he can’t miss this opportunity. “That’s a bit extreme,” he breathes out a laugh, “very unlikely. Anyway, call it helping a friend out.”
A friend. Of course.
“Right, well…” You rub the back of your neck.
It would be stupid to pass this up. If studying with him could really help your grade, and stop you retaking this dumb class, you’re sure you can reign in the horny demons inside of you for a few nights a week. You look down at the floor, but get caught at his legs.
In the rips of his black jeans, you see a slither of muscled thigh. Your eye twitches.
Shit, can you reign it in? Fuck, you’re gonna have to. “Okay. I’ll work really hard. I’ll be a really good study partner, like, the best.”
“I know you’ll be good,” He grins, and god, did he mean the way that came out? He’s already pushing his phone into your hands for you to put your number in, and you send an emoji to yourself so that you have his too. “Cool. I’ll text you, let you know when I’m on my way.”
By the time he’s walked away, somehow Wooyoung is right behind you again, giggling in your ear about fate.
But that’s how you find yourself in your room not five hours later, unfortunately not high and staring at Mingi, sitting contently in front of you. San and Wooyoung had greeted him in the hallway, mumbling too quietly for you to hear - to your dismay - and now you’re in your room. Your plushies and girly things would be embarrassing if he didn’t immediately pick up a fuzzy teddy bear and place it on his lap, cooing and pulling softly at his droopy ear.
He’s so cute, and the more you think about it the more it’s got you scowling in your loungewear. A matching set, in the hopes that he’d think you look nice.
He’s talking about something, you think, but god you feel like you’re in those dreams you have again with how he’s on your bed and you’re dizzy with it - except you’re not. It’s real, he’s there, perched on your mattress next to you in a zip-up jacket and joggers for comfort with textbooks set beside his lap. He kicked off his shoes in your hallway, and he’s in a spare pair of San’s slippers, two sizes too small.
You focus back in when he waves his fingers in front of your face teasingly, and all you can do is mumble sorry there’s no desk in my room.
“What? That’s fine, it’s better to be comfortable anyway,” He laughs, finally placing the teddy bear back in its spot. He pats his head. You want to scream. “Do you have any idea what you want to start with? We can keep it pretty basic at first and work our way up. She said the test won’t be too bad - if you actually listen to me, you’ll be fine.”
It’s said pointedly, with a little grin like he knows you’re not going to listen.
“Cool, cool,” You smile with way more confidence than you feel. Your entire body hums like a live wire at the proximity. “So I’ll be top of the class when the grades come out, right?”
He narrows his eyes at you playfully, grabbing a textbook from the pile. “Relax. I’m top of the class.”
Oh.
You stare at him, smirking like you’re not the slightest bit affected, even though you really are. He often rides on the line between confident and cocky, like he’s daring you to call him out. Like he knows something you don’t, always one step ahead.
Scooting a little closer, you scoff, accepting the challenge. You can play ball. “Top of the class doesn’t mean you’re good at tutoring. What if you can’t make me any better?”
Mingi glances up at you, playfulness in his eyes, that slow smile forming like it has all the time in the world. His jaw clicks when he speaks, “You’re being cheeky, y’know that? I guess I’ll have to show you what I can do.”
“That-?” You swat him, and he catches your wrist easily, making you gasp and pull back sharply. Heat crawls up your neck. “Let’s- okay, let’s just start.”
He chuckles, low and easy, satisfied at how flustered you’ve gotten. You wonder for a moment if he can feel it between you too, but he leans closer, resting his elbow on his knee as he opens the textbook between the two of you. There’s a decent amount of distance, but you swear you can feel the heat radiating from his thighs - you have to squeeze yours together to calm down. Not now.
“You’re already not paying attention, are you?”
It’s hard to because he smells like warm cologne and something familiar, vanilla and cedar and you’ve smelled this before, you swear, in your dreams. His leg brushes yours like it’s no big deal, like you’re not looking at how much bigger than you he is, like he doesn’t notice how you shiver every time he gets this close. Does he?
He taps a paragraph on the page, saying something about how this part is important, and we should go over this too, but his voice is softer now, almost tender. “You’re not even looking at the book. What’s up? Have you really just got a mental block for this?”
No, you’re just too attractive and it’s overwhelming. “Yup, think so,” you exhale, rubbing your sweaty palms on your leggings, “hey, what if we smoke before we study? I think I might focus better.”
Mingi seems to consider it. He scratches a nail down the page in thought - you notice he’s got some letters painted on his nails, and you want to ask. Eventually he shrugs, shutting the book and throwing it to the side. Your jaw drops that he gave up that easily, but he’s rummaging through his bag all of a sudden with ring-clad hands before he pulls out a little plastic bag.
“I planned for this.”
It’s your turn to grin.
“I mean, if you insist,” You tease, nudging him with your foot, and Mingi chuckles, low and sexy. The thought pops into your head again - you and him. It’s so easy, bantering back and forth, the nerves only electrifying you more. You remind yourself very quickly that this is nothing more than a study session, or preparing for one at least.
Passing him the rolling tray from your bedside table, because you’d be damned if you were rolling with his stuff, you settle back on your pillows leisurely. He immediately begins to roll, pulling papers out of his zip-up pocket, and you want to ask him things rather than stare at his hands. Get to know him. Sue you, he’s pretty. “What do you major in?”
“Music production. So does Hongjoong, that’s how we know each other,” He answers easily, and you’re shocked initially, but actually… It makes sense. He’s relaxed and sometimes shy, but he can ride the line between confident and cocky - like he has two personas, the Mingi you see and the Mingi you actually get. It’s fun. “What about you?”
“English, believe it or not,” You say, and Mingi hums. “So you make music?”
He licks the paper, sealing the joint. “I’m not surprised. You seem smart like that,” He seems confused on where to smoke it, but you pass him an ashtray and he throws you a thumbs up as he lights it, inhaling deep and filling your room with the funky-smelling smoke, “but yeah, I make music. I’m a rapper.”
A rapper? So he’s good with his tongue. You shiver, “Right.”
“Oh, do you? Write, I mean?” He smiles at his own joke, eyes already half lidded and a little pink, handing you the joint; you’ll never admit you giggled at it too.
You take a few diligent tokes, ashing in the tray when necessary. “I do, sometimes, but I don’t get much free time anymore.”
“Mm, I bet,” You’re already a little giggly, and you hand the joint back with a warm feeling on your cheeks and limbs feeling a little slower, less in control. “I could… maybe show you a song I made. Only if you show me something you wrote. That would be cool, I think.”
You can’t believe you’re in here smoking with him, and he’s telling you things about himself, too. You can build on this.
No - you’re getting ahead of yourself again.
“I’d be down,” You smile softly. He hands you the joint again, another quarter smoked, his lips now with a permanent curve of bliss. He’s high, and he looks so pretty when he’s high, fixing his dark shaggy hair with long, ring clad fingers. He lays on his side in front of you, grabbing your teddy bear to hold at his chest while he leans on his hand, comfortable. There’s one burning question in your mind as you examine him, his zip-up slipping off his shoulder, “honestly, I’m surprised you don’t major in fashion. You dress really cool.”
That slow, lazy smirk forms again, ear to ear. You almost choke as you inhale, but you manage to keep it in. “You think I dress cool?”
You shrug, suddenly aware of how hot it is in your room. “I mean… yeah.”
“Thanks,” He says, then adds, almost too casually, “I think you’re really pretty.”
It lands harder than he expected. Your breath stutters, and he licks his lips, eyes widening like he thinks he’s gone too far. “Is that-“ he hesitates, “-okay? Can I say that?”
You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah, you- yeah, you can say that.”
Now it’s his turn to look nervous, teeth worrying at his lip but this time like he’s trying not to smile too wide. He thinks you’re pretty? Really pretty? The compliment loops around in your head. You hand him the joint back, meaning to follow it up with a question but he simply puts it out in your ashtray, the finality causing you to pause.
He moves into a sitting position with a quiet sigh, and rifles through his bag a little. Just as you’re about to speak, he pulls out his laptop - the screensaver is one of him, Hongjoong and Yunho from a holiday, you judge by the background of the shot, but he clicks away and types his password in too fast for you to examine it fully.
“Anyway,” He says, too deliberately normal, clicking on a file, “I’ve got some material from the professor. It should help clear things up.”
Just like that, he moves on like the compliment was nothing, like it didn’t linger between you. You assume you should too.
Friends compliment each other, right? He’s already pulling the file up, dexterous fingers quick and practiced clicking on the pages he needs and your head spins pleasantly from the weed, rubbing your clammy hands on your legs again.
A few clicks of his cursor, and he motions you closer, utterly unaware of how intoxicating he smells this close - you’re pooling in your panties again. Your knees touch and this time it sends a shock through you, but you catch the gasp in your throat before it leaves.
“Alright,” he says softly, voice deep, “take a look at this…”
Focusing on anything else feels impossible, but you push through it, determined - for him.
It’s only gotten worse.
Rather than the dreams just being sexual, now they’re something more homely and serious than your heart can handle. You’ve had no more study sessions, although you’re due one today, and you’ve had these godforsaken dreams almost every night.
Mingi cooking you dinner in your kitchen, smelling of oil and something delicious. Mingi holding your hand, safe and sure, as you walk through the city at night. Restaurants with Mingi, him pouring you another glass of wine and giggling when your nose scrunches up at the taste.
It’s getting domestic rather than primal, and you’re not sure how to deal with it. It’s made you want him more, while the times you actually see him only remind you that he doesn’t see you like that. At least, not in real life.
To make matters worse, Mingi insisted you continue your study sessions - along with now sending you some motivational GIFs over text during the week to make sure you’re on top form, like that was meant to help your sick little crush - and now you find yourself sitting waiting for him in the library, heart already fluttering something stupid.
A carton of banana milk slides across the desk.
You squeak and barely manage to catch it before it tips over, glad that the campus library is pretty much empty due to fall break and you can make however much noise as you like. The librarian would typically tell you off for saying one word, but she’s got her own nose in an old, weathered book, her eyes fluttering shut from sleep.
A big body drops into the seat across from yours, the weight of him making the table feel smaller. Mingi looks entirely too pleased with himself, nodding pointedly at the carton.
“That’s it, right?” He snaps his fingers, “that’s the one you like.”
You stare. It's the same exact one you get from the vending machine in the building where your economics class is every week, but given that you’re now on break you haven’t had a reason to go there. It had been hard, trying to do any form of studying without your banana milk, but… how could Mingi have noticed that you get this one?
“How…” You shake your head. “How did you know?”
His eyebrow raises, looking confused, opening his laptop.
“I always see you with one,” He says, as if it explains everything. Your gut clenches, and you feel something tingle in between your legs too, like all it takes is a carton of milk, making you feel nothing but desperate - it’s more than that, though. He noticed.
A few clicks, and then he digs in his bag again, setting a carton of strawberry milk down for himself and a set of papers next to you both. Your heart flutters. “I brought worksheets too. I know, not really fun, but at least I can see what you know since you know… we weren’t exactly productive last time,” he tuts at you playfully, “bad influence.”
You gasp dramatically. “Excuse you. We studied after, and it was your weed.”
He nudges your ankle softly with his shoe. “And I brought you a banana milk,” he slides the papers over, “now do the sheets for me, you’re wasting time again.”
For him, you’d do anything. Your pencil scribbles across the paper as you write your name with a heart next to it, as if you’re not his only student. Mingi doesn’t notice - he takes the time to do something on his laptop. You wonder what, because he pulls his headphones over his head and starts working dutifully. It’s hard not to simply watch him at work and ignore what he asked you to do; he clocks in so quickly, eyes narrowing at the screen and lips mouthing words you can’t decipher. He’s comfortable in baggy jeans and a hoodie, chains and rings catching your attention but he looks amazing, like everything he wears is straight from a fashion show.
Shaking your head, you turn to the paper - but you read a total of one question before realising that you really have no idea what the fuck is going on in this class.
“Mingi,” You say finally, tapping your pencil on the page, “I need help.”
To your surprise, he pulls his headphones off his dark hair quickly and leans over to you, eyes flickering to your sheet. It takes everything in you not to kiss him then and there.
“… That’s the first question,” He looks at you, taking in your blank expression, then exhales a laugh. “Okay, I’ve seen you in every class - do you just not focus at all?”
Flailing your limbs around dramatically, you groan, “it’s boring as hell. The lecturer is also boring as hell.”
He snorts, but instead of teasing you more like you expect him to, he pulls his chair around properly, close enough that your knees touch. A shiver wracks through your spine.
“Alright,” he says gently, voice calmer, more soothing, “forget how she explained it. I’ll do it my way.”
He takes your pencil, fingers brushing against yours, sketching quick boxes and arrows across the page.
“Okay,” he begins, “economics is just people making decisions but with maths.”
You blink. “I don’t think that’s correct.”
He grins, sharp nose scrunching, clearly pleased that you’re actually interested for once. “No, seriously. It’s people making choices because they want something and don’t have enough money or time for it. All we have to do is sound smart when we talk about it.”
He sketches two simple lines with your pencil, next to the questions on the sheet, a curve sloping upwards and another sloping down right next to it. You recognize it immediately, which makes you a little proud.
“Supply and demand,” You mumble, pointing at the page. His eyes brighten.
“See? You do know things,” He says softly, like it’s a secret. His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer, and you remember the party, how close he was then, and you forget everything you’ve ever learned. Fuck.
“So this,” He taps the downward curve, your cat-shaped eraser bobbing comically on the edge of the pencil, “is demand. People want less of something when it’s expensive, more when it’s cheap - dramatic, but predictable, right? Of course we do.”
“And supply,” He continues, tapping the other line, “that’s the opposite. Producers are greedy. They’re willing to sell more when prices are higher.”
He freezes, glancing sideways at you. “You still with me? That’s like, basic basic.”
You nod a little too fast. It makes sense, but fuck, are you allowed to kiss him yet? He’s so patient, so kind, and so cute that even his fucking teeth are cute. “Yeah. I’m here.”
His mouth twitches like he doesn’t quite believe you, but he lets it slide and draws a small dot where the lines intersect.
“Equilibrium,” You say, and he nods.
“The sweet spot,” He murmurs, and you shiver. This has to be some sort of fucked up joke. “Everyone’s equally unhappy here. Price equals quantity demanded equals quantity supplied. No shortages. No surplus.”
He leans back just enough to look at you properly. You’re not confused, rather determined, staring at the sheet.
He fiddles with the eraser, rings glinting in the light. “So what part loses you?”
“All of it,” you admit, “but especially those shifts…? Why do things move?”
His expression softens. You wonder if he’s finally realised you’re hopeless, but he starts speaking again, more determined.
“Okay, so,” He flips to a clean section of the page and starts again, slower this time, drawing the same silly diagrams and the same silly dots and scribbles. His plump lips curl in focus, making him look so handsome that your hands unclench and clench in your lap. “Think of demand shifting like your banana milk.”
Your heart flutters.
“You don’t always want it, right?” He says casually, like he hasn’t just seen you so viscerally. “Like if it’s hot outside, or you’re stressed, or the lecture was particularly boring, then you want it more. I bet you’d even pay more.”
He’s right, you think, but why does this all make sense now, with him? He rubs at the page with your cat-shaped eraser and shifts the curve, oblivious to your internal plight. “That’s a demand increase. Same price, more quantity demanded.”
You stare at the page, then at him. “You’re using me as an example.”
“Well,” he shrugs, too nonchalantly for how you feel looking at him. “You’re the first thing I thought of.”
Your fingers tighten around the edge of the paper. He’s still got your pencil so you can’t fidget, but you can smell his cologne, mixing with the scent of books in the library. It feels way too intimate and the furthest you’ve gone is your knees touching. You want more, but you have to focus.
“And supply, then… if things get cheaper, or easier to produce, you can make more so supply increases,” You try, quieter and uncertain, but he nods encouragingly. “I think this actually makes some sense when you explain it.”
Something unreadable flickers across his face - pride, perhaps. “Good,” he says, softer, “I want you to get it.”
You smile, taking a sip of your banana milk that has you humming with glee. Tasty. He mirrors you and takes a sip of his, sliding the worksheet back towards you, his fingers lingering just a second too long to tap on the words printed. He’s got the same letters written across his fingernails again.
“Try the next question,” He nudges you. “I’ll stay here.”
It takes you a second to decode, but you start to scribble down things here and there, trying to make heads or tails of the question. Mingi is silent the whole time but you feel him watching what you’re doing, and you feel the weight of his arm when he lays it on the back of the chair behind you.
Within a few minutes you seem to have written something of note, and you slide the paper back to him silently.
He clicks his tongue without saying a word and leans forward closer to the desk. Dark eyes narrow at the page and read over the few lines you’ve written, before he side eyes you with a satisfied smirk.
“Good girl,” It’s said teasingly, and he smooths your hair, too casual. Your tummy flips but his grin is content, unknowing, his eyes forming crescents, “see, I told you you’d get it. Try the next one.”
Somehow, it starts to seem easier with him around, and over time, he has to help you less and less. It doesn’t quell the burning in your gut, only igniting it to the point it starts to get unsufferable, and all you can do is try to ignore the flames.
The next time he’s between your legs in your dreams is in your room again, and it feels so much more vivid now that you know more about him, about the way he speaks to you, the way he acts.
“What a pretty fucking pussy,” He muses, eyes fixated directly on your core. He uses his thumbs to pull your lower lips apart, and you can see those letters on his nails. He watches your folds stick together with arousal once he lets go, groaning, running his fingertip up your slit - the contact makes you gasp, hips bucking tentatively for more. “Does she always get this wet?” he spits down on your mound, watching it drip, “fuck- fucking creamy, baby, shit.”
He lets out a little moan before he’s diving in. You can’t get any relief, trying to squirm away - his broad shoulders are spreading your thighs apart as well as pinning them, and his hands are still playing with your pussy while he tongues over your slit.
“Tasty too, good girl, mmf-“ he whines, moving to pull you closer by your ass instead, his rings biting into your skin. He says it the way he did in the library, and your cunt gushes so wet his lips click against it; the moan you let out is like you’re in distress, hand gripping onto the headboard.
How does he know you like this? His lips suck over your clit and you wail, reaching down with your spare hand to push his head in.
“Fuck, Mingi,” you gasp, writhing, “so fucking good, please-“
Yanking at his hair, you can’t help but grind your hips into his face. He doesn’t stop you, hands gripping you and pulling you in rhythm against his tongue, and you think he’s gonna make you cum already. It’s too quick, debilitating as you hump his fat tongue to your orgasm and you pull at dark strands, looking down your body to see dark, narrowed eyes staring right up at you and he groans deep against your folds, you’re so close, almost there-
This time you wake up horny but beyond fed up, almost ignorant to the throbbing between your legs. It’s quick and easy to make yourself cum with your fingers, sticking your hands down your pants to rub one out while thinking of soft lips and rapid rapper tongues, and after that it’s just another day of being haunted by him, you suppose.
Except this time you have a study session at Mingi’s house, and you haven’t been there since the party.
It may have been the excitement and nerves surrounding the plans that caused the dream, but you’re too tired to care about it, yawning over exaggeratedly and stretching the sleep away from your limbs. You’ve studied hard, had a few more sessions with him that weren’t romantically charged and watched countless videos online. You’ve even read some books, some that he gave you and some that you found yourself - you’re ready to impress him, glancing over at the many papers and folders in your bag.
However, despite the attempts to gain his praise, you’re beginning to accept that you’re doomed to a life without Mingi, or worse, a life with Mingi just as your friend.
Every single time something appears to click between you, or you have what Wooyoung would call A Moment, something interrupts or distracts one of you. Then, the moment evaporates, and nothing happens. While you’ve been sitting on pins for days, waiting for something to happen - you’re also unsure something will happen.
You’re unsure if you’ve read the entire situation the wrong way, and he really is just a good, kind friend, and your insatiability has just driven you to blur the line between fantasy and reality.
When you finally get ready and go downstairs after doomscrolling on your phone, Wooyoung and San are both looking at you like the cats who got the cream. They’re standing in the kitchen, heads fully spun towards you while you hover in the doorway in your nice jeans with a tote bag on your shoulder. If it surprises either of them that you actually have books in your bag, they don’t say anything, only smiling wider when you bounce from foot to foot.
You crumble first. “Okay, why are you guys staring at me?”
San answers your question with a question, sipping at his mug of coffee, “Where are you going?”
“You know where I’m going,” You scoff, crossing the kitchen to fill your water bottle up. Wooyoung parts from the sink to let you get there, but his smile doesn’t fall, so pleased your blood starts to boil. “It is not a big deal. We’re just friends.”
“Sure,” Wooyoung says finally, and you groan, stomping your feet. “He’s wasting his time helping you study for a test you’re gonna fail anyway because he’s a good friend.”
You scrunch your nose up, “Wouldn’t you guys do that for me?”
“No,” they reply at the same time, and you screw your water bottle lid on, scowling.
“Wooyoung, you said he was kind. This is him being kind.”
“He’s trying to get in your pants, like, romantically,” San says, and you want to launch your water bottle at him. “Have you tried asking him? Kissing him, maybe?”
“He is tutoring me, Choi San.”
“You need to be tutored in more than economics if you’re this stupid.”
You gasp, affronted, “Since when could boys and girls not be friends?”
Wooyoung snorts, “Since the boy and girl in question both like each other and are being stupid about it.”
It pisses you off even more. They don’t know the situation you’re in, the moments the two of you have had where you think something might break through and every single time, nothing happens, and you’re reminded that it will never happen. It feels like they’re mocking you, and you mumble a “Whatever, goodbye,” that seems to be enough to placate them.
They wave you goodbye, and you choose not to tell them the extent of your hangout to avoid teasing - you’re going to his house. If they caught wind of this, they’d be buying wedding outfits and booking venues.
However, this could really prove catastrophic for you. The dreams were realistic already, but now if you have the information of what his bedroom looks like stored inside your brain, they’re only going to get worse - more variety, more realistic.
You think pathetic horny thoughts the entire walk there, nervous and excited at the same time, hands smoothing down your hair over and over as if the gentle fall breeze was going to make you look effortlessly cool. Not only are you going to his house - his room - you’re hyperaware of your body, of every movement you make, the ache between your legs that’s been lingering since you woke up; it all feels a little too much.
When you knock on the front door, it swings open almost immediately.
“Mmm- hey, girl,” Mingi says, tall and looming, hair a little messy and curling at the ends, glasses on. His oversized tee is loose on his frame like he just woke up and threw it over his massive shoulders. He looks domestic, like he could be your real boyfriend - it’s exactly the version of him your dreams have been conjuring, and it’s getting to you before you’ve even walked through the door. “You’re right on time, look at that!”
“Hey,” Your voice is small, knees feeling weak.
He steps aside to let you in, and his place smells faintly like weed and, well, that scent of Mingi that you’ve been focused on since you met him. You can smell what must be someone cooking something delicious too, faintly, and when you focus you can hear his housemate tinkering around in the kitchen.
His house looks different in the daytime. The sofas look lived in and comfortable and you can see the music memorabilia properly, rap album records and posters donning the walls. It seems they’re both very serious about this kind of stuff, and your brain betrays you instantly, noting everything for future dreams.
“Room’s this way,” he says, already turning down the hallway like he doesn’t see you taking everything in. You almost trip over a half-dead potted plant on your way.
His bedroom is smaller than you expect - you wonder if Hongjoong got the bigger room - and it’s neat but not too neat. His bed is made but the pillows are a little smushed, desk cluttered with papers with scribbled lines of writing, packs of rolling papers on his bedside table and empty baggies in the bin. A guitar sits in the corner, obviously well loved and with a large sticker on the corner of the body. He seems content with you looking around, trying to shuffle some papers into a neat pile until he flops down on the floor by his bed, patting the space next to him.
“We can spread out here,” he motions, brushing his hair out of his face, “I don’t have another chair for the desk, I’m sorry.”
You hesitate for a half second too long before joining him, back against the bed, knees bent. You’re so close that your legs touch again, and you shiver despite being used to it by now. He doesn’t move away.
“So,” he says, nodding towards your tote bag, “ready to actually pass this test? This is our last session.”
You grin, reaching into your bag. “I may surprise you.”
“Oh?” He raises a brow, smiling. “Now I’m excited. Don’t tell me you actually-“
You lay out your notes. You’ve not done a lot, but whether he was expecting something amazing or not it doesn’t matter, because the noise of awe he makes is all you need. Your colour coded, annotated tabs stick out from the textbook he gave you before, and his teasing expression drops, replaced with genuine surprise.
“You did.” He murmurs. “You actually studied.”
“Wow,” you say dryly, “you sound full of confidence in me.”
He laughs, shaking his head, flipping through a few pages, “no, not at all. This is good. I’m so impressed, y’know, you didn’t even care a few weeks ago?” his eyes scan your writing quickly, “you did elasticity? On your own? You didn’t even text me!”
You nod. “A demon came to me in a dream and taught it to me.”
Mingi pales, fingers paused on the tabs. “Please don’t joke like that.”
You laugh, shaking your head, “No, I actually just read the books you gave me and watched some videos online. It’s not too hard when someone explains it to you the way you need.”
Despite your last statement, a warm expression creeps over his face, pride softening his features. “I’m so proud of you.”
The words hit harder than they should. Your throat tightens, and you have to look back down at your notes so he doesn’t see the emotion spread across your face.
“Okay,” he says, scooting a little closer, “let’s test you. Walk me through this one.”
He points to a practice question. You explain, a little slow at first because you haven’t talked about these things out loud before, but once you find your words it gets smoother. He listens intently, eyes on you, not the page; when you finish with a satisfied smile, he nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says, “that’s it. Well done.”
“Oh,” you smile. “Really? That’s it?”
“You nailed it,” He confirms, and you swat at him again. Surely not. “I’m serious! See, it was always there. You just needed it explained in a way that made sense to you.”
Your knee nudges his when he shifts to point at another question, neither of you moving away. The room feels quieter, heavier, like the air has thickened. You keep going, question after question, and each time he needs to prompt you less and less. Sometimes he just watches you scribble away or think, stumbling over your words, his chin resting on his hand in a way that has to make the rings dig into him, expression soft and unreasonable.
At one point, you get stuck, frowning at a graph.
“Okay, wait,” you mutter, but he’s already there.
“Remember what we said about equilibrium?” He says gently, leaning over your shoulder. His arm comes up and behind you, on the mattress. He doesn’t seem to realise it, but it’s just like at the library, and you want to scowl at the effect he has on you.
Your heart pounds, but you focus, staring at the page. “Equilibrium…”
“You already know this,” he points at the graph, finger dangerously close to yours, “you do, I promise. You’re just second-guessing yourself. Go with your gut.”
It feels like it means a million things at once. You glance up, and he’s closer than you expect - your breath stutters, and he continues looking at the page. His thumb flicks over a few of your tabs, considering.
“You know, it’s really cute that you put in this much effort,” he says absently, and your brain short circuits, stumbling out a few words that seem to make him snap awake. He finally looks at you, realises how it sounded and for a moment, neither of you move, looking at each other.
He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think,” he says after a moment, “you’re gonna do way better than you think you are.”
The praise sits between you. He’s been giving you a lot of it, you think, and it feels like something unspoken is there. Neither of you reach for it, something that doesn’t surprise you.
Instead, you sit shoulder to shoulder again, letting him show you how to understand economics as the sun dips lower and the room grows dimmer. Nothing happens again, and somehow that makes it worse, causing the knot in your tummy to tighten to an excruciating point.
You’re really not sure what’s happening anymore.
Dealing with vivid sex dreams about a man who doesn’t like you back is one thing, but dealing with them while said man is forcing you to study for a test is another thing. Still, if it hadn't been Song Mingi helping you you think you never would’ve studied, never would’ve bothered turning up for the test, and you would’ve been sitting on the same exact cheap plastic chair next semester resitting the entire thing.
You get to class a few minutes before the test starts, a mere few days after your last study session, Wooyoung in tow groaning about how ‘messed up the last minute test is’ - you don’t have the heart to tell him it was mentioned weeks ago and he just wasn’t listening so it can’t be considered last minute. You’re more focused on the crippling fear of you failing this test after all of the work you’ve done, the colour coded tabs and annotations that Mingi checked over to make sure you were on the right track, and you know that Mingi is never on time and so won’t be present to look over your notes with you.
However, you walk into the room and see a carton of banana milk settled on your desk.
There’s only a few other people in here, you, Wooyoung and a few others, but a quick scan shows you Mingi is sitting in his seat and is doing very well at pretending to be occupied. He flips through a folder of notes, and you hover in the doorway, Wooyoung elbowing you frantically.
“That’s-“ he gasps, “he- that’s-“
Your mind is racing yourself. Bringing one for you before when you studied was one thing, but he’s brought you one before the test that could determine your fate with this class, and he’s acting like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t shattered your heart into a million pieces that he actually fucking thought of you, unprompted.
Wooyoung continues spluttering behind you as you continue to your desk, waving at Mingi on his way, and you shoot him a look filled with nerves and want. He’s even put the straw in ready for you, so when you sit down, you take a grateful sip instantly. Mid-sip, Wooyoung snatches it from your hand to see a scribbled good luck note stuck on the other side, complete with a drawing of a chicken holding his own carton of milk.
“This is ridiculous,” He mumbles, running a hand through his newly cherry red hair, grabbing the paper between two fingers, “you two are playing a game that does not need to be played.”
“Whatever that means,” you sigh, snatching it back.
Avoiding staring at the side of your crush’s head, you look back down at the milk, contemplating while the class fills up. It’s not long until the professor comes in, and lays down the paper tests on everyone’s desks. Everyone looks nervous apart from Wooyoung, who just generally does not care, and Mingi, who you know is more than prepared.
A few minutes go by while she talks, and when the class is allowed to start you look down at the questions and hang on… you actually know what this test is talking about. You shoot Mingi a look and he’s already staring at you, smiling with his teeth like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. It hurts your heart, but you smile back, shooting him a nod filled with everything he needs to know.
The test goes by like a breeze, banana milk aiding you along the way. You’re not convinced you’ve done amazing, per se, but you think you’ve done well enough to pass. The entire class pours out at the end of the hour before you have the chance to tell Mingi that you think you’ve done alright. Still, the professor tells you that she’ll upload everyone’s grades online later today, and you hope that you have the chance to talk to him later, for him to tell you how well you’ve done.
Your mind runs with thoughts as Wooyoung yaps the entire way home. He talks about how hard the test was, how annoying the professor is, how you’ve probably done just fine with the star student’s help, and then he pauses in his tracks on the way home.
“Speaking of,” he says, pointing a finger at you, “are you going to Mingi’s party tonight?”
You freeze. Your heart skips a beat, and you lick your lips, swallowing hard, mouth suddenly feeling insanely dry.
He hasn’t invited you. If he hasn’t invited you to his party, then that definitely means that there’s nothing between you, that you really have just overanalysed things in your head. It feels like life couldn’t be any crueler to you right now.
You swallow again. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, and Wooyoung’s brow rises, red hair flicking around his jaw due to the wind. He sees right through you. “Okay, fine. I wasn’t invited.”
He scowls, “That’s fucked up, especially with how much time you spend together.” He mumbles, contemplating. The two of you start to walk again before he continues, his hands shoved in his pockets, “whatever, you’re coming with us anyway.”
“I can’t turn up there after he didn’t invite me. You’re deranged.”
“That is exactly what you did last time.”
He leaves no room to argue, and when you cross the threshold to your front door, San is perched on the sofa waiting for your arrival. He’s shoving food into his face, cheeks puffed out beyond belief but he perks up upon your return, eyes forming crescents and hands quickly moving to the TV remote to pause whatever he’s got on. Another soppy drama show, you think, since he looks flushed like he’s just been emotional over it.
“How did the test go?!” He shrieks, stumbling over bare-foot in shorts that show too much thigh. Wooyoung’s eyes linger on his bare skin and you scoff.
“It went fine,” you say, walking in to collapse on the sofa next to the San-shaped dip, “I think I may have scraped a pass. Grades are out later.”
Unfortunately, despite you wanting anything but, you press play on the show that San’s watching and it engrosses you. The boys take themselves out to the kitchen, you assume to fix you all something to eat. From what you can gather, the show is an old one about some kids in school trying to become K-Pop idols. It does seem pretty emotional, but the only thing you can cry over right now is a tall rapper that doesn’t want you.
It only takes a few minutes, but a loud, hysterical laugh from Wooyoung from the other room makes you sigh. Something’s happened, and you hear the telltale sound of feet clambering down the hallway to thrust his phone in your face, all bright smiles and too-red hair.
“Grades are out already,” He’s still laughing, motioning to the block letters, a number sixty on his screen, “how the fuck did I pass?”
San walks in laughing behind him, hands clapping on your other friend’s shoulders in glee, “I have no idea how you did it but I’m so proud.”
Your chest clenches. Shit. They’re out already? Either that’s a good sign for the class or a very, very bad sign, but you dig in your pocket and pull your phone out to unlock it. No texts from Mingi, not that you expected any, but you quickly open up your student portal and sign in, clicking through the pages you need to get to the class overview.
It takes too long to load. Wooyoung drops into the San-shaped dip and San leans over him, two sets of peering eyes focused on your phone screen, and they’re both completely silent as they wait. You think San’s stopped breathing. The loading circle spins mockingly, over and over, and then the page loads.
Sixty-two.
Wait.
“Oh my god, I fucking-”
“You passed!” Wooyoung screams, shaking you by the shoulders. “Do you know what this means? Shit, baby, I’m so proud!”
You know what this means. You don’t have to resit that class, you don’t have to ever bother with a stupid economics class at all ever again, you never have to see that professor again, and you have Song Mingi to thank for it all. It feels like a joint achievement, if anything, and you want to text him and tell him and thank him but - should you? Is that okay?
San and Wooyoung bounce around the living room screaming and shouting so loud that you get brought back to reality.
“I fucking passed,” you breathe in disbelief, and San cheers again.
“Hell yeah, you did!” He hugs you, warm and grounding and so nice but not what you want at all. “We’re so proud. We’re gonna get drunk, and high, and go have fun at your boyfriend’s party-”
“San,” Wooyoung pauses, face suddenly straight, shaking his head solemnly, “not her boyfriend. In fact, he didn’t even invite her.”
San’s jaw drops. “He… what? But I thought you-”
“Yeah, I know.” Wooyoung grumbles. You want them to talk more, eyebrow raising, tossing your phone to the floor haphazardly. It’s already smashed enough, you don’t even think it could smash anymore.
“You know what?” You narrow your eyes, and both boys shake their heads too quickly. That’s weird. “Tell me what you know. Now.”
San waves his hand in your face, trying to calm you down, “Just that you two were getting close. I promise, that’s all I’ve been told.”
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Wooyoung shrugs, too easy. It makes you want to scream. “You’re coming with us anyway, baby. I couldn’t care less what Song Mingi thinks his guestlist is.”
“Hey.” San says, weak. “He is actually a really nice guy.”
You groan, flailing your limbs, and they finally shut up - or at least they start talking about something else.
By the time you get to the party, your head spins, more drunk than you ever have been, feeling nice in your pretty dress and your best boots. The boys had insisted that a strong pregame was essential to celebrate yours and Wooyoung’s results, and Wooyoung fixes your makeup for you at the front door, too sober for your liking, thumbs smudging your eyeliner perfectly.
It’s a little like you’re entering the lion’s den, preparing to be eaten, but your brain hasn’t let you fully understand who’s house you’re entering and the fact that you weren’t even originally invited, too tipsy to care.
San swings the front door open like he lives there, cheering with a happy, intoxicated flush on his face at whoever he sees first, and you let him introduce you to a few people while you giggle along and smile politely. It turns out a few of these people already know who you are, from the boys mentioning you you presume, so it’s easy to mingle and drink a little more when they offer it.
Your head spins. A little embarrassed, you remind yourself it’s a damn celebration. You never thought you would’ve passed that class.
Wooyoung drags you along to the kitchen, forcing another drink in your hand, and you get an immense sense of deja vu. This time, he’s learned and it’s a rum and coke he places into your grip, while you feel present physically and not mentally. San catches up to you after a while, joining in on whatever conversation the other man is leading seamlessly, and you nod and hum along like you know what’s happening, swaying in your spot.
Two big, firm hands land on your shoulders, and Wooyoong’s eyes widen comically at the figure behind you.
“You came!” It’s slurred, but you’d know that voice anywhere - Mingi, in front of you when you turn around, black tank top tight and cargo trousers baggy. You feel lightheaded for a different reason all of a sudden, eyes scraping down big shoulders, big arms and even bigger thighs, the way his body tightens at his waist, the way he slings an arm around you like it belongs there. He smells of tequila and bad mistakes, and in any other situation you’d question his behaviour but now, inebriated, you’re leaning in, inhaling deeply for more, letting him ramble on in that deep, soothing voice. “I’m so happy you came! I didn’t- I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to come, I wasn’t sure-“ he hiccups, “I wasn’t sure you’d want to, y’know? It’s not your type of-“
“You’re right, she probably would’ve said no,” San manages for you, and you nod along.
“They dragged me here again, ‘cause of my test results,” you laugh airily, and Mingi’s eyes widen, round and dark, his hands way too present on your body. He moves down to grip your waist, pulling you into him, and you clock that he’s as drunk as you are - you know that he’d never do this sober, but the warmth of his torso against yours is so nice that you can’t complain. You see Wooyoung trying to drag San away from the corner of your eye.
Mingi huffs out an impatient breath, staring directly into your eyes. It makes your thighs tremble and he raises an eyebrow as if to prompt you, “Your test. How did you do? Why didn’t you-“ he swallows hard, trying to catch his breath, “why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you invite me, for real?” You blurt, a bit bolder now that you’re alone - perhaps it’s knowing that Wooyoung can’t see you now, but definitely due to the liquid confidence flowing through you. He at least has the decency to look guilty at your words, one hand coming to the back of his neck.
“I- I’m sorry,” He says earnestly, bouncing from one foot to another, too full of energy and the tequila, “I should have. There was no other- no other reason, I just really didn’t think it’d be your scene.”
You frown. He’s probably right, but he doesn’t know that you’d do anything, go anywhere for him. “I- uhm,” you sip your drink, eyes flickering to the back door. It’s ajar, people milling in and out past you both but like before, the kitchen is quieter than everywhere else. You manage to look back at him, voice quiet when you speak, “I passed, Mingi. I managed to- well, I barely passed the class, but I passed. Thank you for-“
You’re cut off by his arms wrapping around you. He shouts with glee, shaking you around in his grip and causing your drink to splash a bit. If he’s bothered by the liquid leaking on his skin he doesn’t show it, pulling back from you with a huge grin that you can’t help but mirror, issues forgotten. He’s jostled your bag off your shoulder, and you scoop it back up as he gets noticeably more excited, smile growing wider.
“Do you know how proud of you I am?” He gushes, eyes honest, and you melt. Your heart soars, and you smile so wide it hurts your cheeks - this is all you had wanted. Mingi pulls you back into another hug.
This time, it lasts longer and he holds you close, letting you feel his warmth and you wrap your arms around his middle, content. It’s nice, his dark hair tickling your neck as he nuzzles into the crook there - you hear him take a deep breath, holding you closer, and it makes you feel satisfied, somewhat. If this is all you can get, this is okay, you’re sure you can deal with this.
But Mingi pulls away, and something in his eyes tells you despite the alcohol, he knows what’s going on, knows what he wants, knows that you’re feeling it too.
“I’m so proud of you, so fucking proud,” His chest heaves. He smells of tequila but beneath it, you can smell him, and it makes you lean in closer, head dizzy. “Can I just…?”
“Just what?” You ask, fingers curling around his forearms in the hopes it grounds you - it makes you worse, letting out a whimper at the feeling of his skin on yours that you can’t quite hide, “Mingi, t-tell me.”
He licks his lips, shaking his head as if to get rid of some of his thoughts, dark hair tousling and he looks so handsome, looking down at you over his sunglasses with uncertainty. It looks like he wants to say too many things at once, with no clue on where to start.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks, and your breath hitches. What? “I- I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”
Nodding before you can question why, when, what or how, Mingi leans forward, nose nudging yours, finally pressing his lips against you. It’s as satisfying as you always thought it would be, and he’s nothing but enthusiastic - he’s immediately letting his tongue push between your lips and into your mouth so far it pushes against your teeth, like he’s trying to swallow you whole. His fists grip into the fabric of your dress and pull you into him, moving down to grip onto your waist and keep you close, afraid you may try to run away now that he’s finally gotten you.
You kiss him back with just as much enthusiasm, placing wet, open mouthed kisses on his lips when he tries to pull away because you can’t help yourself - is this really happening, for real? He tastes of tequila, jager and Mingi, and you open your mouth in a jagged moan for more.
When he sees how impatient you are, he cracks. He pushes you against the wall and forces his tongue back into your mouth, moaning, gravelly and deep from his chest; your legs start to tremble, and he reaches down with a strong arm and hooks one of your legs around his waist.
“Oh,” You moan at the way he moves you around easily, his heavy breaths spilling into your mouth. He’s impatient, fingers scrambling at the bare skin of your leg, touching you as much as he can in a split second like he’s still scared it’ll be over soon. He rocks forward with his hips and meets your core, clothed but you’re sure he can feel how wet you are just from being in his presence, finally feeling his lips against yours for real and not in a dream. “Oh, shit-“
“So pretty,” He murmurs, kissing you again, accidentally rutting against your cunt once, twice, before he forces himself to stop. You can barely focus, unbelieving that he’s real, right in front of you, touching you and kissing you like this - but you’ll be damned if you’re not getting answers. “So gorgeous, lovely girl,” he breathes, urgent, eager, “so smart, so proud, mm-“
He moves away again, sucking over your neck, and you take the moment to speak hoarsely, “Mingi, what- what is this? What’s… what’s going on here?”
“I-“ He freezes. His lips hover at your skin before he pulls away just enough to look at you, palms unclenching and clenching at your waist like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “… Isn’t it obvious?” He asks quietly. “Do I have to say it?”
There’s no smugness or cockiness in his tone anymore, only hesitation, like he’s standing on the edge of something and afraid he’ll fall if he says it out loud. You read his face for something, anything that tells you how he feels, but all you see is need, his eyebrows knitting together in pure desire - it just confuses you more.
“No,” You say, even though it’s a lie and you wish you did know, kissing the corner of his mouth once again - hoping it channels the gentleness and encouragement that you need to show, not the nerves of wanting something so seriously that it feels like it may shatter your insides. It seems to work, because he kisses you again, rings biting into your thigh when he grips you firmer.
Hands moving to Mingi’s hair, you pull lightly at the strands, bringing him as close to you as possible. He groans at the slight pain, nose nudging yours as he devours your mouth, lips so plump and overwhelming that you try your best to kiss back but are left whimpering into his mouth. He controls it, just as you imagined he would, moving you this way and that; he nips at your bottom lip, prompting you to open your mouth and let him massage his tongue over yours, almost useless while he consumes you.
You think your dreams are going to be way too vivid from here on out, overwhelmed with the knowledge of what he actually tastes like and how he actually holds you - unsure but desperate. He’s good at this too, and you curse yourself; he’s perfect, he’s everything, and this is probably going to be all you’ll get, a drunken kiss in his kitchen.
“We can set up the beer pong in here-”
Mingi springs from you like he’s been burned. His cheeks are flushed, lips slick with a mixture of your spit and he spins around to see Hongjoong, looking just as guilty as he did in the last party when he interrupted you but without his tiara, jaw slack, shocked, round eyes flitting between the two of you.
“Or not.” He offers. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you two had finally-“
Mingi starts to babble loudly, drowning out the shorter man, hands waving and mouth making some incoherent high pitched noises that have your eyebrows knitted in confusion. Your chest is still heaving against his damn kitchen wall as you try to catch your breath, yanking down the hem of your dress and he continues babbling - you just about catch the end, when he says, clear as day, “There is nothing going on here.”
Your heart starts to race. Right. You knew that, really, but - well, for a second, you’d hoped that it really was going to be something, forgetting that you’re drunk and so is he and you’re still standing in his kitchen ramrod straight like you’ve been electrocuted. He didn’t even have the decency to take you away to his room - why would he bother, you think, damning yourself for letting your brain run away with hope and excitement. He could have hidden you away from prying eyes and Hongjoong, who seems to interrupt anything good you’ve ever been given by the world, but he didn’t.
It was nothing. An accident, even. Something you shouldn’t have ever dreamed of.
Speaking of Hongjoong, he huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “It didn’t look like-“
“It was nothing,” You cut him off this time, voice a lot more stable than you feel. You don’t look at Mingi, but from the corner of your eye you see something written on his face, something guilty and upset and like he’s at war with himself, and you can’t be bothered to spend any more time trying to figure him out tonight. “It wasn’t anything. Hey, have you seen San and Wooyoung?”
Hongjoong nods, a small pout on his lips. “Living room. Seriously, sorry about that, I-“
“It was nothing,” You repeat, and he nods again, accepting it - finally. You hear some commotion as you turn your back, hushed whispers that again, you don’t have the energy to try to decipher.
Beelining towards the living room, you’re pleased that San and Wooyoung can tell just by the look on your face that you’re ready to leave. They spring up from the sofa, drinks discarded, arms coming to your frame to usher you to a quieter place - it ends up being outside, in their front lawn, and it happens before you even process it’s coming.
Gagging, your body folds, and you vomit right on your crush’s front lawn, just about avoiding your nice boots. Wooyoung stifles his laugh - not very well - and San elbows him behind you, unamused, hand rubbing up your back.
“That’s alright, get it up,” He soothes. “Jeez, we shouldn’t have let you drink this much. Let’s get you home, yeah?”
“I wanna know what the hell happened,” Wooyoung argues, and the other man sighs loudly in response, making him groan. “Fine. We’ll talk when we get home.”
The walk home is longer than you remember, made even worse by how your tummy still flips. You’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the kiss or Hongjoong interrupting or it being nothing or some fucked up combination of all of it but you hold back sobs the whole way home, arms enveloping your middle until you finally cross the threshold into your house.
The boys move quickly into the kitchen. Wooyoung still eyes you, unimpressed that he’s left in the dark but he starts to fill up three plain glasses of water, hopefully to calm all of you down but San simply waits, arms folded over a broad chest, eyebrow raised until you finally decide to speak.
“He didn’t…” You breathe. Your handbag drops to the floor unceremoniously, lipgloss and compact clattering out of the bag, and San moves to pick them up before you can even ask him to. Wooyoung moves to you, quick across the kitchen to put his arms around your frame. “I don’t think it’s like that between us. He- Mingi didn’t say he liked me, or anything, we just… Well, we kissed, but…”
Tears are starting to form in your eyes. San and Wooyoung share a look, and San appears bewildered, “What do you mean?” He shoves your things back into your bag, pushing it onto the table, eyes soft when he turns to you, “honey, I can’t put this any simpler. You are awful at economics, and the man offered to tutor you. Even Woo wouldn’t waste his time like that just for some sex.”
“It’s true,” Wooyoung says, hands gentle where they soothe over your shoulders, “I feel it in my gut that he likes you back. Really.”
“Then,” you sniffle, “why didn’t he-“
“Tomorrow, no alcohol, you and Mingi are having a conversation,” he urges, “all the cards on the table. I’m sick and tired of seeing you pining.”
You sigh, “It won’t solve anything. He doesn’t like me like that. He can’t like me like that, I know it.”
“Would you listen to yourself?” Wooyoung laughs, “he had his tongue in your mouth less than an hour ago. You’re drunk and sad, he was drunk and Mingi. You both need to get some sleep and talk tomorrow.”
Turning to San, you expect a different response, but he gives you the same look - slightly amused at your unneccessary plight, but very firm. Tomorrow, you’ll be embarrassed that you got so drunk over passing a test that you made out with your crush and cried in your kitchen to your friends, but right now you’re too tired and sad to care. He hands you your bag, items back in safely, and the other man ushers you to your bedroom, not minding at all that you’re sniffling and whining the entire way there.
The pretty boots you chose for tonight are pulled off by Wooyoung while you sniffle and drizzle on the end of your bed. He doesn’t seem to mind, letting you mess up your mascara and your eyeliner in dark tracks down your cheeks until he sighs so loudly, seriously that it shocks you. He throws your boots on the floor by the door.
“Promise me,” he says, and then storms over to place his hands on your shoulder. You think he’s still a little drunk too, but he says it with so much conviction that your tears stop in their tracks, eyes round and vulnerable as you look up at him. “Promise me that once you wake up in the morning, you will talk to the man.”
You sniffle, folding your arms over your chest like a child, “Don’t want to anymore.”
“Barefaced lie,” San snorts, and you blink through wetness to see him standing at the door. Was he always there? “Sweetheart, you’ve been making this entirely more complicated than it needs to be.”
Wooyoung pulls your dress over your head and slides a big, oversized t-shirt straight back over you - you think it’s one of his, the hem too stretched and the print a little stained with hair dye. “Tomorrow, full honesty,” He points a finger in your face that makes you go cross-eyed. “Promise me. No more lies. No more beating around the bush. Everything gets said.”
“I promise, Wooyo,” you garble, although now that you’ve stopped crying, all you can feel is exhaustion taking over your body.
Your body hits your mattress before you recognise you’re falling, and Wooyoung tuts, covering you with your blanket. Everything’s so comfortable all of a sudden, and you feel a hand move a pillow underneath your head to support it - it feels like a damn cloud.
The last thing you register is San’s laugh and the sound of a camera shutter before you pass out.
It’s almost annoying this time, after the almost-confession.
Mingi heaves deep, staggered breaths into your neck, wearing the same outfit from the party last night - baggy cargos, too many chains, a tight tank top. A bead of sweat drips from already damp, long, dark hair, down the tempting curve of his neck and you’re already won over, too desperate for him to care, reaching up to drag your tongue up his skin.
“Fu-uck, that’s it,” He moans, deep, gravelly, hands determined where they pull down your shorts. You’re left in your panties, edges of your vision fuzzy with your dream and he’s quick to crowd into your space again, thick thighs forcing yours apart. He makes quick work of his trousers, undoing the button and forcing them past his ass just enough to rut his boxer clad erection against your pussy. “There, there you go honey, fuck, move against me-“
You do, writhing and bucking your hips to grind your swollen clit against his bulge over and over, letting him move from your neck to your lips. He kisses your mouth finally, and fuck you know what he’s like now, enthusiastic and all consuming. His tongue forces into your mouth just like it did earlier, when this was real. His lips are slick against yours because he’s so messy with it, desperate and bucking against you like he can’t get enough.
You can’t, either, and with desperate fingers moving to his boxers frantically you beg, “Mingi, please, inside, wan’it-“
He groans, long and broken, rings biting into your skin when he grips your hips and pulls you down hard against him, “Yeah, want it inside, my girl? Can you take it for me?”
My girl. Your head spins, your hands scrambling for purchase against the sheets, his arms, anything, finally gripping wet strands and tugging. Mingi whines this time, too high pitched to be normal, and you struggle to direct his attention to you until his fingertips curl around the waistband of your panties and pull down. He yanks them off your ankle, your leg hanging in the air when he moves back over you and thrusts down again, into your newly exposed cunt, wet and wanting.
“Answer me,” He’s determined, rocking against you so steadily you’re worried you might cum from just this, “can you? Tell me you want me to fuck you, baby, please, tell me- tell me you can take it.”
“I can t-take it,” you cry out without a beat, and he nods, meeting your lips again, “inside, inside-“
It seems to work to convince him, and he leans back on muscled thighs. You take him in, the broad expanse of his shoulders and the way he tapers in at the waist, down to the beginning of his Calvin boxers.
He pulls up the fabric of his tank top just enough to let you see it, the beginning of his happy trail, and it’s never gone this far before. You pull yourself up onto your elbows, excited but nerves going haywire, spread eagle and naked from the waist down, and he finally starts to pull at the waistband.
Down, down, and the smattering of hair at his base has you gasping, toes curling where your legs lay relaxed over his, and you see the base, and then-
You wake up with shorts so wet that you know you’ve orgasmed in your sleep, and now you’re certain it’s gone too far.
Without needing to make yourself cum like every other morning one of these vivid dreams occurred, you have a clear head and can only think that something has got to give. Looking back on what your friends said last night, it feels right that you and Mingi should talk today, completely sober and with clear judgement. It’s probably the best move.
You’d be embarrassed of your behaviour if you didn’t know that Wooyoung and San loved you no matter what, and also they know better than anyone that Song Mingi has been giving you a tough fucking time.
Although the idea has your stomach twisting a little with anxiety, it’s time to be brave, and you roll over to grab your phone… only to see that Mingi has had the exact same idea.
[9:13am] mingi: hey, we should talk. should i come over?
You blink at the text. Sighing, groaning, and sighing again, it’s obvious you have to reply - it was only sent a half hour ago - so you send a quick okay and crawl out of bed. You’re hungover, sure, with a soft pain in the back of your head but the determination takes over anything else you feel.
Everything feels a little melancholic as you walk around, back hunched over, but you have to know even if it hurts you. You do not want to go another day with any uncertainty.
It only takes fifteen minutes for a knock at your door to sound. It’s given you time to get yourself ready, in another cute loungewear set with simple makeup and hair just barely brushed, and when you open the door Mingi looks worse than you feel.
He’s dressed a lot more casually than normal, beanie pulled over his head tight and jumper oversized and hanging off of his frame. A fleeting thought asks you how big it’d be on you, and you shake your head, forcing it out of your brain. When you don’t say anything, he awkwardly tugs at his tote bag on his shoulder, pulling at the bottom of his beanie like he’s got too much energy in his body and doesn’t know what to do with it.
He looks so cosy and domestic that you think that you might just burst into tears in his face.
“It’s nice to see you,” your voice warbles, and Mingi scratches his neck awkwardly, pre-roll in his other hand. That tells you all you need to know. “Should we go to my room?”
“Yeah, I think that’s best,” He sighs, looking more nervous than you’ve ever seen him and you groan internally. He’s normally the picture of confidence, save for the few times you two have… well, you still don’t know.
This is going to end worse than you thought it would, you think, perhaps even getting to the point where you can’t even be friends anymore. Still, Wooyoung made you swear you’d be honest to the man, and you try not to break promises, especially not when it’s one of your best friends.
Leading him up the stairs, you take him to your room, and he falls on the bed like it’s his own, pulling that same teddy he likes onto his lap, running a hand over his face in exasperation. When he pulls his beanie off, his hair springs up fluffy and brown and cute, and all you can do is hand him the ashtray wordlessly so that you don’t scream.
He pulls out the same pink lighter you saw him have last time, burning the end of the joint’s paper off and waiting for it to level. You’re not expecting him to speak yet, settling on your bed across from him with your knees pulled up, picking at a loose thread to avoid staring at him, but he swallows hard and sighs.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you yesterday,” he says, and your heart drops. “I’m sorry. I should’ve- I should’ve talked to you first, explained how I feel. It’s been killing me. I especially shouldn’t have kissed you when we were both so drunk, but I-”
“I clearly enjoyed it as much as you,” Honesty, and you try to smile, but it doesn’t reach your ears. Mingi eyes you like he knows, taking the first drag of the joint. “It’s okay. I understand, it was just a drunken kiss and it’s not-”
“What?” Mingi laughs incredulously, “is that really what you think? Do you think I kiss people like that normally?”
You falter. Well, no, you’d hope not, but you hadn’t really had anything to go by.
A longer drag, and he eyes you again, before it seems to dawn on him and his lips curl up in amusement. His tongue drags over his teeth, eyes looking you up and down. Fuck. “You really have no idea, do you?” He hands it to you, leaning back on his hands on the bed, “I’m obsessed with you. Why do you think I asked to tutor you? I mean, no offence, but you were kind of a-”
“A lost cause, yeah, I know,” you inhale. Then, it clicks in your brain, and you blink at him. “Sorry, you’re obsessed with me?”
“For as long as I can remember,” honest, frank, straight. Your head spins, but you inhale a little more, trying to formulate your thoughts better. “Since before we even spoke. I thought that’s why the guys brought you to my party in the first place.”
Hold on. You ash the joint, handing the ashtray and the smoking stick back to Mingi, “Wooyoung and San knew?”
He shrugs. His cheeks are pink, from nerves or the weed you don’t know, but he carries on speaking like he needs to get it all out in one go or he never will. His eyes avert from you, fiddling with the long drawstrings of his sweatpants, “I don’t know about them. Hongjoong and Yunho knew, that’s why they were acting so fuckin’ weird.” He chuckles breathlessly. “Trying to sell me out, honestly, and this whole thing has been so embarrassing. I tried so hard to get close to you and then- then I fucked it up by not being able to tell you how I feel. I’m not very good at that.”
It makes you pause. Mingi, all along, has been going through somewhat of a similar dilemma as you - and suddenly everything makes sense. The banana milk, the studying, the way he spoke to you at the first party, the way he’s been speaking to you - you’re talking before you even realise you are.
Honesty, Wooyoung said. You’ll stick to that.
“Mingi, this is going to sound crazy, but I’ve had a lot of these really frequent, vivid dreams about you in the past month or so,” you say, breathless, “some before we even started talking to each other."
As soon as it comes out of your mouth, you feel like dying. Mingi doesn’t stop smoking though. He even smokes more, inhaling longer, nodding with every word you say before he finally seems to process it. The flush seems to extend down to his neck, and he yanks at his jumper, pulling at the collar to get air - once the joint’s in your hold, he clears his throat, gulps a few mouthfuls of water down from a bottle he pulls from his tote bag. “I- That’s good to know. Normal dreams, or dirty?”
He’s… okay with it? He’s actually being way more casual about this than you thought he would be. This is the same guy that gets freaked out when he thinks about the concept of demons. You finish the joint and snuff it out, discarding the ashtray to your bedside table.
“A bit of both. Mostly dirty, but like, we were together in them. A little domestic,” You admit. He cracks a grin, showing those teeth that you fell for, and you can’t help but smile back. It is a little funny. A little crazy too, though. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
Mingi shrugs. “Not really, it’s not your fault. You must’ve just had a crush on me too. You know we don’t choose our dreams? Scientists say it’s just stuff from our subconscious, I read about it online.”
No way. You blink. You blink again, and he’s still there in your room sitting with you, the guy from your dreams, grinning crookedly and looking ever so delighted with himself.
“Or,” He coughs. “It could have been the lines I was writing trying to manifest you in my life. Maybe it worked.”
“Mingi… that’s fucking crazy.”
He swallows hard. His eyes are a little red from the weed, but the flush on his cheeks is from solely nerves now, you know. “Well, I had to do something from a distance. You’re hard to approach - y’know, you seem shy - but you’re really cool. And so fuckin’ pretty, you must know that, right?” He huffs out a quiet laugh, embarrassed, “I’ve definitely had dreams about you, too.”
“It’s not shy,” You say softly. “I’m just awkward.”
There’s something fragile in the way he’s positioned now, something you haven’t seen in Mingi yet - something hopeful but hesitant, like he’s worried he’ll scare you off any second - it’s different to last night with no confidence from his rum. When his brows lift, eyes flickering with uncertainty because you haven’t said enough yet, you realise that you never ever want to be the reason he doubts himself again.
“Mingi,” you say, steady even though your heart is racing, “I think I’ve been obsessed with you for a long time. Like, a long time. After this, you never have to doubt that.” You inhale, “Not having you was killing me. The dreams felt so real, and I fell for you so quickly but the way you acted around me… It was so up and down. I didn’t know if you felt anything at all, or if it was-“
He’s moving mid sentence to meet your lips with his, decisive and a little desperate. He tastes like weed and Mingi, enticing, and you melt into it, following his mouth without thinking - how did you hold yourself back from jumping him last night, when he’s real, here, in front of you?
His lips are buttery, grounding against yours, and when you reach out to touch his arms he finally exhales and pulls you closer, yanking you onto his lap on your bed with his hands at your waist.
He mumbles against your mouth, words stumbling out between breaths, “I tried- I did try to tell you how I felt, I just- fuck, I don’t know how to-“
“I know,” You manage, and this time you really do. Two people circling each other, both too excited, too unsure, mistaking intensity for indifference. “I thought… I thought you just wanted something physical after last night, maybe, I didn’t know.”
“God, no,” He chuckles, throwing his head back for a second with closed eyes. “I just get so excited I don’t shut up, and none of what I say ever comes out right.“
“I understand,” Your hand strokes over his hair. It’s said with purpose this time - you really mean it. With Mingi, it was never fear; it’s excitement, pure and unfiltered, knocking everything else out of order, and now that he has permission to show it he can’t stop himself.
The kisses he lays on your neck prove it to you that this is possible, you and him. It’s possible and it’s happening right now, your thighs clenching around his and hands moving to roam down his body, over his broad shoulders and firm chest as he sucks on your neck.
“Fuck,” Mingi breathes. “I feel like I’m dreaming. You’re unreal, baby.”
“I’m right here,” You laugh, because it’s insane he would say that to you, knowing that his mere presence has you feeling like you’re away with the fairies and has been for a while now. “I’m right here, Min, fuck, do you wanna- get this off, please-“
He pulls back and tugs his oversized jumper off by the back of the neck, launching it somewhere in the room and leaning back for you to follow his body - you do, chasing his heat, but with your eyes down. The removal exposed planes of tan skin, muscles that rival the ones you’d fantasised about. It’s soft to touch too, satin under your fingers as you slide your fingers down the muscles of his tummy.
“Pretty,” You murmur, and he shivers under your touch, breath hitching. “You are. I’ve- I’ve thought about how you look, but this is even better, Min.”
“Oh, baby,” He moans at your words, hands sliding under your shirt and onto your skin. He gives you a hesitant look, and you nod, before he’s sliding them upwards and cupping your breasts over your bra. He lets them sit in his hands for a bit, kissing over your jaw again before he slides his fingers underneath the lace. They’re a little cold, and when his fingertips hit your nipples you shiver, further collapsing into his hold, but he takes your weight easily. “So good, fuck, they feel so- can I- can you take your shirt off? I want to see.”
You pull it off over your head quickly, baring your bralette and Mingi’s palms situated under the fabric, and he moans, quickly sliding his hands out to look at them. He exhales, eyes fixated as he starts to pull at your nipples, and you don’t know if you’re just sensitive or if it’s because it’s him, but your spine arches into him with a gentle noise.
“Fuck, so pretty, so pretty. Like that, that’s okay?” He murmurs, and you nod eagerly, making him pinch them again, on the line between pleasure and pain, “tell me more about your dreams. What was I like?”
His fingers flick over the nubs until they yank at the lace, hard and swollen, and he pulls your bralette over your head, leaving you naked from the waist up. You gasp when his head ducks down, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, your hand going to dark strands to keep him there - but you remember he asked you something.
“You… talked a lot,” you admit, embarrassed but he hums around your nipple, encouraging. You whimper and continue, writhing, “You were nice, but- dirty. Pervy. Am I- was I right?”
Mingi pops off your bud. “Well, your dreams sound a lot more innocent than mine,” he grins easily, lips slick and cheeks pink, “I had you bent over my desk with one of my songs playing. So yeah, I guess I am a pervert.”
It shocks you so bad that you don’t make a noise when he moves you, pushing you back on his dark bedsheets and moving over your body. He’s so big above you, just like you imagined, using one strong arm for support and leaning down to kiss you filthy again.
He tangles his tongue with yours again as he fiddles with the button of your jeans, eventually managing to flick it open and tug the zipper down. You wrestle out of the denim underneath him, giggling when it gets caught at your knees; Mingi lets out an amused huff, smoothing your hair down like he did in the library, fond.
Eventually, you’re left in your underwear wanting him to strip, too, but he pushes your legs apart. “This- this is okay?” He asks again, against your lips, and moans when you nod, “I didn’t want to last night, when we’d been drinking. I wanted it to be special, baby, I-“
“I know,” you say, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, landing on his lips when his skin begins to heat in embarrassment, “but I think if you don’t fuck me soon I might die.”
“We’re not drunk now,” his breath is impatient, heavy, and his spare hand moves down to brush against your panties, where the cotton is slick between your legs, “I’m high as hell though, and this pussy feels wet. G’na let me touch it?”
Fuck. Your head spins, like the high is returning but stronger because it’s Mingi; you’re finally here, beneath him, his to touch, his to hold. “You can touch it,” you heave, “I wanna touch you too. Please, I think about it so much, I wanna- wanna see it.”
Mingi’s face crumbles in a desperate noise, but he doesn’t move from his position, kissing you again like he can’t get enough of it.
When he speaks, you can hear him holding back, voice strained, “Not yet, baby. Let me taste it first, yeah? Then you can, I promise.”
“Okay,” you breathe against him, squirming when he rubs his fingertips over your panties, right where your clit is. He feels the pudge and brings his thumb down over it a few times, firm, and you let out a strangled whine. You hope San and Wooyoung are out, but you didn’t even bother checking the house before you let your man in. Your man - your breath stutters, and all of a sudden you’ve stopped caring. “Okay, fuck, please Mingi, want you, touch me properly-”
His fingers hook into your panties and yank them down your legs. Your legs rest over his, relaxed, toes curling into his thighs when you’re finally exposed to him. Despite the insecurity biting at your gut again from being so bare and vulnerable in front of him, he quells it quickly, wiggling down the bed onto his chest to examine you closely.
“Look at that, doll, so fucking wet,” He murmurs, thumbs coming up to spread your folds. They stick together with your arousal, something you’d be embarrassed about if he didn’t moan so loud at the sight, plush lips parting and eyebrows knitting together. “Fuck. G’na eat it now, ‘kay? If you need me to stop just-”
You force him into your pussy by his hair, and he moans at the first taste. His fat tongue swipes through your folds, impatient, and he licks up to flick it over the pudge of your clit, spreading your arousal everywhere. It’s so sensitive that you whimper and writhe underneath him, but he doesn’t seem swayed, burying his face into your cunt and making out with it viscerally, messy, claiming.
It’s just like your dream - except better. He’s pulling you down by your hips, rings biting into your skin, whining into your folds but he’s messier - he sucks all of your arousal into his mouth and spits it back on your pussy just to lick it up again. Your pussy is clinging to his lips by strings of sticky arousal and he flicks his tongue over your clit to hear you moan loudly, incomprehensible.
“You’re- how are you so fucking good at this, fuck, please, more-”
“Told you, I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he states matter of factly, lips brushing against you, and you can see your slick has spread all over his chin, up to his nose. He doesn’t look bothered - he looks like he enjoys it, voice slurred, eyes half lidded, tongue licking over his lips, down to his chin. “This pussy’s fucking pretty. Tasty, too. I’m gonna have to eat her all the time, okay?”
He rubs over your clit, looking up at you expectantly. He’s waiting for a response, but you can’t focus, legs twitching at the stimulation. “F-uck, Mingi-“
“Mm, what do you say, baby?” He says, voice lower, and you keen. He chuckles in disbelief, shaking his head, rubbing a little faster, your pussy making an embarrassing wet noise with his movements. “Are you gonna let daddy come and eat her whenever he wants?”
“Oh my god, oh my god,” you babble, squirming, desperate for him to eat you again and he’s still fucking laughing at you, eyes full of admiration. “Yes, pleasepleaseplease daddy, you can eat it whenever- whenever you want!”
“Good giiiirl,” He hums, diving back in again. He’s just as vigorous and you’re panting, making way too much noise, gripping and tugging at his hair and bucking into his mouth when he groans in delight at the pain.
“Haa, fuck, Mingi- baby, baby, ‘s so good-“
He slides his fingers inside, past the resistance of your hole, curling them up instantly. It’s a stretch so quickly but feels so good, you squeal, humping your hips down onto him. He’s trying to find your g-spot, and it only takes a moment of prodding and pressing for you to make an incoherent noise, hips bucking. He taps a few times, teasing it, and you can’t shut up, gripping the pillow, eyes crossing in pleasure. “Noisy girl. Cunt’s fucking noisy too, talkin’ to me. Can you hear that? She’s telling me I own her now.”
“Mingi- f-fuck, you can’t say-“
“What? Don’t you like daddy talking to you?” He’s suddenly over you again, wet mouth forming a lazy grin. His fingers still pump into you and you reach to grab at his wrist, silver bracelets jingling with his movements. Your eyes water, hips grinding a rhythm into him. “I think you do, ‘cause you’re made for me, aren’t you? Fuckin’ unreal,” he hisses, looking down at where your cunt leaks down his skin, “this hole clenches around me when I talk, askin’ me for more. My hole, yeah?”
“Can’t- can’t be yours if you haven’t fucked it-“
“Shush, pretty, don’t be cheeky,” His tone is firm, but he kisses against your lips with affection. “Gonna fuck it. Gonna fuck it so many times it remembers the shape of my cock and can’t cum on anything else, but I want you to cum like this for me first. Can you?”
You’re nodding before he finishes, riding his fingers, and his thick thumb reaches up to flick over your clit. “I can, fuck, daddy, I can!”
“Yeah, moan my fucking name as you cum, there’s a good girl,” He kisses you again, dirtier this time, swallowing your moans with wet lips. You can taste yourself, and it’s that which does you in, Mingi pulling away just quick enough to hear the broken whine of his name that falls from your mouth. He groans back at you, rubbing your clit slower through your orgasm to drag it out, fingers curling to let you feel the shocks from your special spot just once more.
He’s too good. It’s like he knows your body already and you can’t understand it, but you let yourself cream and gush on his fingers with many babbled words and strangled noises until you’re eventually done. You think you see his fingers stick together when he pulls them out but he sucks them clean quick enough, offering you a crooked, toothy smile as if he just couldn’t help himself when you let out a shaky breath at the sight. He rolls off of you onto his side, leaning his head on his hand all satisfied.
“How was that?” He asks, cute as ever, and you think you see him fucking blushing. He’s so good, and fuck, he’s yours now. “Was it like your dreams?”
Your chest is still heaving, but you lean over to give him a kiss in response. His hand smooths over your lower tummy and you swoon, too happy, too desperate all over again despite the fact his fingers have just been all over and inside your pussy. “Mm, it looked intense, I liked doing that to you,” He’s getting excited again too - you think you can tell now, when his voice starts to pick up, airy, “you’re so fucking pretty, look so sexy when you cum, I just wanna-”
Furrowing your eyebrows, you glance down to his sweatpants. Mingi is definitely still hard, although there’s a small wet patch on his clothed bulge that you think he’s created without realising and fuck, your pussy is throbbing again. You can see how big he is through the clothes, much bigger than you ever thought, ever dreamed of, and it must be aching. “Let’s do more. I wanna do more with you.”
Mingi definitely blushes now, but he’s climbing on top of you again with that look in his eyes again. “Yeah? I want to do more too, you’re so gorgeous when you cum. Do you think you can you do that on my cock?”
He’s a little impatient, pushing his sweatpants down with one hand and leaning above you with his other. You try to look down but he tuts at you, making you look back at his face straight away, and you link your arms over his shoulders. “Um- maybe? I’ll try, shit.”
“Think you will,” He kicks his bottoms off and wriggles out of his boxers, too, and when you look again he doesn’t stop you. He even leans back to make sure your view isn’t obscured. Desperate, you assume, but shit it is big.
His muscled arm swings as he jerks it back to full hardness leisurely, and you were right, it leaks heavily in his palm. The lubrication adds to the sensation and he lets out a sigh. His cock is long but thick too, and there’s a smattering of dark hair at his base that makes you want to press your nose into it and inhale as you deepthroat him. You’re quickly distracted, though, because he shuffles forward and positions his cockhead at your hole. It tries to suck him in already, gummy and wet and pliant after your orgasm.
He pecks your lips again, addicted, nuzzling you with his sharp nose. He looks so pretty on top of you, plush lips pillowing over your cheeks and your chin and your nose, his black hair tickling your forehead. Your belly burns - you don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything this bad, and you’ve known that a while, but it’s real now, happening, not a dream although it still feels like one.
His tip catches in your folds again, and you feel him shiver on top of you but he doesn’t stop looking at you, kissing you again, over and over before he speaks hoarsely, “Condom?”
You shake your head. No fucking way. You’re on the pill for health reasons, and you’ll be damned if you’re having anything between you and this man when you’ve finally gotten hold of him. “Raw, please, I’m on the pill, wanna- wanna feel you, all of it.”
“Shit, you are a fucking dream, baby,” he groans, finally, finally swiping his cock through your folds. You think he’s finally going to put it in but he uses your arousal to slick his cock, letting you feel the pressure of it against you. “Think it’ll fit? You’re- baby, you’re so fucking tiny down here, could barely get my fingers in- oh shit, trying to suck me in.”
You try to squirm, but he’s so overpowering you can barely move underneath him. There’s a burning feeling in your tummy like you need it or you’ll die, and he’s still playing with you. He swipes his cock through your folds over and over, watching the way his tip disappears a little into the slick mess. You can’t help it - “Mingi, please put it in!”
“Fuck, ‘m so sorry, baby,” He grunts, sounding like he isn’t the least bit sorry, repositioning himself on his knees so that he’s more comfortable. You see him pull at his cock, moving the foreskin down to expose the tip, leaking pearly precum that makes your mouth water, “‘s too fucking pretty, all creamy like that, hadta play a bit. Gonna take it all for me now? It’s not gonna be too big?”
“Mingi, please- please, I’ve thought about this for so long, just- please, oh my god- oh, oh-“
You’re cut off by the deep, gravelly groan he lets out as he finally pushes inside. It slides in easily from how soaked you are, but it’s still a stretch, so thick and hard that your pussy throbs and tries to gush around him, begging for more.
“Please,” you gasp wetly, and he gives you the first inch. It’s barely anything, not compared to the whole size of him, but you moan and he grins in satisfaction. His tongue licks over his teeth as he slowly starts to fuck the first inch in and out, over and over until you start to shake, hands scrabbling for his hips to push him further inside. “Please, Mingi, daddy, I want more, all of it, give it to me-“
He grunts, sliding all of his length home as he pushes your thighs further apart, letting the pits of your knees rest on his elbows. It’s then that he begins a sinuous grind, hips steadily rolling against your ass, jiggling the flesh upon impact. Your bed is creaking with his steady movements, a thud every second that has you worried your housemates can hear you but well, you decided a while ago that you were over that.
“That’s w-what you needed, yeah?” He coos, voice shaky from the way your pussy is clenching around him. Every time his hips roll backwards, your hole grips and clings as if you can’t bear to have him pull out, so Mingi shortens his thrusts - quick, deep bursts that almost pain your cervix when he hits it. It feels too good to hurt though, and you can’t help but push against his tummy, overwhelmed with sensation. He catches your hands, pinning them above your head and grinding his pubic bone against your clit. “I know, ‘s so good, just- baby, f-feel it, feel it. Gonna feel it for the rest of your life. Yours now.”
You feel dizzy. It’s so good, and he’s right - this is all yours now, finally, after everything.
Mingi quickens his thrusts, hitting right where you need him to. His shoulders catch your attention, broad and rippling with exertion as he holds himself above you, wet, hot pants spilling from his lips with every movement and you can’t help yourself, you feel so full your eyes start to water. He’s throbbing inside of you, desperate to split you open with his teeth biting into his lower lip as he gazes down at where you’re connected. Your pussy drools, slicking up to your mound and over his pubes, up to his happy trail.
“S-so fuckin’ tight, so wet, so warm,” His voice breaks, palm moving to your lower stomach to keep you steady. It quivers under his touch, but he doesn’t notice, thinking solely with his dick. “Wanted to fuck you so bad. Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long, feels too good, p-please, baby, I gotta fuck you harder-”
“You can, please, please,” You gasp when he does, shifting his knees to balance himself. His hips start move against you steadier, harder, cock pistoning into your pussy, abs rippling as he grinds himself inside of you. It’s everything you dreamed of and more, and it’s almost too much, too full, too big - you can’t help but whimper and scramble at his shoulders, squealing when he starts to rub over your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s so swollen, so sensitive that you squeal as he makes contact, cheeks burning as your back arches into him - you’ve been waiting so long for this, and it’s ruining you, every thrust taking you apart and putting you back together again.
Mingi’s just as affected. He drools wetly onto your bare shoulder, wrapping one arm around the small of your back and letting the other hand move to cup your breast. He’s flushed, warm and rutting into you like a mindless animal, but the whines falling from his lips are nothing but grateful. “H-How does it feel, baby, is it as good as you imagined?”
“Better,” you hiccup, because it is, “fu-uck, Mingi, so much better, s-so deep!”
“Yeah, pussy’s t-too fucking good,” He cups your head with his hand, pulling your body upright so he’s essentially holding you off the bed to fuck you. He can go harder like this, and you feel his balls slapping against your ass, lips drooling messily on your shoulder while he talks. You don’t think he could be quiet if he tried, and you can’t believe your brain got this so right. “So fuckin- warm, tighttighttight, I could fuckin’ bust now,” he babbles, “feels so good to fuck you open finally, thought about it- s-so much-“
“Baby, oh my god, ‘s so good,” you mewl, hands moving to his chest, cupping the ample flesh and scratching down further, leaving red lines in their wake. It only makes Mingi fuck you harder, thighs trembling as he drives into you over and over, and you realise he’s right - you are gonna cum around his cock, too soon to be acceptable. “Feels- you’re perfect, I can’t, I’ll- it’s so good I’ll cum, I-”
“Oh, honey,” Mingi groans, long and drawn out, “i-it’s okay, you can cum for me. I want you to cum as m-much as you can, okay?” he kisses you, messy and wet against your cheek, “as much as that little pussy lets you, soak my dick over ‘n over, please, baby.”
You hump yourself onto him, managing to push yourself over his shaft and he lets you, lets you fuck your hole on his thick length until you feel it starting to build, too fast, too sudden, too perfect. He holds you close, ruts into you just enough to abuse his cockhead against that spot inside of you and it doesn’t take much, only a few grinds over him until you’re shaking apart.
“That’s it, oh, good girl, my girl, all mine, so pretty,” Mingi babbles through it, and at the crest of your orgasm your lips part in a sharp noise. Your moan is strangled, almost pained, and he moans right back at you, moving one thumb down to your clit to rub over it and extend your orgasm as long as he can. Your walls flutter around him, gummy and soft and gushing so wet down to his balls that he can’t help the way he rocks forward, chasing the wetness - he only causes you to leak more, cumming so long that your pussy starts to force him out; he presses his hips hard against yours to keep himself inside.
“A-Ah, I,” you cry, unsure, still stuttering with the remnants of it, “so good, I- thank you, daddy.”
Mingi gasps, plush lips parting, cock throbbing inside you. “don’t fucking- don’t say that, I almost came,” all of a sudden, he pulls out, gripping his cock at the base to stave off his own orgasm. You see how slick his shaft is, drenched with your arousal and it looks so dirty, white cream moistening his tan skin and contouring the veins with wet mess. As if it catches his attention, he looks down too, groaning at the sight of your release before his eyes move to your body, raking down you unabashedly. You can’t fucking believe this. Was he always this obvious? “Fuck, I… baby, can I have you on your hands and knees? Always wanted-”
You’re moving before he can finish, shaky limbs pushing your body up to your hands and knees. Your back forms an arch that he runs his hand down with a noise of appreciation, and then you hear the sheets rustle where he walks on his knees towards you, impatient.
“Good girl,” he mumbles, smoothing down the curve of your spine and down to your ass, where he seems to hesitate before he lands one firm slap. The flesh ripples as you cry out, but you don’t run from him - instead, you’re bucking back for more, and Mingi pushes his dick back through your folds once again. “Thought of this s-so much. Your ass, you grinding back on me, tellin’ me- tellin’ me how it feels. Thought of you too fucking much to be normal, baby, thought I was going insane.”
“Mm, Mingi,” you shake your hips, distracted, trying to entice him, and it works. His noise is almost pained, eyes fixated down on where your ass perks up in the air, and he’s sliding back in in one quick thrust. It’s deeper like this, and he hits your cervix almost immediately - this time he doesn’t wait, hips hitting your ass consistently. The headboard thuds against the wall again, too loud and steady to be anything else, incriminating.
Mingi hisses and pulls out right to the tip, “P-please, baby. Shake it on me, like I said, shake it for daddy, good girl.”
Perhaps you’re too obedient but he’s engrossed by it, cock throbbing inside you. You start to grind your hips before you can be embarrassed, moving yourself up and down on his shaft in such a slick slide your chest hits the mattress, hands forming fists on your sheets.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you gasp, scrambling for dear life - has anything ever felt this good outside of those damn dreams? You knew it, knew it had to be him, knew it was always gonna be him - “feels so good, please, please-”
Mingi gasps, hand coming to grip your hips, moving you against him, “You’re unreal. Fucking- oh my god, that’s it, just like that. My girl, my f-fucking dream, god, let me-“
He takes over. You’re thankful for it, because you’ve never felt anything so thick and long and veiny and so fucking perfect inside you - it’s like he’s made for you, carving his ridges and curves into your walls until you couldn’t possibly think of anything else. You’re glad you’re his now, because it’d be impossible to be anyone else’s, to even try to be after he’s given you a taste of what you could have.
Mingi’s ravenous. Hands come to push you down, like he’s realised he can be rougher, and you’re forced fully onto your front before his teeth bite at your neck. His hips slap into you, sloppy, uneven, size forcing the cream you’ve created to form a ring around his base, and he whines at the wetness.
“G’na cum, can’t hold it,” He murmurs, hands wrapping around your shoulders for purchase, pulling you back into him. “Can you- f’me, another- fuckin’ give it to me, girl, all for your man.”
His finger and thumb come to roll your clit, and you’re done for. Combined with the feeling of him aching so heavily inside of you you can do nothing more but babble nonsensically, eyes crossing and cunt clenching around him so deliciously that he roars, pressing deep. Bites turn into kisses, softer as he gets closer and he tries to keep the pace the best he can but it’s unnecessary; just feeling his weight on you, his skin, his chest against your front triggers your orgasm, and one hand shoots down to hold Mingi’s wrist right over your bud.
“That’s it, f-fuck, I can feel it,” He gasps, knees scrambling on the bed to get closer to you. He pushes deep once, twice more and then with a sharp whine you feel him too, the head of his fat cock erupting and filling you with more than enough proof that he likes you back.
“Mngh- it’s- fucking deep, I-“ You choke, and Mingi shushes you, voice shaky, pulling your hips back to get it even deeper as he pumps you full, breaths stuttering. Something awful flashes through your brain, something domestic and too serious but it makes your cunt throb, gummy and soothing around his shaft as he empties himself.
Mingi chuckles, kissing the slope of your shoulder. “Maybe it’ll take, h-huh? Claim you properly. Will you believe it’s real then?”
“J-Jesus,” you stutter, squirming - how did he read your mind like that? - and he laughs again, finally coaxing his softening cock out of your hole. It feels stretched, and you know it is when he groans, elongated, thumb rubbing over the slick opening.
“Could fuck you again looking at that,” He muses, and you wriggle your hips, tempted - he huffs and gives you another smack, this time on your thigh, admonishing you. “Behave. We’ll have a spliff and we’ll go again.”
You roll over on your back, deflated, finally seeing him. He sits next to you on the bed, skin flushed, eyes half lidded. He’s just as fucked out as you but somehow more composed, eyeing you like he wants to laugh but he knows he can’t as he’s not much better.
“Weed and then more sex,” Your hand reaches up to smooth over his cheek, and his eyes flutter shut, a smile pulling at his lips until he falls into you again. Limbs intertwined, you peck at his nose again. “Where have you been all my life?”
“Buying you banana milk and trying to be normal around you, actually.”
“Right, yeah,” You giggle, and he plasters himself to you closer. You’re both sticky and exhausted but it’s comfortable, the heat satiating rather than stifling. Nails trailing up his arm, he shivers, and you watch the goosebumps form - real. It’s real. “We have a lot of making up to do. We could’ve been doing this a while ago.”
Mingi’s eyes open, glinting. “You’re not leaving this room until it stinks, baby.”
“Okay, disgusting,” You shove at him, and he’s amused, finally rolling away to put some clothes on with a shake to his shoulders. Watching him as he moves, sitting on the edge of your bed, you’re unashamed this time - he’s yours to look at - and you hum as his back muscles flex, reaching down to pull his discarded boxers back up. When he stands, you see his thighs tense, and well, that ass… your eyes want to water. How lucky can one girl be?
Mingi stretches his arms above his head and turns to you, making you avert your eyes promptly to the blanket beneath you. “Pervert, I saw that. But, hey, are Wooyoung and San still in?”
You yawn, shrugging, finally reaching over for your own clothes. “Honestly, no idea. Stopped caring.”
“They can thank us for the show, and the many more to come,” Mingi grins, cocky, and you roll your eyes like you aren’t obsessed with him. With that, your phone starts to ping on your bedside table, three tones one after another, and you furrow your eyebrows. It’s quick throwing your clothes on before you check - a fresh pair of panties and a tee as your last pair of panties were ruined - and when you pick your phone up, he sidles in behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle and kissing over your neck.
Nosy ass, you think, but you open your phone with a satisfied little smile, before it promptly falls at seeing that it’s your house group chat.
[2:13pm] wooyo: definitely still in baby
[2:14pm] sannie: Told you he’s a nice guy
[2:14pm] sannie: Do u guys want anything btw we’re ordering food
You splutter. “Oh my god-“
“How kind of him,” Mingi coos. “I think San’s nice too.”
“Mingi,” You scowl, but he doesn’t flinch, and when he plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek you can’t help but smile. “You know that’s not the point!”
“Oh, right. Ask him to get me some chicken. He knows what I like.”
“That’s still-”
“Baaaaby. Chicken, please.”
“Fine.”
if you got this far hi, thank you, this is the longest oneshot i've ever posted ever <3
★ Warnings: Romance, Dark themes, religion, blood, violence. I have to give reader a few visual traits (long hair and freckles) in the beginning for identifiable reasons soz! they can be ignored tbh. Word count: 2.7k
DISCLAIMER: This is not intended to represent Yeosang or any other individuals mentioned. This is a work of fiction!!! Please read the content warnings and feel free to let me know if I’ve missed anything. Don't read if you're not comfortable with the warnings!!!
Part 2 of ???? - ← PREVIOUS | NEXT →
The soft distant noise of chirping birds echo’s through your room. You can feel a gentle breeze kiss your skin, the air is fresh, gentle, almost coaxing. The familiar sensations tug at you, urging you to wake. Eyes fluttering open, you’re greeted by the sensation of soft bedding beneath you, warm and clean against your fever cooled skin. Was everything just a horrible nightmare? A cruel trick of the mind?
You sit up, eyes still closed as you stretch your limbs. You turn your body, your sleepy gaze drops to the floor, eyes meeting a cold hardwood instead of the familiar rug. Your eyes snap open, terror spreading through every nerve in your body. This is not your chamber…it’s too grand, too polished, too still.
Your breath hitched. For a moment, you believed it had all been a horrible dream.
Panic surged through you. Stumbling to your feet, you scan the room through teary eyes, your vision blurred. Scanning for any sign, any clue, any escape. In your frantic search your elbow struck a vase perched on a nearby table. It toppled over, shattering, the sound snapping you back into reality. You stumble back, shards of porcelain crunching under your feet, petals from the once beautiful pink roses stick to your feet as you drag yourself backwards, leaving bloody footsteps on the hardwood floor.
The sound cut through the quiet, alerting everyone close by that you’re awake. Thudding footsteps carry through the halls as someone rushes to investigate the sudden disturbance. The door flew open, and a maid rushes in breathless.
You froze, eyes widening.
The maids eyes widen too, noticing the disaster you’ve left on the floor.
“Oh- you’re awake.” They said smoothing their garments. “I shall alert the Prince at once.”
Your moth went dry. Prince? oh this is too much!
You fall to the ground, grabbing at your bleeding feet, hot tears streaming down your cheeks. You tried to steady your breathing, but it came in ragged pulls. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your wounds, trying to make sense of the impossible.
Where in god’s name are you?
The sudden loud bang from the door bursting open ripped a scream from your throat – raw, gut-wrenching, and filled with fear. Your whole body jolted.
It was him.
The man who saved you…more than once now. He is carrying aid supplies, brows furrowed with concern. You look up at him in confusion twisting through your features. Was he a royal doctor? Is that why he wore no crest? Is that why he saved you?
“Look at you, you must rest.” He clicked his tongue, voice thick with worry. He kneels beside you, brushing aside stray shards of porcelain that remain scattered around you.
“I…..I’m sorry. I must beg for forgiveness once the prince arrives…for breaking his vase.” Your words come out hurried, stammering in fear.
He laughs, a laugh that feels different, that feels knowing. “Fret not. He is a forgiving man.” He shakes his head, trying to dismiss his amusement.
He grabs your ankles gently, lowering himself further to get a better look. “Be still.” He uncorks a small bottle of clear liquid, pouring a small amount onto a piece of cloth. “This will sting.” You nod, watching their every movement. When the liquid touches your skin, the burn forces a wince from you, tears threatening to spill from the corners of your eyes. You try to swallow them down, but a small pained noise escapes you.
“Oh, hush now. It’s okay.” His voice was soft, comforting. “Almost done.” He checks your feet for over, making sure no porcelain remains, before wrapping them up in clean bandages.
“Thank you.” you whisper.
He raises, gathering the used cloths. “I shall call for someone to clean this mess. Rest here. I will bring some tea.”
He pauses at the doorway, glancing back at you with a look you cannot name. It’s soft, it’s guarded and almost a little sorrowful. The look makes you uneasy.
A maid followed almost immediately, carrying a small broom and cloth. She gives you a small bow before moving to clear the shattered porcelain. You straighten instinctively, posture poised and practiced - old habits die hard.
You speak, voice filled with sincerity. “Thank you for coming.”
Your words cause the maid to freeze, her eyes flicking up, startled as though unsure of whether she heard you correctly. You look back at her equally as shocked. Was respect not common currency within these walls? Why did your gratitude shock her? She bows her head and begins to sweep with shaky hands.
You watch her every move with a sympathetic look, wanting to offer a hand. You always helped with tasks especially if it was at the consequence of your own actions. But before you could speak again, the door opens and once more…He returns.
You don’t miss the way how the maid reacted instantly. Her sweeping quickening, movements sharp and nervous. She finished in a rush, bowing again, too deeply, too quickly, before slipping out of the room as though afraid to linger.
You notice how he doesn’t thank her.
He comes carrying a small tray. Steam curls from the pot, the scent of sweet chamomile and mint fill the room. His eyes flicker to you and linger for a beat too long.
“Here.” he says softly, moving towards the small table by the window and setting the tray down. “Drink, eat. You need it.” You watch him place an orange in front of you. The fruit cut into small segments. You look at it, unable to eat, nerves getting the better of you.
You reach for the tea, warming your hands around the cup, letting the heat settle into your bones.
You watch as he begins drinking his tea, and after you see him swallow, you finally lift your cup. He noticed. Of course he did. Ever the observant.
You watch him over the rim of your cup, fingers trembling every so slightly. He meets your gaze, expression amused. “I see you waited for me to drink first, smart girl.”
Heat crept up your neck, but you don’t look away. “I don’t know you, I’m only being cautious.”
“Understandable.”
There’s silence for a while…none of you daring to speak.
But you’re the first to break, seizing the opportunity to ask questions while he's mid sip, cup still touching his lips. If he's distracted...maybe you'll get a real answer.
“Where am I?” your voice low and steady. “Why am I here?”
You questions spill past your lips with ease, the ones that have eaten away at you since the moment you woke up in this strange, yet somewhat familiar room. Not too long ago you were being hunted, chased through the ruins of everything you ever knew. And now you’re suddenly in an unknown kingdom.
He doesn’t answer…not immediately, no. He takes another sip before setting his tea down, folding his hands in his lap with a calmness that feels deliberate…rehearsed.
“You’re safe now.” his words carry weight, like he knows what you’re thinking.
You don't blink, holding his stare and waiting for him to slip up. He doesn't.
“That’s not what I asked. Speak with me directly, honestly.”
There's more silence, the tension thick. He inhales, as though he's choosing his words very, very carefully.
A faint smile appears on his lips, like his next words are going to be evasive but polite. “It's been a strange morning hasn't it."
You blink at him...unsure if you actually heard him correctly.
He has already finished tea. You watch as he fills his glass once more with practiced grace. You wonder how many mornings he'd spent perfecting such composure. “In your disarray I never quite had the chance to check in. You were quite unwell. How are you feeling?” He takes another slow sip before setting the cup back on its porcelain saucer.
Your jaw tightens, your patience wearing thin now.
"That's not an answer."
His smile falters for just a fraction.
You continue, tone carrying more weight than it did moments ago. "You call it a strange morning." you snap. "I woke in a kingdom I don't recognise, in a bed that is not mine. You have guards patrolling outside the door with no explanation, and I must accept your pitiful answer?" you huff, sinking a little into your chair.
“Safety is what mattered most. You were very sick and needed care, somewhere proper to rest your head.”
Your eyes narrow, seeing right through his act. “You speak like a courtier.”
“And you speak like one born to command.” His words, combative.
The words hang between you both, as sharp as a freshly sharpened blade.
“So I’m going to ask again. Why am I here?”
A simple question. One any decent man would answer.
But he doesn't.
His gaze drifted to the window, to the tray, to anywhere but you. “That’s not important right now.”
Your fingers tightened around the cup.
“You dance around every question I ask.” You mutter, diverting your attention to the window now.
“Only the ones that need to be.”
You huff, tired of whatever game is being played. “Then at least tell me who you are.”
He hesitates…and you notice, causing you to sharpen your sense. Everything about him is suspicious.
“Yeosang, I go by Yeosang.” Now this is not a lie. But not the entire truth either. You can feel it in your bones.
Yet still, you let it rest. For now.
You move to speak, but before you get that chance, the door bursts open again. A man dressed in a dapper uniform rushes in, breathless, eyes wide with fear. He bows so quickly he almost stumbles over his own feet.
“Prince Kang. You-Your father, the King… He summons you at once.” His voice stammers, shaking.
The room goes quiet.
Your heart stops.
Prince? Kang?
Your eyes dart to the man before you. And suddenly pieces begin to fall into place.
The Kang Kingdom.
He rises slowly, jaw tightening, the mask slipping, falling completely. Something flickers in his eyes, duty and dread, something else entirely as he glances back at you.
“I shall return. Don’t do anything stupid.” His words came out low, almost threatening.
He leaves without another word.
Prince Kang Yeosang. Your fragile sense of safety began to shatter, meeting the same fate of the vase. Your breath caught, a cold dread ran though you and seeped into your bones. It felt like you were being hollowed from the inside out, your guts spilling from you as a wave of nausea washes over you. In a moment of desperation you allowed yourself, willingly and foolishly, to be handed over to the hands of the enemy. You were so naïve. You rested in his chambers, you drank his tea. How could you be so stupid.
Your plan to run as soon as you reached the kingdoms gates, to slip away in the night, failed. And now you’ve put your trust into the hands of a man whose bloodline had murdered yours.
Your fingers begin to shake. I must leave now.
You push yourself upright, ignoring the sharp, throbbing pain in your bandaged feet. In your panic, you feel your throat tighten, a scream clawing at your throat and threatening to escape. You scan for an exit, any exit. The window. The door. A passage? SOMETHING! ANYTHING!
You limp towards the window, gripping the ledge for balance. Outside, flags flick in the wind, and guards patrol, their armour gleaming in the afternoon sun. Their movements tense, alert, like men waiting for an ambush, knowing they’ll eventually pay in the forms of retaliation…no matter the form.
Your stomach twisted. Had they attacked others? Were there survivors?
You turn from the window quickly, staggering towards the door. You press your ear against the wood and listen. Muffled chatter amongst guards, heavy boots, and the occasional clang of steel. They were stationed, watching the room. Watching you.
You step back in defeat, exhaustion washing over you, the force of the realisation sending you to the floor. You press a trembling hand to your forehead, trying to steady your breathing but the panicked thoughts continue.
Does he know who I am? What will become of me? Am I destined for death?
You remember his words and the way he looked at you… He spoke carefully, like he knew…like each word…each phrase had a purpose.
“And you speak like one born to command.”
Had you betrayed yourself? Revealed too much? Had your mere existence given you away? You were trained to speak in circles, to remain calm in the face of pressure, to remain poised…To hide truth behind grace. He was trained to do the same.
A Prince and a Princess. Cut from the same cloth. Both alike in dignity. Tangled in a fate made fatal by grudge. Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
Your pulse hammered as you laid on the floor, mind racing with everything you’ve ever done and ever said. Asking God if this really is your fate.
That’s when you saw it.
A shard of porcelain, large, sharp, and sparkling in the now setting sunlight. It lay there like a lifeline.
A choice.
A way out.
Like it was intentionally left there by the maid as a show of mercy, as a favour. A thank you for your gratitude.
You stare at it, every breath you take vibrates through you, the weight of your fear pressing down on your lungs from all sides.
A way out.
And for the first time since the siege, you feel truly, utterly alone and burdened by decision.
Hours pass, slipping by in uneasy silence. You sat upon the edge on the bed on top of the soft cotton sheets that creased below you. Your gaze drifts again and again to the shard beside you.
It gleamed faintly under the stream of moonlight now coming in from the large window. Your fingers brush it absently, tracing the smooth edges. You couldn’t seem to understand why it comforted you.
You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to force yourself awake, the drowsiness becoming too much to bear. Every sound in the corridor made you flinch. Your feet throbbed in their bandages, a dull ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. You could not run. You could barely stand... the guards outside the door made escaping impossible.
You swallow hard, staring at the porcelain shard once more.
It was the only thing in this room that felt like it belonged to you. The only thing that made you feel like you had a choice, it was a reminder that you weren’t entirely powerless.
You rose, limping back over to the door, once last attempt at escape but you only see more patrols.
There’s no way out.
Slowly you return to the bed, drawing you knees to your chest and resting your forehead against them.
You stare at the shard once again. Was this truly your way out? Did the maid leave it there for you? Did they leave it as a warning?
The irony wasn’t lost on you. If they truly wanted you dead, then this would give them exactly what they wanted. But at least it would be on your terms.
Flashes of your life flickered behind your eyes. Of your father, of your mother, of the kingdom you’d lost, the life you could- the door is forced open, snapping you back into reality and causing you to flinch. All of your thoughts slipping away in an instant.
Yeosang stumbles inside, breath uneven, hair messed as through he’d been running. His clothes had changed, wearing something more regal.
He shut the door behind him with so much force the hinges rattled. He takes a few steps in your direction.
You rush to your feet, grabbing the shard.
“Stay back, Prince.” You snap, voice laced with fear. The shard trembled in your grip as you hold it in front of you, using it to create distance.
He halted instantly, hands lifting in surrender. “I mean you no harm, Princess.” His eyes widen, realising he just gave away that he knows your secret.
You flinch, taking another step back. He does know.
“Don’t lie to me.” You voice cracked. “Your kingdom destroyed mine. Your soldiers hunted me. My parents-” you tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but a choked noise escaped you. “My parents died at your hand.”
His expression twisted, not with anger, but with something else. “No.” his voice was soft. “Not at my hand.”
You weren’t listening. “Was it you?” you demand, taking a step forward, extending your arm out further. “Were you the one to do it, Prince Kang Yeosang?” You spat his title like poison.
“Tell me.” You pressed further. “Tell me if it was you.” You take another step, the porcelain shard suddenly feeling heavy in your hands.
“It was not.” his voice was steady. “I swear it.”
You shook your head, hot tears running down your face. “Directly or indirectly, it was still the choice of your blood.”
He closes his eyes, as though your words cut deep. When his eyes opened again, the princes mask had fallen away completely. He looked young, tired, defeated.
“But not at my request.” He murmured. “You must understand, princess…More than anyone.”
The use of your title hit like a blow. And he knew it.
He took a step closer, slow and steady, as though he was approaching a frightened animal. You shook your head and brough your other hand up to hold the shard too, to steady your hand. You shake it in front of you, a warning to stay back.
“I never wished for this war.” He spoke. “I never wished for any of this. I have no say in my father’s council. No power to halt his command.”
You stare at him, chest tight, the shard almost slipping from your grip. His words seem earnest…dangerous.
You didn’t know whether to believe him or fear him.
But the way he looked at you, breathless, desperate, stripped of royal pride, unsettled something deep within you.
Is he telling the truth? Or he was the most skilled liar you’d ever met?
it's been two weeks since you got cheated on, and somehow, everything makes even less sense than it did before.
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 4/? 9k words
🎤︎︎ 18+ reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, reader no longer has a boyfriend who is choi yeonjun | hehehehe *evil noises*
“I THINK I’M GOING THROUGH WITHDRAWAL,” San mutters, his head in his hands, leaning over his knees on the couch. “Unscripted hasn’t posted a new episode in two weeks, I think she fucking died.”
“She didn’t die, moron,” Wooyoung grumbles from the opposite side of the couch. “She probably got bored of talking about sex instead of having it.”
“She talks about her own experiences,” Mingi answers, sitting between Yunho and Hongjoong, game controller in his hands. It isn’t often that the entire frat is home at the same time, besides parties, and even then sometimes all eight of them can’t get under one roof. “She’s clearly having a lot of sex.”
“Maybe her and her situationship are back together,” Seonghwa offers, in the corner of the sectional, splitting Jongho and Yeosang. His dark brows wiggle, “Maybe he listened to the episode and decided to get his shit together.”
“Do you think he knows who she is?” Yunho wonders, undeniably intrigued. He curses under his breath, he missed a shot in the game. “Do you think we’ll ever find out who she is?”
“No,” Wooyoung and the other six answer as one. Yunho frowns.
“It’s all so lame,” Wooyoung complains. “You’re all obsessed with her and you don’t even know who she is. Is a woman having sex really that interesting?”
“Why are you whittling her down to just a woman who has sex?” San argues back, leaning his elbows on his knees now, eyeing Wooyoung from under his brows across the couch. “Women like her are basically nonexistent. Did you listen to the episode on anal?”
Wooyoung cringes, but Hongjoong speaks up, “No one is into anal.”
“Yeah, not even her, I’d bet,” Wooyoung’s rebuttal is under his breath, he shakes his head as he pulls out his phone. He opens Instagram, scrolling through his feed, liking every bikini picture he sees. It gets boring after about six, so he refreshes his feed, and his eyes catch on the several circles at the top of his screen. Story posts.
He clicks the first one he sees, Huh Yunjin. He remembers her, he fucked her a few months ago, he thinks. It was another themed party, a wear anything but clothes party, and she wore toilet paper around her boobs and butt. Wooyoung wonders if she still has the sweatpants and shirt he let her wear after he ripped it off of her.
The story post is a cute selfie of her and another girl, it takes Wooyoung four whole seconds of staring at the selfie with his thumb held on the screen to realize the other girl is you. Then he realizes he hasn’t seen you since the day you flipped shit on him at the gym. He screenshots it, opens his camera roll, and zooms in until he can see every pixel.
You look different. You’re smiling, happy about the two drinks in your hands, but there’s something off. Something different. He can’t figure it out. Why the fuck would he be able to figure it out just by a screenshotted picture from Yunjin’s story?
He locks his phone, throwing it on his lap, and brings his attention back to the conversation being held around him, except there is no conversation. Mingi and Yunho are yelling, he has no idea how he blocked that out, and the other five are leaning in closer to the TV, watching their FIFA match as if it was a real soccer game happening in front of their eyes.
Wooyoung announces, “I’m in the mood to drink.”
Seonghwa doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “It’s a Monday.”
Jongho turns his head, interested and apparently also in the mood to drink, “Jungwon’s frat is throwing tonight.”
“San?” Wooyoung tips his chin in San’s direction, like if San said yes, he’d say yes. That’s usually how partying goes— how everything goes, really.
San makes a face that tells Wooyoung he doesn’t care either way. “Sure,” he shrugs, “I don’t have anything else to do.”
“I wanna come,” Yunho interjects, ripping his eyes away from the screen just long enough to look at Wooyoung with begging eyes.
“I’m not your keeper,” Wooyoung doesn’t know why Yunho still asks.
“I am,” Mingi’s lips pin upward in a teasing grin. “I’ll come, too, my first class is at noon tomorrow.”
“As if any of you ever go to class,” Seonghwa snickers.
“I go to class,” comes from Hongjoong and Yeosang, at the same time. They look at each other and grin, proud of their studious efforts.
“Let’s all go,” Jongho offers, sitting up straight, lips pinned in something mischievous. “We can infiltrate their house.”
“I don’t care about infiltrating,” Wooyoung’s head finds the back cushions, spreading his knees. “I want to drink and fuck and leave.”
Yeosang, ignoring Wooyoung, offers, “I’ll drive, if we want to squeeze into my car.”
They’ve all fit into Yeosang’s SUV before, after a serious game of Tetris, bending and forcing limbs into places they’re not supposed to go. But it works, and Wooyoung doesn’t mind stretching himself to fit, as long as the night ends with him stretching someone else to fit.
“You can’t only go to class and work forever,” Yunjin’s arms are crossed in your doorway, her hair tied up over her head, her casual-but-cool outfit trumping yours completely. You’re still in the shirt you wore to bed, shorts hidden somewhere beneath, flip-flops on your feet, hair dirty as fuck and slicked back because of it. You had two classes earlier today, too.
“Yes I can,” you argue, your laptop screen suddenly beyond interesting. Soobin was right, it is a small campus, and it’s not like you were just avoiding one person, you’ve been avoiding three. “I really have to finish this report, Jen, it’s due tomorrow.”
“You finished it a week ago,” she sighs as she walks into your bedroom, leaning onto your desk, arms still crossed. Fuck her for knowing you so well. “You partied while you were dating him. You’ve never had any issues going out, so why start now?”
“Did I miss the part where your boyfriend cheated on you?” You sit back in your desk chair, lifting your feet until your toes rested on the edge of the slab of light wood. “Oh, wait, that was me. And he cheated on me with a man. Can’t a girl take a couple weeks to wallow in her heartbreak?”
“You came home that night feeling two emotions. Anger, and relief.” She turns to the side, one leg crossed over the other, the lower half of her tall body leaned up against the desk. “You weren’t crying because you were sad, girl, you were crying because he cheated on you. You admitted it!”
“I was confused!” you argue, voice pitched in defense. “I was with him for over a year, Jen. I thought I was going to marry him.”
“You were with him for six months, maybe nine if I feel like being generous,” she smacks her teeth. “You were never going to marry him and you know it. That basket was a cry for attention, and he gave you a reality check instead. I’ve comforted you for two weeks and let you sit and wallow or whatever, but tonight, we’re going out.”
“I’m not leaving this apartment,” you threaten.
“Jihyo will drag you out of this apartment with her bare fucking hands,” she threatens back, in the same tone you used on her. You stare at each other for a moment, a stand-off, before the side of her cherry-red lips tugs upward in a smile. Her smile makes you smile, and then the two of you are laughing like you weren’t arguing a second ago.
Your laughter blends into a groan as you tip your head back, closing your eyes. You really aren’t in the mood to party, and you especially aren’t in the mood to go to some fuckass frat you’ve been to maybe three times in your life. If Yeonjun was at Wooyoung’s frat the night of the zip-tie party, then he could easily be there tonight, too. You aren’t in the mood to think about what you’ll do, what you’ll feel if you see him.
Realization hits you like a slap across the face when Yunjin’s words process. Your eyes snap open, “You invited the girls over to pregame?”
Yunjin shrugs, a sly grin still playing on her lips. “You need a push.”
“It’s only been two weeks!” you shout, exasperated.
“Two weeks too long,” she complains, pushing herself off the desk. “You’re twenty-one and hot, there’s no reason for you to sit in here and deteriorate.”
“There’s no reason for me to go out,” you argue, rolling yourself backward as she moves toward your closet, watching. “I’m not like you, Jen, I’m not gonna go kiss randoms or fuck someone in the bathroom, that’s not going to make me feel better.”
She sorts through hangers, ordering, “You need to do laundry, this closet is empty.” Pulling out a random top, she makes a face like she’s semi-impressed by it, “You don’t need to kiss randoms or have sex in a bathroom. All you need is a good night out with your girl friends, at the very least it will help jump-start your heart into healing.”
Your bottom lip folds over. “What do I do if I see him? What if he’s with Beomgyu?”
She throws the top on your bed, and holds out her left hand to count on it. “You’ll have me, Jihyo, Momo, Sana, Tzuyu, Nayeon and Chaeyoung as your personal human shields. You won’t see him.”
“And, what? You guys are gonna circle me all night?” you raise your brows, sarcasm in your question.
“Like fucking hawks,” Yunjin grins like she was already in agreement with the others. “Get up and get showered, and please wash your hair.”
Your lips part, offended. “I was going to wash my hair today anyways!”
She started bothering you about this party before your first class, early this morning. Well, really, she mentioned it last night, and then first thing when she woke up and met you in the kitchen, then once when you got home, and you suppose now she’s officially made the decision for you.
Yunjin wasn’t wrong. You’ve spent two weeks meticulously tiptoeing around campus, keeping an eye over your shoulder on the way to class and back, you’ve been terrified of the jingle over the door at the gym, where you work. You think the fear of seeing them, any three of them, might be overshadowing what emotions you actually feel toward your breakup.
You’ve heard from Yeonjun several times. The next day he left voicemails on your phone, apologizing profusely, trying and failing terribly to explain the situation. He’s texted you, he’s emailed you, he’s gone as far as saying he’ll kick Beomgyu out of the apartment if it meant you’d get back together with him. You haven’t answered a single message, but you haven’t blocked him, either. It’s strangely easy to ignore, the calls, texts, emails, he’s strangely easy to ignore. Like there’s an imaginary wall up between you and the entire situation. Like you can’t seem to process it, let alone get over it, or try to move past it.
It’s not like it never happened, but it’s put a pin in your entire life like seeing him in bed with someone else has frozen time itself. Nothing outside of school and work seems to exist, or matter, nothing outside of your bedroom-classroom-gym bubble seems to be real.
It’s strange. You feel strange. You aren’t ready to figure out what that means.
After a long shower and an extensive post-shower routine, you still feel like you’re floating through the motions of doing your hair, your makeup. It’s like you’re living outside of your own body, but you don’t really feel an ache, or the hollowness in the space where Yeonjun once filled.
“Do you want a drink?”
You jump, throwing your eyeliner pen across your vanity. Whipping your head to the doorway, Jihyo stands as perfect as she always does, smiling wide, shoulders back, chin upward, radiating a comforting dominance you’ve never seen anyone else able to replicate. She’s holding a can in her left hand, a martini glass in her right, she isn’t taking no for an answer.
Her long, dark hair is in a high ponytail, baggy pants on her legs, a top that just covers what it needs to. Her tanned, golden skin glows from the fluorescent light of your vanity, or the LED lights, whatever they are. She looks hot.
Her hips move in a slow sway as she saunters across your bedroom, setting your martini glass down beside your array of compacts. “Do you know what you’re wearing yet?” she asks, her lips a sparkling, glossy pink.
You shake your head before answering, “Jen might have picked something out, I didn’t look.”
“I know you don’t want to go,” she changes the subject, her voice keeping the same confident, smooth cadence she always has. “And I know parties here are a dime a dozen, but tonight is the night you’re finally gonna break out of this funk.”
You haven’t spoken to the other girls about any of it. Not about Yeonjun cheating on you, not about who with, but you don’t mind that Yunjin passed the message along. It’s easier if you don’t have to talk about it.
Your mouth still feels dry. You try a smile, sipping your martini, feeling the absence of all three olives. “I’m not in a funk,” you lie straight through your teeth, “it is what it is.”
“That’s the funk,” she bends down enough to where you have to shift your head down to keep her eye. “You’re not a passive girl. You might have been with him, but that’s not you at your core. From now on, we’re focusing on bringing that back out of you.”
“I think it’s a good thing,” you basically murmur. “Not being argumentative, or loud, or angry. Being chill.”
“Being passive isn’t being chill,” she stands again, taking a sip of her own drink. “Being passive is allowing yourself to get walked all over, and that’s what you’ve spent the last year doing. Tonight is the first step in undoing all of that shit.”
You think of San, who has seen you since the day he met you at the Penny. When he was reading you just by your coffee order. Or Yunho, who you were able to talk to so freely, so much that you let words slip that you wouldn’t say to any of the women in this house beside Yunjin. You think about Wooyoung, the banter between you, how exhilarating and entertaining it is for a man to not only match your energy, but to send it back to you tenfold. Why is it so easy to be yourself around them? Why does everyone else require a mask?
You haven’t been able to bring yourself to sit in front of your microphone in two weeks, you don’t have anything happy or funny to say, you can’t think of a single topic when you have notebooks upon notebooks with topics written down. You feel disconnected from her, Unscripted, your alter-ego, she feels too far away, hidden beneath too many layers of shit. You miss her.
Your nod to Jihyo isn’t convincing, but it’s there. And it seems to be enough for her, because she smiles wide and orders, “When you’re done getting ready, you’re coming out to the living room and we’re all taking shots. We’re getting you fucked up tonight.”
You laugh, more of an amused huff of breath through your nose as you reach for your eyeliner pen. “If I’m getting fucked up, then you’re all getting fucked up, too.”
“Music to my ears, baby,” she drawls as she heads for your bedroom door again. You keep your eyes on her, just because she looks so fucking good walking away.
She’s right, and it’s easy to realize, easy to come to terms with. You let Yeonjun get away with murder in your relationship. He set the schedule, called the shots, chose your future, and you let him. You think you’ve let all the boyfriends you’ve ever had do the same. None of your boyfriends have seen the sarcastic, witty, loud-mouthed part of you, or the part that seems like she’d enjoy black coffee– hard and mad and serious and shit.
It’s hard to tell which part of you is the alter-ego now.
“I brought you an outfit!” Yunjin announces, skipping into your room with clothes on hangers. She lays them down on your bed, and then leaves just as fast. “We want to take shots soon, so be quick!”
Maybe you never needed an alter-ego to begin with.
Honestly, Wooyoung doesn’t really like house parties that much. But this time of year the campus is always buzzing with them, including his own frat, and he always participates, so who the fuck is he kidding? He goes for the same reasons, and those are the only reasons parties are actually enjoyable. Drinking and fucking, smoking and fucking, sober and fucking, it doesn’t matter what comes first, just what comes after.
“My boy.” He spots Jungwon first, or Jungwon spots him. The president of his frat, a little taller than Wooyoung, he has a cute face but the personality of an oiled fucking machine. If there’s anyone that loves fucking just as much as Wooyoung, it’s Jungwon. Brown, shaggy hair that sits over his forehead, a lean but sculpted body, clothes that always look tailored to him, Jungwon might be just as rich, just as attractive as Wooyoung, too.
He remembers eventually and cringes. He clasps the younger man’s hand, bringing him into a quick embrace with a pat to his back, grinning. “Good to see you, bro.”
“You brought the family,” Jungwon eyes the pack of animals striding in behind Wooyoung, already on the prowl. They actually managed to fit all eight of them into Yeosang’s car.
Wooyoung nods with a small chuckle, “Couldn’t miss a banger. All your boys here?”
Wooyoung needs the luck, because Jungwon’s frat house is about six times bigger than Wooyoung’s. Not that Wooyoung was the president, that was Hongjoong, if any of them paid any mind to the dynamics of it all. Wooyoung thinks their entire house could fit into the living room he stood in right now. It was one of the rich frats on campus, with a brick-layed exterior, pillars on the porch, one of the houses that gets cleaned weekly by a service sworn-in and is paid for by donating alumni. Wooyoung, nor the rest of his frat, had any interest in having to take care of something as massive as this.
A blonde makes her presence known, fitting right into the space under Jungwon’s bicep, and Wooyoung takes that as his cue to leave. He sees Mingi’s head of dark, cropped hair beside Yunho’s head of blonde, and uses it as a beacon to weave his way through people, making eyes at a certain few on the way. He sneaks in between the couple and neither of them react, like the spot was already his.
“How long do you think we’ll be here?” Yunho asks, eyes darting all over the living room, art hung high on the ceilings.
“Why?” Mingi asks, turning his head toward Yunho. “You got plans for after or something?”
“His plans are on the back porch, wherever the smokers are,” Wooyoung adds. “How many miles do we have to walk before we can get a fucking drink?”
“San brought beers,” Yunho makes a face, like he’s just realizing he already lost the younger man. “Fuck, why does he go everywhere except toward the kitchen? That’s where liquor is dispersed.”
“I don’t think those rules apply in a place like this,” Mingi says, stopping in his tracks. In the kitchen, the massive, huge room that is only a kitchen because it has appliances in the corner, is roaring. At their own parties, the kitchen counters are usually filled with liquor bottles, shot glasses, ashtrays full of cigarette butts. Not women.
Wooyoung grins ear to ear, “Nice.”
Music blares, and each pounding beat guides the women on the countertops, on the kitchen island. Hips sway, liquor is spilled, cheers are shouted, there’s a crowd for the elevated-surface-dancers. Wooyoung’s never been one to chase, but he’ll watch and enjoy the free show like his life depends on it.
“I need a drink,” Yunho complains, barely watching the show before him. “We’re not even going to be able to get inside that kitchen, let alone get a fucking drink. Where the hell did San go?”
Wooyoung thinks mini-skirts were created just for him. He loves legs, calves, strength and muscle curving the long stretch of skin. He loves heels especially for that reason, when women’s calves are outlined perfectly, flexed just because they took a step. It’s mesmerizing, entrancing, and it makes his dick open an eye in his pants.
“Wooyoung.” He snaps back to Yunho, who’s clearly still complaining. “Get us in there, we need drinks.”
Wooyoung smacks his teeth. Why is it up to him? Actually, that’s a question for them. He shakes his head in irritation, “Why is it up to me?” He was perfectly fine watching the show.
“Because I said so.” Yunho’s reply is short but lacking the sweet counterpart. He grabs onto Wooyoung’s arm and drags him forward, toward the kitchen. Wooyoung doesn’t let his feet drag, because he wants to drink, too, but he’d rather find San than be the small guy dragging the two big guys through a women-watching crowd.
He weaves through bodies, a few women catching his eye, and he caught theirs, too. After a few winks thrown and another few diversions from women he’s already tapped, he finally finds a liquor bottle at the very corner of one counter, centimeters away from a stiletto.
He looks up, and gets an eyeful of thong. Grinning, he tilts his head, cocky smirk on his lips as he asks, “Can I grab this bottle without my hand getting stabbed?”
The girl looks down, and it dawns on her the same time it dawns on him who the other one is.
“Wooyoung?” she asks, but slides her feet over, letting him reach in for the bottle.
He gives her a nod of acknowledgement, “Jen.”
She bends until the backs of her thighs are kissing her calves. “It’s Yunjin to you.”
Still pretty. Still a bitch. His favorite. His smirk gets sloppier, “Yeah? I’m pretty sure you told me to call you Jen when I was inside you.”
Her cheeks go pink, eyes widening. “You can forget that ever happened, I already forgot.”
He hands the bottle to Yunho and Mingi behind him, all while keeping his eyes on the brunette in front of him. Licking his lips, he considers going for seconds. “That’s a shame, I think about it all the time.”
“Funny, because you never reached out,” she barks out, her eyes thinning.
“Isn’t it better to meet each other like this? Naturally? Organically? I hate that texting bullshit,” he leans his side against the counter, elbow propped up on the granite. “It works, clearly, since you forgot all about me. Want a reminder?”
“I’m not here for that,” she purrs, a smile playing on her own lips. “I’m here for my friend, to help her get over a breakup.”
“Yeah?” Wooyoung’s eyes slide to the rest of the women on countertops. “Which one is she?”
Yunjin looks, too, to point her out to Wooyoung. But her eyes go wide, color draining from her face, “Shit! Help me down.”
She throws an arm out, which Wooyoung quickly takes, keeping her stable as she leaps off the countertop. “What’s wrong?”
“I fucking lost her,” Yunjin panics, quickly pushing past him, Yunho and Mingi. Wooyoung’s face falls as he turns to his friends.
Yunho and Mingi are already giggling with pink cheeks. Mingi snorts, “Guess you can check her off the list for possible bed-warmers.”
Wooyoung scowls, “Give me the bottle.” Yunho hands it over, a tall, skinny bottle of Grey Goose, a top-shelf vodka. He unscrews the cap and brings it to his lips, sucking down three, deep gulps, enough to make him choke on it. He doesn’t choke, though, he makes a face that relays the feeling, instead.
“Be careful or you won’t be able to get it up,” Yunho snickers, Mingi’s laugh following his words.
“I can always get it up,” Wooyoung quips. “I’m half-hard already.”
Both Yunho and Mingi groan in disgust, but it’s true. He just got a face full of ass, and when she bent down he could smell her perfume, look straight down her top. No one could expect his dick to stay soft after that.
Wooyoung scans the kitchen in hopes of finding someone else to ease what has his pants tightening, but his eyes catch on something else entirely. He squints, blinking away what was hopefully dust in his eyes, for a second he thought he saw your boyfriend. He takes a step closer, Yunho and Mingi intrigued now, too, and it’s a weight sitting heavy on his chest that what he thinks he sees is true.
Your boyfriend. But he’s not alone– no, there’s a brunette at his side, short hair, cut shaggy and layered. He’s giggling at her, cheeks pink, she throws a hand into his hair at the nape of his neck, and pulls him down to kiss her. Wooyoung’s jaw drops.
“Why are you staring at those two guys?” Mingi asks, voice quiet like the three of them were being secretive. “Is there something you need to tell us, Woo?”
Wooyoung’s head whips to the side, “That’s a guy?”
“Yes, bro, look,” Mingi throws an arm in their direction. Wooyoung looks at her– his outfit, baggy jeans, a tight top on his middle. From the back, his gender is ambiguous as fuck. The kiss is short, the brunette turns, letting Wooyoung finally see his face, and his stomach drops to the floor.
He thinks back to what Yunjin said, she’s helping her friend through a breakup. Then he looks up at the counter, realizing the women still dancing above him are Momo, Sana, Chaeyoung, Nayeon and Tzuyu– all women he’s slept with before. Then Yunjin’s Instagram story dawns on him, and all the pieces start quickly sliding into place.
“That’s Virgin’s boyfriend,” Wooyoung tells the other two, like he doesn’t believe it himself. “Yunjin said they just broke up.”
“What?” Yunho asks, baffled. “What do you mean, that’s her boyfriend? He was just macking on the pretty guy.”
“I know,” Wooyoung is still staring, like he couldn’t believe his fucking eyes. He wonders when it happened, if it was before or after he saw you at the gym, if that’s why you snapped at him. “I mean, I don’t know, I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”
“Do you think she’s here?” Yunho asks, turning to Wooyoung, and he can see that glimmer in his eye again. “Does she know?”
“No,” Wooyoung blurts. “I don’t know, we just got here. She might be.”
“We should find her,” Yunho’s eyes are wider now, serious, problem-solving. “Tell her he’s here or something, I don’t know.”
“She probably knows already,” Wooyoung shrugs. “Yunjin just told me she’s gone.”
It’s up for debate where you actually are in this big ass house.
You don’t care, anywhere is better than in the fucking kitchen where Yeonjun didn’t even see you. You were standing on the goddamn counter, basically a beacon, a sight to behold, and Yeonjun couldn’t pull away from Beomgyu long enough to notice. You didn’t want to be up there in the first place, that was Jihyo’s idea, and if Jihyo told you to jump off a cliff you’d ask her if you should dive. Your front was pressed to hers, Sana at your back, feeling the music and the liquor, letting your body give in to whatever was possessing it, finally relaxing before your world went upside down all over again.
You knew this would happen. You knew they would be there, that purging feeling in your stomach while you were getting ready wasn’t for nothing. But you still came, you still listened to your friends who told you they would shield you. That tonight was the turning point or whatever the fuck.
You think you’re in some kind of game room, a pool table in the center of the large room with floor to ceiling windows, the air thick with a cloud of gray smoke from the people in the corner passing a bong around. You squeezed yourself between bodies to get through the kitchen, then you scurried down a hallway, then a weird, second one which curved, and it led you to two rooms: this one, and the one adjacent to it, which was some kind of den. There were more people in here, more bodies to hide behind, more space to make yourself invisible.
But you’re not invisible. You’re standing in the doorway in the tiniest shorts you’ve ever seen after abruptly stopping in a panic, your boots skidding against the hardwood. All eyes are on you for a few seconds, and those few seconds make you feel naked, too visible, too real. A guy on the other side of the pool table tilts his head, a cigarette between his lips, a smile tugging at the corner like he knew every thought going on inside your head, and wanted to make sure you knew, too.
You swallow down your physical panic as he makes his way over to you. “Never seen you before,” he drawls like you’re fresh meat, his voice soft, pretty. He’s pretty. Brown hair, curly and messy over his forehead, his body is lean, but strong, his clothes oversized but somehow fitted to his build exactly.
You force a smile. “I don’t usually come here.”
His lips tighten, the cherry of the cigarette burning a bright orange as he looks you up and down. “You should,” he says, smoke leaving his mouth with the word. He lifts his fingers, cigarette landing between two of them. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” you ask instead, pushing your shoulders back. You bottle up the panic inside you, throw the lid over the top, and store it somewhere deep, a place you won’t find until tomorrow. You’re single. You aren’t dating Yeonjun anymore– he has someone else, even if he’s texting you, making promises he won’t keep, he’s not yours anymore. Turning point.
He grins with a feline kind of stare, like he’s assessing you. “Jungwon,” he answers, some amusement laced in his tone. “Why is it that you don’t come here?”
Some people walk in from behind you, you shift to the left to give them access. Jungwon moves with you, then closer to you. You feel your breath stutter in your chest, and you think he might be able to smell the unease radiating off of you.
“I don’t…” you start, then stop, because you don’t really have a reason. Maybe that’s reason enough. “I don’t have a reason to come here.”
“You do now,” he brings the cigarette up to his lips again, pulling. When he exhales, he asks, “Do you smoke?”
You shake your head, “‘m not a smoker. I drink, though.”
“But there’s no drink in your hand,” Jungwon points out, frowning. “I should fix that for you, shouldn’t I?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips. He’s pretty and a smooth talker. You guess you should start the countdown now for when he makes a move, and when you inevitably reject him. You nod anyways, though, because at least he’s easy on the eyes, and offering to get you a drink. The last party you came to, your boyfriend didn’t even say hello.
He brings you back down the curved hallway, but veers off away from the kitchen, walking down a staircase into what you assume is the basement. Clouds of smoke follow behind him, dissipating into the air over your head, and it only gets worse when you’re in the basement.
There’s pong tables, couches, bean bags, a bar setup with stools, everywhere to sit, to stand, is full. You could say that for the entire house, but walking deeper into the basement, you notice that everyone’s eyes, everyone’s body shifts toward Jungwon. You wonder who he is all the way until you get to the back, which has a secondary bar tucked away in the corner. It’s smaller, quieter, with a movie-theater setup, a screen and a couch, there aren’t as many people. The people that are here, on the long, black leather couch, are all making out.
Jungwon doesn’t seem to care, he slips behind the bar like it's his. He lights a new cigarette, assessing the back of the bar like it was full and functional, and asks, “What do you drink?”
You sit on a stool, “Vodka.”
“Like, straight?” he asks, one chestnut brow popped. “Vodka on ice?”
“Usually at parties I’d be offered a beer or a seltzer or something,” you fold your arms over the table, propping your chin on your knuckles. “You want me carrying around a glass?”
“I didn’t plan on leaving this room without you, so no,” his lips pull into that feline smirk again and your stomach drops. “I planned on you drinking and finishing it right here, with me.”
You can feel your cheeks flush, a heat warming up your bare legs hanging off the bar stool. “Smooth,” you smile. “Do you have vermouth? Olive brine?”
“Don’t tell me you’re a martini girl,” he muses, slightly muffled from the cigarette between his teeth. “No martini glasses, but this will do.” He sets up a short tumbler glass for whiskey, or an old fashioned. Your eyes flare, but you don’t complain. He notices, “Martini drinker and you’re picky?”
You smile, a real smile. “I’m not picky…”
He lifts a brow, “But?”
“But my glass isn’t even chilled,” you scrunch your lips to one side, teasing. “I’m not tipping you for this, y’know.”
He snorts, pulling his cigarette from his teeth to lay it on the glass ashtray you didn’t even notice, right beside you. “What, forgot your wallet or something?”
You shrug, “Caught me. Left it at home, with my emergency olives.”
“You can tip me another way,” he says coolly, like he wasn’t trying to flirt. Your toes curl in your boots. He shakes your drink, getting it all cloudy, then pours it into your glass as if he’s been bartending for twenty years. “Taste it, then you can talk to me about how much of a tip it's worth.”
You bring your lips to the rim, eyeing Jungwon over the crystal. It takes like a martini, and like you said, you aren’t picky. His brows raise, “Well?”
“A martini’s a martini,,” you lick your top lip, lowering the glass back to the bar. You feel lighter. Flirting like this, without pressure, talking to a man who is clearly interested in you feels good.
He leans over the thick slab of wood, amusement in his eyes. “But is it tip-worthy?”
You don’t know what inside you makes you ask, “Are we still talking about the same kind of tip?”
He smiles, and it’s a full, widespread grin. “You’re funny.”
“I can tell from how hard you laughed,” you tease, picking up your glass again. “I’m not the hookup kind, though. Hate to break it to you.”
“Ah,” he nods his understanding, picking up his cigarette from the ashtray while you sip your drink. “You’re the wine and dine type.”
“I’m the type that needs a genuine connection,” you correct. “And I just met you five minutes ago.”
“I’d say we have a pretty strong connection right now,” he says, cigarette between his lips as he re-lights it. “What do they say? Love at first sight?”
It makes you laugh, a straight punch from your gut. You take a deeper sip, then lean a little closer toward him, swirling your finger around the rim. “I don’t fuck at parties.”
“You’re the one who brought it up,” he counters, voice a low, heavy whisper. “I think you want to, but you’re reminding yourself that you don’t.” Your smile falters. “Or are you convincing yourself? I can’t tell.”
You did bring it up. Cheeks heating up again, you sputter, “I-I just came out of a breakup, he cheated on me. I’m not in the headspace to do anything with anyone.”
“All I did was make you a drink, baby,” he reminds you, voice soft as cotton. “I only brought you down here to get to know you.”
“You didn’t want to join the orgy on the couch?” you smirk, pointing a thumb behind you. Jungwon glances over, then laughs, a pretty song of delight.
“This is my bar,” he admits, then walks around the side of it toward you. He slips into the barstool beside yours, and says, “Only I can bring people down here. The people on the couch have either been here before, or got the go from me. No, I didn’t bring you down here to join the party on the couch, I brought you down here because I wanted to bring you into my space.”
You weigh his words, the look in his eye, then ask, “This is your house?”
His smile grows again. “You don’t even know who’s house you’re in?”
“Don’t care,” you admit, and it’s honest. “I came here to get drunk and have fun with my friends. They kind of forced me.”
“They forced you?” He reaches across the bar, arm disappearing below the slab of wood. He pulls a bottle back, a deep amber color, bourbon. He unscrews the cap, saying, “I don’t see your friends around now.”
“They’re upstairs,” you watch him as he brings the bottle up to his lips, trading tobacco for whiskey. “They tend to stray toward elevated surfaces, not basements.”
Jungwon smiles as he swallows down the liquor. “And you don’t?”
“I was up there,” you’re grinning, nodding. “But it definitely wasn’t my idea.”
“I’m sad I didn’t get to see,” he mutters, setting the uncapped bottle down on the wood. Licking his lips, he shrugs, “You could always put on a private show–”
“Virgin?” you hear from the doorway, a voice you haven’t heard in over two weeks. Your head turns at the sound of it, the familiarity, and you’re met with Jung Wooyoung standing confused in the entryway. “The hell are you doing down here?”
“Hi,” your lips flatten. You still feel the shame from snapping at him, not seeing him, not hearing from him or speaking to him in these past few weeks. You still haven’t decided how you’d explain your breakup with Yeonjun to him.
“Yo,” Jungwon stretches an arm out, and Wooyoung clasps his hand when he walks over like the greeting was practiced. Now you’re confused. They know each other? Jungwon turns toward you with furrowed brows, “You’re a virgin?”
“No!” you answer too quickly, eyes blowing wide. “He just calls me that,” you side-eye Wooyoung, “because he’s an asshole.”
Even shameful, the sight of him still pisses you off. White tee, dark jeans, hair long and curling beneath his ears, he’s dressed better than he is at his own parties. Wooyoung still looks confused, “Why are you down here? People fuck down here.”
Jungwon melts into his defeat, and your lips pop open. “You said–” you point at Jungwon, then turn to Wooyoung, “he said he didn’t– I’m confused.”
“People come down here to fuck,” Wooyoung explains, pointing with a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s bedrooms behind the screen, a hallway through the door next to it. Sorry J, but you know you’re running a brothel down here, right?”
Your lips stay parted. “You said you didn’t bring me down here to fuck.”
“I didn’t,” Jungwon’s voice grows in pitch. “People just happen to come down here and–”
Wooyoung snorts, a laugh ripping through his chest. “I’m sorry,” he manages to get out, “I didn’t mean to cockblock, but she might be the worst person you could have brought down here.”
Your lips part further, jaw hitting the floor. “What?”
Jungwon’s face falls flat, and he pushes himself backward in the barstool, the legs making an ugly noise against the tiled floors. “Wait,” you blurt, trying to put the pieces together. “Why are you leaving? What the fuck is going on?”
“He brought you down here to fuck you, Virgin,” Wooyoung spells it out for you, his words still drowning in amusement. “Or did you know that already? I didn’t take you for the mid-party-fuck type, unless it’s your boyfriend, who I just saw upstairs, by the way.”
“I thought you said your boyfriend cheated on you,” comes from a confused Jungwon.
“He cheated on you?” Wooyoung’s eyes blow wide. “No, tell me it was with that guy, the brunette one with the pretty face–”
“Oh my god, can you both shut the fuck up?” you snap, silencing the two men. “Yes, he cheated on me with Beomgyu and no I’m not the hookup type and no I didn’t know this was the fucking sex room. You said people come down here to fuck? Why the fuck are you down here, then?”
As if on cue, one of the prettiest women you’ve ever seen is giggling as she passes through the entryway, her heels clicking against the tile as she walks toward Wooyoung. “Wooyoungie,” she whines, not reading the silence from you and Jungwon as she attaches herself to Wooyoung’s side. “Aren’t you taking me back?”
Your brows raise, and so, so slowly you turn your head toward Jungwon. With pointed eyes, you ask, “You brought me down here to ‘get to know me?’”
“If something came after getting to know you, I wouldn’t have said no to it,” he admits shamelessly.
You grab your martini, sucking the rest of it back like it was a shot. “‘Kay, I’m done here, officially going the fuck home.”
“Wait, Virgin,” Wooyoung calls for you as you’re halfway off the stool. “You said you were going to update me, but you haven’t updated me, and clearly there’s a lot to update me on.”
You can only see the back side of her, but you somehow manage to glimpse her tongue poking out of her lips where they were attached to Wooyoung’s neck. With a flat stare, you respond, “Clearly, you’re busy.”
Turning your head, Jungwon is already gone, the bottle of bourbon gone, too. Fucker. He left you here with Wooyoung. But you think being left here with Wooyoung might be better than Wooyoung leaving you here with Jungwon.
“Baby, baby,” Wooyoung peels the woman off of him with his hands on her hips. Grinning, using what you think is every ounce of swagger he possesses, you watch as he convinces her, “Go wait for me in a room, okay? I’ll come to you, this won’t take long.”
And to your surprise, she listens. She turns for the door you now notice beside the screen and purrs, “Don’t take long, okay? I don’t wanna have to start without you.”
Once she’s out of earshot, you repeat every word she said in a whiny, mocking tone. Wooyoung smacks his teeth as he crosses his arms, “Shut up, she’s hot. How could you let Jungwon bring you down here?”
“What’s it matter to you?” you retort, brows knitting together. “He said he was getting me a drink.”
“And you decided the safe place to get a drink was in the room with naked people on the couch?” he asks, one of his arms flying behind him, referring to the now very naked people on the couch.
Heat lines your cheeks as your lips part, “Oh.” Shaking your head, voice drawing defensive, you argue, “They weren’t naked when I got down here, they were just making out. It was PG-thirteen.”
“You’re too naive for a guy like Jungwon,” Wooyoung’s arms cross tighter. “He’ll tear you to pieces.”
“Maybe I wanted to get torn to pieces,” you proclaim. You were contemplating it, at most, and you’re not naive. “Why are you grilling me? Go get fucked.”
“You’re not the hook-up type, you just said it yourself.” Wooyoung rakes a hand through his hair, “I didn’t want to be right about your boyfriend, you know.”
“Don’t get serious now,” your tone is vicious. “We’re barely even friends. You have no reason to be consoling me right now.”
“You’ve walked in on me jerking off and you walked in on me having sex,” he counters, voice flat. “Now we’re not friends?”
You sigh, exhaustion building from this conversation alone. “You irritate me.”
“What happened two weeks ago?” Wooyoung asks, and in his eyes you can see the concern, the genuine curiosity. “I want to make sense of what I just saw. I want to know.”
Lips scrunching, running both hands through your hair, you don’t have it in you to argue anymore. “Okay,” you preface, and let the rest of the story come tumbling out. From the night he gave you advice, to having sex with Yeonjun, to the basket, to catching him in bed with Beomgyu, you don’t miss a single detail from that night all the way up to today, all of your friends having to convince you to come out.
“Damn, I’m sorry,” Wooyoung’s lips are tied tight to one side. “The marriage shit makes sense now, though. Projection, in a way, him holding on to what was left even though he was the one pulling out.”
Your brows raising is your only agreement, because you’ve thought all of this over already. Under your breath, you mutter, “Yeah, I’m sure, he only did that with me.”
You should have known that because he’s Wooyoung, he’d understand your play on words. “Wait, he didn’t cum inside you? Even though you were dating for that long, and he wanted to get you pregnant?” You shake your head. His head tilts, “Girl.”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s over,” you roll your eyes, sinking into the stool. “Can you go now? Go fuck enough for the both of us, since I won’t be having sex for a long, long time.”
Wooyoung studies you for a moment, eyes thin in a squint, debating. “How many bodies do you have?”
“Wooyoung!” you whisper-yell, looking around. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Now you’re shy? After telling me that whole story?” He laughs a little. “Answer.”
Your heartbeat picks up, feeling heat in your cheeks. “Four,” you mumble, so quietly you’re sure he can’t hear you. He cups his ear with his palm, and you repeat, louder, “Four.”
“I heard you the first time, I just wanted to be wrong,” he groans. Running his hands over his face, he stops when his fingers are wrapped around his jaw, “Have you never hooked up with anyone, literally ever?”
“No,” you answer, shameless. “I’ve always had boyfriends, I’m a lover girl.”
His face twinges with disgust, “Never say that again. You talked so much shit about him not fucking you right, and– you know, you should call Jungwon back in here. You should fuck him. You need to learn what good sex is.”
“I know what good sex is,” you argue, offended. “We had good sex, before… before Beomgyu. In the beginning. It was good!”
“Was it good or was it I think I might die good?” There’s a flush ripping through your entire body now, and Wooyoung takes your silence as an answer. “Did he at least make you cum?”
“Yes,” you reply too quickly. Wooyoung’s brows raise like he’s waiting for the rest. Self-consciously, you give him the rest, mumbling, “In the beginning.”
“When was the last time another person made you cum?”
You don’t know. You can’t answer. Wooyoung chokes on a disbelieving laugh like this is the most diabolical thing he’s ever heard in his life. Shame bubbles up inside your gut, embarrassed that you stayed with him for so long, mortified that Wooyoung now knows all the nitty-gritty details.
“Not all of us fuck anything,” you snap, frustration boiling over. “At least I’ve never had chlamydia. Can you say the same?”
“I’ve never had sex without giving my partner at least one orgasm, can your ex say the fucking same?” he bites back, and every bit of anger behind the words is intentional. “Yes, I’ve had chlamydia, but I’ve been fucking for a long time and I’ve gotten so good at it, now everyone wants a piece. Is that my fault?”
“Not everyone,” you sneer, fingers curling into your stool. You can imagine it, right now, in your head, all the different ways he does it. If Unscripted were here, she’d be kicking that girl out of the bedroom and taking it for herself, experiencing in detail all the ways Jung Wooyoung makes his partners cum. She’d be fucking Wooyoung within seconds.
“And you’re some kind of saint because you don’t want to fuck me?” He laughs, and it’s coated in sarcasm. “Jesus, you wield the fact that I had chlamydia like it’s some kind of weapon against me. I took the medication, I’m clean, I’m safe.”
“Why are you trying to convince me?” You shoot your hand across the room again, damn near shouting. “Go tell the girl that’s waiting for you! Why do you give a fuck what I think about you?”
“Because you’re the one who can’t remember the last time she had an orgasm, and I can give one to you!” he finally shouts, in the same tone as you, and it renders you both quiet. He turns, running his hands through his hair like he was bringing himself back down to earth.
There’s butterflies in your stomach, static in your toes, your heart is banging against your chest. But the shame, the embarrassment, the anger, it’s all still there.
“What, is this some kind of pity offer?” you argue after a moment, and he starts laughing, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. “Look, it’s the girl who got cheated on, let me offer her a free orgasm since her cheating ex-boyfriend rarely made her cum, too.”
“It’s not about you,” Wooyoung grits out, his body only turned halfway toward you. “That’s like, a crime, not making your partner finish. A sin.” He finally turns, and the severity on his face kinda freaks you out. “I could teach a fucking master-class on eating pussy, it’s simple. It’s ridiculous to me that women go around fucking guys who won’t make them cum.”
A laugh cracks from your chest. It’s small, at first, but then it tumbles into loud, obnoxious laughter. “You actually have to be kidding me,” you snort, sinking into the stool as you laugh. “You want to make me cum in spite of all the guys on earth who don’t make women cum? Are you a feminist all of the sudden?”
He walks closer to you, his expression stone-cold serious. “I enjoy it, Virgin, like it’s a fucking hobby. When was the last time he ate you out, just to eat you out? Nothing expected afterward?”
“You expect me to believe you won’t want anything after?”
“Answer my question.”
“Probably never,” you answer honestly, amusement still lying in your tone, laughter still breaking up your words. “I don’t think he’s ever gone down on me just to do it.”
Wooyoung groans in disgust, turning away like he couldn’t bear the sight of you. “God, and you dated him for over a year? This is the type of shit I mean when I say I could never be in a relationship, I can’t wrap my mind around dating someone if you’re not having good sex.”
Your lips fall flat, “Well, he was saving it for Beomgyu. What do you want me to fucking say to that, Wooyoung?”
“I want you to tell me to do it,” he answers, so shamelessly it makes your skin prickle with sweat. “I want you to tell me to show you what I’m talking about, to prove that my words are true. That’s what I want.”
You don’t do hook ups, Wooyoung doesn’t do relationships. You want sex to be fully about you, he’s giving you an option he says isn’t about you at all. The proposition is everything you’re against, everything you don’t want, but in his eyes, you see he’s being truthful, that he means every word he says. Yeonjun is upstairs with Beomgyu, there’s a girl just behind that door waiting for Wooyoung, and he… wants to eat you out.
“I don’t do hookups,” you whisper, looking up at him from where you sit on the stool.
“It’s not a hookup,” he shakes his head. “It’s a favor. One you don’t have to pay back.”
“Sex is about love to me, Wooy–”
“It doesn’t have to be,” his voice is calmer now, steadier. “Sex is fun, an experience, it can be a hobby. It’s about pleasure, and who doesn’t want to be pleased?”
You, you guess. That’s all you’ve wanted these past few months, it’s what you’ve been fucking begging for and he’s handing it to you on a silver platter. His words sound like they’re straight our of your own podcast.
“And all you want to do is eat me out?” you ask, brows raised.
“Well, can we kiss a little?” He tilts his head. “You have to be comfortable to cum, you won’t be comfortable if we walk in there and I tear your little shorts off.” A rush of something racks through you, landing in the base of your gut. You shiver. He smiles. “It’s like the night we met, instead this time, you’re actually gonna cum in a random bedroom at a frat party.”
That makes a smile tug at your lips, and before you know it, you’re nodding. It has to be the vodka, the pregame, the drinks you had before going on the counter, the martini you just chugged down. There’s no other explanation for how giddy you feel jumping off the stool and following Wooyoung straight through the door beside the movie screen.
🗡Summary: while you pursue a group of bandits, your captain's rut gets triggered, and even though your just a Beta, you take on the mantle of helping him through it
🗡Takes place in this world, with Alpha! Baron! Yunho x Beta! Servant! Reader
🗡Pairing: Alpha! Captain of the Guard! Wooyoung x Beta! Guard! Reader (f)
🗡Rated: 18+, Minors/ageless blogs do not interact (you will be blocked)
🗡Warnings: rut, dom! Wooyoung, sub! Reader, wooyoung slices at a tree, oral (f), shredding clothes (by way of hands and knife), abo dynamics: scent glands, scent marking, alpha commands, beta responses, partial shifting; sex without protection, knotting, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (darling), begging, degradation kink, pussy drunk, pleasure drunk, biting, creampie, stomach bulge, belly press
🗡Word count: 3,102
🗡Author’s Note: so i decided i really like this world and this came to me so im going to see if I can do all the members 🙃 wish me luck
🗡Divider by @cursed-carmine
“Captain!” You shout with urgency. “I found the bandits. Follow me, quickly!”
What you should have found was the captain of the guard slouched against the trunk of a pine tree, hat tipped downwards so he could enjoy his nap. Instead, the scene you discovered changed the trajectory of your evening.
Wooyoung is violently slicing at the tree with his sword. It isn't as if he got bored and decided to duel with the tree, no, it is as if he found the murderer of his dear mother and was enacting revenge. His normally poised and skillful swings are replaced with hectic chops.
“Captain?” You call out cautiously.
Wooyoung’s entire body stiffens as he woodenly turns around on the heels of his feet. “Darling, you shouldn't be here.”
You roll your eyes at your alpha’s ridiculous nickname. He called everyone darling, but it grated against you so much. You needed his respect, not his amusement. “Now is not the time, Captain! We will lose the bandits we've spent the week hunting. Sheath your sword and be done with this madness.”
Wooyoung swallows loudly, and a low whine escapes his throat. “As you wish.”
Your captain drops his sword and strode towards you with purpose. You yelp as he wraps his hands around your waist and drags you from your horse.
That's when you realize your mistake; your nose is flooded with scorched metal and burned caramel. Your alpha captain is trapped in his rut. Hence the violence, for he has no alternative. Until you show up.
His nose trails along your neck, stopping exactly over your scent gland. He breathes in deeply and growls without warning.
“I-i know you know I'm a Beta, Captain. No Omegas are allowed to be a part of the guard. Nor do they have the temperament for it.”
Wooyoung’s nose inches up a fraction, if only to allow his teeth to bite your pulse point. He didn't do it to break your skin; he did it to elicit a response from you. And respond you did. You melt in his arms, goo to run through his fingers. Your alpha captain knows exactly what to do to have you as putty for him to mold to his liking.
“Now listen to me, Darling. I need a favor from you. My rut isn’t scheduled for another month. So that means something brought it on early. And I've done nothing for the past week but sleep and eat and breathe around you. So you're going to let me sheath my sword in you so I can be done with this madness.” The fact that he felt the need to echo your words back at you was just plain rude.
“The bandits--!” You yelp as Wooyoung growls again, this time biting into the meat of your shoulder with a bit more force.
“We will still catch them, rest assured. I have the best tracker in my regiment with me.” Your chest swells with pride at the compliment. “But right now, if I am not inside of you, scenting you or you're thinking of other wolves, I will chop down this entire forest and all within it.”
“Sir.” You're having a hard time. This is beyond going against the rules. No Betas are equipped to handle an Alpha’s rut. It is practically forbidden to have a dalliance within the current social structure. But your captain is giving you an order. And your alpha demands you comply. You whine heavily with your confusion.
“It's okay, Darling,” Wooyoung coos. “I'll walk you through it. You'll spread your legs and I'll fuck you good and then my knot will plug you up. Simple as can be.”
“Yes, Sir,” You said despondently.
“I think I prefer Wooyoung while my knot plugs you.” The alpha licked where he has bitten, soothing the skin and making you shiver.
“Woo…” you begin to say his name weakly but whine as Wooyoung raises his wrist. Hesitantly, you rub your cheek against his scent gland there.
“There's a good little beta,” Wooyoung praises you. “Now--!” Wooyoung hoists you up so that you have no choice but to wrap your legs around his waist. “I need to be surrounded by your scent.”
You watch with fascination as his nostrils flare and his eyes flash with impatience. You bare your neck and let him bury himself there once again. He pushes your body up against one of the trees, his pelvis slowly grinding into yours.
“You smell like green apples,” Wooyoung divulges. “It's refreshing.”
Wooyoung practically smothers himself in your scent. As a Beta, you don't have strong scent glands, so Wooyoung has to work hard to breathe you in. He suddenly whines with need. “Darling, can I be inside of you now?”
“I--” You have a hard time speaking as another roll of Wooyoung’s hips has your mind melting. “I don't think I'm wet enough.”
“Not a problem,” Wooyoung announces, releasing his hold on your upper body.
With a quick hand movement, Wooyoung snatches one of the daggers from your belt and slices a convenient slit through your leather pants. His nose dives into your cunt, eager tongue licking through your undergarments. Your cunt cocks upwards, as Wooyoung’s nose knocks against your clit.
“If only I could let you ride my face,” Wooyoung bemoans his current rut-driven lust.
Instead, he rips your undergarments, and his tongue delves into your folds. You cry out, the feeling of his tongue on the most intimate parts of your body simply divine. Your hand curls into his hair, needing something to hold on, while your lower half becomes warm and mushy with pleasure. To give himself direct access, his thumbs hold your outer folds apart so he can apply his tongue to your clit with the accuracy of a man focused.
With his tongue flicking your bud with the right pressure and rhythm, you embarrassingly come undone fast for him--faster than even your own fingers have coaxed out an orgasm before. You shudder quietly against the tree, but Wooyoung is standing up with the speed of an Alpha.
Wooyoung gratuitously licks his lips. “Now can I be inside of you? I need you to say yes, Darling. My Alpha won’t accept anything less in my rut. Please?” Wooyoung whines, eyebrows furrowed and lower lip pushing out.
You’re still mid-comedone if you’re being honest with yourself, but a whiff of his metal and caramel combo floats under your nostrils, and your legs won’t hold you up any longer. You instinctually want to be on your back for this Alpha. “Wooyoung,” you whimper.
Wooyoung’s arms wrap around your waist and hold you aloft. “I need you to say it,” he whispers, diving his head back to the crook of your neck once again. His nose skims your sensitive skin, and he breathes out in a sigh. “This is nice, very nice, but my cock aches, Darling.”
Your breath catches in the back of your throat. “I need you inside of me too,” you whisper back.
“Fuck,” Wooyoung curses softly, biting down on his lower lip before spinning your body around to face the tree. The Alpha grips your hips, pulling them out far enough to his liking and then unlaces his breaches. He second guesses your stance, knocking your feet out further wider. “I’ll be so good to you, you wait. I’ll fuck you so well, you won’t even remember it’s against our code. It’s fine, everything will be fine.”
When his cockhead gently nudges your opening, you can’t help but clench down on absolutely nothing. Your instincts cry for you to be spread apart, to be speared and seeded. You needed that fullness that came from being filled with a cock and semen. You needed it as much as you needed air.
Your breaths come out in small puffs against the tree bark. “Are you really going to give me your knot?”
Wooyoung chuckles. “ ‘course I am. You really think I could fight that instinct to plug you up? I’m barely able to hold back my wolf and mark you permanently.”
Your throat seizes in fear. Wooyoung couldn't mark you as his mate! There were so many steps to go through, not to mention it would make a mess of the brigade you both work within--Wooyoung’s teeth dig into your shoulder and he bites deep enough to bring you out of your mind.
“That’s not the marking you were talking about,” You weakly joke.
Wooyoung groans in frustration. “You have no idea. How hard this is.” So instead, the Alpha slips right into you. He’s made you come with his tongue so it’s no problem to split you open with his cock. The both of you cry out as you get what you want.
“Aren’t you simply perfect for me? A good little Beta that gets loose after she comes on my tongue. Easy for me to fuck and fill up.”
Your own hands semi-shift into claws, and you make marks into the tree bark. “I’m not--that--easy--!” You pant.
Wooyoung chuckles again at your protests. “You’re so fucking easy I’m having a hard time believing you’re one of my guards and not an eager little whore that wants the Captain of the Guard’s knot.”
Your eyes roll into the back of your head at the mention of his knot. “They whisper… you know.”
“Oh, I know. I’ve encouraged it. Do you know how much it benefits me in society for it to be common knowledge that my knot is one of the harder ones to take? How whores and courtiers alike have fought tooth and claw to be the one to take it? The amount of Omegas--”
The ‘o’ word causes you to whine in distress. Wooyoung licks a long line up your neck in reassurance. “I don’t need an Omega. Who caused my rut to come early? A certain guard who smells like crisp apples.”
Wooyoung’s cock thrusts up into you pretty deeply at the angle he’s acquired and makes you push back against him. That’s all Wooyoung needs. He takes off to the races, pace brutal as he fucks you from behind. And that’s when you feel it.
“Wooyoung…”
“Oh, you’re going to take it so wonderfully, don’t worry, Darling. I know it.” Wooyoung grunts as his knot swells and starts to catch against your hole. “This is my favorite part.”
Your whole entire world narrows down to the swell of this Alpha’s knot. With each thrust, it pulls at your hole, stretching you to your limit, until finally Wooyoung’s thrusts are shallow.
“Fuck. My knots going to pop, oh fuck, it’s going to feel so good, take me, Darling, fucking take it!” Wooyoung cries out as his knot reaches it’s full potential.
You scream as it pushes against your walls and effectively locks into place with your body. Your orgasm washes over you, like pleasure you’ve never felt before. Wooyoung’s seed comes next, filling you as he moans into your ear, coming so much that your womb is full of his cum.
Slowly, tiredly, you two sink to the base of the tree, Wooyoung collapses against your back. Tiny whines escape the back of his throat. “So good,” he says, checked out completely but for his pleasure.
“Captain?” You hesitantly call out to him, unsure if you can take his entire weight until his next rush of rut hits.
He slurs his words, sounding drunk. “ ‘s fine. I could carry ten of you if I needed to.”
“My face hurts,” you admit.
Wooyoung growls. “I already sliced it to pieces. You'd think it would have learned its place already.”
You can’t help but giggle at the absurdity of that statement. Wooyoung, with the strength he had just boasted of, sweeps his arms under your legs and carefully turns, crisscrossing his legs and keeping you in his lap. His back is so the tree now, and he assumes his press of his face against your shoulder.
“See, isn’t this nice?” he mumbles.
“Calm before the storm,” you quip, well aware this wasn’t the end.
“Careful, my Beta, or I might just mark you out of pure adoration,” Wooyoung mockingly threatens.
“Sir, you can’t!” You protest one more time.
“Shouldn’t I reward you for enduring my rut?” Wooyoung argues. HIs tongue traces your scent gland. “I could do it when you come around my knot again. The perfect blade of pleasure and pain. And then you would be mine. All mine.”
“We can’t,” You emphasize.
“If you--” Wooyoung swallows his tongue because clearly you have an adverse reaction to hearing ‘Omega’. He tries again. “If you were anyone else, if we did that, it would be celebrated.”
Your shoulders droop. Wooyoung isn’t wrong. Alarm bells go off, however, when you feel Wooyoung’s incisors flirt with the sensitive skin of your neck. “Captain!”
“What did I tell you about calling me by my given name while my knot is currently plugging up your perfect cunt?” Wooyoung growls.
The vibrations echo through your body, and your wolf responds by craning your neck even more and whining. “Wooyoung, you already own me at this moment.”
Wooyoung seems to be pleased by hearing that, so his teeth remove themselves from your neck. “Don't I?” He purrs. “How lovely it feels to have you wrapped around my length at my convenience.”
You feel said cock stirring inside of you. “Speak of the devil,” you mutter.
“Don’t be so harsh to the instrument that just made you come so hard, Darling,” Wooyoung admonishes you. “Or do I need to prove to you again just how dumb you come for my cock?”
To prove his point, Wooyoung flexes his abdomen only slightly. His cock moves and you gasp as his knot unswells slightly and his seed spills from your hole. You quickly clench down your inner muscles and Wooyoung groans in response. “Does my pretty Beta not want my cum to leave her loose hole? How quaint.”
“I simply do not want a mess!”
“Too late for that,” Wooyoung chuckles, and then he maneuvers you once again.
Your hands and knees touch the soft loam of the forest floor. To be in this position, vulnerable to any eyes or ears that may come across you with your captain, it makes your chest and neck heat up. Regardless, your back arches in response.
“So eager despite that mouth that insists on tradition,” Wooyoung muses. “Perhaps society has it wrong. Perhaps Beta’s are made for breeding just as well as the others. We are all wolves, after all.”
“Will you just fuck me already?” You say gruffly. Wooyoung doesn’t need to know that his proclamation made your heart skip a beat. Your wolf preened at Wooyoung’s praise.
“So greedy for my knot again, Darling? I’ll gladly give it to you. You just have to ask sweetly. I have delicate sensibilities.”
You sigh heavily. Your captain was a whole other breed of wolf, truly. “Wooyoung, please, stuff me with your knot again. I want to scream your name for the whole forest to hear again.”
“Hell yes,” Wooyoung hisses. His fingers dig into your hips with renewed fervor, and he begins to move inside of you again.
His knot teases your walls as he cock rushes to plunge in and out of you. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and you begin to pant as your cunt drips with Wooyoung’s first load. The noise coming from your cunt is absolutely obscene with the added lubrication.
“The second time is always the best,” Wooyoung moans loudly. “Listen to you, Darling? Not only are you so warm and loose for me and my fat knot, you’re full of my cum. So wet and inviting for more of my rut. Such a well-versed Beta in Alpha procedures.”
Wooyoung’s dirty words are despicable, but you don’t have enough pride left. It was shredded with your pants and underclothing. All you can do now is meet Wooyoung thrust for thrust, as his knot starts to swell faster this time. Your pussy is looser now that it took his knot, and so you get the satisfaction of feeling that pop of it pushing past your inner lips again and again.
“Feels so good,” You cry as your ass slaps against Wooyoung’s flexed pelvis.
“That’s right, you enjoy that knot, Darling. It’s all for you. It will only be for you. The courts will cry when they hear this knot is reserved for one Beta and one Beta only. For this is only you after this rut.” Wooyoung lowers his voice, if only to queue you to focus even harder on his next set of words. “Whether you accept my mark or not, you are mine.”
You swallow, your throat tight and raw. This is your captain and yet… Nothing about this feels wrong, innately. Your wolf is ready to roll on her back and show Wooyoung her tummy. You have no more resistance left in you.
With your pussy clamping down on Wooyoung’s knot, it fully pops once again, plugging you as Wooyoung fills you with even more cum. This time, you feel an odd sensation in your lower half. A hand presses to where that sensation is and you come a second time.
“That’s my Darling,” Wooyoung coos. “Cunt fluttering around my knot and cock, womb so full of my seed that her stomach is extended. There’s nothing more beautiful than that.”
Your shoulders heave as the second climax takes your breath away. This pleasure is truly like nothing you have ever experienced. You have a feeling that even though Wooyoung is claiming you, there is no moving on after you have been knotted. You would become knot-sick, something that seemingly only claimed Omegas.
As if Wooyoung senses your thoughts, he leans against your back and bites into your shoulder teasingly. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you fed on my knot plenty. You’ll be full.”
You groan as his hand presses against your stomach once again, causing that odd sensation that is oddly pleasurable. “You’ll be my ruin, Jung Wooyoung.”
“Honestly, I’m insulted you hadn't said that earlier,” Wooyoung pretends to sulk. And the following cackle as his own tease echoes louder through the silent forest.
You have no idea if there would be any chance in bringing in the bandits that you had been tracking for a week, but you aren’t quite sure there was anything left in you to care at this point. All you are thinking about is how long until this current knot might deflate and what position Wooyoung is going to take you in next.
