XERO

𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝘆 // 𝘆𝘂𝗻𝗵𝗼 𝗯𝗶𝗮𝘀𝗲𝗱 // 𝗺𝗱𝗻𝗶 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴

[xerotiny]

...AND THE SKY TURNED PINK

XERO MASTERLIST MENU

MOST RECENT WORK ・:〃➜ THE BOY NEXT DOOR PT. 4

DISCLAIMER

All works on this blog are purely transformative fiction. The personalities, behaviors, and scenarios attributed to the members of ATEEZ are entirely products of my imagination and do not reflect the real-life character, values, or actions of the idols. I write for entertainment and artistic exploration of dark themes; I do not associate these fictional portrayals with the actual individuals. Reality and fiction are two separate worlds. Please keep them that way.

RULES

This is a strictly 18+ space. My work explores explicit sexual content and heavy, mature themes. By following or engaging, you confirm that you are a legal adult. Minors, "ageless" blogs, and blank profiles will be blocked on sight. Stay safe, stay away.

I specialize in Dark Romance and Psychological Thrillers. My writing often features: Obsessive/Possessive dynamics Manipulative themes Moral ambiguity Graphic smut

This is an ATEEZ-only archive. I could write for other groups or have crossovers in the future. But for now, requests and interaction should remain focused on the members of the group.

Your mental health is your responsibility, but I will provide the map. Every post is tagged with specific Content Warnings (CW) at the beginning. Please read them carefully before proceeding. Read at your own risk.

REQUESTS [CLOSED]

Asks: Open for chat, headcanons, and questions. Feedback: Comments and reblogs are the fuel for the fire. If you enjoy a piece, let me know. Requests: closed at the moment, but I might open them soon.

YOU CAN FIND ME ON AO3 AND IG

[xerotiny]

WICKED GAMES ♱ ATEEZ SMUT-SERIES

ONGOING SERIES

The Boy Next Door Pairing: Jeong Yunho x fem reader (ft rest of atz) Synopsis: who knew the boy next door would cause you so much trouble? Tag(s): dark romance, psychological thriller, smut (a lots of it), boy next door!yunho. Visuals/ambience for this storyline

Part One: The Boy Next Door Part Two: The Boy in Your Bed Part Three: The Boy in Your heart Part Four: The Boy who Chose You

HIATUS // INDEFINITE HIATUS

Guns and Roses Pairing: Jeong Yunho x fem reader Secondary Pairing(s): fem reader x Park Seonghwa, fem reader x Kim Hongjoong Tag(s): mafia au, dark romance, smut.

Part One: Under the Stars, Beyond the Sea

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Loving Prof. Jeong Pairing: Jeong Yunho x fem reader Secondary Pairing(s): fem reader x Song Mingi, fem reader x Kang Yeosang, fem reader x Park Seonghwa, fem reader x Choi San Tag(s): college au, professor and student dynamic, age gap, smut, forbidden, etc.

Part One: Antiserum D

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Hollowed Hearts Pairing: Jeong Yunho x fem reader Secondary Pairing(s): fem reader x atz ot8 Tag(s): psychopath au.

Part One: Room for Two

OR navigate using the tag ── 𝜗ৎ〔 𝘅𝗲𝗿𝗼'𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗴𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘀 〕.⋆♱

[xerotiny]

part four for the boy next door is now out!

[xerotiny]

THE BOY IN YOUR HEART ☥ JEONG YUNHO

Pairing(s): Jeong Yunho x fem reader x Song Mingi (ft. Choi Jongho)

Genre: dark romance, psychological thriller/drama.

Tag(s): DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, twisted lovers, established dynamic, dark romance, psychopath au, boy next door!yunho, neighbour!reader, sadist!yunho, hard dom!yunho, sub!reader, detective!jongho, hunter!mingi, dom!jongho, switch!mingi

Warning(s): smut, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering (f! receiving), voyeurism, pussy slapping, thigh riding, vampirism, blood play, using blood as lube, piss kink/piss play, rough sex, praise kink, humiliation kink, degradation, breeding kink, size kink, jealous!yunho, cheeky!jongho, pervert!mingi

Synopsis: meeting the detective wasn’t really a bad decision, but it followed you home like a mishap.

Word Count: 19.07k (sorry)

a/n: alright, since it’s meant to be a series, the female character will have a name—and here, it’s Park Seongmi. Well everything stays the same. Only the reader has a name. It doesn’t necessarily make her an oc. But if you choose to believe that then you can.

part one | part two | part three (you are here)

The cheerful afternoon you had settled into, now withers away with the dread of the text. As if staring at your phone screen made you believe it’d disappear somehow. But it didn’t. It stayed, lingered in every corner of your mind; you recall each day from last week, pondering whether you had let something crucial slip to the detective during your interrogation. Nothing seemed to shed a light upon the darkness inhabiting your memory. The only way of knowing what bullshit you had spewed is by taking up the invite from detective Choi. Meeting him wasn’t the problem, what really tormented you is finding an excuse to leave Yunho and visit the precinct.

When you hear the shower turning off, you hastily set your phone back on the nightstand and stare at the bathroom door. Yunho steps out not long after; a towel draped around his waist, hair wet and dripping everywhere, including his shoulders and skin glimmering with fine droplets of water. He pushes the damp strands back, out of his face and slicks them with the rest. With every step he takes toward your closet, you catch a subtle bounce between his legs; you never seem to admit, but his physical presence always riles you up and has you leaking between your legs. You watch him as he drops his towel, and rummages through the shelf in your closet specifically dedicated to him and his clothes.

You clear your throat, getting his attention, “do you have to be at clinic?”

Yunho spares you a glance over his shoulder and hums, “I believe so, I need to go in for a routine check.”

You hum back, eyes drifting away from him as he gets dressed in a simple dress shirt and slacks. “Why?” he turns around, questioning you while buttoning his pants.

“No reason,” you mutter under your breath, “it’s the weekend, so I thought you wouldn’t have to go.”

“Aww, you’re missing me already?” he coos, walking to the edge of the bed, standing on the side across from you. “I’ll see you in the evening, though. It’ll be some mere hours before I’m back again.”

“Right,” you take a deep breath, fingers pinching at the hem of his hoodie. “Well, I need to meet some of my coworkers too.”

There’s a flash of darkness in Yunho’s eyes; it disappears in a split moment, replaced by a cheery glint. “Of course. Where are you meeting?”

Your breath hitches. Where? You hadn’t thought it through. “It’s the Italian bistro downtown. Remember, we went there after a month you first moved in.”

Yunho’s lips twitch slightly, curling ever so lightly into his cheek. “Perhaps I do,” he rolls his shoulders out and runs a hand through his hair, water sprinkling in the air, “so, who all are going to be there?”

“Just a couple of work friends. You don’t know them.”

He raises his brow at you. “Then maybe I should get to know them. I would certainly be delighted to know bout the people my girl accompanies herself with.”

“Do you think they’d mind if I joined?” he adds.

“Yeah, probably,” you blurt out quickly. “I mean, I’ve never mentioned anything about you to them.”

“Then maybe today’s the day.” He trudges over to your vanity in the corner of your room; he picks up the lotion and starts patting it into his face. “Let them know who you really belong to. Who’s keeping you trapped in a cage.”

His gaze meets yours briefly in the mirror, and you look away; when Yunho’s eyes held yours the way they did now, he immediately finds the cracks in your words, sniffs out the lie as if he sees right through you. A beat stutters in your heart, mind blanking on the surface and lips trembling.

“Maybe not today,” you glance at your phone, “some other day. I’m sure they’re as excited as you are to…” you trail off when you raise your head back to him; he’s no longer by the vanity, he’s towering over you.

His fingers gently grasp your chin, tilting your head up to stare into your eyes. The warmth in his eyes dissipates to a certain formidable intensity, brown hue shrouded by oddment. He leans down, pecks your lips and straightens up, hand dropping from your chin. You’re scratching your head, seeking the meaning behind his actions.

“Fine,” he lets on a small smile stretch across his face, “some other day.”

You nod. “Are you mad?”

Don’t be mad, please.

Yunho laughs, as if he’s read your mind. “Doll, why would I be mad at you for wanting to spend some time with your work friends?”

“I’m not a monster,” he remarks with a lilt to his tone.

He picks up his wet towel from the floor, from where he dropped it off before getting dressed, and takes it with him to the dry balcony adjoining your room. Silence is all that whispers in your ears, and the sound of his hums which force you to ramble.

“No, gods no, I never said you are,” you blurt out, “It seems I may have disappointed you. I—I really do resent myself when I let you down for things I can control.” You peek up, watching him stride in with an elegant gait before he stops right in front of you again; this time your words don’t die in your throat, they bubble up to your tongue. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to be a bummer. I—I swear—and now I’m probably aggravating you…”

He holds your chin in between his fingers again, thumb pressing down as hard as it could to stop your nonsensical blabbering. Your lower lip juts out, mouth staying parted slightly. Without warning, he leans down and bites down hard on your pouting lip, aggressive enough to break your skin and letting it bleed. You whimper the moment his incisors sink into your flesh, alongside the canines which dig much deeper and cause the agonising sting.

Suckling your blood in his mouth, he pulls away; he stands straighter, his silhouette covering your shuddering figure on bed.

“What have I told you about rambling?” he grunts, fingers brushing your chin once before sliding down to wrap around your throat.

“No rambling,” you squeak, feeling the weight of his fingers push into the walls of your throat. He’s not choking you yet.

He hums, “that’s it.” He squeezes your throat, thumb digging into your windpipe to restrict your breathing. You gasp, clawing at his wrist but it’s no use. Suffocation soon knocks you out, throat going dry, chest heaving; you try breathing from your nose, albeit it’s useless too. Eyes start fluttering close, darkness engulfing in short bursts of a despair, and he never loosens his grip.

“I really despise conditioning you, my love.” He whispers, sounding genuine, concerned. “But it’s necessary.”

You choke on air, lightheaded and dizzy. Nails dig into his skin, but your fingers, however, uncurl one by one till your hand falls to the side. You’re so close to passing out, so close to tasting the sense of relief—and the he eases his grip, thumb rubbing circles on your hyoid bone.

“It’s necessary for you to learn your lessons,” he adds, voice dropping even lower, “apologies need to be felt, love.”

Yunho slides his hand from your throat to the back of your neck; he cradles you, fingers threading in your hair to soothe your ache. On the surface, this gentleness is more detrimental than his aggression, but you don’t have a choice. The sting on your split lip burns, flaring till it catches on your head and you wince, tears streaming from your cheeks. Your lungs scream, chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow. Tears welling in your eyes, blurs the edges of him, the faint smear of blood still glistening on his lower lip. You notice him staring at you too intently with his pupils blown wide; feigned tenderness shining bright.

“Shhh,” he drags his thumb to your jaw, smearing the wetness of a stray tear rolling down, “breathe for me. Slow. In…out.”

You try. You really do. But every breath you take, cruelly reminds you how your body shudders. Every inhale tastes like burnt copper and stale iron on your tongue, every pull of breath is a quiet suffering in its own way. Yunho stares at you, studying you a second longer—he’s contemplating, deciding, trying to figure out how much more you can take before you finally break. He really does hate breaking you apart during his “conditioning” sessions. Sadist in his heart but his conscience is much purer than that; he doesn’t think of it as penalising your actions, it’s more about the discipline, measures to keep you in line and if he doesn’t, you’ll go rogue.

Seconds tick louder than the meaningless protest your body screamed at you; lip stinging and bleeding into your mouth, eyes tearing up, chest still burning with an urge to breathe without having to cough. You bring both your hands to Yunho’s, wrapping them around his wrists—a gentle request to anchor him back to reality, particularly wanting to put a stop to this inane act of sadism.

He clicks his tongue, “count.”

Ignoring your pleas, he uses his free hand to push your hoodie over to your chest; it bunches up awkwardly, but stays, as if even the piece of clothing is scared of defying his command. One hand tightens around your neck, while the other traces down to your lower belly—fingertips sending a shiver down your spine the moment they graze against your sternum, and the dainty scabs of carvings he pleasured himself in last week. He presses his hand harder, putting pleasure right on your bladder.

“Yunho—I’m sorry—please,” you choke out, squirming, struggling to set yourself free from under him. Curling your fingers around the sleeve of shirt, you really do make an effort to ground him back to his more gentle state of mind. “No more—hurts—really fucking hurts.”

Every supplication parting your lip is snubbed with either a grunt or a more painful push of his hand against your lower belly. “Stop begging now, love. Your stupid habits earned you this,” he tuts, another click of his tongue resounding in the space between you.

You let out a helpless cry, raggedly breathing while he emphasises again, “spread your legs and count.”

There’s no other choice than to obligate—as if you ever did have a choice, your body’s been conditioned to obey his every word. With a small nod of his head, and a gentle hum reverberating from his chest, he eases his hand over your lower belly and caresses it over to your mound. Slow, agonisingly slow—to give you the false sense of gentleness before cracking you down. He raises his hand and in one swift motion, it lands hard on your already weeping cunt. There’s a little shame in admitting that you were most definitely turned on by your current state

You groan, thighs clenching with an instinct but he parts them back, pushing you down into the heap of pillows behind your head by the hand that’s still draped around your neck.

“One,” you whimper, tears never stopping.

When the second smack lands, he deliberately drags his thumb across your clit, with a purpose, with a tender intention.

“Two.”

Smack.

“Three.”

Smack.

“Four.”

Each slap is harder than the last. Fingers deftly pressing on your swollen folds, thumb drawling circles on your clit and your mind drunk on a pleasured haze. You could feel your arousal dripping down your inner thighs, and very much to your surprise, you also felt the pressure increase intently on your bladder.

Fifth one shoves a sob from your chest; your bladder screams in protest from the lingering press of his hand from before. Yunho’s face doesn’t twitch to the slightest; you can’t tell if he’s pitying you, or if he’s delighted to have you squirming and pleading under him, or if he’s really mad at you. His silence is lot more difficult to perceive and comprehend, because when he’s quiet, the demons in his mind whispers louder than usual.

With a grunt, he switches—back of his hand now, a stinging crack makes your thighs quake and your split lip reopen as you bite down on it to muffle your cries.

“Six,” you whine, eyes red and puffy, tasting your tears on your tongue.

An almost indiscernible hum leaves Yunho’s lips, and he brings his other hand to your abdomen from your neck; his fingers splay, spanning across every inch of your skin, pushing down. Your hoodie strains around your chest, bunched up right below your breasts.

“You’re doing so well, love,” he murmurs a praise which doesn’t come too often from him. “Four more, doll. You can take it.”

He raises his hand again, pinning you down with his other on your lower belly, and when it lands harder down on your puffy cunt. A blood curdling scream rips out of your chest, body spasming, thrashing, aching to be let go. Your hands flail to grab his wrist, not the one hitting you, no, the one pressing so damn hard on your bladder that it’s almost on the edge of grotesque pain.

“Yunho—please—please hurts,” you plead, nails digging into his skin and the cuff of his sleeve, “please…”

He clicks his tongue, tutting to shut you up in a way that’s only discernible between you two. “Three more, love. You’re taking it so good…”

The eighth and ninth smack knock all air out of you; chest heaving, tears no longer welling in your eyes, body on the verge of shutting down. Yunho doesn’t seem to care though, but you on the other hand, want to be good for him, want to show him you can take it. His hand slips down your belly to your mound, thumb drawing circles—pleasure coils tight, walls almost fluttering but never quite there. You’re so full, so close to shatter your control. Then, the tenth slap comes out of nowhere, making you scream again.

“Good girl,” he preens, cupping your swollen cunt in the fraction of second. “Such a good girl.”

You drop your hands to your side, lifeless, but proud you didn’t let go. Not yet. Vision blurs on the edges as you look at him; he shifts, the warmth of his hands dithering away from your body. One knee plants next to your ribs, the other one between your legs, keeping your legs parted and your red and weeping cunt on display. His fingers collect your arousal, sliding between your slit before they plunge right into you; your walls accommodate two of his fingers well, stretching, twitching—you’re used to it. The situation is so obscene; you’re dripping wet, soaking the sheets under you, some of your slick even slipping into the cleft of your ass. The sole pillow under your head is wet too, absorbing your tears and sweat, drool too, followed by the blood from your split lip.

You don’t know what to focus on. His fingers? His hand? Your bleeding lips which stings every time you bite it to muffle your screams. Or the impending stress looming in your bladder, just waiting to be let go? Yunho’s fingers don’t show you any mercy, no signs of stopping from their brutal assault; every push and pull is deliciously agonising, intensifying the ache building with every thrust in the pit of your stomach. You’re so sure it’s not the familiar tautness lingering in your stomach, it’s different—more humiliating, more tragic—if you give into it, you’d be reduced to his pretty little doll who pisses on his command. Those things are a far cry from what he’s done to you though; his fingers continue to plunge deeper into your cunt, fleshy walls squelching to make vulgar sounds, fingertips almost brushing that one spongy corner at the end before they draw back.

You’re craving it, the end of it all. You want to feel lighter, more relaxed and less anxious—he’s bringing you to it, to the closeness of your release. But it’s not the one which brings pleasure, or satisfaction.

“That’s it, love,” he coos. “Let go, let it all out. Make a mess on my hand.”

Yunho presses his hand harder on your mound, so hard that it’s beyond your control anymore. With a particularly strong thrust of his fingers, you feel the dam break—you gush out, body spasming, shuddering—humiliation slowly creeps from your gut, dispersing to your chest and face. You turn your head and try to hide in the pillow, hair mussed and disheveled; the scent of your salty tears and burnt copper from your blood lingers, then the sound of your gush hitting the sheets echoes in the room. A small trickle at first, and a second later, you’re flooding and soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Good girl,” he whispers, watching you wet yourself, watching your slick and piss coat his fingers as they continue plunging into you; the pace of his fingers eases to a halt, and he pulls them out, noticing a thin, almost golden, rivulet trailing down his wrist. He chuckles, “aww, my little bird made a mess.”

You groan into the pillow, chest hurting with how hard you were breathing. You could feel the heat on your cheeks, the never-ending flush of humiliation still warm and nagging—your flow slows to a trickle again, and he finally lifts both his hands. Their warmth drifts to your sternum, lightly, a subtle change of heat before the hand which was inside you, covered in your slick and piss, forces its way to your mouth. You stare at him, eyes wide but not amused; he pushes the same fingers into your mouth, rubbing them on your tongue.

“Suck,” he commands and you obey, wrapping your lips around his knuckles and sucking his the digits.

You taste yourself, musky and salty, before gagging on his fingers as they slide down deeper into your throat. Once his fingers are clean, he pulls them out, dripping with your spit, shimmering under the crackling sunlight of late afternoon.

“Colour?” he has the audacity to ask.

Regardless, you reply, “green.”

The safeword system never comes to play with him, not unless he’s genuinely concerned and willing to acknowledge what he’s done. Yunho lets out a small hum before tracing your bottom lip with his thumb; your blood, having dried up now, smears just the slightest bit on his skin. With a click of his tongue, he picks you up in his arms, cradling you close to his chest. He carries you to the bathroom, sets you down on the sink counter, and straightens out your hoodie. You settle down with a wince, clinging onto his shoulders even as he steps back and out of the bathroom; in your own twisted way, you missed his warmth, missed his presence around you.

While you simmer in silence, Yunho takes off the ruined sheets, throws them in the washer in the dry balcony, and returns with a warm cup of tea. He sets the cup next to you, mumbling, “that should calm you.”

He opens the cabinet above the sink, pulling out necessities—soothing balm, a fresh roll of gauze, cotton swabs, antiseptic solution and some q-tips. Your cabinet is a mini pharmacy; so are the drawers of your nightstand—painkillers, bandages of all sizes, gauzes, pain patches, hot and cold compresses, contraceptives, box of condoms (which he only used one time), and other meds. As much as Yunho delighted himself in your pain, he wasn’t fond of letting you endure it through day and night; he would tend to your wounds, cuts, take care of your aches with drugs—and all the other things. All of it is sprawled over the counter while he takes a minute to unbutton his shirt and drop it into the laundry hamper beneath the sink. Bare from upper half, he steps back in front of you, close enough for you to feel his breath warming your cheeks.

“Did I hurt my doll?” he whispers, cupping your face with one hand as he uses the other pick up the tin of balm. “We need to change your bandage,” his fingers gently brush against the old gauze wrapped around your neck; he simply sighs and opens the tin, “first, let’s stop this bleeding. It looks a bit angry.”

You glare at his chuckle, but it soon softens to a look of gratitude and appreciation. He dips the tip of his thumb into the tin, coating it with clear salve-like gel before spreading it across your split lip. It stings for a tenth of second, before it dissolves to a comforting sensation. Yunho hums as he applies the balm; you just stare at him, lips parted, breaths hitching at the domestic proximity between you two.

“Should’ve had the tea before, love,” he mumbles, voice dropping low, “never mind, you can drink it once it’s dried up, hmm? I’ll reheat it for you.”

You bring your arms around his waist, a habit you’ve picked up on during tender moments like these. Aftercare with Yunho was the best; he spoke, he made an effort, he was a gentle giant—an astronomical contrast to who he is when his eyes are the darkest. You push yourself closer to him, tipping your head on his chest before looking up at him.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, “I didn’t want to make you angry.”

“It’s okay, doll,” he smiles, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “Even if you did, you learnt your lesson, didn’t you? And that makes me happy.”

He runs his free hand through your hair, while the other sets the tin aside. “I’m the happiest man alive when my baby listens to me.”

You hum softly, ingraining it in your brain; you’ve done it countless times before, inculcated his likes and dislikes in your bones by now. You know what makes him happy, you know what makes him mad, you know what disappointment means, and you are adept at knowing how rare these gentle moments are with him.

“Look up, my love,” he tilts your chin up lightly, dainty fingers going to the knot of gauze around your neck, “let me change this, hmm? Then I’ll run you bath, and pick your outfit for the night.”

The bandage and gauze come off smoothly, and once they’re discarded into the bin under the sink, he scrutinises and studies the bite mark on your neck. “Oh, it doesn’t look so bad,” he remarks, “it’s healing well—maybe in the coming two, three days it might heal completely.”

He keeps you engaged with soft talk while he douses a cotton swab in antiseptic solution. “I wish I could stay long enough to dress you up myself, make sure every inch of your body is covered—except for maybe some of my marks,” he trails off, pressing the cold cotton swab against the bite. You hiss, tightening your arms around his waist. “There, love. It’s fine—it stings all the time, doesn’t it? I’ll kiss it better soon.”

He moves onto applying an anti inflammatory cream to the cleaned wound; he’s gentle as always, careful not to sting you much. You do squirm, however, the cold sensation burning on your skin. His fingers are adept at that gentle touch, slow and steady.

“Is it hurting?”

You shake your head.

“What does it feel like?”

You slowly peak up at him. “It burns. But I love it.”

“Of course you do, my love.” He sets the tube aside and starts wrapping up the gauze around your neck. “I know my doll loves being mine,” he titters, tying up the ends of the gauze at the nape of your neck. “And I, get super ecstatic, when my little birdie knows who she belongs to. When she wears my marks so proudly.”

Your toes curl, arms tighten and a small gasp rips its way out your chest. “Yunho…”

“Yeah baby, I know.” He chuckles again, “all done for now. How are the cuts on your stomach…?”

“Healed,” you pull away, and lift your hoodie, showing off your stomach which hold the scabbed slashes he made a little while ago. “They itch.”

Yunho hums, “they absolutely do.” He wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest, “remind me after your bath, I have a spray which makes it more tolerable, hmm?” he leans in to kiss your temple, mumbling in your hair, “don’t get the bandage wet, alright.”

“I’ll get the bath started for you,” you nod at him, watching him with wide eyes as he leaves the bathroom and heads into the bedroom.

Sticky and covered in your own piss and slick, you wait for him patiently, letting your feet dangle off the sink counter. You don’t feel the burns on your skin anymore, what does ache in your stomach is the revelation of dependency. Manipulation has different names, but the most abhorrent one is love. Yunho loves you, he cares for you, it’s in his own way, his own language you’ve started to learn; he’s altered your brain chemistry too, coercing you to rely on him for every little thing.

Footsteps echo on the marble floor, Yunho strides in, now dressed in a black cashmere sweater and the same pants from before. He’s wearing his frameless glasses this time, dark eyes glistening with proud mischief and sinister glaze. Sparing you a glance, and a small smile, he rolls the sleeves of his sweater to his elbows. Once they were secured around his joints, he lets the tap run in the tub, warm water filling it up. He’s meticulous, and careful. You only watch him, eyes moving with every movement of his hands, or his body.

In minute’s time, the bathroom fills with wafts of lavender and rosemary; bath salts, bath oils, all the lotions and potions you like. He straightens up from the tub, approaching you with a gentle gait; he kisses the crown of your head before pulling off the hoodie from your body, baring you to him. You let your head fall against his shoulder when he picks you up in his arms and carries you to the bathtub. He lowers you with a gentle touch, your body sinking into the warm water; the initial resistance of your weight breaks to a relaxing spasm of your muscles. Water sloshes around you when you’re completely submerged inside.

A deliberately soft and lingering gets pressed to your lips, body going numb at the softest caress of his lips against yours. He stands up, as gracefully as he could, grabs your cup of tea from the sink and flashes you a twitch of his lips.

“Let me reheat this and I’ll bring it back to you.” He states before walking out back into the bedroom.

He’s not gone for long this time. The steaming cup of tea is placed on the boarder edge of the tub you were leaning against; you catch a glimpse of the steam rising, some dissipating into thin air, some merging with the mist from the water in the tub. Yunho slowly rolls down the sleeves of his sweater, and runs a hand through his hair, slicking back the stray strands.

“Are you leaving?” you squeak, noticing him tend to his hair with an exaggerated haste in the cabinet’s mirror right over the sink.

“Yeah,” he hums. “I have to. There was a batch recall on one of the paediatric antibiotics we use a lot.” He explains, “it’s a routine supply check, anyway. I’ll be back home soon.”

You nod and he continues. “I hope to be in time to see you all dolled up for your night.”

“It’s alright, you can take your time, love.” You mumble, closing your eyes as relaxation courses through your veins to your mind.

He pouts lightly, turning to you, “well, I already do not feel good about letting you dress on your own.”

“Did you pick out my outfit?”

He nods. “Laid on the bed. I’ve changed the sheets, so don’t worry about it. And the soiled ones are in the washer,” he resumes setting his hair, “if I’m early, I’ll let it dry in the balcony.”

You hum in satisfaction, barely even listening to him at this point. “We can’t let it stay in the washer…”

“I know…” he glances at you again, “if it’s done before you leave, then maybe you should do it.”

“I will,” you slowly open your eyes, looking at him, “will you be home early?”

“I might.” He steps back from the cabinet mirror. “I need to get changed before I go meet Mingi at the cabin.”

“A special occasion?”

“Something like that,” he says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants, “drinks and stuff.”

“Have fun.”

“Hmhm,” Yunho grunts as a response before walking out of the bathroom, stranding you in your tub.

When the slightest echoes of front door opening and closing reaches you, you sigh and grab your cup of tea; it’s piping hot, but the undertones of chamomile and Darjeeling tea are soothing enough to be even bothered by the accidental burn. The warmth of the tea spread from your mouth, down your oesophagus—snuggling in your chest before ending in your stomach. It’s the kind of comfort you never want to lose.

Time is at a standstill, a crack in nature’s soul; you soak up the warmth from water, lavender scent sticking to your skin like glue, and the scent of rosemary calming your nerves. Sulking in the dim lights, you close your eyes once more to truly relish the delight of your bath. Yunho knows what you need. All the time. He knows you like the back of his hand—the scents you’d crave, the soap you’d prefer, or the conditioner you’d like to leave in your hair. Aftercare with Yunho is the ultimate experience; he’s gentle, comforting, and amicable in ways you had never imagined him to be. At least not when he’s feasting on your body like it’s the last meal he’ll ever eat.

Every flutter in your heart is accustomed to him by now; every blink of your eye replies back with a picture of him burned in your mind, he’s everything you crave, for now and maybe for eternity. You let out a choked sob, the heaviness from countless situations drowning you back into the warm water he’s prepared for you. Every easing twitch in your muscles could to a tightness which brings dread and conspicuous fatigue to your mind and body alike. You’ve gotten yourself into a delicate quandary, and ironically, the only one to break your shackles is yourself. If talking to detective Choi could even clear Yunho’s name out in the slightest, you’d be happy.

Recounting to the blurry memories of last week, you do know Yunho was subjected to initial suspicion. However, a man reputed to be anything but kind, alongside his designation to be a paediatrician, cleared it off in a blink of an eye. As amusing as it was, reputation and money can bring you immense power to do as your heart desires. Yunho’s only desire? He wanted to keep you safe. Not himself. He wanted to keep you from the droning interrogations, manipulative tactics of the detectives and certainly, he doesn’t want you to spew the truth about that night to anyone.

You were way over in your head. One wrong word uttered to detective Choi, and you could be paying for it with your life. As much as you didn’t want to believe it, you knew Yunho would discard you with a snap of his fingers if anything goes south. You really a toy for him to play with, fuck with. There’s no way he’d care about you, right? He probably doesn’t. These inklings are so deeply rooted in your brain, the second they start resurfacing, you feel searing hot ache of fear rise in your chest. Your guts twist, stomach drops. The bath doesn’t comfort you anymore; it starts to suffocate you.

Water splashes everywhere when you frantically try to get out of the tub; you almost slip, stepping out. Fumbling to the bedroom, naked and trembling, you look around till your eyes land on the dress he’s laid out for you on the bed. A black maxi dress with lace detailing around the Victorian neckline and sequins across the hem, long sleeved to cover your arms, and still flattering enough to turn heads. He bought it for you a couple of months ago; said he couldn’t remember why he purchased it, but when he saw you wear it, he knew it wasn’t a pointless purchase. Yunho purposely bought you dresses which covered you up whole; he didn’t like showing his marks on your body to others. Only he got to see them, only he got to touch them and revere them. You never squeaked against his wishes.

When you’ve composed yourself, you stumble to your closet to grab a towel. You pick out a fluffy one, soft enough to pat yourself dry. Patting is the only way where your bruises didn’t hurt, or the cuts didn’t weep crimson. The warmth of towel contrasts gravely to the ache on your skin; you continue to pat yourself till you’re fully dry. Dressing up by yourself isn’t really a task, but having someone do it for you has become a habit you can’t break out of. Every time you slip on a piece of clothing, you’re reminded of Yunho’s gentle touch, and the praises he’d sing.

You’re halfway through slipping on your safety shorts when you hear the front door open and close. Yunho’s back already. Well he did say he wouldn’t take too long to return, neither is his clinic too far away from home. By the time he’s in the room, you’re pulling on the sleeves of the dress.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” he promises to someone on the phone; most probably Mingi. “Yeah, I just got home. I’ll change and leave…”

You watch him pace across the floor to stand behind you, one hand grabbing a hold of the zipper while the other held his phone. There’s a cigarette trapped between his lips in the corner of his mouth, tip burning red and smoke curling in air. With a simple tug, he pulls the zipper close. However he stops midway through to press a soft kiss to spine, right above the hooks of your bra; the cigarette returns between his lips, burning bright red. When your dress is zipped, he turns you around with one hand and wraps it around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. Like an instinct, your arms rest on his chest, the cashmere feeling soft and warm before you slide them to his waist too.

“I’ll give you a call when I leave, alright?” he hangs up the phone and pushes it back in the front pocket of his pants. “All dressed?”

You nod. “Everything okay at the clinic?”

“What could’ve gone wrong?” he whispers, a certain lilt lacing his voice. Both of his arms wrap tightly around you, pulling you even closer to him. “Let me know when you’re done, hmm? I’ll drop you off.”

You tense up, every inch of your muscle tightening; he could feel it too, and you know how easily he sees through your body language. “You don’t have to. I can drive by myself.”

“I know you can, love,” he mumbles, smiling widely. “Mingi and I have some stuff to deal with downtown. If I’m heading there, might as well drop you off at the bistro.” Pulling the cigarette from between his lips, he adds, “and wouldn’t your coworkers like to know you have a sweet little boyfriend who dropped you off? Or you rather have them think I don’t care about you at all?”

You shake your head in a frantic haze, the rough fabric gauze stinging your skin. “Babe, they—you really don’t have to.”

“Seongmi,” he states your name sternly; it’s a rare occurrence where Yunho would use your name, and even rarer when it’s during an argument. “I’m not asking you, love. I’m telling you.”

“I need to change my clothes over at my apartment,” he mumbles, taking a drag from his cigarette, “meet me down in the parking lot when you’re done.”

Clasping the cigarette in between his forefinger and middle finger, he blows out a cloud of smoke before kissing your lips. You’re all by yourself in the room, making final touches to your makeup, spritzing perfume, pretending you’re getting ready for a dinner date with your coworkers. You’re too scared of Yunho knowing the truth, too afraid he’s going to find out you’re lying just to meet the detectives from last week who really got on his nerves. If he loses his calm tonight, how would he react? What would that be like? More cuts? More bruises? More sadistic intimacy?

A short elevator ride later, you’re in the parking lot—you know his car by heart now, the black sedan you’ve had countless adventures in. He’s already there, smoking a cigarette, propped against the trunk, face alighted by his phone’s screen. You notice him scrolling, contemplating; judging by the twitch in his eyebrows, you could tell he was going through old texts from Mingi or someone else. The littlest of glimpse you could catch from his phone’s screen is the plethora of words blurred against a dark background. He’s too quick to lock his phone, stuffing it in his pocket before you could even question him.

When his eyes meet yours, you swallow even the smallest of doubts in your mind—the darkness in them always makes you cave, always reduces you to something you aren’t fond of. One of his hand slides to your cheek, cupping a side of your face while leaning in to peck your lips.

“There she is,” he whispers, “ready to go?”

You nod, running a quick gaze over him; he’s changed out of that cashmere sweater, replacing it with a black shirt and a leather jacket, the pants stayed the same. There’s slight tint to his lips, subtle gloss glimmering under the dimmed lights; his black rimmed glasses catch the similar glare before disappearing to a clear sight of his eyes. He takes your hand in his, purposely dragging his fingers across the length of your arm, tips creasing the fabric and your skin trickling with goosebumps.

The ride to the bistro is as quiet as it could be. Not much said, not much insinuated. Just the occasional comments he’d make on the songs from his playlist, breaking the beats of serenity between you two. City lights turn bleak on the windshield, creating a storm of neon and fluorescence. Outside the air seems to be free, moving, frisky—inside it’s stale, suffocating, cigarette stench lingering and concocting with Yunho’s scent. A whisper of musk, sweat, sandalwood and leather, contrasting sharply with your perfume which has citrus undertones. Throughout the drive, one of his hands stayed on the wheel while the other rested on your thigh, occasionally leaving to switch gears.

The last song on his playlist fades to a certain silence, he still hasn’t said much. Not more than a mumble. Regardless, it did not make you feel uneasy. Yunho’s silence sometimes speaks more than the words he utters and for all the odd reasons, you would rather prefer his speechlessness. When the next song picks up on its tempo, Yunho turns to you, the car slows down, signalling to the right and eases to the curb.

“Call me when you’re done,” he mutters, leaning over the console to kiss your nose, “I’ll come pick you up—and if time permits, maybe I’ll even drop by inside. Meet these coworkers you never mention to me about.”

You glare, but your lips curl to a playful pout, “are you teasing me?”

“Come on,” he chuckles, his shoulders shaking with pure amusement, “I just find it odd that suddenly, the people you hated at work, become important enough to meet on a Saturday night.”

“Yunho, if you’re instigating something, then say it outright. You know I don’t like games.” You whine softly.

He continues to laugh, body shuddering, “no—no, I’m not instigating anything at all. Just have fun, alright?” his hand squeezes your thigh lightly, “I’ll come pick you up. Give me a call.”

“Yeah, alright.” You shake your head and smile weakly at him, “I’ll see you later then.”

“Hmhm,” he hums softly, unlocking your door.

You step out of his car, onto the pavement leading to the bistro—a small, cosy establishment with an awning draped in fairy lights. It’s the same, nothing has changed since the first ‘date’ you had him after he moved in. You turn slightly, closing the door and crouching to look at him through the window he rolls down in exact time.

“Have fun,” he repeats one more time, a smile so wide on his face that it makes you hesitate. There’s an ulterior motive hidden in the plain sight; it’s something you won’t ever know until you’re knees deep in the mess he’s made. “See you soon.”

The echoes from his words keep you stranded to your spot, even when his car has left your vision line. Mind stuck on the smile he flashed, dissecting every fragment till it slipped to a fiendish frown, you don’t have the strength in you to visit the detective anymore. He knows. He definitely knows. He really was playing you, toying you around so you’d come clean to him. There are plenty of ways where he could force you to spit the truth out, but there’s a different kind of satisfaction when he pulls you to the point where you unravel yourself and blurt out everything.

Minutes later when you move, it’s not in the direction of the bistro’s entrance, it’s to hail a cab.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The precinct is unbothered to your presence; you sit in the chair propped in front of detective Choi’s desk, but his chair remains empty. You fiddle with your fingers, staring at the way your hands tremble in your lap. Faint and muffled ‘see you later’s reverberate in the distance, detectives saying their farewells, officers gathering their things to leave for the night. The rush was settling down, pulling you in and out of a daze, where you mulled over the coming consequences. Yes, you were reluctant to visit the precinct, and the hesitation was valid for all the right reasons.

A subtle crinkle in time peels your mind out of the trance, almost teary gaze focusing on the little notepad on his desk; detective Choi was said to be stuck in an important interrogation, not much details were offered by the police officer you came across, but he did say it might take him an hour or so to be done with it. You thought time would slip through your fingers like sand, instead it fleets and drones on and on. The cab ride to the precinct only took you thirty minutes, with the ticking clock now—it’s been a total of forty five minutes since you were made to wait. Which means, it’s been over an hour. You were measuring time in the hopes of not calling Yunho; he asked you to call him once you were done, but if you were done early, why would there be a need for you to call him?

You heave a sigh, and pull your phone out, thinking to pass your time scrolling through a banal conversation you had with your work friend. As amusing as it was Yunho, you really did not befriend any coworkers of yours, except for the woman you share your cubicle with. Her name is Soojin—she’s enthusiastic, determined and dedicated, and she makes you look better. Soojin has a tendency of speaking without processing it in her head first. She’s quite feisty, one might say but she’s also equally kind and eloquent. Though, you’re really not going over your texts, you’re trying to remember all that you had said to detective Choi during your last interaction. The words do come back, some vague, some quiet stern and prominent.

The only motive you had today was to clear your and Yunho’s name out of this investigation. You aren’t exactly the suspects, rather witnesses—a missing case has blown out of proportions when detective Choi found a smear of blood on the first floor’s landing. Lab reports confirmed they belonged to Jiwoo. Detective Choi got a lead, and the case took a new direction. Witnesses became suspects.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Park.” Detective Choi’s voice rings out to pull you out from your mind, “duty calls. Interrogations are turning to be quite taxing, you see.”

Your gaze travels in his direction, fixating on the way he walks and perches on the edge of his desk; he’s wearing a black leather jacket, similar to Yunho’s, and underneath is a blue plaid shirt, halfway tucked in. Detective Choi is shorter than Yunho, maybe by a few inches, but his physique is no joke. A well trained individual, putting in extra efforts to keep himself in shape—he’s mentioned kick boxing in passing, the last time he was questioning you. Silly thing to mention really.

“It’s fine,” you mumble. “I didn’t mind the waiting.”

His wince grabs your attention to his hands from his face. Knuckles bruised, skin split open to bleed while he figures out a way to tend to them.

He catches your eye and smiles, “went a little too hard on this guy. Some officers brought him in for petty crimes—robbery I suppose.” Moving effortlessly around, he grabs a bottle of antiseptic solution from the cabinet under his desk, and a fresh roll of cotton cloth. “If there’s one thing I really do despise, Ms Park, is a liar. Everyone’s hiding something, isn’t it? It’s my duty to bring the truth out, and I don’t care what measures I use to do so.”

You swallow audibly, hands grabbing the armrests of your chair in a haste. Clutching the smooth wood tight enough for your knuckles to turn while, you squeak, “I believe that is why you’ve called me in today?”

“I don’t deem you a liar, Ms. Park. Not yet,” he chuckles, struggling to open the bottle of antiseptic solution with one hand without hissing in pain at every subtle twitch of his fingers, “damn it.”

Listening to him curse, you get on your feet and open the bottle for him. You snatch the cotton cloth from is other hand, soak it with the solution and press it firmly against his bleeding hand; cradling it gently in yours, you make sure to clean every crevice of the knuckle while blowing air at his split skin.

“I’m not a liar, detective.”

“And I never said you were.” He whispers, “and call me Jongho. I think we should be on first name basis if you’re...”

The intention hangs heavy in air, his breath fanning your cheeks and your eyes meeting his; you hadn’t realised how close you were to each other, even if the corner of his desk was wedged between you two. Whiff of his scent lingers closely, a sensual concoction of wildflower and citrus undertones, something similar to yours but more manly. The intimacy isn’t surprising—the dainty caresses of your fingers against his knuckles, the cloth acting like a non-existent barrier between you—you’re used to it, but not used to his soft gaze hovering over every detail of you.

Jongho clears his throat, looking away, “I can take care of the rest,” he takes the cloth from you and starts dabbing on his knuckles himself. “While we’re at it…” he nudges slightly with his head to the chair, silently asking you to sit. “I’d like to have some follow up question regarding your last statement.”

You sit down with a heavy sigh. “I thought we cleared out all misunderstandings last time itself.”

Jongho shakes his head. “It’s more than that, Ms. Park.”

“And what could that be?”

“Like I said, just some questions,” he shrugs, wrapping the cloth around his hand before grabbing his notepad and a pen, “could you help me recollect that night’s events, Seongmi?”

Your throat runs dry, muscles tensing. “As much as I can recall, I didn’t meet or come across Jiwoo the entire day, I was at work.”

“And?” he prompts, “what about when you came back?”

You sigh. “Like I told you last time, I did not see her when I came back either.”

Jongho nods, “alright, if you say so,” he clears his throat again, “if I may, I’d like to read out your statement from last time.”

“On the night in question, I was at home after work. I remember I was really tired and exhausted from the day, so I stayed in and didn’t go out. There was an incident involving some sort of noise—not sure if it came from upstairs or from my next door neighbour’s apartment, but I was too lethargic to hear anything further.”

Jongho flips back to the fresh page on his notepad, pen slipping off from his fingers. “This is what you said last time, Ms. Park.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“You said you did not leave the apartment,” he states, “then why has your next door neighbour mentioned in his statement that he was with you the entire night?”

You swallow hard, lungs crashing down, mind falling steeper into a void. “Is that so?” you squeak, looking down at your trembling hands holding onto your knees, to anchor yourself to reality.

“I suppose, you aren’t the liar then, is it? Maybe your neighbour is.” He hums softly, “it’s fine, Seongmi. You can tell me what happened that night. If you speak the truth, I might let you go unharmed by the law.”

You look up at him, eyes welling up with tears but none steeping down your cheeks. “Alright,” you whisper with a broken voice, “I’ll tell you the truth.”

He hums and straightens up, setting the notepad aside and reaching over to the other side of the desk to grab his recorder. It gets placed on the desk, closer to you; he presses the start button and prompts you to speak up. You stare at the recorder, showing the running seconds and swallow the lump in your throat.

“Right, I—I was with my neighbour all night,” you begin, hands sliding onto the armrests, nails scratching at the coating on the wood. “I came back from work around eight, or so, I don’t really recall, maybe it was much later. I was lounging on the couch when I received a text from him, asking me to come over at his place. For a casual hangout.” You glance at Jongho, whose brow is raised high on his forehead. “I did go over to his place, we had a couple of drinks and that’s it.”

Jongho hums, mulling. He stops the recorder and sets it aside. “Is that all, Seongmi?”

“Yes,” you state firmly, bringing one hand up to your hair to fiddle with a few strands, “that’s all I can remember.”

“Then why did you lie the first time?”

You yelp, “because I was scared. I was worried I would be deemed to be a suspect.”

“Lying is the preamble to suspicion, Ms. Park.” Jongho clicks his tongue, getting off the desk with a swift slide and turning to sit in his chair, “it’s me who gets to judge you, whether you become a suspect or stay a witness. You do know that obstruction of important information can be a crime too?”

You stare at him, eyes wide, lips trembling, heart stuttering in your chest. There’s an ache in your ribs which flares with every second, with every breath you heave out. “I am not hiding anything. I’m as truthfully as I could be. Yes, I lied before. But I only did it over the concern of my well being.”

“Relax, Seongmi. You don’t have to be so defensive,” he shrugs, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him, “I’m not accusing you of the crime. Would never, I suppose. It’s still a missing persons case, regardless of the evidence…” he trails off, shifting suddenly in his chair to prop his elbows on the desk and lean closer to you, “…blood could hardly count as a solid evidence against anyone. Did we find the body yet? No. There is a possibility, this case could be a second degree murder.”

Your breath catches in your throat, body shuddering; your mind reels in time, going back to the cabin—Jiwoo’s body in a suitcase, Mingi, Yunho’s workshop.

“Need water, Seongmi?” he asks but slides a bottle to you regardless. “Drink some. It might help you calm your nerves.”

You pick up the bottle immediately and tear open the lid, guzzling down almost more than half of it before setting it back on the desk. “All better now?” you nod to him and take a deep breath, “a second degree murder?”

“Hmm. I suspect it is.” Jongho nods, “nothing premeditated, just a spur-of-the-moment killing with malice.”

“Who would do that to her?” you retort, “Jiwoo was a kind soul. No enemies. No bad blood. That’s not possible.”

“You’d be surprised with the kind of cases I have to deal with at times,” he chuckles, a satirical one, “I’ve seen people get killed for less.”

“But Jiwoo?” you whisper, “I don’t think…”

Jongho shakes his head, “believe me, Ms. Park,” he continues, “I’ve had cases much worse than hers.“

He grabs your half empty bottle from the desk and discards it in the bin under the desk. “Anyway, that’s not the point, is it? I did not call you here to discuss the law.” He laughs again, “I do have certain questions about your neighbour, though. Jeong Yunho…”

You visible stiffen at his words. “What about him?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he starts, “I did a thorough background check on that guy, and he is clean, really clean. Couldn’t find much on his family, though. Has he ever mentioned anything about his family to you?”

“We’re mere acquaintances, detective,” you reply, “I don’t suppose he has ever brought up his family in the conversations we’ve had.”

“Right,” he nods and leans back against the chair, crossing one leg over the other, “it would be strange if he spoke of his family to you,” his eyes narrow at your neck, “hurt yourself, Ms. Park?”

You unconsciously touch your neck, fingertips grazing the gauze which peeks from the neckline of your dress. “Oh—kind of, scratched myself a little too hard.”

“You should be careful, Seongmi.” He sighs, rubbing his temples, “pretty things lose their value when they get scratched up.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it’s supposed to mean,” he smirks slightly before glancing at the clock on his desk, “it’s getting late. Half of the precinct has emptied out. Do you eat dinner?”

You gawk, thrown off guard by his sudden question. “Of course I eat dinner. What kind of silly question is that, detective?”

“Then you wouldn’t mind eating with me, would you?” he asks, already getting up from the chair, “I made you wait long enough—and the questioning—I suppose you could spare an hour to have a meal with me. I’ll even drop you off.”

You contemplate, think really hard, weigh all the consequences which would follow if you agreed to his offer. What’s the worst that could happen? Yunho finds out you went to him, he conditions you in one of his brutal ways, chants apologies when he’s done and murmur I love yous to your face. The vicious cycle continues no matter what. There’s really no point in contemplating something when you’ve already made up your mind.

“Alright…”

“Jjigae sounds good, doesn’t it?”

The night air is colder tonight, biting into your skin while the warm stew proffers some comfort against it. You’re sitting across Jongho, who hasn’t said a word since the food arrived and has been too busy slurping the stew with eventual bites of the grilled fish. The restaurant was nothing more than a cluster of red plastic tables huddled under a heavy orange tarp. It was a small local restaurant a few blocks from the precinct, and something said the detectives and officers frequented this place quite often.

“Is it not good?” Jongho asks, sipping a spoonful of his kimchi stew, “it’s one of the best stews in the district,” he chuckles softly, setting his spoon down. “Do you not like stew or is this type of setting not really your thing?”

You shake your head, “no, it’s not that…”

You throw a gander around, noticing the sparse crowd of people occupying the farthest tables; some of them laughing loudly, some cheering, some drunk on the cheap soju, while some are arguing over mundane matters. The fluorescent bulbs cascade beams of lights across the table, but most of the spaces still stay in the shadows. The butane stove between you two on the table hisses with a sharp sound, burning with a blue flame to keep the stew nice and warm.

“Then what is it?” he asks, smile stretching his lips, “scared I’d interrogate you?”

“Not really,” you pick your spoon, “I doubt you’d even ask me questions out of the precinct.”

“Hey, I might,” he laughs, picking up his chopsticks, “but I’ll go easy on you.”

You take a sip of the stew, humming in satisfaction when the spices hit your taste buds. “What more could you ask?”

Jongho goes silent for a while, he picks at the white flesh of the fish, not really bothering to eat it; when the chopsticks roll out of his fingers, he grabs his glass of soju and guzzles it in one breath. The burn makes him wince, but it’s too subtle that you fail to notice his gaze back on you, intense and heated. Jongho’s eyes have a warming hue, a soft brown which drowns you in the throes of comfort and ease. He has an easy-going personality, something which forces you to put your guard down, instead of putting it up when you’re with Yunho, and trust him easily.

“He’s not the right man for you,” he blurts out, as if he needed the alcohol to put some courage in him, “Yunho has a dark past, Seongmi.”

“What do you mean?” you scoff, swirling your spoon in the bowlful of stew, watching the red ripples bring out shreds of kimchi.

Jongho sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair and leaning back in his chair. It squeaks to his weight, plastic feet straining only slightly before he barks a laugh, “a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be shackled in his cage, Seongmi.”

“I think you’ve had a little too much to drink, detective,” you snatch the bottle of soju from his side and set it closer to you, “no more soju for you.”

Jongho doesn’t retort, or whine, but a pout stays back on his face which makes it evident that he was upset. “How much longer will you deal with him before he decides you’re of no use to him?”

Your eyes narrow on him, throat running dry. “This isn’t relevant, detective.”

“Or maybe it is,” Jongho slurs his words, “does he know you’re here with me? Does he know you were coming to meet me?”

You shake your head.

“Then that calls for trouble, doesn’t it?” he lets out a scoff, “how can his little birdie leave his cage and make decisions on her own?”

“Detective.”

“Jongho,” he corrects you, “we’re not in the precinct anymore. We’re not tied to the roles…”

“Jongho,” you whisper, food forgotten long ago, for both of you, “you do not get to have any say in my personal life.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He sighs, “but that doesn’t mean I am forced to sit on the sidelines and watch you ruin your life.”

“You talk like you know me. Like you know him.” You spit out, “but you don’t.“

“I never said I did,” he mumbles, leaning over to grab the bottle of soju from you, “but you’re wrong there, Seongmi. I do know a lot about guys like him.”

He adds, finishing the bottle in one sip. “The guys who play into women’s vulnerability and reel them in, who manipulate and gaslight into thinking they’re saving them, but in reality, do you really feel safe around him or do you feel like you’re suffocating?”

Everything he said made sense in your head, but your heart did not beat for it; your heart only hammered when you thought of Yunho, when you thought of the love you had for him, which went deeper than the oceans. Jongho was all wrong about Yunho, he didn’t know him like the way you did. But why did the truth made you second guess every little sentiment you ever had for him?

You’re left to mull about it while Jongho stands up abruptly, calling out to the grandma sitting by the register, “ah, halmoni! I’d like to pay…”

Jongho leaves you with your thoughts at the table, going to pay for the meal at the register. You really do think hard, mind numbing with dilemmas and quandaries you no longer could solve on your own. Jongho’s scent lingers in the air, mixed with the aroma of stew still boiling on the stove, and the stale whiff of alcohol growing denser every second. You put your chopsticks down, slowly getting up from the chair and straightening out the imaginary creases on your dress.

You feel a warm presence on your back, breath tickling your ear while a set of sturdy arms wrap around your waist and pull back, making you collide with a hard chest. Jongho’s scent is back, too intense, too suffocating, too much for you to handle.

His lips brush against the shell of your ear, wispy voice slithering in, “you could tell me the truth, Seongmi and I’d do anything in my power to keep you safe.”

The next thing he is, you fail to recognise if it was purposeful or accidental, but his lips press against the spot below your ear, the touch lingering long enough for you to feel every shudder in your body coming alive. Jongho’s arms tighten around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest as if wanting to submerge you into him.

“You deserve a better man, Seongmi, you deserve better.”

Everything is a blur, right upto the moment you’re in the back of his car, straddling him, his mouth on yours, sucking your soul through it. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, using it as a leverage to grind yourself harder against his crotch; every roll of your hips causes for his cock to harden and stiffen up, slotting itself perfectly between your panty-clad folds. You’re beyond wet, dripping, soaking your panties and your inner thighs. Jongho groans into the kiss, pulling away slightly to stare at you, taking in the sight of your parted lips and heaving chest.

He pulls you in again, hand cupping the nape of your neck as tightly as he could, other one across your waist. A giggle bubbles in your throat, pushing past your lips and into the kiss. Jongho holds you close, feeling every curve of your body against his chest; his grip grows tighter, kiss escalating to all teeth and tongue. You’re breathless, holding onto the gasp of air you took meagre seconds before. There’s a pause where both of you go still, lips pressed against each other, eyes staring into each other’s with a knowing conversation passing through them. Panting, your body trembles when his hands around your waist push you back against the driver’s seat; he tucks the hem of your dress around your waist, holding it up with one hand while other traces up the length of your inner thigh. Every touch, every subtle caress brought shivers and tremors running along your skin.

The minutes are taxing, everything is draining—his hands, his lips, his eyes. Jongho’s warmth is addictive, it catches you off guard and brings out your need for safety. With Yunho, you try to find ways not to disappoint him. Jongho won’t be disappointed if you expressed yourself, would he? He won’t go to the extreme like Yunho does. And maybe that’s what your body needs right now.

“Can I?” he asks, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, stretching out the elastic till you have him the go ahead. Which you do, subtly nodding while sliding your hands from his neck to his chest.

Without hesitation, Jongho pulls your panties down, just enough to bare you to him. You part your legs around his thighs, bracketing them, making sure you give him space to slot his hands between them. He still keeps one on your waist, pinning the hem of your dress there; the other one crawl up your inner thigh, fingertips brushing your slick folds. He nudges his forefinger in you slit, groaning, feeling how much wetter you get the more he touches you. Rubbing his finger through your slit, he leans over to bury his face in the crook of your neck. Lips trail to find your sweet spot, blindly continuing to suck and kiss your skin till you squirm, whimpering his name.

“Jongho…” his fingers were slow and deliberate, his lips were feather-light and soft, caressing that particular inch of skin with a hunger.

“That’s it,” he hums, curling the tips of his fingers to notch inside you. “Fuck—so tight and warm.”

He pumps only the first inch of his fingers into you, your walls squelching just lightly and clenching to suck him further inside. A chuckle breaks out of his chest and rumbles with your skin. “Eager, Ms. Park?”

You catch his eye through your half-lidded ones, lips parting to let a moan out. Jongho’s fingers weren’t sleek as Yunho’s, but they were thick, stretching your walls so deliciously and you were aching around him. Your nails scratch at his jacket, clutching at it as you feel him pushing another inch of his fingers in.

“I were to believe you’d never let any other man touch you,” Jongho remarks, a grunt making his words sound much hoarser. “But here you are, in a stranger’s lap, mewling like a bitch in heat…” he purposely angles his fingertips to hit the spongy part of your walls, and it rips a loud moan from your chest.

Jongho chuckles, setting a relentless pace of his fingers; your back arches against the seat, chest heaving, every cut and bruise Yunho left behind sparks with an ache you can’t quite grasp onto, not unless the smoke in your head clears out and proffers clarity. You really are letting someone else touch you, someone who isn’t Yunho. As amusing as it is, you also find it ludicrous how your body seems to be attuned to Jongho’s presence—it’s quite the contrast between the two. You’re willingly giving yourself to Jongho, whereas with Yunho, he has to initiate and twist your words into thinking he’s saving you.

The night carries on outside, window of the car fogging up to your warm breaths; stench of sweat and sex lingers in the closed space, air going stale. Moonlight shines onto you, just till the clouds cover it back again, veiling it in sheer terror—the road is silent, almost deserted. Jongho drove the car to a remote corner of the district, somewhere between the shadows and silhouettes of skyscrapers and barren fields of nothing. It’s cramped in the backseat, for sure, it’s not typically designed to accommodate two grown adults having sex.

You buck your hips, rolling them onto fingers, forcing them further—Jongho growls, erupting from his chest when he feels his fingers plunging into your heart. Grabbing at the flaps of his jacket, you use it as a leverage to ride his fingers, lifting yourself up and dipping down, setting a steady pace. Jongho eyes you, sweat beads forming on his forehead, lips parted, chest heaving like yours, and his cock straining in his pants.

Soon your head tips against the headrest of the seat, eyes screwing close, the tightness in your stomach ebbing and flowing in like waves of ocean. You’re close. Every flutter in your wall is a preamble to the rush of pleasure slowly making its way to your body. If only, Jongho fingers could thrust the way Yunho’s did—if only he picked up his pace and sawed them in and out of you, like Yunho always does, you’d be gushing all over his fingers. Though something snaps, like a twig breaking in half and its echoes rupturing your senses; you’re actively cheating on a man who’s protecting you from the law. You’re letting someone else touch you, taint you in the way only he’s allowed to do—this isn’t like you. You wouldn’t disobey Yunho.

“Jongho…wait,” you whisper, voice breaking; your eyes open wide, lips quivering with pleas for him to stop, “Jongho please…”

Catching the faintest breath of yours, his fingers still in you, filling you up. He’s knuckles deep already, but unmoving, letting you feel how snug he really is inside you.

“Want me to stop?” he asks, lips caressing your neck; looking up at you, he frowns, “coming down from the high already?”

You shake your head, attempting to shove his chest, which doesn’t even budge him, but he gets the sign. Without second guessing, Jongho pushes himself away from you, falling back onto the seat as his eyes narrow on you. He curls his fingers once before letting them slip out, covered in your slick, glimmering under the dainty rays of moon. You watch him bring them to his mouth, lips parting just enough to wrap the tips and to help him push them inside. He hollows his cheeks, sucking his own fingers while never breaking the eye contact with you.

You squirm, still in need to have a release but the urges are soon trampled down when Yunho’s face burns in the back of your mind. And the high he helped you climb up dissipates to an unlikely sting in your heart; your hands slide down his chest, the sensation of his cold zipper lingering on your skin. You pull your panties up, straighten out the flounce of your dress, and slip off his lap to slump into the space next to him. Jongho takes out his fingers from his mouth with a lewd pop; he doesn’t speak, doesn’t squeak a sound, only palms his crotch before sitting up straighter against the seat.

“You let him own you, Seongmi,” Jongho speaks up, then shakes his head, “I suppose I do need to take accountability for leading you on and almost fucking you senseless in the back of my car.” He glances at you, clicking his tongue, “it’s a shame, really. To have someone like you reduced to nothing but a pet—what if your brother comes to know?”

Brother. It takes you a hot second to realise what he’s said. Not because you’re picking up the pieces of your shattered brain, rather because you’re too distracted to fathom a single thought left behind by the little rendezvous with him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you remark.

“Still in denial?” he scoffs out the question, “does pretending to not know him ease the burden on your shoulders?”

You sigh. “I have no idea what you’re trying to insinuate, detective.”

“You don’t?” Jongho laughs, the kind which resonates from the bottom of his stomach; he shakes his head, pulls out an engraved lighter—glinting silver against the car’s overhead light, and then flicks it open. “If I speak of him, would I live to see another day?”

The flames burns bright, his thumb pressing down the igniter. A faint glow catches on his face, sparkling on his dark eyes, kissing just enough of his skin to make him look harmless. Jongho is not harmless. Not in the slightest. He knows manipulation better than Yunho, but is he using it on you? Not really. He doesn’t want to play you like you’re one of his suspect, doesn’t want to interrogate you like you’re the culprit. Regardless of his rational conscience, Jongho wants to free you from the man you’ve chained yourself to. Does he know it was consensual? Does he know you were willing when the chains caught in your legs and twisted around your body to shackle your soul in a cage it didn’t belong to?

You heave out a breath, trembling, throat drying out. “The strings don’t adhere to us the way they used to before, Jongho.”

Jongho’s thumb slips off the igniter, plunging the space back to the dimly lit darkness. You turn to him, following his every movement as he presses a cigarette between his lips and plays with the igniter again. Sparks flicker, the metal snaps, sound coiling around you till it clips short to the hiss of flame burning bright. The flame engulfs the cigarette, tip glowing a hue of orange melting into ash and black of soot; a long drag later, the ash crumbles down onto his shirt, creased by your hands from before.

“And here I believed, favouring you would favour my chances at having a better life.” Jongho mumbles, putting his lighter back into his coat’s pocket, “your brother owns the streets, Seongmi. How sure are you that he doesn’t know?“

“I’m not saying he doesn’t,” you whisper, “I don’t know, Jongho. The farther he is from this mess, the better it is for me. Because Yunho has no clue who my brother is, or if I even have a brother.”

Jongho takes another drag in, the nicotine infusing with his blood and crawling in his lungs; he puffs out a cloud of smoke, twisting and turning in the air till it disappears. Wordlessly, he turns the overhead lights of the car off, and glances at you. There’s same intensity in his eyes, the kind which had bloomed a mere minutes ago when he was all over you (was it the other way around?). He lets the butt of cigarette stay trapped between the corner of his mouth, lips pressing down hard.

He hums. “There comes a point in life, Seongmi. The secrets you hide, unravel the second someone starts pulling.” The lock clicks, Jongho pushes the door open to step out, “it’s a matter of time who pulls first between the two of you. My bets are on you, you fragile little thing. One wrong move and everything falls apart, thread by thread.”

The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, lingering on your tongue even when it’s no longer coherent in your head. You won’t break so easy. You’re not fragile. You won’t let him get in your head. But maybe, he was already in your head.

Jongho drops you off a block before your apartment complex—you made him, because you didn’t want to run into Yunho (if that was possible) on your way up to your apartment. The coincidental meet in the lobby would be hell of an awkward situation neither of you won’t know how to deal with. Before leaving, however, you offered Jongho a piece of your mind—a lighthearted threat—if he was going to use your brother to his benefit, then maybe you could use that as your personal weapon. Your brother would never hesitate making your headaches disappear. He wouldn’t bat an eye if you called him right away to tell him about the detective who’s been nothing but a nuisance to you and have him gone from your life forever.

But there’s only one issue with that. You’re not on good terms anymore. A couple of years back, a simple argument led to you cutting all your ties with him. You left the house, didn’t use his name to gain you any favours from his closest allies, and still don’t plan on doing so, not unless the consequences call for it.

Your heels click on the concrete pavement, soles gliding against the rugged terrain; the moonless night calls for a mishap in the waiting, an omen you were anticipating. Empty street, and a deserted road, shops closed long back, while the distant barks of dogs echo from somewhere, the darker it got, the more scared you were. You wanted to be in your apartment as soon as you could, aching to feel the warmth of your bed, and Yunho’s lingering scent from the afternoon. Or maybe, you craved him, pining to be used by him so you could forget why you’re scared in the first place.

Relief crashes over you when the well-lit entrance of your apartment complex comes into your view. From then, you increase your pace and only think of getting inside. The lobby is warm the moment you set your foot in, and the further in you strayed, the warmer it got. Behind you, the doors slurred with a hiss before sliding close and locking themselves in place, waiting for whoever who’d come after you to unlock them. The elevator ride is a haze, a tepid concoction of panic, anxiety, and inflaming nerves. You fumble with the keypad on your lock, numbers beeping into place before the familiar mechanical bell rings out and dies down to silence in mere seconds.

The vestibule light turns on when you step in, door closing behind; you slip out of your heels, and slip into the house slippers. A strange sense of relief takes over, soothing every tremor your skin palpates with. You trudge to the living room, dimly lit—it gets even dimmer when the vestibule light flickers off, and then the aroma of Darjeeling tea wafts your senses. It sudden. All too sudden. You’re caught mid-thought about slumping on the couch, and are forced to glance at the kitchen. The space in between living room and kitchen was housed by a dining table—small, cosy one meant for two to four people—in one of the four chairs, Yunho sits, a ceramic cup raised to his lips. He’s still dressed in the same clothes from before—except, the leather jacket hands on the back of his chair.

You pause, taking a second to compose yourself before croaking, “hey, you’re home early.”

Yunho doesn’t respond right away. He sets his cup down first, then licks his bottom lip to rid the remaining drops of tea clinging to it. A short minute later, he clears his throat, gaze casted down on the cup instead of raising up to meet yours. Another second of silence settles in before he speaks up, “hmm, things got dealt with quite early.”

Three heartbeats later, he slowly gets up, “how was your night?”

His eyes find yours in the dim lights, not a twitch of muscle on his face. He’s assessing you, reading you—your body language; he’s noticed the slight slouch of your shoulders, the way your breath gets caught between your lips, and your hands clenched tightly at your sides.

“How would it go?” you let out a nervous chuckle, “it was alright. We ate, drank, gossiped. The usual.”

“The usual,” he repeats, stepping around the table and approaching you with deliberately long and slow strides. “Thats nice. What did you eat?”

For some reason, you preferred Jongho’s interrogation over this. You clear your throat, sweat beading across your forehead, sticking close to your skin. “You know, my favourite. Chicken Alfredo and red wine. Pairs the best.”

Yunho hums again, standing in front of you now; he towers over you, his silhouette engulfing yours in the eerie darkness he has in his eyes. You physically shiver, fingers curling tight enough for your nails to dig into your palms, skin close enough to breaking and bleeding. He reaches out for your chin with one hand, other one snaking around your waist, already establishing a tight grip. Pulling you flush against his chest, he tips your chin caught between his thumb and forefinger before leaning down to peck your lips.

“Yeah, it does,” he grumbles, pulling back, staring so deep into your eyes—you feel he’s going to snatch your soul from you, his lips stretching straight before convulsing to a frown.

Yunho’s eyes lurk on the gauze around your neck, a fresh blotch of crimson emerges from underneath—the wound must’ve opened up. Your breath hitches when he leans down and nuzzles against the skin, just an inch above the wound; he takes a deep breath, sniffing the scent.

“You know what else does? A detective and a wide eyed woman who thinks she can…” he growls, trailing off to let the words hang heavy in your head. “You smell like him—like whatever.”

“Yunho—wait, Yunho—you don’t understand, let me—let me explain,” you’re stuttering your side out, he’s smirking as if he’s caught you red handed.

“Explain what?” he steps back, a smile curling on his face; it’s not the kind which one would show upon met with amusement or wonder, it’s the kind which makes you shudder because he’s mad, disappointed. “Fine, go on. Tell me why you were with him.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes—you were terrified beyond compare, struck with panic which grows ten fold with every breath you take. Yunho’s hand slowly drifts from your waist, the other hand too drops from your chin. He takes another step back, creating a distance between you two while you stay frozen to your spot.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you lower your head and stare at the floor instead of anywhere else, “when I got his text in the morning, I felt—it felt like I—like I was obligated to meet him.”

Silence is all your receive from him, for the dragging minutes which seem never ending. The disappointment is too heavy this time; it lurks up on you, clutches you tightly and plunges you in shame. In the back of your mind, the moments from Jongho’s car replay, as if taunting you, making the humiliation last longer than it needs to. Your chest aches, lips tremble, and voice gets lost in your throat. A steady stream of tears rolls down your cheeks, vision blurring and neck flushing with heat.

“I did it for you,” you whimper, voice breaking, head rising slowly to meet his gaze. He stands a few feet from you, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched. You catch a strain of exhaustion gracing his face, melting to a tinge of dismay. “I swear—Yunho, believe me—I did it for us—I wanted—I wanted to be good for you.”

In a frantic daze, you scramble to hold his hand, wanting to pry it away from his chest and twine your fingers together, while crying out your side to him, so even when your heart is breaking to million pieces, his warmth still stays on you, comfort you. Yunho doesn’t let you, he instinctively creates more distance between you two.

“I told you not to involve yourself with any of those bottom feeders,” he states firmly, “but my doll wants to defy me,” as if a switch being flipped, his tone gets soft and he pouts, “I love you so much—I take care of you, and this is how you repay me, darling? It’s one thing I never wanted from you, and that’s betraying my trust.”

In a blink of an eye, he’s marching to the dining table; he grabs his phone from the table and the jacket from the back of the chair. Draping his jacket over his shoulder, he stuffs his phone inside and glares at you. Realisation hits your chest, twisting your heart and wrenching it out of your mouth. Before you could do anything—protest, beg, plead—he’s storming out. The door rattles loudly after him, leaving you to simmer in the fading vibrations of the sound. Your knees buckle, giving in to the lethargy and embarrassment; your drop down, boneless, mind consumed with his thoughts.

You want to run after him, but you can’t. You know you can’t because he won’t like it. And doing things which go against every desire of his, leads to more painful conditioning and punishments. So, what other choice do you have than to stay put and drive yourself crazy with the foreboding nuisance and wreckage?

An hour later, you’re pacing in your living room, phone pressed close to your ear. You’d stop every three steps, irked, panicked, scared, when the call would go straight to his voicemail. The window in your living room frames a quiet night outside; moonless, clouds drifting and veiling every inch of the starry sky you admired, and the sound of your heart breaking reverberating every second you reach his voicemail. He’s ignoring you on purpose, he’s trying to punish you—knowing how daft you are for his attention, he surely must be delighting in tormenting you like this.

With a grunt, you hang up the call mid-ring, and dial another number. Song Mingi’s contact appears on the screen, thumb pressing down without a second thought, and in a haste, you press the phone against your ear. Rings sound, one, then two, then three. On the fourth, Mingi’s deep and husky voice breaks your trance.

“Hello?” he mumbles, half in sleep—judging by the lull his tone carries, even through the line. He clears his throat, noticing your silence, “sweetheart?”

You shake your head and slump down on the couch. “Have you heard from Yunho?” you ask, words rolling off your tongue before your mind could even process them, “Mingi, he stormed out an hour ago, all my calls keep going to his voicemail—it’s scary, I’m scared.”

Mingi hums softly, in understanding, “first, calm down okay? Can you take a breath for me, sweetie, please?”

The soft undertones of concern and pleading take you off guard, and you really do take a deep breath to calm your nerves. Once you’re able to think straight, once the strain in your voice melts to firmness, you continue, “Mingi, I fucked up. I really need to talk to him. I need to apologise. I need to confess.”

“I know, sweet thing,” mingi tries to assure you, “you think he’s mad at you, and maybe he is, for whatever reason it is, but he won’t hold a grudge against you, Seongmi. Never.” There’s a pause, “can you tell me what happened that caused him to storm out? An argument—Yunho’s not the kind of guy to walk away from one, love…”

“He said I betrayed his trust by meeting up with—” your breath catches, “—with the detective from last week. But before I could even testify why I did that, he turned his back on me and slammed the door right in my face. Mingi—Mingi, I really need to tell him my side, please tell me where he is.”

Mingi clicks his tongue, the sound sharp, as if he’s judging you and your desperation. Even you did not comprehend where the pining was emerging from. To need yunho so badly, that your soul burns and thrashes, it’s certainly uncanny. You rock yourself on the couch, knuckles turning white with how tight your grip had gotten on your phone; Mingi’s breaths are soft, soundless, constrained. But yours are ragged, heavy with every push and pull of air—because you think you’d suffocate under the fear of losing Yunho.

“Honey,” Mingi chirps, a low grunt following after, “relax, okay? We’ll find him if you’re worried about him. But I bet he’ll show up tomorrow morning. You just need to give him some time, sweetheart. I’ve known him for decades, when he cools off, he’ll be back in your arms, hmm?”

You shake your head, not really assured by his words. “No—no—Mingi, I’m sorry but I really need to—I can’t even be alone right now,” you run your free hand through your hair, tousling it around. Before your heart knows it, you squeak, “can I come over? Please?”

The drive to cabin was short, detrimental to your mind since you kept replaying Yunho storming out of your apartment in it. Though, when Mingi opened the door for you, helped you on the couch and fixed you a cup of tea, your worries dithered to seemingly nothing. It gave you a reason to forget why you were panicking in the first place. When Mingi opened the door, he seemed to be irked—as if you had disrupted a peaceful hour of slumber. His pajamas were creased and rumpled—it wasn’t much, just a white tank top and stripped shorts which ended mid-thigh, showing off the elaborate ink on his left thigh. A creeper snaking around his skin, with bright and contrasting magnolia flowers—coloured ink spilling around the edges like they were real.

The cabin was quiet, lingering scent of sandalwood and pines—signature Mingi—but the air was tinged with a subtle stench of burning metal, more like blood. You don’t question it, not when you’re surrounded by preserved specimens of animals, and hides of animals kept on display. There could be a fresh kill rotting in the basement—in Yunho’s workshop, which is mostly utilised by Mingi whenever he brings home a fresh kill from his hunting trip.

You’re curled against Mingi’s side, holding a soft throw pillow from the couch on the other side. Heart clammers, lips tremble, tears show no sign of stopping, from the first words which slipped past your lips, when Mingi probed in all right places. You’re spilling your guts to him, wailing, sobbing—at times, your throat would close in, thick lumps would form at the base, and Mingi would force you to stop and help you take a sip of tea he brewed for you.

The cup clinks with the glass top of the coffee table, resounding just for a split second before your sniffles grow loud. “I love him, Mingi. I just…I just realised it—it hit me so hard when he walked away from me.”

Mingi doesn’t say anything, instead, he pushes himself closer to you and tightens his arm around your shoulder; you feel a subtle pull, then you’re smushed against his chest. He leans down, just enough for his warm breath to caress your cheek, then drift off to your ear. A soft kiss, lingering, gentle but grounding, looms on the shell of your ear. Your sniffles quite down, replaced by hiccups which take you by surprise.

You don’t question Mingi’s actions at all, not even when he’s peppering kisses across your neck, painting your skin with prickles and goosebumps—and bringing the butterflies alive in your stomach. A whimper parts your lips, pillow slipping from your grip as your own arms flail in urgency to wrap them around his shoulders.

“I love him.” You whisper, burying your face in the crook of his neck while he continues to litter kisses on yours, slowly trailing down to your collarbones. “I really love him.”

Minutes pass in a dull haze of tears and heavy whispers, promises made to Mingi’s chest instead of the man you were ruining yourself for. Little did you know, he was listening to every word that poured out of your mouth, every delicate sound you made—he hid in the hallway leading to the basement from the living room—he has been here all along, had been purposely sending your calls to his voicemail. This was his way of punishing you. Though, he didn’t know it’d pull out the deepest, darkest secret from your heart. You loved him. No, it didn’t amuse him—he knew you loved him, knew you’d fall for him.

You peek up at Mingi, slowly, fluttering your eyes while tears cling closely to your eyelashes. He’s just a blob of blurriness to you, his silver hair standing out however, glimmering even in the dim lights of the living room. You press your lips together and drop one arm from his shoulder, then the second; you untangle your body from his, leaning back to wipe your tears off with the back of your hand.

“I wish I could tell him before he stormed out,” you whisper, picking up the cup of tea from the coffee table, “he deserves to know, regardless of what he wants to do with me. Mingi, are you sure you don’t know where he is?” your voice thins out, desperation resurfacing, “I would chase him to wherever he is—whichever dark corner he’s hiding in. He must know what my heart thinks of him.”

Mingi, whose silence was now speaking louder than before, watches you with brows scrunched at the centre, eyes glinting with a sheen you can’t figure out what it is. He stares at you, gaze lingering on your neck—the gauze—he felt its raggedness against his lips when he kissed you before, he almost drove himself to his edge when he got a sniff of your blood through it. One beat passes, then he scoots away from you, stands up and eyes the hallway behind him.

“He’s here…” he whispers under his breath, looking back at you. “Yunho’s here…”

Your eyes widen just for a second, heart palpitating too hard in your bony cage—a glimmer of hope crosses your mind, body melting into the couch. It’s like you’re having an epiphany, the best kind. Your gaze follows Mingi’s, darkened hallway calling out to you. Though before you could get yourself up from the couch, Yunho’s silhouette emerges out. His eyes find yours without any effort, and they don’t seem to leave you until he’s standing in front of you; swiftly, he leans over, planting his arms on the backrest of the couch to cage you against it. You look up at him, tears welling in your eyes, lips quivering with words you want to use to express your joy, but he doesn’t let you. His lips crash into yours, slow and soft.

You bring your arms around his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss which leaves you aching for air. Yunho is relentless, sucking and biting your lips, tongue eventually slithering into the warmth of your mouth; you could taste the remnants of Darjeeling tea, and smoke—the classic Marlboro, it excites. But apparently, not as much as Yunho, who doesn’t let the kiss stop, no matter how much his lungs beg him to. When the threshold comes down to suffocation, both of you part, reluctant regardless.

Yunho rests his forehead on yours, one hand wrapped around your neck while the other stays on the backrest; he licks his lips, tongue swiping deliberately as if to taste you on them. A shuddering breath parts his lips and he mumbles, “you love me, birdie?”

You nod, clinging tightly onto his neck. “So much.”

He pecks your lips—once, twice—then it turns to another heated and sloppy kiss, spit sliding down your chin, drool catching up with his lips and cheeks. You continue to cling onto him and his broad shoulders, while his hand stays firmly around your neck. Soon, every meagre second slows down, and you relish the moment even longer than the laws of physics could allow it.

You’re on your back, on the same couch, still making out with Yunho while Mingi witnesses everything. You had forgotten about his presence almost, but when he took a sharp breath, it reminded you he was still in the room with you. A sharp ache of pleasure pulses between your thighs, and you buck your hips up to meet his; you’re lying under him, bare—dress abandoned on the floor, lingerie spread out on the coffee table—except for your panties, which were clutched tight in Mingi’s hand.

Comprehension is long lost, you didn’t know how it came to this; you confessed, Yunho made his appearance, you made out and baam, suddenly you’re writhing under him, arms bound with his belt and flung over the armrest of the couch, while his lips continue to abuse yours. One knee between your legs, Yunho balanced himself on top of you, hands on the armrest to support his weight. You fist your hands tightly, feeling his tongue prod your gums before slipping even further to graze your uvula—it takes meagre effort from you to not gag when he purposely plunges his tongue down your throat. You whimper, instinctively try to fist your hands tightly, nails digging into your palms, drawing blood in the forms of crescents.

The burning ache between your legs forces you to clench your thighs together, but Yunho stops you from doing so; he slowly pulls out of your mouth, teeth catching onto your lower lip before he bites down hard to rupture the already broken skin on it. You bleed into his mouth, for a split second because he’s pulling back, sitting straighter. His gaze wanders to Mingi, who’s lounging in the armchair across from the couch, legs spread and cock straining against his sleep shorts. The bulge on both men is obvious, aching in the bounds of their pants.

Yunho meets your eye, lips curling one side with a smug little smirk. He slowly tugs at the hem of his shirt, jacket long strewn across the floor, next to your dress—he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it down on the floor. You stare at his bare chest, toned, shining with silver stretches of scars and other wounds—your gaze drifts from his prominent collarbones to his chest, then follow the trail going down his abdomen and disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Bubbling urge to touch grows heavy, and you lift your arms, only to a certain degree when he grunts in disapproval.

“No, doll,” he states, “hands above your head, at all times.”

A needy whine punctures your lungs but you obey, dropping your hands back against the armrest. Mingi chuckles, “she’s whiny when things don’t go her way, isn’t she?”

Yunho smiles, “she really is. Maybe you could take care of that mouth next time—not now,” he glances at Mingi briefly before looking down at you. “She’s mine to ruin tonight.”

You nod, “yours.”

“Good girl,” he praises you, cupping a side of your face with one hand while the other works around the button and zipper of his pants; he pulls them down along with his boxers, just enough to let his semi-hard cock spring out.

He wraps the same hand around the base of his cock, fisting and pumping it with few strokes to bring it to its full hardness. A low growl rumbles in his chest, keeping his lips parted when he voices it; you whimper too, aching with desperation to be touched. You’re soaking through the couch cushions, you could feel it, every drop of your arousal leaking and sliding down past your folds and the crevice between your ass. You want him so bad.

You whine again. “Yunho—Yunho, please—need you—need you please.”

Listening to your broken voice, both men groan and Mingi comments, “poor thing is desperate, Yun. Don’t tease her any longer.”

When Yunho turns to Mingi, he finds the man palming his crotch with one hand and the other holds your soaked and soiled panties to his nose. “You think so?” Yunho scoffs, giving himself a slow tug, thumb brushing across the reddened tip to smear the bead of precum, “then I better relieve her from her misery…”

The anticipation wrecks you harder, twisting your gut and tightening the knot in your stomach a little too hard, you could feel yourself leaking more profusely than before. Yunho doesn’t give in just yet—not really, he continues to stroke him, and his other hand, which had been so warm and snug on your cheek, gradually pulls away and disappears behind his back. You know what comes next; there’s only one thing he keeps strapped to the back of his waist—his dagger. It’s an ornament to him, six inches of blade, handle crafted with delicate skills, carved with intricate flowers on the metal casing. It’s his favourite, and he carries it almost everywhere—he hides it in a waist carry, which adheres itself to the loops of his pants and at times to his belt.

Leather of his belt cuts through your skin, irritating and stinging the portion; you’re constraining yourself, adrenaline running rampant in your veins, and anticipation roiling all your senses. Mingi blows a low whistle when the glint from Yunho’s blade catches his eye; it’s raised in front of you, shaking slightly as it’s not held in his dominant hand.

“Be careful with that thing, Yun,” Mingi remarks, but rolls his eyes when Yunho glares at him, “I don’t want blood to stain the couch, it’s a pain getting them off.”

“That’s what you’re concerned about?” Yunho laughs, shaking his head. “Typical, Mingi. You hear that, love? He’s worried about bloodstains on his couch.”

You whimper, “Yunho…”

Mingi blinks twice, dropping your panties to the side while continuing to palm and stroke himself through his sleep shorts. “You broke her, Yun. You broke that pretty little thing—she’s only whining and whimpering for your dick.”

Yunho rolls his shoulders out before sighing exasperatedly, “just keep watching, Mingi.”

Mingi holds one hand up, defensive, “alright, I’m watching. Do your thing. Wreck her. Break her apart, piece by piece.”

Yunho doesn’t pay much attention to Mingi after that; he only stares at you, laid under him, at his mercy. His eyes drink you up from top to bottom, one hand stroking his cock, and the other holding the dagger. You feel so small under his gaze, but at the same time, you feel admired—and he probably is, admiring all the marks he’s left behind on you, the cuts which are now mere scabs, some still healing, some healed to form faded silver strokes. You don’t let your eyes waver, you hold his; he swiftly swaps the dagger in his dominant hand, and you almost expect him to press the against your sternum, where cigarette burns and a few deep cuts already house, but he doesn’t.

The blade comes down on his other hand, he wraps it tight around it and with a simple tug, he cuts his palm. Blood pools out in beads at first, little droplets running along the cut before it starts streaming, flowing down his palm like little rivulets of crimson sins. You let out a gasp, watching him use his bleeding hand to stroke himself, coat every inch of his cock with his blood, even the tip. The dagger gets flicked off to the side, he doesn’t bother that it clatters with the glass top of the coffee table.

He never looks away either, eyes boring into yours, while he presses his lips together to suppress a wince. What comes out is a low groan, right from his chest, “fuck—you said you love me—you’re giving me a piece of your heart, little bird. And I—and I love you for it,” he leans down, bracing his non-bleeding hand on the armrest, while resting his forehead on yours, “I love you too, doll. And this is my way of showing it to you. It always has been.”

He kisses your cheek and whispers, “I bleed for you too, just the way you do for me. And what I bleed, has a purpose for you.”

You moan softly, not because of the pleasure building between your legs, but because of his words—because of the sheer affection he’s expressing to you in his own twisted ways. Yunho kisses your cheek one last time before pushing off of you slightly; he creates some space to align his cock against you, the tip already nudging—he strokes himself between your folds, once, twice, stimulating your clit just enough to have you mewling and whimpering, before he sinks into you.

Every inch plunging into you, draws out a groan from both of you; Yunho now braces himself on top of you by placing both his hands on the armrest, using it as a leverage to hold himself and thrust into you at the same time. His bleeding hand does stain the couch, and Mingi does indeed whine; you’re too lost in the pleasure caused by the stretch from his cock to even be bothered by it. Your eyes flutter close, hands struggle against the bounds of his leather belt, fingers twitching to touch him—but even trapped in ecstasy, you know better than to defy him.

Yunho buries his face in the crook of your neck, setting a steady pace; you could tell he’s not pushing in too deep, only fucking you with his tip and a couple more inches after it. Every pull creates a dull ache in the pit of your stomach, and every hard push knocks the air out of you, turning it to a high pitched moan. Mingi’s grunts echo too; you only turn your head slightly to catch a glimpse of him—he’s still on the armchair, shorts and boxers pushed down, hand around his own cock, matching the tempo of Yunho’s shallow thrusts. He’s noticing everything, but his eyes are fixed at the point where Yunho’s cock disappears into you.

“Fuck—fuck..!” Yunho groans, pushing another inch in, “so fucking tight—fuck, doll—how many times do I got to—do I got to fuck this tight cunt, so you could take me without any prep?”

Mingi let’s out a trembling laugh, “have some mercy on that poor soul, Yunho—” he grunts, bucking his hips into his hand and throwing his head back, “—she’s already taking that monster like a champ.“

Yunho joins Mingi with a laugh too, it’s vibrations brushing against you skin, “you’re right—she’s a champ—taking my cock—with no prep…” every phrase is punctuated with a thrust, and every thrust, forces a new inch deeper into you.

“Ah fuck, Yunho…!” you groan loudly, eyes fluttering open in both pain and pleasure, a delightful knot coming together in the pit of your stomach.

Yunho goes still, feeling slight resistance, “am I hitting it…?” he whispers under his breath, grinding his hips to feel around inside you. He had indeed hit your cervical opening, you could feel the head of his cock prodding and slipping away a bit. “Shhh, it’s okay—fuck—feels too good, love.”

His face is still buried in your neck, hands still on the armrest; yours are there too, not daring to touch his even on accident. You roll your hips into his, raising them and holding them in the position for a hot minute till you feel his thickness stretching your walls deliberately wider. A half-gasp, half-scream bubbles from your chest—the stench of burnt copper soon fills up the room, Mingi hums in satisfaction the second it hits his nose, followed by Yunho, who kisses the bite wound on your neck through the gauze. It’s a terribly reminds you that it’s still there, taunting him.

Yunho pulls back slightly before slamming back into you, hips resting flush against yours; he picks up his pace, your walls squelching around his cock, and the sound of skin slapping starting to grow loud. You whimper, feeling the stretch, the ache, the tight knot searing its pain in your stomach—until his teeth tug at the bound gauze around your neck, just enough to reveal the healing-wound. He doesn’t think twice, and sinks his teeth into your flesh, opening the wound, letting it bleed in his mouth.

A hum clatters against your skin, making you scream his name, “Yunho…!”

Mingi’s moan blends in with it, he’s jerking off to the both of you; his hand shows no signs of faltering, picking up its pace every stroke till he’s fucking his own hand. You could not give any fucks about it; you’re trapped in your own dark world—pain and pleasure simultaneously ripping out every moan and whimper with calculated rhythm of his thrusts, and gradually increasing intensity of his bites. You writhe and squirm under him, body shuddering and aching from the impacts of his thrusts—he’s picked up his pace, and it’s causing for the couch to creak and squeak.

“Fuck—Yunho…! Right there,” you gasp and moan, feeling your walls flutter around him once when he hits your spot.

Smirking, he tries to repeat the same for a few more times and every time he hits it, your walls clench tighter around his cock. You feel too much of him, every ridge, every bulging vein—every push and pull, till the tightness in your stomach reaches a peak and comes down in mere minutes. Your walls flutter profusely, working up to suckle him in deeper, as if it was possible to take him in any deeper than he already was. Yunho’s eyes roll in the back of his head; he pushes off your neck, lips blood stained, teeth too—he’s staring down at you, eyes meeting yours in a silent way that only you know how to read.

Your body shudders, tremors wrecking a havoc and forcing you to squirm. The aftershocks roll in soon after, legs twitching and eyes screwing shut at the heavy sensation between your legs; your pussy becomes overstimulated from his thrusts in a few more minutes. Though, you know he’s close too. He’s twitching, his hips stutter one time—then continue to do so, until his warmth floods you. He empties his load in pulses, rope after rope—clinging to every corner of your cunt, staining every bit of your velvety walls.

He rides out his high with a few more shallow thrusts. Your eyes open, meeting his, lips parting wide for a low moan to escape—the mellowed out and shallow thrusts aid your oversensitivity too—a short lived but intense second orgasm follows, making your spasm out of nowhere. Yunho grunts, dropping his forehead against your before he goes completely still inside you, letting you ride out your release now.

You kiss his cheek, try to bring your hands up to run your fingers through his hair, but the constraints don’t let you—it forces you to bend your arms in an awkward way, so you let them be as they are. Yunho’s chest heaves against yours, breathing turning ragged and short, matching yours; you’re both drained, and so is Mingi—you glance at him through other teary eyes, to find him wiping his cum laden hand on his tank top over his chest. You catch the sheen of his cum sprayed all over his tank top, darkening few spots a little more than the rest.

A gentle kiss to your neck, brings your focus back to the man nuzzling into your chest. Yunho rests his head on your chest, hair falling soft against your skin, his eyes closing and opening, much like yours now. He slowly peeks up, sliding one of his hands from the armrest to your bound ones, intertwining fingers with one of them, while the other cradles the nape of your neck.

“I’m not mad at you,” he whispers, “I could never be mad at you,” he catches his breath then continues, fingers rubbing circles on your neck, “doll, you know how much I resent you getting into trouble. And that detective, he’s trouble, love.”

You hear shuffling from next to you, probably Mingi getting up and leaving the both of you to talk. “I know he is.”

“But you still went to him,” he mutters, turning his head to rest it sideways on your chest, “did he scare you?”

You nod, “he did.”

“I think he’s onto us,” Yunho mumbles again, “we need to be careful, love. One wrong move and he knows everything.”

You hum, totally disregarding his words and chiming in, “Yunho…?”

“Yeah?”

“I really do love you.”

He peeks up at you one more time, eyelashes falling on his cheeks when he blinks—he’s a little dazed, either from the blood loss or the tiredness. You need to tend his cut before it gets serious—but knowing Yunho, he probably didn’t even cut himself so deep that it would pose any danger to him. And again when you find yourself losing your train of thoughts, Yunho anchors you to him with a soft whisper—he’s stays the truth and you realised it the hard way—fooling around with Jongho only made your feelings for him stronger. And you know, it might have led you to confess your true feelings to him, but either that could prove to be very stupid or encourage you to commit more sins.

“I love you too.” He smiles, “no one can replace me in your heart, and I know it.”

Series Masterlist

[xerotiny]

part four out now! enjoy ig

[xerotiny]

THE BOY WHO CHOSE YOU ⟡ JEONG YUNHO

Pairing: Jeong Yunho x fem reader (oc) x Song Mingi (ft. Jung Wooyoung)

Genre: dark romance, psychological thriller.

Tags(s): DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, twisted lovers, established dynamic, dark romance, psychopath au, boy next door!yunho, neighbour!reader, sadist!yunho, hard dom!yunho, sub!reader, hunter!mingi, switch!mingi, switch!wooyoung, best friend/work friend!wooyoung, work friend!san.

Warning(s): smut, hardcore smut, gore and blood, murder, oral sex (m! & f!recieving), fingering, unprotected sex (not encouraged), use of sex toy, cockwarming, creampie, squirting/piss kink/watersports, light choking, humiliation kink, praise kink, vampirism, pussy worship, etc. mentions of cannibalism, brief yungi moment in the end, Mingi has a cock piercing, Yunho helps him with it. (I miss out some warnings, please proceed with caution).

Synopsis: after the love confession, your relationship changes with yunho for the better. until, one of your work friends tries to meddle in your life.

Word count: 24.5k (yall can hate me for this)

part one | part two | part three | part four (you are here)

“And the earth is still revolving around its own axis,” Wooyoung comments, snarking at Soojin, “it’s not going to cease to exist, just because you fucked up.”

Soojin retorts, “I am not saying it needs to!” then with a deep breath, she calms down, “it’s not the end of the world, I get it. But the second-hand embarrassment is enough for me to second-guess my job security.”

“Says the one who has slept around with half of her superiors.” You remark, sipping your tea quietly, “in technical terms, that translates to an assured promotion and increased income.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, pinching up a squared shaped dasik from the ceramic plate spread between you all on the table. “The new team manager hates her guts,” he comments casually, “what’s his name?”

Soojin squeaks, sipping her tea more aggressively than before. You meet her gaze, one brow raising high on your forehead. “Choi San. The team lead.”

Wooyoung takes a bite of the cookie, one hand fisting and coming down hard on the table. Baam! “Choi San, yeah.” He sounds cheery, too gleeful to be uttering someone’s name. “He reports to Seongmi, doesn’t he?” he turns to you, setting his half-eaten dasik down, “is he making any good impressions?”

“He’s quite ambitious,” you mutter, biting your lip; the warmth of tea provides you a sense of ease, before you continue, “got hired three months ago, he’s relentless.“

“Stubborn could be the word you’re looking for,” Soojin rolls her eyes, “he’s always on my ass for every single thing. Coffee runs, resume screenings, subduing the warehouse guys,” she grumbles, setting her cup down with a clink. “God, he’s really difficult to deal with.”

“And that’s your way of saying he’s rejected every advance you’ve ever made at him,” Wooyoung deadpans, as if stating a known tale—it was a known tale. “Get the hint already, Jinnie. He’s not into you. The revealing blouses and under-the-desk-blowjobs could’ve worked for the other superiors, but they’re not going to work on him.”

You nod along with him, “listen to Wooyoung, I don’t want to clean up your messes.”

Soojin whines, lower lip jutting out, “you make it seem like I’m going to pounce on him the moment he says yes. I have some self-respect.”

“Right, you really do.” Wooyoung comments, picking up his half-eaten dasik from before; the rectangular cookie crumbles between his lips, a decadent scent of cinnamon wafts in the air.

Soojin glares at Wooyoung, you clear your throat before their bickering escalates to hurling curse words and spewing insults at each other. Behind them, through the window, sun sinks further down the skyline, scattering aureate glow across the tall skyscrapers; the same golden rays spill in, lighting up every corner. The evening has settled in just fine; Wooyoung and Soojin showed up uninvited at your front door an hour ago, holding up bags of tea time snacks as a way to bribe you. The pleading, almost despondent look in their eyes was hard enough to resist; and when Wooyoung decides on using his charms to tempt someone, you know that person is truly gone.

You were lucky enough to be alone, Yunho had left shortly after lunch to meet with Mingi—it’s the weekend, you weren’t surprised—he made promises of coming back early, and cooking dinner for you.

But Wooyoung and Soojin showing up, the unpredictability was a concern—Wooyoung buzzing around like a bee in his stupidly alluring outfit—nothing too exciting about a pastel blue shirt having rolled to his elbows with cuffs showing off the intricate patterns underneath, and matching shorts, but he pulled it off anyway. His hair, has grown an inch longer now, and the way it frames his face and the broad rimmed glasses on his nose, is insanely suggestive. Soojin, the ever-so bold woman at workplace, wore a denim dress, the hue matching Wooyoung’s to the slightest—she’s never been too keen on makeup, because her natural features are already enough—auburn hair, recently dyed, full lips, almond eyes, and a significant mole over her upper lip.

The apartment sparked with life the moment both stepped in, made themselves at home on your couch and initiated conversations with you while you let the tea steep in boiling water. Several weeks had passed after that incident, after the day you had professed your undying love for a man who, according to some, has you caged. If you’d measure the time and relate it to your heart, then maybe the same people might say it’s too soon to spell out the three big words. However, love can’t be measured by any means. It ages, sometimes like a bottle of fine wine, and sometimes it withers and wilts like a flower on a sunny day.

In your case, it bloomed. Every morning, when he’d stay over, he’d make you breakfast in bed. It was his way of apologising for indulging too hard in his darkness. A simple spread of scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice—most of the time, he’d make you coffee, the way you liked it. Afternoons you’d spend talking to him on call while nibbling and playing around with your lunch in your office. And the evenings were most delightful of them all—indoor dates, movie nights, playing board games which ended in sweaty and desperate make out sessions on the couch.

What else would you need? You had found yourself a perfect man—someone who’s diligently committed to you. So are you. Committed to him, having tied your heart around his soul, and vice versa. If you could put in words, the only way your heart ever sates itself knowing the kind of person it beats for, you simply put it as—Yunho is someone who’d readily burn the world to keep you warm. On a wretched note, the irony as such did not come fast enough, you were describing your own brother. Every twisted penchant for Yunho whispered the contradictory resentment you felt toward your brother.

Wooyoung’s hand comes to rest on your shoulder, the warmth spreads underneath, seeping through your flimsy blouse and resurrecting your frozen mind. You flinch, jerk and gasp, eyes blowing wide, lips trembling. Soojin grows concerned next to you, watching Wooyoung slide his hand off your shoulder as though you had burned him. You swallow thickly, reaching for your cup of tea—the comforting notes of lemongrass hit your senses, before the sharpness of tea leaves cuts down on the sweet aroma.

“Are you okay?” Wooyoung asks, offering you a worried smile, “you zoned out for a minute there.”

You shake your head, trying to dismiss his concerns off. “I’m fine, Wooyoung. Really.” You turn to Soojin, assuring her with a smile, “suddenly started thinking about the performance reviews I need to hand in.”

Soojin’s brows scrunch together in the centre of her forehead, lips tracing a frown but not quite yet. She tries to make a sound, but Wooyoung beats her to it, “ya! You’re thinking about performance reviews, right when we’re here with you?”

You click your tongue, “what can I say? I deal with a bunch of idiots at work.”

Soojin whines, “hey! I’m not an idiot.”

“Ha, Soojin is trying to be funny,” Wooyoung laughs out loud, his tea long forgotten now, and going cold; he brushes the crumbs off his fingers and continues, “so, noona,” he trails off, eyes meeting yours, “is there anything interesting you want to tell us?”

You catch the glimpse of mischief in the corner of his eyes, glinting under the dying sunlight. A sigh forces its way through your lips, keeping them parted before you make a sound, “you’re impossible.”

“Unnie, are you hiding something from us?” Soojin accuses, pouting before looking at Wooyoung, “what is it that you know that I don’t know and that has Seongmi hesitate?”

“He’s being dramatic, Soojin-ah,” you state, shaking your head. “It’s pointless giving into his whims.”

“Oh, come on,” Wooyoung pouts, leaning back against the chair; the plain black shirt draped over his chest, strains a little against his muscles. “Ya, Soojin-ah, have you noticed anything different about her?”

You get up from your chair and start tidying up the table; cups—Wooyoung’s stayed mostly full, while yours and Soojin’s were half empty—get placed on a tray, before you carry it to the sink in the kitchen. The dainty and delicate fabric of your dress murmurs against your skin; Yunho picked it out for you in the morning, a short lavender coloured dress with full sleeves and a high neck. Embroidered detailing sat on the hem of the dress, on the cuffs of the sleeves, and the neckline, a plethora of flowers in threads of contrasting shades. It accentuated your waist, tapered along your hips and ended right above your knees. When Wooyoung and Soojin arrived, they were slightly taken off by your clothes—in the good way of course. You could discern amusement, before anything else.

“Apart from the fact that she’s putting more efforts in her clothes and makeup?” Soojin mulls. “Not really.”

Wooyoung clicks his tongue, “that’s the point, Jinnie. Why else would she do it if not to impress someone, hmm?”

Listening to him, you huff and turn around; you lean back against the counter, cool marble pressing into your skin through the flimsy fabric of the dress, while your gaze rummages through both of theirs. You cross your arms over your chest, scrutinising the way those two put you in a scrutiny—a waste of time really. You weren’t going to let anything slip up, not to the nosy coworkers who have zero respect for boundaries and personal space. Not that you didn’t ever voice out your feelings, but it’s better knowing Wooyoung and Soojin are loud mouths.

The corners of Wooyoung’s lips lift just a little to speak out his truth, but as he’s about to, Soojin’s phone buzzes harshly against the table. Saccade vibrations blare through the room, clattering with the wooden surface; Soojin flinches, brows raised and grabs her phone off the table. She answers the incoming call, presses the phone tightly to her ear and gets up from the chair—she’s off, sauntering straight to the balcony adjoining the space of kitchen and living room, which overlooked the city streets. The sliding doors fall back to their place behind her, muffling her chatters. You could tell it was someone she hooked up with, the subtle tint of cherry glaze on her cheeks gave her out.

Slowly, with an amused huff of breath, Wooyoung gets up too, making his way to where you were. He stands next to you, mimicking your posture; though, there’s nothing innocent about his body language, you could tell. A beat passes in anticipation, heart pacing with foreboding nuisance he’s about to cause.

“I wasn’t expecting you to change yourself for a man, Seongmi,” he clears his throat, arms tightening across his chest, “wonder who the guy is, who was able to break through the ice around your heart.”

You glance at him, like quivering, “what’s your angle, Wooyoung? If you want to know who humanised me, ask me without phrasing it as a riddle.”

“There’s that,” he turns to you, eyes gleaming with mischief only you know how to handle, “I want to know who claimed you—claimed the woman I had been planning my whole life with.”

You scoff, staring at him, “whole life? Please. All you ever wanted from me was to warm your bed till you found someone else to warm it for you.”

He places a hand over his chest, other one rests just below that; dramatically, he whines, “oh, you wound me, Seongmi. I speak nothing but the truth from my heart, and all you do is deem me a liar. Am I not enough?”

You scoff again, “never were,” you shrug, and with every ounce of irk bubbling under your skin, you sigh, “take a peek inside your heart, Wooyoung, and see for yourself, the intentions you dwell on are, in fact, absolutely unchaste.”

“Oh, you never fail to amuse me,” he chuckles, dropping his hands to his sides, “but may I really have the pleasure to know who he is? I can’t wait any longer. Please.”

You sigh in dejection this time, eyes rolling into the back of your head—his annoying self had proven to be relentless on you, and his tricks actually worked. “It’s my next door—”

The faint beeping of numbers resounds from the front door. Only one man knows the passcode to your apartment. And it’s your boyfriend. You hear it then, the muffled sounds of the mechanical whir dissolving to his footsteps, and eventually, he calls out to you.

“I’m home, doll,” he announces, and your breath catches.

There’s approximately five minutes before you come into his visual line. Judging by the shuffling, you could already tell he’s slipping out his shoes and putting on the house slippers, probably assessing the extra pairs of shoes he sees in the vestibule.

Exactly three minutes later, he calls out again, “do we have company…” he trails off the moment he steps into the living room, eyes lingering on Wooyoung before shifting to Soojin’s silhouette in the balcony, “ah, I wasn’t expecting to meet new people.”

You follow Yunho’s gaze, finding Soojin now leaning over the railing while chattering the minutes away. She’s so unaware, her back to the chaos slowly unfolding in the apartment. It’s not a deliberate upheaval, it’s more subdued, understated in a way only you know. Yunho clears his throat, his stare burning on you; Wooyoung swallows hard, his warmth drifting away from beside you.

As the wrinkle in time murmurs to a soft and distant sound of an imaginary siren, you shake your head and smile weakly, replying. “Oh, hey love. I wasn’t expecting you home so early,” you swallow too, the lump poking your throat in a similar dread you despise, “well, since you are…” you’re dreading this situation a little too much, squeaking, “why don’t you meet my work friends?”

You laugh it off, melting under his eyes; Yunho’s glare is intense, but it’s not on you perse, it’s focused on the space between you and Wooyoung—shoulders almost grazing each other. Maybe it was the wind, which suddenly felt much dry and flat, that forced Wooyoung to take another few steps away from you, or maybe it was Yunho’s silent command through eyes. You could never know, not when a stripe of muscle in Yunho’s jaw clenches tightly, before relaxing—in an ironic way, that converts a bloodthirsty frown to an affectionate smile.

“Oh, your work friends are over?” he calls back, stepping further into the living room.

You notice him carrying a small paper bag—covered in glitter and a ribbon swirling around the handles to present a bow. It’s a present for you, that’s for sure. Yunho never comes over to your place empty handed, it’s always one thing or the other. Could be a bottle of wine—he remembers every little detail about you, even when you mentioned how much the wine you had in that Italian bistro had seemingly spoiled your taste buds for others. It could be a lingerie set—from the best brand, not Victoria’s Secret, no—most probably from Agent Provocateur, after seeing how stunning you looked in them to ruin you. Or, it could be that thing.

Yunho drops the bag on the couch, paper crinkling and breaking your trance. Wooyoung’s already approaching Yunho, one hand outstretched to greet his, while other stuffed in the pockets of his shorts; Yunho doesn’t move a muscle, not even a twitch on the back of his hand which is always visible when he flexes his palm or fingers.

“Hi, I’m Wooyoung,” he begins, a smile stretching his lips wide, eyes crinkling in the corner—he’s genuine when he wants it to be. “You must be Seongmi’s boyfriend…”

Hesitant but forced, Yunho gives Wooyoung’s hand a firm shake after wrapping it around his. “Indeed I am,” he titters, “Jeong Yunho. Pleasure making your acquaintance, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung nods, a stern, unrelenting, scared almost as his hands slips out from Yunho’s grip. “So, Seongmi never really…”

“…talked about me?” Yunho chuckles, “yeah, I guess she never had a reason to bring me up, right?”

You watch the interaction unfold, biting your lip; Yunho looks tired, shoulders slouched and tensed, a grunge red shirt stretched across them, defining his towering stature. The clear signs of fatigue were the visible dainty lines around his mouth, the crinkles by his eyes, and the way his skin folds around his brows; he’s exhausted, probably painting smiles for sick kids and to reassure their concerned parents. Yunho stands a bit taller, eyeing Wooyoung who stands awkwardly, trying to find his next action. He glances back at you, and the subtle head tilt forces Yunho to look at you as well.

“Are they staying over for dinner?” he questions you, expecting an answer from you—though, you knows he’s already decided. Before you could open your mouth to negate him, he speaks up, “they should,” his eyes crinkle again, in the corners, feigning joy.

Wooyoung speaks up, reluctant but confident, “oh, there’s no need. We were actually just leaving…”

You glare at Wooyoung, lips parting to squeak what’s trapped in your heart—precisely irritation. But Yunho beats you to it again, “no no, please I insist. Stay for dinner—Seongmi talks a lot about her work friends, it’s a delight I finally get to meet them.”

All strength, you had been holding on to, drains out of your body; you pale, feeling lightheaded the moment Yunho’s lie tumbles out so smoothly. Wooyoung has his brows creased in the centre, eyes going wide while his lips tremble too, “oh, does she now?”

“Don’t believe him, Wooyoung,” you state, heaving a breath—out of pure infuriation—and shake your head. “But, I think you should stay over if he’s insisting. He won’t let you go unless you’re choking on his japchae.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Yunho laughs, loosening the cuffs of his shirt, gaze wandering to Soojin in the balcony, “I think you should call her inside, love. I’ll get freshened up.” He offers you a small smile before padding down the hallway leading to the rooms, the paper bag fluttering after him in his hand.

Wooyoung’s shoulders drop, as if he had been holding onto a breath, then he turns to face you; brows creased, eyes narrowed, and lips in a frown. “So, that’s ‘mister makeover’ huh?” he shrugs, “full sleeved dresses, makeup and hair done. You used to be all about the hoodies and messy buns, noona. The change does look good on you. But I’m hoping you don’t lose yourself because of it.”

“Because of what?” Soojin walks back in, phone in one hand, other one carding through her hair; she glances between the both of you before mumbling, “what happened while I was away?”

Seeing bewilderment trace her face, you shake your head, “well…”

“We’re obligated to stay over for dinner by her boyfriend,” Wooyoung says on your behalf, stressing enough on the word ‘boyfriend’. “Yes, she has a boyfriend,” he whispers, leaning close to her, “you heard it right, a boyfriend. And that man is right here—in the room.”

Soojin turns to you, eyes wide, mouth agape and squeals in a high pitch, “you have a boyfriend, unnie? You never told us! Or me! Oh no, I thought we were soul sisters. I’m hurt.”

You sigh, irritating bubbling under your skin to send tremors down your spine; yes, sure you were annoyed with them, but the dread creeping up your chest was the worst, considering Yunho is here. “Alright alright, drama queens. I have a boyfriend.”

“Spill.” Wooyoung states, grabbing one hand and Soojin pulls down on the couch by your other, “you need to tell us everything. Every spicy detail, so spill.”

“You guys are the absolute worst,” you roll your eyes, snatching your arms from them and letting them stay by your side. “Yes, fine. He’s my boyfriend. Wooyoung met him. You will too…” you glance at Soojin, “…he’s my next door neighbour. He moved in a few months ago, and we sort of hit it off a while later.”

“Is he hot?” Soojin questions Wooyoung, who simply shrugs, “judge for yourself. But I won’t turn him down if he ever approached me in a bar. Or anywhere.”

He leans back, arms spreading behind him on the edge of the couch, “well, noona scored good. In terms of sports, a perfect slam dunk.”

You get flustered, cheeks heating up, the same embarrassment crawling up your neck. The distant memory of Jiwoo flashes in the back of your mind, but dies down quickly when you hear Yunho calling out to you. Soojin and Wooyoung exchange a glance, already knowing what’s about to brew between you and him.

“Seongmi, need you here for a second. Please.” Yunho calls out again, low baritone hitting your ear in a way you know it’s not going to end well.

Without wasting another second, you pick yourself off the couch and rush down the hallway leading to your room. Wooyoung and Soojin mumble something, a phrase quite inaudible to your ears, but the intentions get clearer—probably remarking how you’re about to be seduced. Those thoughts are at one point of the spectrum, the other end is where you’re mostly drifting too. Did you fuck something up? Was Wooyoung’s and Soojin’s arrival a displeased surprise for him? Darkness blurs the line between affection and conditioning—you’re terrified of him.

The door creaks open with a slight push of your hand, revealing the neat and tidy bedding, but a trail of clothes scattered across the floor, leading towards the doors which open into the dry balcony. Yunho stands there, back to you, shirtless, pants hanging loose on his waist, belt unbuckled and falling to the side. He’s clutching a cigarette pack in one hand, other resting stuffed in the pocket of his pants. You swallow hard, throat drying up the moment your brain pieces it together—instinctively, you drool, spit overflowing the bounds of your mouth before a drop cascades past your quivering lips.

Yunho looks back over his shoulder, eyes dark, a scowl on his face; he doesn’t let his stare wander, and while doing so, he pulls out a cigarette from the pack in his hand and places it between his lips. With a subtle nod and a soft hum, you’re quick on your feet, snatching his silver-cased lighter from the nightstand; it flickers to life with a single snap of your thumb, flame rising up in the air and kissing the tip of his cigarette. You’re on your toes, reaching out to light it up for him, breath controlled with the fear that you might snuff out the flame. It takes a hold, red hot sparks melting to orange hued ashes. You close the lighter and press it tightly in the palm of your hand, keeping your fingers wrapped around the cool metal casing.

With practised ease, he shifts the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and gently runs a hand through his hair, a few strands falling over his forehead. Your body shudders when he sighs and steps close, diminishing the distance between you two; pinching your chin in his forefinger and thumb, he tilts your head up, eyes staring into your soul. He blows out a smoke, silence dwelling, dragging on till he finds the will to break it—or break you.

“On your knees, doll.” He grumbles, “I’m exhausted. Need you to…” his gaze traces along, forcing yours to follow his which ends up on his crotch; the zipper is undone, flaps of his pants hanging on the side to accommodate his bulge in between. He’s not fully hard, but getting there—maybe it’s lethargy, or perhaps he is tired from the day at the clinic—you know what he needs, and what needs to be done.

“I know.” You sink onto the floor, knees planting softly against the cold tiles; peeking up at him and dropping the lighter by his feet, you reach out for the waistband of his trousers first.

Yunho stands a little straighter, fingers clutching the cigarette and pulling it out while his other hand rests gently on top of your head, no pushing, no pulling. His fingers deftly twine with your delicate strands, nails scratching your scalp as he watches you through his half-lidded gaze, trembling and shaking. You pull his pants down, letting them cling onto his thighs before hooking your fingers in the elastic of his boxers; tugging them off in swift and deliberate motions, you let them stay rucked along his pants. Catching a breath, you watch his semi-hard cock spring out and wrap one hand at the base of it.

Wooyoung and Soojin’s voices are a distant mumble, lost in the void that’s beyond the bedroom door. Slowly, you stroke his length, fingers feeling the ridges of his veins running along the shaft; while you pump him to his full hardness, Yunho restrains himself from making any sounds. A guttural grunt resounds in his chest regardless, sounding more animalistic than tamed. You peek up at him through your long lashes, lower lip caught between your teeth—picking up the pace of your hand, and feeling him stiffen in your palm.

Yunho pushes the butt of his cigarette back between his lips, his other hand staying on top of your head, fingers caressing your scalp with an unhurried motion. You know what he means, it’s firm, commanding in ways only you understand. Without making a sound, you let your jaw fall slack, lips parting and tongue darting out to lick up a tiny stripe along the tip. Gradually, you suckle on the bulbous head, lips wrapped around tightly, one hand still at the base of his cock, and other in your lap. Inch after inch, you swallow his length, forcing your lips to stretch and your throat to open up for him. He’s buried deep in your mouth now, your nose brushing along the raggedly trimmed pubic hair on his pelvis.

Tears well in the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill—the sting on your lips, the weight of his cock lingering on your tongue, and the sweet-salty taste of his precum lurking in every corner results in pleasure pooling between your thighs. You’re soaking already, feeling the wetness collect in your slit. You don’t make an effort to ease the strain, instead, you try to clench your thighs—this is about him, not you.

Yunho hums, “doing so good, dollie.” He threads his fingers through your hair and pulls your head slightly back, “you need to breathe too. Nice and easy.”

You raise your tongue to lick the underside of his shaft, hand drifting away to rest on his hip; your fingers press into his flesh, nails scratching at his skin. There’s almost a hint of your gag reflex kicking in—when the tip of his cock breaches the opening of your throat. You realise he’s pushing you down, nose smushed up against his pelvis again, the rough pubic hair scraping on your nose and cheeks.

“No sounds, love,” he pouts, taking a drag to puff a cloud of smoke, which curls in air before disappearing to nothing. “We don’t want your friends knowing you’re sucking off your boyfriend so good—don’t want them to know you’re servicing him like the good little slut you are.”

You groan, the mere vibrations clattering against his skin, pushing a button on his control; he’s not going to snap, he’s not going to fuck your mouth the way he does when he’s in a bad mood—he only wants to feel the warmth and slickness of your mouth, wants to come undone by feeling your throat choke on his cock. Which you start to when he pushes deep, burying himself in your mouth, keeping you in place with one hand in your hair, the other one simply pulling out the cigarette out from his lips.

A faint mist of smoke blooms out, fading to black and the hazy streaks of orange—sun sets in the background, painting your room a shade of red, it touches his face too, rays of gold falling on his features. He’s alluring, sight blurry from the tears, and throat beginning to convulse around his cock; regardless, he’s a magnificent sight to behold—dark hair falling over his eyes, only thing that glimmers in them is the hunger he has for you, and his lips pursed, trying his best to not make a sound. Though, a moment of silence later, he eases out of your mouth, cock slipping out easily from the spit and drool. Saliva strings connect your lips and the tip of his cock, some of his precum smears in your chin as he does, and it glints in the dying sunlight.

Yunho grunts, not missing your warmth anymore, “tongue out,” he commands, and you oblige, rolling your tongue out.

His gaze leaves yours for a second, eyeing the flaming tip on the cigarette still held between his fingers; he rolls his lips and blows on it, aiding it to cool down, just slightly. You sit up straighter, knowing what’s to come, hands in your lap, while his slips down to the nape of your neck. He pulls your closer to him and brings the cigarette down on your tongue; the tip sizzles out, flame dying out, before you taste the soot and ash from it. There’s no pain in that, maybe a hint of exhilaration at how humiliating it is to be his ashtray at times—again not something you hadn’t before—your entire body has been his ashtray, in one way or another. Stubbing it out, he flicks the cigarette away and it lands somewhere in the room; with his other hand on your neck, he pulls you up to stand in front of him. He leans down and pecks your lips, once, twice, then it turns to a brief kiss.

When he pulls back, he tightens his hand around your neck and chuckles softly, “do your friends have a habit of surprising you?”

Your breath hitches—you’re trying to regain your control over breathing, lungs having given out a moment before when he was buried so deep in your throat. For him to make a joke out of it now, that’s way more humiliating than being his personal ashtray. A violent cough slithers through your chest, body shuddering just in the slightest; you stare at him, dumbfounded.

“They do,” you reply, “I know they should’ve called before—“

“—I’m not mad about that,” he cuts you off, pressing another kiss to your lips, “hell, I’m not mad about anything. Not yet. I had a long day at work, love,” he confesses softly, eyes fluttering close for a minute before they’re back on you again, “just wanted to come home to my dollie, and have her suck me off on the couch while I downed a bottle of beer or something.”

You squeak, arms wrapping around his waist and pushing yourself into him; the hardness between his legs, presses up against your stomach, reminding you the task he’s expecting from you is still undone. Yunho’s arms slide around your waist too, resting peacefully.

“What happened at work?” you whisper.

He hums first, contemplating as if, then whines in that lower baritone you’re used to, “difficult parents. Judging me. Questioning me.” He huffs out a breath of ire, “got on my nerves. I’m trying my best here; I understand they’re only concerned about their child’s health, but that doesn’t give them a reason to lash out on me.”

You bring your hands to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “It’s not your fault, babe,” mumbling, you kiss his jaw and smile softly, “I know you’re trying your best. You always do. And I wouldn’t be too worried about the parents lashing out,” you pause, bringing one hand to the front to trace the scars on his toned abdomen with your fingers. It’s a habit of yours which he’s grown fond of, helps him relax under your touch.

“Wouldn’t you have done the same if you were put in their position?” you shake your head, reaching on your toes to kiss him gently, when you pull back, you continue, “you’re allowed to be angry, sad, tired,” taking a deep breath, you add, “and when you feel like that, you know I’m here to take care of you. So, let me take care of you, hmm?”

With your whisper droning in the air, you prepare yourself to sink to your knees again, only to have him held you up by your elbows, keeping you close to him instead. He shakes his head lightly, “don’t. I’ll just take a cold shower, it’s fine. You really don’t have to,” he kisses your forehead, “go talk to your friends, answer their questions—they might have a lot considering…”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, “it felt necessary to not let them know, Yunho. Guess I was trying to protect my feelings more than theirs.”

“And if they hadn’t had to know like this?” he brushes a few loosely falling strands of your hair, tucking them behind you ear with reverence, “but I suppose, we can talk about it over dinner, can’t we? Why don’t you get started on the prep, I’ll be right out. Or maybe, one of them will wander into the room, concerned how long you’ve been gone for.”

You match the fevered haze in his tone, forcing a laugh which borders on annoyance, “for what, for them to see my boyfriend standing with his dick out and crying his woes to his girlfriend?”

“No,” he states firmly, “partially true, but they’d probably be more fixated on you—smudged lipstick, hair disheveled—you know what I mean?”

You slap his chest, the sound resonates and makes you feel guilty; you rub his bare skin, before it reddens or stings in any way. Frail touches of your fingers press against the faded scars, however, still lingering in the way they reflect his past. “Asshole, do you have to be like this, really?”

Yunho hums, “like what?”

“Disregarding my concern for you. And not listening to what I’m saying.” You pout, complaining about his habit.

“Oh okay. My sweet little thing, go ahead. I’m listening. Scold me.” He smiles widely, thumbs pressing down on your cheekbones as his hands frame your face.

“I’m sorry work was hard,” you mumble, kissing the faint gash across his left pectoral—it glimmers, like a stripe of silver stitched between his skin—and your warm lips take away the pain hidden beneath it. “But you came back to me, here—in your home. And also, about those parents, don’t be troubled about them. They have much more to worry about than lashing out on you.”

Yunho hums again, resting his forehead on yours, hips flushing against yours; you feel his cock, now going soft by the second, drooping against your stomach. “Okay, my love. If you say so,” he leans in, capturing your lips a heated kiss, lasting longer than before—when he pulls back, his eyes glint with a sharp flash of hunger and love, “go prep for dinner, okay? I’ll be out in a jiffy. Don’t want your work friends thinking we’re at it while they’re just a few feet away from us. Though…”

You shake your head and slap his chest again, stepping back quickly. The immediate gesture catches him off guard but he laughs regardless, kissing you one last time before turning and sauntering into the adjoining bathroom. Standing by the balcony doors, eyeing the disappearing light to the dark of night, carries a certain sense of dread you’re not sure what it hints at yet. The sting grows on your tongue, right by the tip where he has just extinguish his cigarette—it brings a sense of belonging, a small inkling of hope—you love him, and this is how loving him feels like.

The living room is dwelling in whispered silence; Wooyoung and Soojin do talk between themselves, laughing when you walk in and raise a brow at them, questioning them already. Instead of receiving answers, they counter your curiosity with a question of their own.

“We weren’t expecting you to be done so soon,” Wooyoung licks his lips, leaning back on the couch and crossing his legs.

Soojin adds. “I mean, look at her, she’s already proving our point—she’s lovesick, oppa.” She turns to Wooyoung, “unnie finally found a match for her.”

Wooyoung’s brow twitches slightly, eyes meeting yours before steering to Soojin. “Hmm, and I’m happy for her.”

With all confidence, you could say Wooyoung was anything but happy for you. Rolling your eyes at him, you march over to the kitchen and begin with the dinner prep, exactly the way Yunho wants it to be.

“Relax you guys, I was helping him find his glasses,” you begin, “he wore contacts today, and somehow misplaced his glasses…”

Soojin sighs, “yeah, we believe you.”

“So, did he misplace his glasses down your throat or what?”

The gyoja-sang in the living room soon gets set up with bowls, glasses, a jar of water, and various banchan you had prepared before; an array of colours from the food, especially the japchae prepared by Yunho—green from the spinach, orange from the carrots, brown hues from shittake mushrooms, and the tantalising beef. Around the shallow bowl of japchae, were small ceramic dishes of banchan—just your typical ones, kimchi, namul, musaengchae and jangjorim. It took Yunho twenty minutes to shower and step out into the kitchen—dressed in loose grey sweatpants, a black tank top visible under the zippered hoodie, and his signature thick rimmed glasses framing his flushed face. He carried a waft of cedar and sandalwood behind him—the scent of his shower gel. You had prepped as much as you could have in those twenty minutes and when Yunho walked out, he immediately took over and pushed you to the living room. He didn’t want you to communicate your friends from the kitchen, it didn’t seem right—not when you had to multi-task and keep track of what you were going while dealing with their playful comments.

The next forty minutes, Yunho spends in the kitchen, cooking, humming softly to himself, while you were engaged in talking with your friends. Not that he didn’t chime in from time to time, Yunho would laugh or correct you, particularly the details of your dating life with him. When the food was ready, Soojin explicitly volunteered herself to help him set the table up—leaving you to share tidbits from work with Wooyoung. You noticed a few things—Soojin’s arm accidentally brushing with Yunho’s, or the way she would linger in the kitchen with him—though, you shrugged it off, not because you didn’t want to be impertinent and assuming, but because Yunho barely noticed it. He seemed oblivious.

Once the table was set, you sat next to Yunho, and the side adjoining to him was where Soojin sat, and Wooyoung took the side adjacent to yours, leaving one side vacant. Yunho served you, handing you your bowl with a serve of japchae, and extra slices of beef on top; everything on the table was perfect, the miyeokguk (seaweed stew), the varied banchans, and bottles of soju, all in the centre of the gyoja-sang. The aroma wafted in the air, garlic, toasted sesame seeds, and faint heat from gochujang—metal chopsticks clattered on the table when Yunho placed your friends’ bowls in front of them too, each having a similar sized serve of noodles in them.

Now, you sit next to him, sipping your stew as your boyfriend pours a glass of soju for Wooyoung—one hand supporting the elbow to show respect. Wooyoung slightly turns away from the table and gulps the drink in one sip, placing the glass back on the table. When you notice the bottle being empty, you quickly fetch another one and fill Yunho’s glass. He hums in satisfaction and you set the bottle down once his glass is almost full.

“So,” Yunho begins, gaze shifting between your two friends, “what do you two do?”

Soojin clears her throat, politely answering to him first. “HR executive,” she states, “just the boring stuff.”

“Is that how you talk in front of your boss?” you tease her, shaking your head.

Soojin only rolls her eyes at you and goes silent, stealing eventual glances at Yunho as Wooyoung speaks up, “I’m from the operations department. Logistics coordinator.”

“Yeah, he’s always in my office begging for more staff.” You remark, laughing softly, “there’s another guy—works right under me. He’s a new hire, that guy, very ambitious and smart.”

Yunho’s interest peaks slightly, turning to face you as he stuffs his mouth with the pickled radishes. You continue, “hmm, I had to hire him a few months ago, we needed a HR team lead. Couldn’t deal with the workload when the last guy resigned.”

Wooyoung adds, “you were too stressed back then, everyone could tell.”

“Unnie had so many health issues too, right?” Soojin chimes, eyeing you with concern before she shifts her gaze to Yunho, “but now she has someone to lean on, I feel better already.”

Yunho chews a little slower this time and swallows, asking you, while a muscle in his jaw twitches to the slightest, “you used to be stressed? When? How did I not know about it?”

You wave him off, picking up your chopsticks and digging into the bowl of glass noodles. “Don’t worry about it—the ship has sailed and I’m doing much better now.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t aware of it, and…” Yunho insists, taking a deep breath before letting his chopsticks drop on the table, “…and it’s natural for one to worry about their significant other. When was this anyway? When we started going out?”

You get flustered, heat licking up your neck and cheeks, eyes glazing with tears but none spilling. Wooyoung and Soojin are witnessing a tender moment between the two of you, and either way, you were too lost in the concern etched on Yunho’s face to even bother about them.

“Yeah, right around the start. We had just started going out and I didn’t want to scare you off with my problems.” You shrug, taking a bite of your noodles, savouring the taste of beef a little longer, “I’m sorry for not saying it out loud at that time, but it’s in the past now. Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me, doll,” Yunho mumbles, leaning over to kiss your temple, right in front of the two, “you’re not keeping anything else from me—never, not when it comes to your mental health or well being.”

Your breath catches in your throat, chest growing heavy, as his words fully settle in your heart. “Yeah, okay. I’ll—I’ll be open and honest about my feelings from now, happy?”

Yunho laughs, concern melting into a puddle of warm affection, “of course. I’m more than delighted. Anything to keep you from jumping into the deep end.”

Soojin clears her throat, getting your attention straining on her; she offers you a smile then turns to Yunho. “What do you do for a living, Yunho-ssi?”

“Oh, right,” Yunho sits straighter, picking up his chopsticks. “I’m a paediatrician—I own a clinic, right around the corner here.”

“So, it’s a private clinic?” Wooyoung questions then grins, “a clinic Apgujeong-dong? Damn hyung, that’s fancy. You must see all the rich kids with their designer strollers, huh?”

“I do,” Yunho shrugs, “you’d think the kids would be obnoxious—but it’s mostly the parents.” He heaves a deep sigh, and instinctively you reach out for his hand; wrapping your free one around his wrist, you try to ground him instead of letting him relive the tiring day. “You have to do what you can do,” he sounds defeated when he mumbles.

Soojin pipes in, “well, I think when you have long days at work, you can always turn to Seongmi, right?”

“Oh, I absolutely can. And I do,” he smiles wide, glancing at Soojin, “have you known Seongmi for a long time?”

The conversations flow right after—playful, teasing, informative and friendly. Soon, the table is cleared; Yunho helps you to clean and tidy the living room up, then proceeds to ease you out of your dishes duty too. Night falls darker and quieter—it’s almost midnight, Wooyoung and Soojin have picked themselves up from the floor, and all ready to leave; Yunho insisting on handing them some leftovers, which now they carry in their hands. Both of them stand by the front door, slipping into their shoes while you and Yunho are seeing them out. As they’re about to step out, Yunho calls out, making them halt and turn around, Wooyoung’s hand resting on the doorknob.

“What are you two doing on the weekend?” he asks, calmly, hands in his pockets. “Well, we’re hosting a small lunch party at my cabin, and I hope to see you there—heck, I was planning on inviting all of Seongmi’s team actually. Might as well, maybe.”

Wooyoung and Soojin’s eyes meet yours before they could reply; you signal at them with a subtle nod before leaning close to Yunho’s side. “Sure, why not. That’d be fun. I’ll send them the address.”

“There’s no need for that,” Yunho turns to you, “they’ll all receive a proper invite.”

Soojin smiles a little too hard and asks, “any special occasion?”

“Just a little four-month celebration with my doll,” he states, snaking one arm around your waist and pulling you closer to his side. “I’ve been keeping a count. She hasn’t.” He chuckles, “like I said it before too, she’s quite forgetful when it comes to the concept of time. Already unaware she’s been dating me for four months—”

“—I didn’t forget,” you whine, brows scrunching together while lips framing a pout, “I knew it,” you say it a little softer, “I wasn’t expecting you to make something so grand out of it.”

“Nothing’s too grand for you,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss your lips; it’s barely restrained, mouths lapping, tongues peeking out, you’re enjoying it a little too much.

Watching the two of you devour each other’s faces off, Wooyoung groans and deadpans, “we get it. You’re in love. Get a room.”

“They already have one, Woo.” Soojin mutters under her breath.

“So use it?” he whines again and it is annoying enough for you two to pull back; Wooyoung wears a taut expression of an irked man, “and you’ve been hiding about this relationship from us for four months? That’s one too many, don’t you think?”

Soojin simply shrugs, “I mean they’re still together,” she glares at Wooyoung, “what’s your point?”

Yunho clears his throat, deep voice rumbling in the enclosed vestibule before it bubbles to complete silence. “I think there might be a good reason why Seongmi didn’t want you two to know about her relationship. And it’s completely fine. Why don’t we let it go and look forward to the bright days ahead?”

You smile, resting your head on Yunho’s arm. Choosing Yunho was probably not the worst decision you ever made. Probably.

Wooyoung groans one last time before rolling his eyes, “see you tomorrow, noona.” Soojin follows after him, “good bye, unnie.”

The door clicks shut behind them, resonating softly until the sound of Yunho’s sharp breath breaks apart at the seams—with another breath, he turns to you, eyes gleaming, hair slightly sweaty and lips chapped—somewhat bleeding in the corner where he bit too hard to rid the dangling dead skin. He shifts you in his arms, pulling you flush against his chest while reaching out with one hand to brush your hair away from your face. Leaning in, his breath mingling with yours, he presses his lips on the tip of your nose, then to your cupid’s bow, and finally pushes them against yours. You give in the moment you feel his feather light touches, dainty grazes turning to heated licks and suckles.

You bring your arms around his waist, tight and secure, leaning into his warmth which drives you wild every second, the more it grows on your body, the more you lose your sanity. Seconds seem to blur and fade into moments of heat and darkness; the taste of soju on his tongue lingers, pushing into your mouth and claiming you in the way he knows how to do it. Your body goes limp in his arms, lips still stuck together, sucking, ravishing every last breath and ounce of sanity from you. He guides you to your room, pushing you inside with his hands cupping either sides of your waist; your dress creases under his touch, hem lifting up slightly before falling down with every step. For brief moment, he pulls back, putting an end to the kiss, staring at you as both your chest heaved and chased the feeling of air filling them.

Yunho’s hands slip from your waist and trace along your arms to intertwine them with yours. He rests his forehead on yours, breath warm on your lips, eyes intent upon yours; with a subtle pull, he brings your body closer to his, close enough than it already is or needs to be.

The heat of his breath tickles your ear before his voice murmurs, “I got you a little present,” he pulls back, stepping away just enough to grab the glittery bag from the bed. “Had it shipped to the cabin, Mingi’s hundred questions are better than the condescending looks my receptionist gives me when I have things delivered to the clinic.”

You stand a foot away from him, musing, almost a bewildered thought crossing your mind before ruptures out as a gasp. From the bag, a sleek black box comes out with a silver ribbon wrapped around it and knotted to a bow in front. He lets the bag drop, letting it crinkle on the floor and hands you the box, with a coaxing command, “open it.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, eyes fixed on the silver ribbon till it bursts to a shade of white from anticipation—you’re scared, terrified, and maybe a little excited. But given Yunho’s thrill for collecting eccentric items, you’re mostly afraid of knowing what’s beneath the lid. Regardless, braving the consequences, you pull at one of the ribbon and watch it unravel before it slips off. The lid loosens up and you lift it with your other hand. Another gasp stays trapped in the back of your throat, eyes meeting his only to find him staring back at you with an intense that teeters on the edge of elation and judgment.

“So…?” he trails off when your eyes drop back to the contents inside the box.

It’s a wand vibrator—sitting snug in between the velvet lining, matte purple, a little darker with a shade of midnight blue erupting from the bottom. You must’ve mentioned it to him in passing, purple was truly your favourite colour. And he had said it then, blue was his. Both colours blend perfectly together on the wand. The head is broad and smooth, silicone—with a gentle curve to promise pressure exactly where he would want it to be. A thin cord stays coiled next to it, and on the other side, is a similar shaded remote control, buttons glimmering under the faint lights of the room.

“You’re insane,” you mutter under your breath. “This…”

“It’s a gift,” he shrugs, picking up the wand in his hand, feeling its weight on his palm, “not that I ever needed to use a toy before, but this time, I thought it’d be fun. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

You guessed right. It was fun. Indeed. You absolutely have no clue how a simple moment of him presenting the gift to you, led to this—with him buried deep inside you while you squirmed and struggled to stay on his lap. Yes, it was a blur, you got a little dizzy considering how adept he is at making you lose track of time and your senses. Yet, here you were.

The muffled buzzes of the wand filled up the room; your whimpers start growing louder, tears streaming down your cheeks, eyes screwed shut as waves of pleasure wash over your body one after another. You’re sprawled in his lap, back to his chest, your knees drawn up and legs spread, feet planted on the mattress beneath on either side of his hips. You throw your head back, letting it fall on his shoulder, while he holds you in place with an arm around your waist. His other hand is occupied in adjusting the angle of the wand’s vibrating head against your clit.

It’s been driving you wild—wetness dripping down your inner thighs, coating your skin in a thin layer of sheen. Every twitch of his cock makes your walls flutter around him, reminding you he’s still buried in you. He didn’t make an effort to move, didn’t have to—your warmth was enough, and for you, the fullness paired with the vibrator was a cruel torment.

“Fuck—just like that—fuck yeah, keep squeezing me like that, doll,” he grunts in your ear, rocking his hips into yours, notching the tip of his cock deeper than it already is. “You’re going to come again, babe? Go on—fuck—go on, make a mess like you did before.”

The intense vibrations buzz and abuse your oversensitive clit—you lost the count, or maybe you did keep a track in the back of your mind. Was this your third orgasm? Or fourth? Maybe it was fifth? You couldn’t tell even if your life depended on it. The first one did hit you like a truck, walls spasming around his cock, sucking him deeper, while you moaned his name in his neck, tasting your own tears. Second one was much worse—dragging sensitive ache in the pit of your stomach, unravelling with an intense desire, which had you gushing over his cock and soaking the sheets beneath you. You were caught in a haze till the third one took over—a silent quivering of your walls, squelching just enough to have him spill in you for the first time in the night.

“Yunho…” you turn and nuzzle in the crook of his neck, seeking comfort from his scent as you shatter and mewl on his lap.

Fourth one. Almost too much for your body to handle. You shudder, cry, whimper and scream; your walls tighten around him, reminding you just how full you are with his cock and the warmth of his cum. You claw at the sheets, arms straining to grab a hold of them before your hands fist till your knuckles turn white. Yunho presses a kiss on the crown of your head, lingering, soothing. He pulls the wand off your clit, letting the aftershocks of your orgasm reach a subdued point. As your body trembles with the last bit of spasms, you pull back and peek up at him; tears cling to your eyelashes, lips parted to sound the soft whimpers caged in your chest, while your legs instinctively clench together tightly. A sharp sensation of pleasure strikes your spine—you’re still cradling him inside you, engulfed by your warmth and fleshy walls. You’re too full, folds stretched to their limits, your slick growing wetter and musky by the second.

“Four times,” he states, turning off the vibrator—the whirring and buzzing goes to complete silence, but you still feel it in your ears. “A good start, really. I know you can do more.” He kisses your forehead, dropping the wand on the nightstand to bring both his arms around your waist; you go lax, your body melting into his. “But I don’t want to break my pretty little doll.”

You hum and he questions. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired, and sore.” You press your lips against his jaw and stare at him—quite intensely to notice things you had never before or had seemingly forgotten about.

The slight blush on his cheeks, pink on the tip of his ears, eyes glazed with pleasure and lust, and the two distinct moles he has on his neck. Time is at a standstill when you admire him like this, when you see more than just a monster keeping you shackled in his claws—he’s someone your heart beats for, someone for whom you’d risk you life for (you have already) and it doesn’t make your life any easier than that. Noticing you zoned out, he rolls his hips into yours, the undeniable weight of his cock snapping you out of your trance.

You groan, “fuck…stop!” you whine softly before resting your hands on his, “I’m too sensitive.”

Yunho chuckles. “Fine, I’ll stop. But I don’t think I want to pull out.”

“You’re impossible to deal with.” You shift slightly, only to have his cock twitch inside you.

“Don’t,” he warns you, “I’m barely holding on.”

“So?” you pout, sliding off his glasses from his face and keeping them on the nightstand, next to the wand. “I can be a tease too.”

“Don’t you dare, Seongmi,” there’s no real heat behind his threat, “you’ll regret doing anything, I’m telling you.”

“Well, try me.”

Let’s say, you did regret it the next day.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“Do you need my help with that?”

You look up, eyes snapping in the direction of the sound—the deep, husky voice you had gotten too familiar with now. Mingi stands leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, freshly dyed hair disheveled, and dressed in his usual clothes. A simple plaid shirt is draped over his chest and broad shoulders, more buttons undone than done—it’s a little loose fitting, and droops down on the chest to reveal every sturdy muscle you had mapped out before. The shirt is paired with light washed jeans, loose too, a few rips over one knee and a little mangled at the hems; you had already heard the sound of his boots before he called out to you.

The morning at the cabin is hazy; clear skies, birds chirping, serene backyard with flowers and the forest, but the inside, a chaos of smoke, tinsels and unnecessary heat. Over the weekend, as planned before, you were going to host a four month anniversary special lunch at the cabin. And so, Yunho dragged you there a day before—something about preparations and food—and made sure the place was presentable to your work friends. All the preserved specimens had been locked away in a chest, hides of animals posed to be fake and the other grotesque decorations were hid away too. Yunho and Mingi took care of it, while you focused on curating a menu for the celebration. You decided to keep it simple, galbijjim and bulgogi with banchan and kimchi stew; soju and red wine to complement the meal, something Yunho insisted on having. The invites were precise and sent to your work friends only, unlike your entire team as Yunho had decided on. It took a lot of convincing.

You heave a sigh, dropping the knife against the cutting board and fully turn to him. “I haven’t done this before. At least not so perfectly.”

Mingi pushes off the doorframe, long strides eating up the space between you two, till he’s standing right behind you. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a sound, simply turns you to the counter by your shoulder, pressing his chest against your back. His arms trace along the length of yours, engulfing them as he holds your hands and puppets you to grab the knife. Which you do without any hesitation.

“Yeah, I know. Yunho needs everything perfect, down to the T.” Mingi mumbles against your ear, leaning down just a little to rest his chin on your shoulder. “He’s not going to use a scale to measure how thin your slices are. Uniformity keeps him satisfied.”

With his other hand, he makes you hold the slab of beef—a fine cut, fresh and tender; the knife glides in and out of the meat, under his guidance. You feel his warmth soak up your back, and in the centre, the cold from his chains presses on. It’s too intimate for guidance. Were you bothered, though? Maybe. Slightly. Mingi’s chest presses harder, he leans over your shoulder to get a better look at the slices you were making with his help.

“Like this?” you glance at him briefly, and he nods, “exactly like this.”

The big piece of meat is sliced into uniform ribbons and set aside in a bowl for later to be grilled on the griddle; when the knife clatters with the board, and the task at hand is done, Mingi doesn’t pull away like you expect him to. He stays, hugging you from behind, wrapping his arms around yours and forcing you to snake yours around your waist instead. You fit in his arms like a piece of puzzle, as if you were always meant to fit under his chin, in the space which is mostly cold and vacant. His scent overpowers the aromas in the kitchen—spices hiding beneath the tones of jasmine and sandalwood, a strong trace of cedar lining it. You take a deep breath in, chest shuddering, lips parting, whimper breaking past the barrier of your throat.

Mingi pulls you back closer, his chest flush against you. “What else needs to be done? I don’t mind staying around and helping you a bit. Before Yunho starts ordering me around again.”

Your breath hitches, the deep baritone of his voice rumbles with your back, causing every single word to crawl under your skin. “Not much, really. Beef is sliced. Vegetables chopped.” You shrug, watching the ingredients strewn across the counter for kimchi stew. “Oh, right. I still need to make the stew.”

“Then we make it together.”

You protest, “I don’t want to keep you trapped in here, Mingi. Maybe Yunho might need you for something. He worries if things don’t go his way.”

Mingi groans, pushing into your hips and you feel his bulge press against the cleft of your ass. Your breath hitches for the second time, making you lose your grip on the situation—you’re at the cabin, to celebrate your four month anniversary with Yunho—rather, you’re stuck with his best friend, blurring all the lines between you and him. Not that you didn’t mind blurring them on purpose, especially not after the night where he openly jerked off to you and Yunho. He’d seen every part of you—every inch of your skin littered by Yunho’s cigarette burns, cuts from his favourite knife, and bites.

The air in the kitchen thins out in meagre seconds; Mingi’s lips find the spot between your ear and neck, the sweet spot which benumbs your body and makes it go limp in anyone’s arms. In this case, it’s Mingi. Senses going into overdrive for a second, you lace your fingers with his and hold his hands tightly. You’re grounding yourself to him, anchoring to him before you start thinking of Yunho. Though, it’s too late. You are already thinking about him. Wishing it was him kissing your neck, holding you in his arms, while he gave you guidance on cooking the stew.

Heavy footsteps resound a minute after Mingi moves to trail kisses down your neck and the open neckline which exposes your shoulder. You’re too lost to break out of it, too engrossed in drowning yourself, that when the man you’re thinking about arrives in the kitchen, you let out a soft whimper. Mingi freezes at the sound you made, lips pausing on your skin, tongue peeking out to lick and suck your flesh in his mouth.

Yunho clears his throat, and your eyes snap wider, tracing along the counter to meet Yunho’s gaze. There he was, leaning against the doorframe, similar to Mingi from before, arms crossed over his chest, and amusement etched on every feature of his face. His glasses perch snug on the bridge of his nose—the frameless ones which make him look professional, sleek, and handsome—lips, chapped but carry a faint tint of red, from the gloss you had bought for him. He’s dressed modestly too—black shirt, black trousers, a black coat which now isn’t draped over his shoulders. The top two buttons on the shirt are unbuttoned, sleeves rolled till his elbow to reveal his forearms and the veins bulging on them, and his dark black hair is set neatly with gel, pushed back over his forehead on one side, but a few stubborn strands still fall over.

You catch his scent from the counter itself—his signature perfume, cedar and sandalwood, as if he carried the forest and smoke with him. It’s quite different from Mingi’s, but somehow manages to fool your sense most of the time. Mingi doesn’t budge from his place, if anything, his arms tighten around you, pulling back flush into his chest.

“What am I seeing here?” Yunho remarks, letting his arms fall to his side as he pushes off the doorframe. “Mingi keeping you warm, love?”

“I am,” Mingi states, sounding cocky, “she was shivering the moment she picked up the knife to slice the beef.”

“Is that so?” Yunho muses, stepping closer until he’s standing by your side, “well then I better leave that job to you, Mingi. Turns out my doll doesn’t crave me as much as she’s craving you now.”

“No,” you whine, squirming in Mingi’s arms to break free but he doesn’t let you. “I just…” shame takes over and you look away, swallowing your words before they could even come out.

Yunho grabs your chin, tilts your head to him and gently pushes his thumb against it, forcing your lower lip to roll out. “Speak. Don’t hide it from me. I’m not going to get mad.”

You take a deep breath, Mingi’s warmth and scent posing as a sensory comfort you never thought you’d need. “I feel good around him,” you blurt out, “not—not in that way,” Mingi laughs softly against your neck but you continue, “not in the way you think—really. I find him very pleasant to talk to. And I know, we hardly ever meet or have meaningful interactions.”

Yunho goes quiet, letting the silence drag on while Mingi’s lips tease your skin, teeth scraping to suck purple blotches across your neck. You are sure Yunho’s watching him, closely, but no muscle on his face twitches or contorts to express jealousy or displeasure. He’s scrutinising you, measuring what exactly your thoughts portray through your body language.

“You heard her, Yunho. She likes me.” Mingi finally pulls away, stepping back and turning to his best friend. “She says I’m pleasant to talk to.”

Yunho rolls his eyes, “of course. She hasn’t experienced the kind of headache you actually are.” His gaze falls to you, “pleasant should be a far cry from what I’ve gone through.”

Mingi laughs, boisterous, untamed, “and I love you too, fucker.”

Even though Mingi’s no longer pressing against your back, you feel his warmth linger, his scent lurk around you while the cold of his chains evokes a sense entrapment you’ve only ever faced with Yunho. To have Mingi love you in the way he’s capable of, that’s a sweet little indulgence you won’t deny yourself from. You’ve known Mingi for a little over two months—he’s arrogant, cocky, condescending, to the people who don’t faze him. But to the ones he loves? An angel. You understand the hyperbole of your judgement, however Mingi hasn’t given you a reason to despise him yet. And he probably would never. He didn’t give you any on the night when you thought your entire world was ending because Yunho got mad at you and stormed off. If you recall, that night, Mingi held you in his arms, just the way he did now, and chased all your worries away.

Maybe, in your steeper conscience, you started yearning for from that night itself—pining to be wrapped around him, to be touched by him. Your fantasies have run wild since then, being shared between the two of them—between two best friends, who’re fucked in the head, but who also cherish you without thinking twice. Thats definitely too indulgent of you, because there’s no way Yunho would allow you to be shared between them. Right?

Yunho sighs, taking one of your hands in his and bringing it up to his lips to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. “What do you really think about him, doll?”

You swallow hard, “he’s comforting…in a different way. But I honestly don’t want to create any misunderstandings about it.”

“He’s already overthought, overanalysed and over-estimated them, Seongmi,” Mingi speaks up, “but you heard her again, Yunho, clearly this time. I’m comforting.”

Yunho grunts, although it’s not threatening, just a playful sound intended for Mingi. “We’ll talk about this later. Go set up the table in the living room—I left the gyoja-sang in the basement. Fetch it, clean it, and set it.”

“Bossy as always ya, Yunho-ssi?” Mingi mocks, deliberately stressing on his words; he gives him a two finger salute before walking past him, shoulder brushing against his, purposely. “You two exhaust me, honestly.”

He grumbles under his breath as he leaves the kitchen, disappearing down the hallway till his receding footsteps murmur to a distant silence. Yunho’s arms find your waist, pulling you close, making a gasp erupt from your throat; you rest your hands on his chest, fingers deftly clutching his shirt before slipping to rest flatly. His thumbs draw circle on the small of your back, pressing the silky material of dress into your skin—a simple dress, really—grunge red silk flowing till your knees, sweetheart neckline, thin straps dangling on your shoulders. Even before Yunho made the choice, your heart had settled on that dress. So when he picked it out for you, you were happy.

You peek up at him, your stilettos giving out under your feet slightly when you reach up to kiss his jaw. “I promise, there’s nothing to me and him. I’ve chosen you, that’s my final word.”

“Like an ultimatum?” he grins, sighing, “Seongmi, I am not insinuating anything between you and him. And if I do recall correctly, last time—that night, we already pushed the boundaries ever existed amongst us before.”

“So, what do you mean to say?”

“If you’re thinking it’s wrong to hanker after another man beside me, then you’ve mistaken, love,” Yunho shrugs, kissing your cheek, “I won’t consider it a mistake as whole, not yet. Mingi is someone I share a close bond with. We’ve had a past, yeah,” he sighs, pecking your lips, “if there’s any part of you which craves us both, then maybe we can…consider we need an arrangement.”

“I’m not sure about it though,” you chime, bringing your hands up to cup his face, thumbs swiping down on his cheekbones. “It’s scary, yeah. Handing a piece of me to another man—it’s twice as many I’ve fallen for,” you cough out a laugh which does force a snicker from Yunho, “I need time to think, establish myself.”

“And that’s all that counts,” Yunho says, “nothing matters to me than your well-being, so as long as you don’t make a decision we’ll keep this on the sidelines, yeah?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” He rests his forehead on yours, wrapping one hand around yours and bringing it to his lips to kiss the back of it.

“Shall we focus on lunch preparations then?”

A little after noon, when the teasing sun of humid monsoon blazed overhead, when the birds got tired of singing their euphonies, and when the heat sizzled on the grass in the backyard, the doorbell went off. You greeted your friends at the door—Wooyoung and Soojin had already made their way inside, but San and Jia stayed back until you ushered them in properly. Yunho was by your side then, welcoming the guests. All of them were sharply dressed for the occasion.

Wooyoung wore a grey button down and slacks, hair neatly combed, light makeup to hide spots and blemishes, and his favourite perfume, roses and citrus.

You could tell San didn’t put much effort, yet he clearly knew what he was doing; a deep blue shirt, almost bordering on grey, black slacks and a glimmering Rolex on his wrist. His outfit demarcated his physique well, let his personality shine too—his short made him seem younger than he actually is.

Jia, one of the juniors in your team, wore a simple green sundress with floral pattern; overall, a cute approach to make her look presentable.

In the end, you evaluated Soojin’s outfit—she had gone out of her way to wear a revealing dress with a plunging neckline and hem hitting her mid thighs. She did wear stockings under it, matching the black of the dress; elaborate makeup, sparkly eyeshadow, bright red lip, perfect contour, while her hair, loose curls falling on her shoulders.

Wooyoung and Soojin handed you a paper bag, it felt heavy in your hands and when you peeked inside, you found two matching luxury scented candles. San sneaked an envelope in your hand, and Jia apologised for not preparing a gift last minute—not that you really cared about the gifts. You were mostly worried about Yunho’s behaviour, what if he were to act out? That dread never eased off of your mind, always persistent and stubborn, racing tremors down your spine.

Mingi appeared a few minutes later, judging, evaluating your friends from a corner before approaching them and introducing himself. Smart man, he left most of the details about himself out of the conversation—one which sparked between him and San. Though, you could tell he was more interested in Jia—attempting to make her laugh, flirt with her, boast about his hunts and expeditions he’s led over years. San dwelled in silence on the couch, solitary, aching in solitude.

Wooyoung and Soojin cornered you right away, bombarding you with questions which sounded more bizarre one after another. You stand on the backyard deck, leaning over the wooden rail with a glass of cola in your hand; sun scorches on your skin, eyes squinting as you spanned the backyard—green, lush, overcrowded with tall trees and a lone shed standing in between. Wooyoung stands next to you, back against the railing, nursing a glass of whiskey Yunho fixed for him and Soojin stands on your other side, feeling the breeze in her hair.

“I didn’t get to ask you that day,” Wooyoung whispers, glancing both ways before he continues, staring at you, “are you really happy with this man?”

Soojin smacks the back of his head, earning a yelp from him. “Of course she is, idiot. There’s no way she’d have spent four months with a douchebag otherwise.”

You take a sip of your drink, soda wasn’t the only thing which bubbled in your chest—dread followed soon after, melting to a soft chuckle in his face. “Soojin is right.”

“I know I am,” she gushes, “Yunho-ssi is so handsome, deviously handsome. Well mannered too. But I’d like to focus on his appearance a little more—yeah sure, he’s a gentleman.” She looks at you, bouncing her brows with an intent you’re aware of, “is he good in bed? Does he—does he make you see stars? What’s the consensus down there, you know, if you catch my drift?”

You roll your eyes and Wooyoung groans. “Is sex all you think of, Soojin? I swear to god, you’re a nymphomaniac. Get it diagnosed or something.”

“It’s not a disease, asshole.” Soojin bickers, shaking her head, “and I’m not asking the details about your love life—which by the way, is as nonexistent as your personality.”

“Excuse me?” Wooyoung finishes his glass of whiskey before setting it on the railing, “you’re playing with fire, Soojin-ah.”

“So, I’m not afraid of getting burnt.”

“Even when the fire burns you down to ashes?”

“I’ll rise from them and burn you instead.”

Their childish altercation snaps your patience. “Guys!” you scream, “stop it. Look at the view in front of you—now think if you deserve to argue surrounded by this beauty.”

Both of them pipe down, but Soojin huffs and storms back inside, the doors sliding open and close with a subtle swish. You could see the living room through the glass doors framed with mahogany panelling; Soojin disappears somewhere inside, concern starting to creep in your gut. However, Wooyoung gets your attention on him with a fragile sounding mumble.

“Heard about the missing case from your apartment complex,” he grabs his empty glass from the railing to run his thumb along the rim, “it’s unfortunate they haven’t found her yet. Are you okay?”

“Why won’t I be?” you retort, turning around to have your back against the railing. “I’m fine. It’s been weeks anyway, I don’t think they’ll find her.”

Wooyoung raises a brow, “any reasoning why you’d say that?”

“Because, for starters, weeks have gone by. The authorities haven’t even found her body yet, which should become the main point of concern when one’s been missing for a long duration.” You state, watching the bubbles in your soda evaporate and cling to the walls of your glass, “no body, no leads, no evidence, no suspects, whatsoever. I have no hope they’d find her.”

Wooyoung bewilderment grows fanatical with every word you utter; it comes to a point where he grins and laughs, “you talk as if you know something about her. Something many don’t or might be too afraid to admit the truth only your heart knows.”

Sweat breaks out on your forehead, throat drying out due to the fresh dread licking up your spine. You roll your shoulders out, trying to composing, maybe getting even an ounce of your fidgety muscles to relax under the strain and pressure of reality. You take a sip of your soda, fizzing on your tongue before the sweetness drenches through, flooding your blood with flight-or-fight hormone. The sunlight sears hotter on your skin, cicadas chirp in the throes of lush green and yellow, and in your vision line, you catch Mingi’s gaze on you, intent on keeping you from blurting the truth out. He shakes his head, a delicate movement you’d have fail to catch if it weren’t for his eyes.

You turn to Wooyoung, “guess you could say that. I’ve made two trips to the precinct already. Wouldn’t be amused to find a third one waiting for me.”

“What, are you a suspect or a witness?” he retaliates, a certain lilt to his voice.

“Only time would tell.”

Wooyoung looks away briefly, lips stretched to a grin and eyes trained on a distant tree in the backyard. “I hope you don’t do anything stupid, noona. Nothing that would taint the family name.”

You draw in a sharp breath, remembrances drifting through your head when he mentions your family. There’s a bitter snark ready on the tip of your tongue, however you swallow it down when San steps out into the open. Basking in the sun, he comes to stand next to you, shoulders slouched, curling over the railing as he joins your conversation. You catch a glimpse of cherry glaze on his cheeks and a twitch of his lips that didn’t hide much.

“What are you two talking about?”

Wooyoung mumbles, “nothing really. What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I be here?” San glances at you, eyes narrowed, “do you have a problem with me being here, Seongmi-ssi?”

You shake your head. “No, not at all.” Parched, not from the heat, but from the tension lurking in the air, you guzzle the remaining bits of your soda and wince at the way it fuzzed in the back of your throat.

“Lovely place,” San pipes in, clenching and unclenching his hand to a fist, “belongs to your boyfriend?”

“In a way, yeah,” you mutter under your breath, setting your empty glass on the railing and turning to him, “something about inheritance he doesn’t elaborate. I think it’s a gift from his late mother.”

“Is that so?” Wooyoung chirps, twisting and turning the glass in his hand, watching the sun rays pass through it and glint.

You hum, “he’s never talked about his mother before and I don’t like bringing it up,” the weight in your chest tightens, “he’s quite sensitive about it. Closes himself off and goes on for days without talking to me.”

“Some men do prefer hiding their emotions,” San explains, “though, it may pile up over time and lash out in ways you don’t expect them to. It’s our very first encounter, but I think he’s a nice guy. Compared to quite others in the dating scene right now,” a smile curls on his face and his dimples pop up, “you do not want to be trapped in a loveless, or an abusive relationship, Seongmi-ssi.”

“Ya, San-ah,” Wooyoung calls out, “getting inside her head when she’s four months knees deep with that sucker,” he laughs, and you glare at him, “what? If I’m being honest, noona, I don’t like this guy for you. He’s not the best fit.”

San sighs. You both know you’re thinking of countering him with a smart reply, though another voice booms over your thoughts. A deep, gravelly, husky—Mingi steps out too, footsteps heavy on the creaking floorboards of the deck, a bottle of beer in his hand. He’s all by himself, so sign of Jia lurking behind him as you’d have expected from her.

“Trust me, my friend dotes on her more than you guys know,” he states, taking a swig from his bottle; swallowing, he wipes his mouth with the back of other hand, “I wouldn’t use this term as lightly as I am about to do now, but Yunho loves her. He’d burn this city to keep her warm.”

Wooyoung scoffs, “ah really? That’s nice to know.” He pauses, eyes glinting sharp with a tinge of arrogance and egoistic rage, “oh, but I hope doesn’t come down to him setting her on fire to keep him warm.”

“Wooyoung,” you warn him, prepared to hear him lash out, holding your breath. Technically, he wasn’t wrong. What if it really did come down to that? Before you could reprimand him for his behaviour, Wooyoung turns around on his heels and storms off, stepping down the deck and marching into the thicket of trees.

“Wooyoung!” you call out after him, taken back—your mind has already made the decision for you, forcing your legs to move, to run after him.

And you do, turning a deaf ear to Mingi’s and San’s protests to stop you. The gravel beneath your feet crunches till it softens to the plushness of grass and soil—trees stand tall, closer, much denser than the backyard clearing. You’re following the sound of his footsteps, and the trail of his scent lingering in the air; you’ve got your eyes on him, grey blob almost becoming one with the green in the surrounding. You hope to catch up to him as fast as you can. Either way, isn’t he being too sensitive about this?

“Wooyoung!” Yunho’s head snaps up at the sound of your voice calling out a name that’s not his.

Through the window in the kitchen, which overlooks a side of the backyard, he finds you going after Wooyoung. He’s not aware of the situation, he’s not sure what’s happening, but he knows he doesn’t like you seeing run after a man who’s particularly him. Heaving a breath of frustration and envy, Yunho puts the lid back on the cast-iron pot set on the stove. The braising sauce, shade deeper than that of mahogany and brown, swirls around the short ribs, potatoes, carrots and chestnuts. He had reduced it patiently until it turned thick and glossy, coating every piece with perfection.

The stove turns off, wooden chopsticks set aside on the counter, and the lid secured over the pot; Yunho steps back with a clinical ease, mind heavy with your thoughts, but not fumbling yet. There’s a certain calmness to him, to his body language when he moves out of the kitchen and into the hallway stretching to the living room, and is only a few steps away from the sliding doors leading to the backyard, when Soojin steps in front of him. She blocks his way, smiling wide, giggling, eyes darkened with lust and desire. Not that Yunho was never aware of Soojin’s libido for him, he only pretended to stay oblivious so that she would get the hint and leave him alone. He doesn’t find her attractive. He doesn’t find her comforting. Whenever she’s around—which she has been, whether it was at Seongmi’s apartment that day, or the unprecedented arrivals at his clinic—Yunho doesn’t seem to be himself.

His guard comes up the minute Soojin’s hands rest on his chest; his skin crawls with disgust, eyes fixated on the fresh coat of polish she has on her nails, and in the back of his mind, his subconscious screams at him to push this woman away.

“Where are you headed off to, Yunnie-oppa?” her high pitched voice strikes too loud to him, she pouts and continues regardless, trying to act cute, “to your damsel in distress? You really love her, huh?”

Yunho takes a step back, wrapping his hands around her wrists to pull her off of him, floorboards beneath him giving a low creak to his weight. But as he does, Soojin takes a step closer, and the back and forth continues till Yunho’s back presses against the wall. They’re in the hallway, hidden from Mingi’s and San’s vision—cloaked in the darkness, only a streak of light passed through from the kitchen itself. The cabin is old, a masterpiece of Korean craftsmanship and architecture, his mom once used to admire a little too much.

He knows the cabin’s layout like the back of his hand; the vestibule at the entrance, which opened into the living room, then two hallways branched out for one to end up to the rooms on the ground floor, while the other led to the kitchen. The hallway he was trapped in, was the latter one—narrow with wooden panelling and rustic paintings hung on the walls. Soojin’s body pushes flush against his, her chest on his, her arms struggling to move around freely with the way he was trying to hold them down.

Yunho sighs, “Soojin, did you drink one too many beers?” he pushes her hands to her side, keeping her locked in one place, “oh you sweet thing, you have no idea what you’re doing, are you?”

Soojin laughs. “I know what I’m doing.”

“And what would that be, love?” Yunho lets his words flow out smooth and sweet, ulterior motives already picking up at his nerves.

“Stealing you away from a woman who doesn’t deserve you,” she slurs her words, stench of alcohol now evident on her breath; she giggles, throwing her head back, small body shuddering against his chest. “Do you really think she deserves to have a man like you date her? She’s so—she’s so meh in bed.”

A muscle in Yunho’s jaw ticks, restraint thinning out every second; the more Soojin pushed up against him, the more his skin crawled, revulsion and anger brewing in his heart. His grip on her wrist tightens just enough, fingers digging into her flesh to feel the bone siting under it. The darkness in his mind takes control of him, overwhelming his senses with danger and fear. He knows how to retaliate, how to save himself from such situations.

Yunho grins. “Is that so?” he tilts his head, “do you think you’re better than her, Soojin-ah? Want to show me how much better you are than her?”

Watching the pout on Yunho’s face, Soojin gives in. An attempt to give her a false sense of warmth and affection. He knows she won’t resist him, after all, he can put his charms to their benefit.

Soojin nods and Yunho’s grin widens. “Then follow me.”

The bedroom is a quiet trap of pastel blue and white; the floor is classic ondol, in the centre is a low-lying bed with an elaborate headboard and draped in silky blue sheets. Anyone walking in through the door might think of it as a harmless little room, made for the lovey dovey couple. However, the unseeming aesthetic does fool everyone who sets their foot in here. A space enclosed by four walls, one window to the side of the bed, curtains always draped—you would think it’s a real window—maybe it’s been put there to give his trapped victims a hope at survival and freedom.

Soojin was out of her mind, preening with excitement, giggling and hiccuping as she only watched him. Yunho stands by the foot of the bed, watching her, noticing every twitch and tweak of her limbs with ecstasy and desire. One after another, he unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall off his shoulders; the shirt hits the floor with a soft crinkle, and he lets it stay there. From one of the pockets of his trousers, he pulls out his two most favourite things (right after you, of course), cigarette pack and his silver encased lighter. He lights one up between his lips, flicking the lighter away on the nightstand once the flame catches on, right by the lamp placed on it.

Fumes burn, smoke curling in air, suffocating Soojin, and easing the tightness in Yunho’s chest—the nicotine takes the edge off, and it’s something he’s grown fond of. In the deserting silence, only Soojin’s whimpers resonate, with Yunho’s brief drags of breath. It’s too quiet, the usual serene before the hunter makes his move—or when a predator locks onto a prey.

“Scared, Soojin-ah?”

She shakes her head, keeping her eyes on him. He adds, blowing a smoke through his lips, “such a brave soul, yeah? Walked into the lion’s den.”

Her brows crease in the centre of her forehead, vision blurring with confusion. “What…?”

The door to the room clicks open, making her thoughts trail off, and closes right after someone steps in. Mingi approaches the bed and stands next to Yunho; to Soojin, Mingi is a stranger—tall, broad, towering with a similar silhouette as that of Yunho. Her eyes widen slightly, body shivering and spine tingling only a little to have them smell fear on her.

Soojin coughs briefly, still lacing her words both lilt as she groans, “what there’s two of you?”

Yunho crawls onto the bed, slowly, holding Soojin’s gaze while creeping closer to her on all fours. Soojin, suddenly feeling the tension and unease, sobers up a little—eyes blowing wide, lips trembling, body shuddering to the uneasiness of Yunho’s eyes on her. She holds her up on the mattress using her elbows, supporting her weight and head up; Yunho smirks harder, trapping her beneath him with his arms on either side of her face, one knee between her legs and his darkened gaze pinning her down to the bed.

“He’s just here to watch, love,” he mumbles, using one hand to pinch the cigarette from his lips. He holds it out to Mingi, who without wasting a single minute, grabs it out of Yunho’s hand and puts it between his own lips. “Even he needs to see how much better you really are from Seongmi.”

Soojin gets flustered, heat rushing to her cheeks, crawling up her neck; she wraps her arms around Yunho’s neck and pulls him close, using his weight to support herself upright. Her lips hover over his, but before she could lean in to kiss, Yunho presses a finger against them, pushing her back.

“Uh-huh,” Yunho tuts, making her pout like a child. “No kisses, okay? You want to touch me? You want to show me how much of a slut you are for me, you need to do it without kissing. Hmm?”

Soojin nods, sliding her arms down his neck, palming every inch of his skin and feeling the dents of faded scars along the way. A gasp gets caught in the back of her throat, fingers deftly pressing onto the nasty gash he has on his abdomen. Yunho doesn’t let anyone touch them—no one but you. When Soojin’s unkindly warmth drifted on and over his scars, he bit back on a growl. Mingi senses it, noticing the strain in Yunho’s shoulders, how the muscles flex around his shoulder blades before they relax. Mingi is only supposed to watch, meddle when things get too hard. He doesn’t find any captivating aspects to his best friend wrapped around a woman who’s not his.

Yunho lets a laugh burst from his chest when Soojin’s hands fumble with the belt on around his waist. “Having a hard time?”

Soojin nods, dropping her hands to her sides. Yunho takes it as a sign, sitting himself upright and straddling her waist instead. The shift is subtle, power dynamics still stay the same. His legs bracket around her waist, her dress lifting up a few inches off her mid thighs, exposing her lace panties to Mingi—who only grunts in disinterest and takes a drag of his (Yunho’s) cigarette.

Soojin’s body is pinned against the mattress by one of Yunho’s arms on her shoulders, while the other manages to lift her dress all the way to her waist, rucking it up roughly. Rolling his hips once, then twice against hers, he lets her feel his bulge—showing no signs of turning stiff. Yunho leans down to whisper by her ear, tone cruel, voice very different from what he uses for you.

“Feel it? Nothing,” he sighs, “you really thought you could replace my doll?”

“You thought wrong, darling.”

It was wrinkle in time which forced Soojin to not comprehend the situation right away. Yunho’s hands wrapped around her neck, fingers twining around her throat as tight as they could, and he starts pressing hard against her windpipe. She grabs his wrists, nails digging, clawing at his flesh when the perception clears out—she tries to squirm, kicking her feet to slip free from under him. It’s pointless. Yunho’s strength is no joke, and his weight actually keeps her trapped beneath him, no matter what she does, how much of her energy she uses.

Soojin’s eyes start tearing up, chest burning and heaving, craving a hit of air—in her blurry vision, which unfolds at the edges, she watches Mingi smoke, unbothered and lax. A helpless cry breaks out from her chest, loud, carrying undertones of panic and indignation—growing louder with each breath lost, and each time she felt her eyes snap close. She was on the verge of losing it all, black spots in her the back of her eyelids, lips parted, drawing in as much air as she could while her body goes completely still.

“That’s it, almost—we’re almost there, Soojin-ah,” Yunho groans, leaning closer to her, watching her slip away into her state of unconsciousness. “I didn’t want to do this,” he whispers, tears welling in the corner of his eyes—lips stretching wide to accommodate a smile, jovial and genuine. “But you deserved it—deserved it for being so incredibly stupid. For thinking you could do everything as you pleased, or as your heart desired. Do you not understand the concept of consent?”

Mingi pulls out the cigarette from his lips, letting it dangle between his ringed fingers instead; the smoke curls, raising and percolating in the room while it clears out bit by bit. Soojin still has some fight left in her it seems, her body thrashes one last time before her hands from Yunho, leaving behind blood crescents to bleed from his broken skin. Yunho feels it, her soul disintegrating into a subtle push of weight against his hands; he doesn’t stop yet, the resent from childhood comes rushing in, reeling him back to the time when he was the most vulnerable.

An ugly sob breaks out, tears streaming profusely down his cheeks. His chest shudders, broken wails resounding soon as he squeezes the life out of Soojin’s throat. The realisation hasn’t hit him yet, that the woman under him no longer perceives the way of life as he does. He is long gone. Drowning in his tragic past, ache doubling down in his stomach before his mind gives up. This isn’t him anymore. Mingi knows it, he’s witnessed it a few time before.

“Yunho, stop,” Mingi’s words are as good as unheard, because it only fuels Yunho to press his entire body weight on Soojin’s neck.

One beat. Then two.

And Mingi hears it. The sound of her bones cracking, echoing distantly in the room before silence—Yunho’s grunts and groans stay merely audible. Maybe the way her neck bent to his will, snapped him out of it, or it was the sound. Yunho untangles his hand from Soojin’s neck, trembling, shaking; he climbs off the bed, mind barely supporting his body before he falls into Mingi’s arms. His friend catches him, without any preamble, as if he knew he would cling onto him afterwards. Yunho did exactly that, hugging him tightly, pulling him flush to his chest while burying his face in the crook of his neck; Mingi’s familiar scent lacerates the dainty string holding his conscience together.

“It’s okay,” Mingi coos, rubbing Yunho’s back with one hand, other one was still occupied with the cigarette. “It’s all done now, Yunho.“

Yunho sniffles in his neck, hands clawing at his clothed back—he’s afraid if he loosens himself up even a little in his embrace, he might lose Mingi for an eternity. “She…she…” he hiccups, wetness from his tears sliding across Mingi’s skin, “she’s gone—she’s gone, Mingi. Right?”

“Of course she is,” Mingi reassures, flicking the cigarette down on the floor before stubbing it out with his foot, swallowing the faint sting he felt on his heel through the sole of house slippers. “No one’s going to touch you without your permission, ever again, okay? Now be a good boy and come back to me—I’m good too, remember?”

Gentle coaxing from Mingi, finally naps Yunho’s subconscious out of the shackled trauma from his past. He pulls back, gently, deliberately, looking at Mingi in his eyes. His breath catches on, body still trembling against Mingi’s; his friend’s face is contorted with concern, worry lines evident across his forehead. He doesn’t like to worry anyone over him. Especially not the man he’s almost spent his entire life with. Mingi presses a soft kiss against Yunho’s temple, grounding him back to the reality.

“You’re back to me?”

Yunho nods, untangling his arms from Mingi’s waist and stepping away to create a comfortable distance between them. He wipes the remnants of tears off his cheeks with the back of his hands. Mingi rolls his shoulder out and heaves a breath, “what’s my favourite colour?”

“Grey,” Yunho mumbles, going to pick up his shirt from the floor and draping it on; he glances at Mingi, who’s giving him one of the flattest looks ever, forcing a laugh from him. “Sorry, it’s cement colour.”

Mingi’s lips stretch to their limit on his cheeks, eyes sparkling and creasing in the corner before disappearing. “There he is.”

Yunho takes a deep breath, buttons up the shirt, rolls the sleeves to his elbows and then composes himself properly; back straightens out, neck turning to the sides, and lips pursed, focusing on Mingi.

“Where’s Seongmi?”

Mingi answers, “went after that guy—what’s his name?—oh, Wonyoung I think?”

“Wooyoung?” Yunho corrects him, pacing the room to the corner, opening one of the cabinets to grab a bottle of hand sanitiser. “What really happened between them?” he douses a good amount on the palm of his hand and rubs them together, the fluid cooling before evaporating in mere seconds.

“Confrontation, altercation—the fuck I know,” Mingi runs a hand through his hair, pushing the strands back as annoyance drips in his voice, “probably him prompting her to leave you. I’m getting very home-wrecker vibes from him.”

Yunho scoffs, “so, he’s trying to break us apart?”

“Well, deal with one problem at a time,” Mingi groans, eyeing the body on bed, “want me to deal with this?”

“What about the others?” Yunho asks, grabbing his lighter from the nightstand and pulling out his pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“I sent San after Seongmi before coming here,” Mingi replies, grunting softly as he hauls Soojin’s lifeless body over his shoulder—another bone snaps somewhere in her neck before head lolls as if it’s without any support. “You really mangled her neck.”

Yunho, who has a lit cigarette between his lips, raises a brow and offers him a simple shrug of his shoulders. Mingi only stares at him for a minute, taking in the sight of his disheveled hair, trembling fingers which curl around the cigarette butt, and chapped lips appearing beneath the waft of smoke; Yunho is devious, sinister, devil in flesh—lucifer on earth, just a few names he recalls from their college days. There’s something alluring about him, Mingi always loses himself in the admiration for it. He can never place a finger on it, can never figure out why the man, standing in front of him, smoking a cigarette after snapping someone’s neck off, is so attractive to him.

Cheeks flushed, Mingi looks away, clearing his throat. But Yunho speaks up before him, “I lost control, you know it too.”

“And no judgments there. Just saying, asphyxiation could’ve been the primary cause of death—simple and unsuspecting.” Mingi states, walking towards the door, free hand reaching out for the doorknob, “what to do you really want me to do with her?”

Yunho takes a drag of his cigarette, deep fumes curling in his lungs as his chest rises and falls.

“Basement.”

Mingi has played this game before—being at his beck and call for every need, for every phone call which started with ‘I did something bad’ but the ‘it felt so good’ was always silent. He knows the tango by now—Yunho hunts, he hides, or repurposes the kill into something useful. When the door to the room creaks open, Mingi slips out silently, a breath of fresh air corroding his lungs—having watched the man he adores, make a fresh kill, flipped the switch in him. Off to the basement he goes, to play with the toy offered by his favourite hunter.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“Wooyoung, come on, please, listen to me,” you try catching a hold of his wrist, but the sleeves of his shirt slip from your touch, “Wooyoung…”

Lethargy and exhaustion coaxes you to halt in the middle of the forest, feet dragging along the grassy terrain; sun combusting with heat overhead, birds chirping, cicadas singing, and the lush envelope of trees, you were tired of chasing him. Wooyoung, noticing your absence, turns around and watches you from the distance. Sun rays break through the canopy of twigs and branches, sending beams of light to scatter on the ground; one of which catches onto Wooyoung’s face, golden streaks caress his skin, eyes getting mistaken for pools of honey.

His lips twitch, before he runs a hand through his hair, groaning, “what do you want from me, Seongmi?”

Not noona.

Not Seongmi-ssi.

You swallow the lump in your throat, taking a step closer to him. “For you to stop throwing fits when things don’t go your away.”

Wooyoung scoffs, with barely contained amusement. “Is this about you dating?”

You don’t make a sound. “So, it is,” he adds after taking your silence as the answer, “fine, I am not too fond of that guy. He’s not the right fit for you, he’s not the one I think is enough to keep you happy…!” he points a finger in the direction of the cabin behind you. “What do you see in him?”

“Wooyoung, don’t do this, not here.”

“And why not?” he murmurs, “well I did swallow whatever pride I had left with a shot of vodka before coming here. I deserve to know the truth, don’t I? At least a closure…”

“A closure for what?”

“For that night, Seongmi,” Wooyoung snaps, chest heaving in trapped rage and unresolved emotions, “for that one night when I let my guard down in front of you and it ended up being one of the best nights I ever had—not because of some stupid dare. Because it was you.” He pauses, biting his lower lip, staring at you intensely, chest resisting the arrhythmic bursts of his rage. “The next day I woke up thinking things might change between us. For the better, maybe.” A beat later, he starts laughing—nothing to do with humour, “but the day I had dreamt of ahead, was snatched away from me with your spiteful words, noona.”

You take a deep breath, chest knotting at the reminiscences from the day it all went crashing down between you two. “What was I supposed to do then, Wooyoung? I—I thought I was making the right decision. Our sentiments weren’t valid, at least mine weren’t. It happened for one night, and that was it. I never had the need to picture us long-term. We don’t fit. We’re at two opposite points of a spectrum—same poles of a magnet, if you will. We weren’t meant to be.”

“And yet, you played me. A rebound. That’s all I ever was, wasn’t I? Helping you get over that man. Don’t you still miss him? So—so, is Yunho just another rebound too?”

Wooyoung shifts his weight, standing straighter, his confidence shaken and his body language strikingly giving up.

Rage boils over in your chest, but your mind stays free of its corruption; there’s truth to Wooyoung’s words, a particular ache which comes and goes, in drowning waves. You have to own up to your mistakes, to the things you’ve done in your past—your heart already admits it, having played Wooyoung to forget the man you once loved too deeply, as deep as the oceans.

“You knew it, Woo. Yet, you…”

A twig snaps under a foot, deftly echoing in the distance before San joins the two of you; he’s out of breath, chest rising and falling, mouth open agape. He looks between the two of you, catching his breath.

“Finally found you,” he cheers in victory, groaning when the exhaustion wins over, “that tall friend—tall friend of yours, didn’t—didn’t warn me of the maze this jungle is.”

“You came to take us back?” you ask, assessing him silently—sweat beading on his forehead, dark hair sticking to it, and lips trembling.

“Yes, I couldn’t leave my manager-nim out in the woods, all by herself,” San states, rising up; his eyes voice between the two of you again, “did I interrupt something?”

Wooyoung sticks his tongue out at him and storms towards him, immediately pulling him to his side with his arm draping around San’s neck. “Asshole, couldn’t you have come a second sooner?”

“Why?” San whines, eyeing you.

“No reason,” you blurt out. “He likes to be dramatic, you know it too.”

Wooyoung pushes San to the side, grumbling, “I’m out of here. I think I heard a bear’s growl somewhere.”

San squeaks before anything else; terrified and frightened, he tip toes to Wooyoung in a haste, who’s already a few steps ahead, his back to you. “Hey, wait up, Woo!”

You just scoff and follow the two ; through the sprawl of foliage, and snapping twigs under your feet, you make your way back to the cabin. Wooyoung marches inside through the sliding doors, San a step behind him, trying to get a hold of him. You, on the other hand, felt a nerve touch your dreading heart. The cabin is quiet, awfully quiet—you don’t see Jia, or Soojin in your sight, they probably left while you were busy chasing Wooyoung. Did they really leave? Why would they leave? Why was your mind fixated on things which didn’t matter much in this particular instance?

The standstill between you and Wooyoung, dwells in silence and awkward tension; he’s crossed the living room, San closely in his pursuit, while you, dumbfounded, watch him slip into his shoes. The house slippers, spoiled and stained with dried foliage and dirt, scatter next to him.

“Where are you going?”

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything. San looks between you and him, eventually giving in and slipping out of his house slippers too (spoiled as well). You stand by the vestibule, watching them, their faces weighing down on your chest; you feel a knot tighten, throat convulsing, and tears threatening to well in your eyes. This isn’t how you had planned to spend your day with them. Although, little did you know to anticipate the day going south.

“You’re leaving too, San?” you ask softly.

“Ah, Seongmi-ssi. Don’t get me wrong. With Jia leaving, Soojin feeling under the weather, and whatever happened between you and Wooyoung, I’d rather call it a day.” San rubs the back of his neck, head lowered slightly in gratitude, “please do express my sincere thanks to your boyfriend. He thought of us while celebrating a day special to him. To both of you. The thought matters, it really does.”

Words ache to roll off your tongue, but a certain warming presence pulls you out of it, and his familiar scent lingers in the air behind you. You feel his chest press into your back, one arm sliding around your waist with ease, the other waving the two off.

“Leaving already?” Yunho sighs, “I guess certain circumstances don change, huh?” his darkened eyes lurk on Wooyoung, catching his slouched shoulders and trembling posture, “and Wooyoung-ssi, please rest assured. I’m not the bad guy here. I promise I’ll take good care of her.” He squeezes your waist, just lightly. “Have a safe drive back to the city. Forecast says heavy rain. I hope you’ve come prepared, in case anything happens.”

San reassures Yunho with a wide smile, polite in the way one sees subtle dents of his dimples on his cheeks. “Thank you for your concern, hyung. We’ll drive safely. Again, apologies for ruining the day for you.” He bows, in respect.

Yunho tries to play it off, “hey, there’s no need for that. It’s not ruined yet. I still get to spend it with my girlfriend, don’t I?” he looks down at you, pulling you closer to him by your waist, “well, you might have just done me a great favour by leaving early. What’s more romantic than spending time with my girlfriend on a rainy day in a forest cabin?”

San’s cheeks flush a shy shade of red, Wooyoung’s shoulders tense up before he clears his throat. “Ya, San-ah. Let’s leave before the rain hits us.”

Wooyoung is the first to step out through the door, San following him soon after he bows to Yunho and you, very respectful and polite. The door shuts close behind them, footsteps padding down the porch steps before they muffled and silenced. Yunho keeps you close to him, one arm around your waist, the other in his pocket. When he hears the sound of car revving up and out of the front clearing of the cabin, he turns you around and presses you flush to his chest.

His forehead drops on yours. “Your work friends really did ruin my day, doll.” Both his hands grab your waist now, breath warming your cheeks, eyes as dark as the night—lips brushing the tip of your nose. “I hope you can make up for it.”

You bring your hands to cup his face, leaning in to peck his lips lightly. “I’ll try to do my best.” Your chest heaves into his when you take a deep breath, “but first, what happened to Jia or Soojin?”

Yunho hums, thumbs rub in circles on the side of your waist, touch searing even through the fabric of your dress. “I think Jia got called home—that’s what Mingi told me. And Soojin,” he pauses, you catch on a shift in eyes before it goes back to normal, “she started feeling under the weather. I think she got a hold of flu or something, asked me to drop her off at the nearest train station and I did.”

“You did?”

He nods, “she rode with Wooyoung, I think. Only made sense if someone dropped her off—wasn’t he with you anyway?”

“Yeah,” you feel your throat closing in, hands dropping from his face to his chest.

“Care to tell me what happened between the two of you?”

“Feels like you already know what it was about.” You grumble, taking a deep breath in, “he doesn’t seem too happy with me dating you.”

Yunho pouts, “that kind of hurts my ego. But do you really need his approval to be happy, love? You’re mine, I’m yours. We’re us, who we are. Do we need a third person to meddle and break us apart?”

You shake your head, biting down hard on your lower lip; a nervous tic you’ve picked up from somewhere, or somehow. Yunho noticing it, immediately swipes his thumb to nudge your lip out of your teeth’s grip.

“Don’t do that,” he coaxes you, sighing softly.

“Can’t help it,” you mutter under your breath, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch; his thumb continues to stroke your lips, with those gentle, delicate drags. “I’m just worried.”

Yunho clicks his tongue, “worried about his opinion, judgement? Seongmi,” he says your name firmly, and stern, “don’t think about him. And don’t…” his hands squeeze your waist—deliberate, reminding, “don’t you dare let him get in your head. He doesn’t belong there. I do. Only me. That’s right, my doll should only think about her boyfriend.”

Outside, the clouds move, sky darkens, nature prepares itself for a downpour once more, like it has been for the past couple of days. The air carries a faint scent of wet soil, somewhere the rain has already soaked through the earth. Yunho’s fingers dig into your skin, nails embedding your flesh even through the fabric of your dress. Traces of blood stain your dress, in the perfect shape of his nail crescents, not a drop out of bounds. You wince, halfway turning to a gasp when he hauls you over his shoulder; the hem of your dress lifts a little, his arms banding across your knees to support your body against his.

“I think you really need a reminding.”

The next few minutes are a rush of adrenaline and chaos—he carries you down the hallway leading to the rooms, from the living room, and you don’t protest. Inside the room, he tosses you on the bed, then grabs your ankles to pull you closer to the edge. Without much hesitation, he drops to his knees, between your spread legs. You pull yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him as he pushes the flounce of your dress up to your waist, legs now propped over his shoulders, opening you up. Your heels rest against his shoulder blades, hips levitating off the bed, body trembling slightly.

Rain patters against the glass window, murmuring with the silence in the room, muffling the faint draws of his breath and your whimpers. Clouds blind the light, painting dark shadows across the room—dithering the visibility, only offering you silhouettes to discern and borders of your mind could perceive.

Yunho keeps your legs spread with his hand on either of thighs, inching closer and closer to your cunt. Lace panties define the curve of your folds, slick starting to drool and soak the flimsy fabric. His fingertips graze faint lines up your inner thigh, before his entire hand cups your cunt in its warmth. The palm of his hand fits snug with your mound, and the curve above his wrist presses precisely down on your clit. He rubs it, arousing you, drawing out a moan from your lips. His other hand rests with a certain weight on your inner thigh, keeping you spread out for him.

“This is what I do to you.” He murmurs. “Me, no one else but me.”

You push yourself further up, using the support of your elbows; watching him through the darkening space, you catch the glint in his eyes, right in the corner, shimmering like it’s been waiting to have you cornered like a wild animal. Yunho’s lips curl slightly, hand pressing, pushing with all its might against your clit—the friction sends tiny tremors across your skin, shuddering your spine with every breath you took. It numbed you, weakened your muscles with how deliberate, precise and calculated his touch was. You were soaking your panties, letting the lacy fabric stick close to your folds.

Offering him a nod, you whimper, “yes—only—only you.”

“That’s right,” he continues to rub his palm in tight circles across your clit and mound, till he feels your arousal drip through the panties and wet his skin. “Excites you, doesn’t it? Your body loves it when it’s me—when it’s me who is touching it, making it surrender.” Yunho chuckles softly, chest and shoulders shaking, “give me all of you, Seongmi. And I’ll never make you regret it. You won’t ever regret it.”

You mewl, meekly rolling your hips into his hand, wanting to feel more, body urging you to push yourself for the sake of seeking pleasure. “Yunho please—please…”

“What’s that?” he mocks you, lilt to his voice, mischief in his eyes. You throw your head back, eyes screwing shut when he picks up his pace—tight circles now turning to short and quickened drags of the curve of his palm. “Needy little thing,” he laughs, pausing the movements of his hand, only to let it drop back to your inner thigh. “Beg properly, and I might think about it.”

“Need you,” you whimper yet again, bucking your hips in search of his warmth; when a slap lands on your clothed cunt, your eyes snap open and find his, “please please please—please, Yunho. Need you—need your fingers—your mouth—anything.” You ramble in one breath, eyes watering from the anticipation.

Yunho doesn’t give in, not yet. His hands stay fixed on your inner thighs, keeping your legs apart. A dragging minute later, he clicks his tongue, “good enough.”

He rolls his shoulders out and leans in, pressing feather-light kisses across your inner thigh; you squirm, mewl and ache in the place which needs most of his attention. Yunho doesn’t give in too easy–he’s going to edge you, if he puts his mind to it, or he might overstimulate you with countless orgasms. Neither sounds good to you, nothing short of torment and grotesque proof of control he has over your body. He continues to kiss a particular patch of the skin on your inner thigh, knowing how deliciously sensitive your nerves are right there. Soon, his teeth start grazing, soft little bites followed by flicks on his tongue to ease your muscles and flesh. Then it happens—initially a striking, hot and searing pain of your skin ceding to the force of his teeth, blood pooling through the puncture and beading across your thigh.

All air is knocked out of your chest, body spasming just enough for him to sense the victory and push his chest out with pride. You moan out loud, one hand flailing towards him to grab a hold of anything you could. And it ends up on the back of his neck, fingers wrapping around, hair brushing against your tips.

“Fuck—Yunho.”

He grunts in response, suckling at your bleeding skin—it’s as if a newly turned fledgling was feeding off you, with an undeniable hunger. You feel the wetness of his spit mix with your blood, staining your skin, along with the indentations of his teeth marking you. This isn’t anything new to you, Yunho’s yearning for you is quite something, sinister and unforgivable in its own way. He lets go off the flesh in his mouth and moves onto the patch of skin right next to it. Another bite. Making it bleed profusely in mouth, drinking your blood as if it were a gush of pure nectar. Repeating the bites on both of of your thighs, he pulls back to watch his handiwork; even through you quiet and gentle sobs, he’s proud enough to smirk and lap around the very first bite he made.

Tears clinging to your lashes, blurring your vision of his face, you somehow manage to squint and gather the sight waiting for you. Blood on his mouth, spit and crimson dripping down his chin, staining his face—you feel a shiver run down your spine, body arching off the mattress at the simple thought of you marking him this time. His lips curl into his cheek sensing your gaze on him, still lapping and licking across the skin—still watching you with a ravenous smile.

“I love it when you bleed for me.” He murmurs against your skin, “the sight of you adorning my bites, my marks, it excites me so much, love. And now I’m driven past my limits, all of them.” He pulls back, shifting his arms to have them curl around your thighs instead of just resting to keep you spread. This position gave him more control over you than before, and it prevented you from clenching your thighs.

“Yunho, I—I—I like them too.”

“I know.”

You feel it then, a huff of his warm breath fanning your dripping cunt through the lace panties. He dives right in, not giving you even a fraction of second to compose yourself; his lips press kisses down your mound before wrapping around your clit, pushing out spit to wet your panties.

“Ah fuck—nnngh…” you throw yourself against the mattress, back arching into his mouth, eyes shutting close to the pleasure dribbling down your spine.

You tighten your hold around his neck, subtly, before sliding your hand into the tuft of his hair on the back of his head. Pushing him closer, grinding your hips against him, you needed him in ways which would deem shameful and humiliating. Yunho doesn’t stop at that, no—he’s much more motivated now, tongue darting out, sucking in your flesh in the warmth of his mouth along with your panties. The feeling is almost indiscernible—is the friction of your ragged lace panties against your clit, or the wetness and heat of his tongue, which is much softer and enticing. You don’t know, but you’re sure close to losing it.

Yunho doesn’t speak, not in the degrading or praising way he usually does when his face is buried between your legs. He’s focused, worshipping your cunt with his mouth, tongue and lips, reminding you who owns your body even though you’re clothed and at his mercy. You’re at your wit’s end, both from pleasure and the bewilderment lingering in the back of your mind; he’s being gentle, worshiping your body, craving your touch, craving you—it might mean something. You’ve never been too attentive to his behaviour, but there have been plenty of occasions where he’d yearn for you, particularly when a nuanced tragedy implodes in his life. Last time, as you recall it, he was on his knees for you when he came back home from a bar, all bruised and beat up; most likely an altercation, which forced its way onto you to have him calm by the break of dawn.

He pulls back, sitting back on his knees, posture straight and poised as he breathes heavy, chest rising and falling in series of waves. Feeling his drifting warmth, you peel your eyes open, prop yourself on your elbows again, and watch him closely—dark hair a mess, sweat dripping through it, and his mouth gleaming with your slick and his spit, alongside the dainty traces of your blood. Yunho doesn’t waste any time then, your panties are off, soaked in his spit and your arousal, getting dropped on the floor next to him. He leans back in, mouth on your cunt, hot breath fanning your mound; he devours you, pushing you past your limits as your body curls into him, wanting him in the way he does.

“Yunho…Yunho…” you chant his name, soft screams bubbling in the back of your throat, head being thrown into the mattress again, body going limp.

A while later, continuing his ministrations, he slides his tongue deep into your slit, rubbing your flesh, pleasing your clit and tasting you. The impending tension in your gut finally breaks through, hands holding onto the sheets beneath you, fisting, curling in the soft cotton blend. Your back arches, eyes roll back into your head, body thrashing just enough for you to feel the knot tighten and break apart in your stomach. You clench around nothing, your walls aching to have something buried deep within them. It’s disappointing for your body, how such an intense orgasm wasn’t a result of his pulsating cock. But your mind remembers the weight and girth of it, remembers how wide it stretches you, and playing into that fantasy, the release becomes ten times worse.

Yunho is relentless, even knowing how your walls were fluttering under his mouth, the pulses tickling his lips too. He lets his tongue slide down your slit, and then nudges the tip against your entrance—once, twice, thrice, then plunging it deep within. He groans against your mound, nose buried and snug against your clit; you’re gushing slightly, your juices running down his tongue, the musky sweetness coating his taste buds. He’s in paradise like this; tongue thrusting, feeling how you spasm around him, as he mimics what he’d probably had done with his cock.

To your surprise, that’s not the end of it. As your high declines to a momentary thrush of calm and quiet, he picks it up again with his fingers; tongue pushing forward, pressing at the walls of pelvic floor, while his fingers plunged right beneath. He curls them backwards, towards your puckering and untouched hole. It’s all too much for you to bear. The torment of his tongue, the assault of his fingers—it starts riling your bladder this time—all that cola had surely filled it up. For some reason, you could tell Yunho knew. Maybe the way you were starting to clench your thighs together, or by the way you were sobbing.

“Yunho…Yunho—fuck—stop, please…!” you cry, screaming into the back of your hand while tears stream down the side of your face.

You’re aware, denying, protesting against the pleasure he offers you, is a crime—like an insult hurled at him for making you feel good. But you are overstimulated, body trembling with a need to be let go, that too for one particular reason—you really wanted to pee. And the need grows too urgent, too fast. You’re clinging onto the mattress for your dear life, chest heaving, back still arched because of him—and then, it breaks, the shackles holding it all in. You don’t feel it at first, a single trickle, then a consistent stream, warmth flooding Yunho’s mouth.

He guzzles it down, latching onto your urethral orifice instead. Your face heats up, embarrassment creeping up your neck the moment you hear the sounds he’s making. His fingers are still buried deep, plunging in and out, stimulating your g-spot with every pull and drag against your spongy wall. You’re crying, whimpering, protesting against him, using his name. He’s deaf to your cries, quite literally since the rain had picked up outside, thrashing against the glass window to create a perfect background noise.

Slowly, the stream of your piss fizzles out to mere droplets; he licks and laps at them, pulling back eventually with a cunning smirk on his face. The slight sheen of your piss glimmers when the thunder breaks out in the sky—somewhere in the distance, lighting up the room for a fraction of second.

“Good girl,” he praises, pulling his fingers out too, reluctantly, “such a good little doll, for always giving her favourite monster whatever he needs.”

You groan, hand sliding down from your face, “you’re such a fucking perv, Yunho.”

“Now,” he clicks his tongue, kissing your inner thigh—mostly the bite marks he left behind, which still bled, by the way, “pretending to hate it? And I’m your perv. Only I get to taste your piss, hmm?”

You nod slowly, rolling your eyes at him, “yes, you do.” His brows scrunch when you flash him a smirk and wink at him.

Yunho grows alert, cautious because he too knows, when you’ve been shattered deliciously by him, you always find a way to repay him. He’s curious too, anticipating what you have in mind. Though, you don’t give him a chance to anticipate anything; in the next second you’re sliding your legs off his shoulders, letting them dangle by the edge till you picked yourself up from the bed and leaped onto him. He lets out a surprised squeal, laughing to himself as he’s thrown on his back on the floor while you straddle his waist. Your dress flows down till your mid thighs, hands resting on his chest. There’s a slight increase in the size of his pupils, lips curving into his cheeks as a laugh resounds from his chest, feeling it vibrate against your hands.

“What do you have in mind?”

You shake your head, “you’ll see.”

The next few moments are a blur of bliss; you tugged off his pants and boxers down to his knees, then slowly sank down his length, letting it stretch you out you did. Yunho’s groans and moans were barely controlled, raising a decibel each time you impaled yourself onto his cock, inch by inch. At first, he lets you set the pace—slow, gentle, deliberate rolls of your hips which opened you up enough to take more inches of him every time you sink down. With your hands on his chest, you lean forward and kiss him, tongue swiping out and slithering into his mouth—you taste yourself on him, sweet, salty, musky—going breathless by every second. His hands pin you down onto his cock by your hips, guiding you slowly to move.

You pick up your pace midway, making out with him, trying to ease the stretch your walls were undergoing currently. Every push off of his hips, squelched your walls and every time you slid down his length, it opened you up and stretched you out again. The relentless cycle was driving you wild, you break the kiss and rest your forehead on his, breathing through your mouth as exhaustion soon takes over you.

“Tired already, love?” he teases you with a laugh. “I got you.”

Thus begins the dragging hour of him thrusting into you, setting the pace and rhythm according to him, keeping you on edge every time he felt your walls clench around his pulsating cock. He held back too, letting himself throb in the warmth, halting his thrusts, afraid he might unravel before you and he definitely resented it. On the contrary, Yunho also wasn’t fond of this position; something about you being on top of him, meant he wasn’t the one in control. Although, ironically, he liked it when he’s able to hit your cervix when you’re riding him.

Time loses all its bounds, and after the tormenting rhythms and deliberate thrusts, Yunho finally gives in—he holds you by your hips, pushing deeper into you as his balls tighten and he empties into you; every pulse of his cum is warm and heavy, flooding your womb. You’re so full of him, some of it slipping down his girth and foaming at the base as he rides it out. You huff out a breath, tired, lethargic, putty while resting your head on his chest. Your arms are loose around his abdomen—walls still spasming around him, as you too, ride out your release.

“Hmmm, I’m not done yet, love,” Yunho grumbles close to your ear, brushing your hair with one of his hands as the other still rested on your hip, “let me show you how much I need you.”

“Let me ruin you in ways only I can.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

By the time he’s truly satisfied, you’re a mess, passed out in the bed while Yunho lies next to you, propped up against the headboard. A cigarette stays clipped between your lips, red hot flaming tip letting smoke curl around him. Impatience creeping up his spine, he stubs out the remaining cigarette onto the flooding ashtray on the nightstand. He lets his gaze roam your body for one last time before slipping out of the bed and putting his pants back on. Once done, he picks up you ruined panties from the floor, where they were discarded before, by the foot of the bed.

While he does so, he admires the red and purple bruises blooming under your skin, from the time he held you too tight, or from the insistent bites and hickies. You truly were a mess, blood dried out, sweat clinging to your skin, and his cum drying out between your legs, and some of it stains the sheets beneath you. If you were awake, you’d probably groan and cry about how he used your body for his pleasure then effortlessly tired you out; you lost count after the fifth round—in each one after the first, he made you come undone twice, either with his mouth, his fingers or his cock. Rain outside never let up, it still hasn’t—the dark only influenced the desires, encouraged you both to dive into the restricted depths of your kinks.

You cried out for the second time when he folded you in half and trapped you in a mating press, making you squirt twice as hard as he normally would. Both of you bled for each other—there’s something so romantic and endearing carrying each other’s precious love in your body, in your bloodstream. Yunho was clingy throughout, something he rarely does; you paid it no mind, not bothered in the slightest to question it. After the very adventurous and intense position, your body finally gave out when he was fucking you in missionary. Now, that’s his favourite position. Not because it gave him power over you, but because it allows him to watch your face when he’s buried deep in you and abusing your cervix. Every thrust pulls out a delicious sound from you, and makes your face contort in the way that pushes him to his edge.

Lingering by the door for a few more seconds, Yunho watches you before stepping out. The cabin is quiet, enigmatic in the way it’s supposed to be in the night—it’s a little after 9 pm; animals growl outside as the nightfall dwells deeper, the rain hasn’t let up as he recounted before, if anything it’s gotten more harsh and intense, falling against the overhang of the cabin and snapping twigs of the trees. Electricity holds up in the cabin even through the thunderstorm—every twenty minutes there’s been a lightening strike in the sky, booming and flashing bright on every surface of the cabin. Regardless of the electricity running, all lights in the cabin are turned off, and instead candles have been lit up in their respective stands and places.

Yunho climbs up the stairs leading up to the second floor of the cabin, which has three bedrooms, only one of which is inhabited by Mingi, while the other two are repurposed as storage rooms. Standing in front of the wooden door, he knocks once, then twice before realising the sound of rain probably deafens it. Yunho opens the door without hesitation, slipping through and finding the room to be empty. Mattress cold by one side of the room, against a wall, lamps turned off, a flooding ashtray (like his) is placed on the floor next to the mattress and a familiar stench lurking in the air. There are no windows to this room—save for a small circular one in the left corner for ventilation.

Heaving a sigh, Yunho places your panties on the short and low cabinet next to the mattress, then his attention falls onto the wall opposite to the mattress. Mingi’s hunting tools, laid out, hung up on a display as he likes them to be. Crossbows, metal and poison laced arrows, daggers, machetes, rifles and shotguns, and a remarkable sword he had custom made according to his liking. Strong steel glints against the candlelight, showing off the intricate patterns running along the edge of the blade—engraved by the swordsmith himself. Its handle is sturdy enough to let Mingi swing it as his heart desires; he recalls one particular memory where his best friend accidentally ended up slicing off bone of a corpse with it.

Amidst the sound of rain, a soft pattering resounds from the adjoining bathroom—when Yunho’s attention falls on it, he finds the light turned on through the gap below. No thoughts, Yunho steps in the bathroom and finds Mingi under shower, his silhouette a blur from the opaque shower curtaining separating them. It’s a simple layout; the door opens to a sink and cabinet, then comes the commode, and towards the end of the long stretching space, the bathtub and shower.

Yunho stands in front of the sink, watching himself in the cabinet mirror—he’s shirtless, hair a mess of tangles and disheveled because of your hands, lips still stained with dried blood, and neck adorning the bite you gave him. He almost came when you made an effort to bite him; small teeth sinking in his flesh, trying to break his skin the way he does. But you didn’t have the heart to do so and thus, the bite mark on his neck stays a blotch of blue, with your teeth indentations.

“How was she?” Yunho asks, running a hand through his hair to have it set properly.

The curtain furls to the side, revealing Mingi standing under the shower head with hot water running down his body; his blonde hair is soaked in water, sticking to is face and forehead. “Soojin?” he questions, before answering it himself, “not bad. A little too perfect, I’d say.”

Yunho hums, turning to face Mingi. “Details.”

Mingi turns the shower off and steps out of the tub, reaching out for the towel hung on the rack to tie it around his waist. “Lean muscle, very little body fat,” he begins enunciating the words he knows Yunho wants to hear, “healthy heart, blackened lungs—guess from the smoking and drinking, liver not up to par, and a normal brain.”

“Spleen and kidneys?”

“Hmm, in good condition,” Mingi replies, coming to stand next to Yunho in front of the cabinet mirror; Yunho shifts a little, leaning back against the sink counter instead.

“Skin?”

“No blemishes, no tattoos, no marks,” Mingi says while opening the cabinet over sink and grabbing his moisturiser—the only step in his skincare, “I’ve left it out for drying, already prepped and everything.”

“Hmm, alright,” Yunho sighs, glancing at Mingi, “flesh?”

“Stored in the freezer,” Mingi pats the cream on his face, the bottle placed down on the counter, “couldn’t get much but it’s doable. You won’t starve at least.” He jokes and looks at Yunho, “clothes and bones are burning in the incinerator as we speak.”

Yunho smirks, “I knew I could always count on you.”

“Please, Yunho. You’re making me blush.”

“Then it means I’m winning, doesn’t it?”

Mingi rolls his eyes, letting his towel drop on the floor, leaving him bare in front of his friend. “You’re insufferable.”

“Says you.” Yunho catches up on what Mingi is doing and chimes, “want me to help you?”

“Was going to ask you regardless,” Mingi remarks, opening the cabinet again to grab a couple of alcohol pads and a sterile box with all his piercings. “You’ve got steadier hands than me right now,” he sighs, “and I don’t know…feels much better when it’s you.”

“Is it?”

Yunho’s smirk widens, without exchanging any words, he steps in front of Mingi as the latter perches himself on the counter’s edge. Before proceeding with anything else, Yunho washes his hands thoroughly in the sink, using soap. Then dries them off using a clean towel hung on the rack. He steps between Mingi’s spread legs, grabbing one of the alcohol pads and tearing it open to sterilise Mingi’s cock; he’s always known how heavy and girthy Mingi is, but the weight of his soft cock in his hand is quite intimidating. This moment is just like any other in the olden days where his best friend would need help with his apadravya piercing after it’s been out for hygiene reasons.

Mingi’s breath catches softly, bubbling in the back of his throat as Yunho steps closer to him, focus down on his cock, wiping and cleaning the head; the pad swirls along with Yunho’s fingers, other free hand wrapped at the base of his cock. The channel hasn’t shrunk, it’s still as new as the day he got it—a couple of years ago, fully healed in. In the humid air of the bathroom, Mingi hisses at the cold sensation of the wet rag, and Yunho chuckles, wiping softly under the tip of his cock, thumb stroking with gentle care.

“I can never tell if you were stupid or brave enough to get your dick pierced.”

Mingi groans, grabbing a hold of Yunho’s shoulders when the blood starts rushing to his cock under his touch. “Stop making me hard.”

“I haven’t done anything yet though,” Yunho plays it off, offering an innocent pout to him, “which one do you want?”

Mingi watches Yunho open the sterile box, which consisted of various barbell piercings, in different colours and styles. He runs his gaze along the shiny metal pieces before setting his heart on one. “The purple one, with the ring in front.”

Yunho nods, picking up the chosen one and cleaning it with a fresh new alcohol pad. He hums softly, twisting the threaded end to open the barbell and aligning it straight with the opening channel at the bottom. Easing it in vertically, with slow, even pressure, Yunho hums once again.

Mingi clings onto his shoulders, feeling the tissue give in, a resistance that’s nothing too painful but present. He heaves a breath and his own shoulders tense up; Yunho tries to soothe him using his other hand to rub circles on his inner thigh.

“It’s been annoying without it,” he murmurs, distracting himself, “like something’s off, you get me?”

“Of course, I do. We’re fixing it now,” Yunho continues, “seriously, Mingi. I really wonder sometimes if you were just stupid when you got this one.”

Mingi snickers, “complain all you want—when I tell you how good the sex feels, you’d be getting on yourself too.”

Yunho shakes his head, the barbell pushed halfway through. “Never.”

“I’m not stupid enough,” he adds, pausing a bit, “you good?”

Mingi nods, heaving out a breath, “keep going.”

Yunho does, pushing the barbell all the way through, until the top end emerged cleanly on the upper side of the glans. He twisted the threaded end on with careful fingers, securing the ball snug with the ring flopping to a side—just enough for now, with room for any minor swelling.

Mingi lets out a soft, contented sound, shoulders relaxing. “There you are.” He looks down between them, then back up at Yunho, eyes soft with that easy affection they rarely named, “speaking of sex, how’s Seongmi?”

Yunho steps back, reluctant to create why distance between them as he has gotten used to his warmth. “Sleeping. Tired her out, I think.”

“You need to be more gentle with her, Yunho,” Mingi reprimands him, grabbing another small towel from Yunho’s hand to wipe the fresh drop of water swelling around the jewellery. “What happens if you break her? You break down too. It may not be my place to say, but you’re dependent on her for stability. She’s gone, so is that, and your sanity.”

“You believe I was ever sane?” Yunho grins, stepping back between Mingi’s legs and snatching the small towel from him; he wipes his cock with utmost care before flicking it out of the way. “Mingi, I am aware of it. Why else do you think I wake up every morning and choose her?”

“Because you are quite literally obligated to,” Mingi shrugs, pulling Yunho close to him by his shoulders and letting his arms stay draped around them. “Well, I hope you keep loving the way you do. Your unpredictability is detrimental at times.”

Yunho’s arms slide around Mingi’s waist, face inching close till his breath fans his cheeks. “Relax, Mingi. I love her better than my exes, don’t I? She’s still breathing, alive—loving me back.” He pauses, “unlike my exes who are buried in the backyard.”

“Poetic,” Mingi laughs, rubbing circles on Yunho’s shoulder blades using his thumbs, “she’s the right fit for you. I know it sounds cliche, but maybe she could be the on.”

Yunho scoffs playfully, resting his forehead on his and smiling wide, “she is the one, Mingi. Like I said, I keep choosing her every morning when I wake up and would do it in any other lifetime.”

“When did my ruthless psychopathic best friend turn into a lovesick puppy?”

“Ever since she started embracing me for the way I am.” Yunho kisses Mingi’s cheek.

“That friend of hers thinks you’re manipulating her,” Mingi pipes in, blushing hard.

“No, I’m not. Seongmi is a freak,” Yunho shrugs, “she knows what I’m capable, still chooses to stay.”

“So, sometimes I wonder if she chooses me for the way I choose her.”

series masterlist here's visuals to this story too a/n: i forgot there's a word limit on tumblr, so the format might be weird. excise the typos, it took me three weeks to write it, and hopefully it was worth it. thank you for reading, and your thoughts are always welcomed!

[xerotiny]

This is my first time on your blog (I think) and I literally love your theme wtf.

welcome to my blog! haha. i was trying to make it look aesthetic i guess. just went with it in the end, so thank you so much!!

[xerotiny]

THE BOY IN YOUR HEART ☥ JEONG YUNHO

Pairing(s): Jeong Yunho x fem reader x Song Mingi (ft. Choi Jongho)

Genre: dark romance, psychological thriller/drama.

Tag(s): DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, twisted lovers, established dynamic, dark romance, psychopath au, boy next door!yunho, neighbour!reader, sadist!yunho, hard dom!yunho, sub!reader, detective!jongho, hunter!mingi, dom!jongho, switch!mingi

Warning(s): smut, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering (f! receiving), voyeurism, pussy slapping, thigh riding, vampirism, blood play, using blood as lube, piss kink/piss play, rough sex, praise kink, humiliation kink, degradation, breeding kink, size kink, jealous!yunho, cheeky!jongho, pervert!mingi

Synopsis: meeting the detective wasn’t really a bad decision, but it followed you home like a mishap.

Word Count: 19.07k (sorry)

a/n: alright, since it’s meant to be a series, the female character will have a name—and here, it’s Park Seongmi. Well everything stays the same. Only the reader has a name. It doesn’t necessarily make her an oc. But if you choose to believe that then you can.

part one | part two | part three (you are here)

The cheerful afternoon you had settled into, now withers away with the dread of the text. As if staring at your phone screen made you believe it’d disappear somehow. But it didn’t. It stayed, lingered in every corner of your mind; you recall each day from last week, pondering whether you had let something crucial slip to the detective during your interrogation. Nothing seemed to shed a light upon the darkness inhabiting your memory. The only way of knowing what bullshit you had spewed is by taking up the invite from detective Choi. Meeting him wasn’t the problem, what really tormented you is finding an excuse to leave Yunho and visit the precinct.

When you hear the shower turning off, you hastily set your phone back on the nightstand and stare at the bathroom door. Yunho steps out not long after; a towel draped around his waist, hair wet and dripping everywhere, including his shoulders and skin glimmering with fine droplets of water. He pushes the damp strands back, out of his face and slicks them with the rest. With every step he takes toward your closet, you catch a subtle bounce between his legs; you never seem to admit, but his physical presence always riles you up and has you leaking between your legs. You watch him as he drops his towel, and rummages through the shelf in your closet specifically dedicated to him and his clothes.

You clear your throat, getting his attention, “do you have to be at clinic?”

Yunho spares you a glance over his shoulder and hums, “I believe so, I need to go in for a routine check.”

You hum back, eyes drifting away from him as he gets dressed in a simple dress shirt and slacks. “Why?” he turns around, questioning you while buttoning his pants.

“No reason,” you mutter under your breath, “it’s the weekend, so I thought you wouldn’t have to go.”

“Aww, you’re missing me already?” he coos, walking to the edge of the bed, standing on the side across from you. “I’ll see you in the evening, though. It’ll be some mere hours before I’m back again.”

“Right,” you take a deep breath, fingers pinching at the hem of his hoodie. “Well, I need to meet some of my coworkers too.”

There’s a flash of darkness in Yunho’s eyes; it disappears in a split moment, replaced by a cheery glint. “Of course. Where are you meeting?”

Your breath hitches. Where? You hadn’t thought it through. “It’s the Italian bistro downtown. Remember, we went there after a month you first moved in.”

Yunho’s lips twitch slightly, curling ever so lightly into his cheek. “Perhaps I do,” he rolls his shoulders out and runs a hand through his hair, water sprinkling in the air, “so, who all are going to be there?”

“Just a couple of work friends. You don’t know them.”

He raises his brow at you. “Then maybe I should get to know them. I would certainly be delighted to know bout the people my girl accompanies herself with.”

“Do you think they’d mind if I joined?” he adds.

“Yeah, probably,” you blurt out quickly. “I mean, I’ve never mentioned anything about you to them.”

“Then maybe today’s the day.” He trudges over to your vanity in the corner of your room; he picks up the lotion and starts patting it into his face. “Let them know who you really belong to. Who’s keeping you trapped in a cage.”

His gaze meets yours briefly in the mirror, and you look away; when Yunho’s eyes held yours the way they did now, he immediately finds the cracks in your words, sniffs out the lie as if he sees right through you. A beat stutters in your heart, mind blanking on the surface and lips trembling.

“Maybe not today,” you glance at your phone, “some other day. I’m sure they’re as excited as you are to…” you trail off when you raise your head back to him; he’s no longer by the vanity, he’s towering over you.

His fingers gently grasp your chin, tilting your head up to stare into your eyes. The warmth in his eyes dissipates to a certain formidable intensity, brown hue shrouded by oddment. He leans down, pecks your lips and straightens up, hand dropping from your chin. You’re scratching your head, seeking the meaning behind his actions.

“Fine,” he lets on a small smile stretch across his face, “some other day.”

You nod. “Are you mad?”

Don’t be mad, please.

Yunho laughs, as if he’s read your mind. “Doll, why would I be mad at you for wanting to spend some time with your work friends?”

“I’m not a monster,” he remarks with a lilt to his tone.

He picks up his wet towel from the floor, from where he dropped it off before getting dressed, and takes it with him to the dry balcony adjoining your room. Silence is all that whispers in your ears, and the sound of his hums which force you to ramble.

“No, gods no, I never said you are,” you blurt out, “It seems I may have disappointed you. I—I really do resent myself when I let you down for things I can control.” You peek up, watching him stride in with an elegant gait before he stops right in front of you again; this time your words don’t die in your throat, they bubble up to your tongue. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to be a bummer. I—I swear—and now I’m probably aggravating you…”

He holds your chin in between his fingers again, thumb pressing down as hard as it could to stop your nonsensical blabbering. Your lower lip juts out, mouth staying parted slightly. Without warning, he leans down and bites down hard on your pouting lip, aggressive enough to break your skin and letting it bleed. You whimper the moment his incisors sink into your flesh, alongside the canines which dig much deeper and cause the agonising sting.

Suckling your blood in his mouth, he pulls away; he stands straighter, his silhouette covering your shuddering figure on bed.

“What have I told you about rambling?” he grunts, fingers brushing your chin once before sliding down to wrap around your throat.

“No rambling,” you squeak, feeling the weight of his fingers push into the walls of your throat. He’s not choking you yet.

He hums, “that’s it.” He squeezes your throat, thumb digging into your windpipe to restrict your breathing. You gasp, clawing at his wrist but it’s no use. Suffocation soon knocks you out, throat going dry, chest heaving; you try breathing from your nose, albeit it’s useless too. Eyes start fluttering close, darkness engulfing in short bursts of a despair, and he never loosens his grip.

“I really despise conditioning you, my love.” He whispers, sounding genuine, concerned. “But it’s necessary.”

You choke on air, lightheaded and dizzy. Nails dig into his skin, but your fingers, however, uncurl one by one till your hand falls to the side. You’re so close to passing out, so close to tasting the sense of relief—and the he eases his grip, thumb rubbing circles on your hyoid bone.

“It’s necessary for you to learn your lessons,” he adds, voice dropping even lower, “apologies need to be felt, love.”

Yunho slides his hand from your throat to the back of your neck; he cradles you, fingers threading in your hair to soothe your ache. On the surface, this gentleness is more detrimental than his aggression, but you don’t have a choice. The sting on your split lip burns, flaring till it catches on your head and you wince, tears streaming from your cheeks. Your lungs scream, chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow. Tears welling in your eyes, blurs the edges of him, the faint smear of blood still glistening on his lower lip. You notice him staring at you too intently with his pupils blown wide; feigned tenderness shining bright.

“Shhh,” he drags his thumb to your jaw, smearing the wetness of a stray tear rolling down, “breathe for me. Slow. In…out.”

You try. You really do. But every breath you take, cruelly reminds you how your body shudders. Every inhale tastes like burnt copper and stale iron on your tongue, every pull of breath is a quiet suffering in its own way. Yunho stares at you, studying you a second longer—he’s contemplating, deciding, trying to figure out how much more you can take before you finally break. He really does hate breaking you apart during his “conditioning” sessions. Sadist in his heart but his conscience is much purer than that; he doesn’t think of it as penalising your actions, it’s more about the discipline, measures to keep you in line and if he doesn’t, you’ll go rogue.

Seconds tick louder than the meaningless protest your body screamed at you; lip stinging and bleeding into your mouth, eyes tearing up, chest still burning with an urge to breathe without having to cough. You bring both your hands to Yunho’s, wrapping them around his wrists—a gentle request to anchor him back to reality, particularly wanting to put a stop to this inane act of sadism.

He clicks his tongue, “count.”

Ignoring your pleas, he uses his free hand to push your hoodie over to your chest; it bunches up awkwardly, but stays, as if even the piece of clothing is scared of defying his command. One hand tightens around your neck, while the other traces down to your lower belly—fingertips sending a shiver down your spine the moment they graze against your sternum, and the dainty scabs of carvings he pleasured himself in last week. He presses his hand harder, putting pleasure right on your bladder.

“Yunho—I’m sorry—please,” you choke out, squirming, struggling to set yourself free from under him. Curling your fingers around the sleeve of shirt, you really do make an effort to ground him back to his more gentle state of mind. “No more—hurts—really fucking hurts.”

Every supplication parting your lip is snubbed with either a grunt or a more painful push of his hand against your lower belly. “Stop begging now, love. Your stupid habits earned you this,” he tuts, another click of his tongue resounding in the space between you.

You let out a helpless cry, raggedly breathing while he emphasises again, “spread your legs and count.”

There’s no other choice than to obligate—as if you ever did have a choice, your body’s been conditioned to obey his every word. With a small nod of his head, and a gentle hum reverberating from his chest, he eases his hand over your lower belly and caresses it over to your mound. Slow, agonisingly slow—to give you the false sense of gentleness before cracking you down. He raises his hand and in one swift motion, it lands hard on your already weeping cunt. There’s a little shame in admitting that you were most definitely turned on by your current state

You groan, thighs clenching with an instinct but he parts them back, pushing you down into the heap of pillows behind your head by the hand that’s still draped around your neck.

“One,” you whimper, tears never stopping.

When the second smack lands, he deliberately drags his thumb across your clit, with a purpose, with a tender intention.

“Two.”

Smack.

“Three.”

Smack.

“Four.”

Each slap is harder than the last. Fingers deftly pressing on your swollen folds, thumb drawling circles on your clit and your mind drunk on a pleasured haze. You could feel your arousal dripping down your inner thighs, and very much to your surprise, you also felt the pressure increase intently on your bladder.

Fifth one shoves a sob from your chest; your bladder screams in protest from the lingering press of his hand from before. Yunho’s face doesn’t twitch to the slightest; you can’t tell if he’s pitying you, or if he’s delighted to have you squirming and pleading under him, or if he’s really mad at you. His silence is lot more difficult to perceive and comprehend, because when he’s quiet, the demons in his mind whispers louder than usual.

With a grunt, he switches—back of his hand now, a stinging crack makes your thighs quake and your split lip reopen as you bite down on it to muffle your cries.

“Six,” you whine, eyes red and puffy, tasting your tears on your tongue.

An almost indiscernible hum leaves Yunho’s lips, and he brings his other hand to your abdomen from your neck; his fingers splay, spanning across every inch of your skin, pushing down. Your hoodie strains around your chest, bunched up right below your breasts.

“You’re doing so well, love,” he murmurs a praise which doesn’t come too often from him. “Four more, doll. You can take it.”

He raises his hand again, pinning you down with his other on your lower belly, and when it lands harder down on your puffy cunt. A blood curdling scream rips out of your chest, body spasming, thrashing, aching to be let go. Your hands flail to grab his wrist, not the one hitting you, no, the one pressing so damn hard on your bladder that it’s almost on the edge of grotesque pain.

“Yunho—please—please hurts,” you plead, nails digging into his skin and the cuff of his sleeve, “please…”

He clicks his tongue, tutting to shut you up in a way that’s only discernible between you two. “Three more, love. You’re taking it so good…”

The eighth and ninth smack knock all air out of you; chest heaving, tears no longer welling in your eyes, body on the verge of shutting down. Yunho doesn’t seem to care though, but you on the other hand, want to be good for him, want to show him you can take it. His hand slips down your belly to your mound, thumb drawing circles—pleasure coils tight, walls almost fluttering but never quite there. You’re so full, so close to shatter your control. Then, the tenth slap comes out of nowhere, making you scream again.

“Good girl,” he preens, cupping your swollen cunt in the fraction of second. “Such a good girl.”

You drop your hands to your side, lifeless, but proud you didn’t let go. Not yet. Vision blurs on the edges as you look at him; he shifts, the warmth of his hands dithering away from your body. One knee plants next to your ribs, the other one between your legs, keeping your legs parted and your red and weeping cunt on display. His fingers collect your arousal, sliding between your slit before they plunge right into you; your walls accommodate two of his fingers well, stretching, twitching—you’re used to it. The situation is so obscene; you’re dripping wet, soaking the sheets under you, some of your slick even slipping into the cleft of your ass. The sole pillow under your head is wet too, absorbing your tears and sweat, drool too, followed by the blood from your split lip.

You don’t know what to focus on. His fingers? His hand? Your bleeding lips which stings every time you bite it to muffle your screams. Or the impending stress looming in your bladder, just waiting to be let go? Yunho’s fingers don’t show you any mercy, no signs of stopping from their brutal assault; every push and pull is deliciously agonising, intensifying the ache building with every thrust in the pit of your stomach. You’re so sure it’s not the familiar tautness lingering in your stomach, it’s different—more humiliating, more tragic—if you give into it, you’d be reduced to his pretty little doll who pisses on his command. Those things are a far cry from what he’s done to you though; his fingers continue to plunge deeper into your cunt, fleshy walls squelching to make vulgar sounds, fingertips almost brushing that one spongy corner at the end before they draw back.

You’re craving it, the end of it all. You want to feel lighter, more relaxed and less anxious—he’s bringing you to it, to the closeness of your release. But it’s not the one which brings pleasure, or satisfaction.

“That’s it, love,” he coos. “Let go, let it all out. Make a mess on my hand.”

Yunho presses his hand harder on your mound, so hard that it’s beyond your control anymore. With a particularly strong thrust of his fingers, you feel the dam break—you gush out, body spasming, shuddering—humiliation slowly creeps from your gut, dispersing to your chest and face. You turn your head and try to hide in the pillow, hair mussed and disheveled; the scent of your salty tears and burnt copper from your blood lingers, then the sound of your gush hitting the sheets echoes in the room. A small trickle at first, and a second later, you’re flooding and soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Good girl,” he whispers, watching you wet yourself, watching your slick and piss coat his fingers as they continue plunging into you; the pace of his fingers eases to a halt, and he pulls them out, noticing a thin, almost golden, rivulet trailing down his wrist. He chuckles, “aww, my little bird made a mess.”

You groan into the pillow, chest hurting with how hard you were breathing. You could feel the heat on your cheeks, the never-ending flush of humiliation still warm and nagging—your flow slows to a trickle again, and he finally lifts both his hands. Their warmth drifts to your sternum, lightly, a subtle change of heat before the hand which was inside you, covered in your slick and piss, forces its way to your mouth. You stare at him, eyes wide but not amused; he pushes the same fingers into your mouth, rubbing them on your tongue.

“Suck,” he commands and you obey, wrapping your lips around his knuckles and sucking his the digits.

You taste yourself, musky and salty, before gagging on his fingers as they slide down deeper into your throat. Once his fingers are clean, he pulls them out, dripping with your spit, shimmering under the crackling sunlight of late afternoon.

“Colour?” he has the audacity to ask.

Regardless, you reply, “green.”

The safeword system never comes to play with him, not unless he’s genuinely concerned and willing to acknowledge what he’s done. Yunho lets out a small hum before tracing your bottom lip with his thumb; your blood, having dried up now, smears just the slightest bit on his skin. With a click of his tongue, he picks you up in his arms, cradling you close to his chest. He carries you to the bathroom, sets you down on the sink counter, and straightens out your hoodie. You settle down with a wince, clinging onto his shoulders even as he steps back and out of the bathroom; in your own twisted way, you missed his warmth, missed his presence around you.

While you simmer in silence, Yunho takes off the ruined sheets, throws them in the washer in the dry balcony, and returns with a warm cup of tea. He sets the cup next to you, mumbling, “that should calm you.”

He opens the cabinet above the sink, pulling out necessities—soothing balm, a fresh roll of gauze, cotton swabs, antiseptic solution and some q-tips. Your cabinet is a mini pharmacy; so are the drawers of your nightstand—painkillers, bandages of all sizes, gauzes, pain patches, hot and cold compresses, contraceptives, box of condoms (which he only used one time), and other meds. As much as Yunho delighted himself in your pain, he wasn’t fond of letting you endure it through day and night; he would tend to your wounds, cuts, take care of your aches with drugs—and all the other things. All of it is sprawled over the counter while he takes a minute to unbutton his shirt and drop it into the laundry hamper beneath the sink. Bare from upper half, he steps back in front of you, close enough for you to feel his breath warming your cheeks.

“Did I hurt my doll?” he whispers, cupping your face with one hand as he uses the other pick up the tin of balm. “We need to change your bandage,” his fingers gently brush against the old gauze wrapped around your neck; he simply sighs and opens the tin, “first, let’s stop this bleeding. It looks a bit angry.”

You glare at his chuckle, but it soon softens to a look of gratitude and appreciation. He dips the tip of his thumb into the tin, coating it with clear salve-like gel before spreading it across your split lip. It stings for a tenth of second, before it dissolves to a comforting sensation. Yunho hums as he applies the balm; you just stare at him, lips parted, breaths hitching at the domestic proximity between you two.

“Should’ve had the tea before, love,” he mumbles, voice dropping low, “never mind, you can drink it once it’s dried up, hmm? I’ll reheat it for you.”

You bring your arms around his waist, a habit you’ve picked up on during tender moments like these. Aftercare with Yunho was the best; he spoke, he made an effort, he was a gentle giant—an astronomical contrast to who he is when his eyes are the darkest. You push yourself closer to him, tipping your head on his chest before looking up at him.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, “I didn’t want to make you angry.”

“It’s okay, doll,” he smiles, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “Even if you did, you learnt your lesson, didn’t you? And that makes me happy.”

He runs his free hand through your hair, while the other sets the tin aside. “I’m the happiest man alive when my baby listens to me.”

You hum softly, ingraining it in your brain; you’ve done it countless times before, inculcated his likes and dislikes in your bones by now. You know what makes him happy, you know what makes him mad, you know what disappointment means, and you are adept at knowing how rare these gentle moments are with him.

“Look up, my love,” he tilts your chin up lightly, dainty fingers going to the knot of gauze around your neck, “let me change this, hmm? Then I’ll run you bath, and pick your outfit for the night.”

The bandage and gauze come off smoothly, and once they’re discarded into the bin under the sink, he scrutinises and studies the bite mark on your neck. “Oh, it doesn’t look so bad,” he remarks, “it’s healing well—maybe in the coming two, three days it might heal completely.”

He keeps you engaged with soft talk while he douses a cotton swab in antiseptic solution. “I wish I could stay long enough to dress you up myself, make sure every inch of your body is covered—except for maybe some of my marks,” he trails off, pressing the cold cotton swab against the bite. You hiss, tightening your arms around his waist. “There, love. It’s fine—it stings all the time, doesn’t it? I’ll kiss it better soon.”

He moves onto applying an anti inflammatory cream to the cleaned wound; he’s gentle as always, careful not to sting you much. You do squirm, however, the cold sensation burning on your skin. His fingers are adept at that gentle touch, slow and steady.

“Is it hurting?”

You shake your head.

“What does it feel like?”

You slowly peak up at him. “It burns. But I love it.”

“Of course you do, my love.” He sets the tube aside and starts wrapping up the gauze around your neck. “I know my doll loves being mine,” he titters, tying up the ends of the gauze at the nape of your neck. “And I, get super ecstatic, when my little birdie knows who she belongs to. When she wears my marks so proudly.”

Your toes curl, arms tighten and a small gasp rips its way out your chest. “Yunho…”

“Yeah baby, I know.” He chuckles again, “all done for now. How are the cuts on your stomach…?”

“Healed,” you pull away, and lift your hoodie, showing off your stomach which hold the scabbed slashes he made a little while ago. “They itch.”

Yunho hums, “they absolutely do.” He wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest, “remind me after your bath, I have a spray which makes it more tolerable, hmm?” he leans in to kiss your temple, mumbling in your hair, “don’t get the bandage wet, alright.”

“I’ll get the bath started for you,” you nod at him, watching him with wide eyes as he leaves the bathroom and heads into the bedroom.

Sticky and covered in your own piss and slick, you wait for him patiently, letting your feet dangle off the sink counter. You don’t feel the burns on your skin anymore, what does ache in your stomach is the revelation of dependency. Manipulation has different names, but the most abhorrent one is love. Yunho loves you, he cares for you, it’s in his own way, his own language you’ve started to learn; he’s altered your brain chemistry too, coercing you to rely on him for every little thing.

Footsteps echo on the marble floor, Yunho strides in, now dressed in a black cashmere sweater and the same pants from before. He’s wearing his frameless glasses this time, dark eyes glistening with proud mischief and sinister glaze. Sparing you a glance, and a small smile, he rolls the sleeves of his sweater to his elbows. Once they were secured around his joints, he lets the tap run in the tub, warm water filling it up. He’s meticulous, and careful. You only watch him, eyes moving with every movement of his hands, or his body.

In minute’s time, the bathroom fills with wafts of lavender and rosemary; bath salts, bath oils, all the lotions and potions you like. He straightens up from the tub, approaching you with a gentle gait; he kisses the crown of your head before pulling off the hoodie from your body, baring you to him. You let your head fall against his shoulder when he picks you up in his arms and carries you to the bathtub. He lowers you with a gentle touch, your body sinking into the warm water; the initial resistance of your weight breaks to a relaxing spasm of your muscles. Water sloshes around you when you’re completely submerged inside.

A deliberately soft and lingering gets pressed to your lips, body going numb at the softest caress of his lips against yours. He stands up, as gracefully as he could, grabs your cup of tea from the sink and flashes you a twitch of his lips.

“Let me reheat this and I’ll bring it back to you.” He states before walking out back into the bedroom.

He’s not gone for long this time. The steaming cup of tea is placed on the boarder edge of the tub you were leaning against; you catch a glimpse of the steam rising, some dissipating into thin air, some merging with the mist from the water in the tub. Yunho slowly rolls down the sleeves of his sweater, and runs a hand through his hair, slicking back the stray strands.

“Are you leaving?” you squeak, noticing him tend to his hair with an exaggerated haste in the cabinet’s mirror right over the sink.

“Yeah,” he hums. “I have to. There was a batch recall on one of the paediatric antibiotics we use a lot.” He explains, “it’s a routine supply check, anyway. I’ll be back home soon.”

You nod and he continues. “I hope to be in time to see you all dolled up for your night.”

“It’s alright, you can take your time, love.” You mumble, closing your eyes as relaxation courses through your veins to your mind.

He pouts lightly, turning to you, “well, I already do not feel good about letting you dress on your own.”

“Did you pick out my outfit?”

He nods. “Laid on the bed. I’ve changed the sheets, so don’t worry about it. And the soiled ones are in the washer,” he resumes setting his hair, “if I’m early, I’ll let it dry in the balcony.”

You hum in satisfaction, barely even listening to him at this point. “We can’t let it stay in the washer…”

“I know…” he glances at you again, “if it’s done before you leave, then maybe you should do it.”

“I will,” you slowly open your eyes, looking at him, “will you be home early?”

“I might.” He steps back from the cabinet mirror. “I need to get changed before I go meet Mingi at the cabin.”

“A special occasion?”

“Something like that,” he says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants, “drinks and stuff.”

“Have fun.”

“Hmhm,” Yunho grunts as a response before walking out of the bathroom, stranding you in your tub.

When the slightest echoes of front door opening and closing reaches you, you sigh and grab your cup of tea; it’s piping hot, but the undertones of chamomile and Darjeeling tea are soothing enough to be even bothered by the accidental burn. The warmth of the tea spread from your mouth, down your oesophagus—snuggling in your chest before ending in your stomach. It’s the kind of comfort you never want to lose.

Time is at a standstill, a crack in nature’s soul; you soak up the warmth from water, lavender scent sticking to your skin like glue, and the scent of rosemary calming your nerves. Sulking in the dim lights, you close your eyes once more to truly relish the delight of your bath. Yunho knows what you need. All the time. He knows you like the back of his hand—the scents you’d crave, the soap you’d prefer, or the conditioner you’d like to leave in your hair. Aftercare with Yunho is the ultimate experience; he’s gentle, comforting, and amicable in ways you had never imagined him to be. At least not when he’s feasting on your body like it’s the last meal he’ll ever eat.

Every flutter in your heart is accustomed to him by now; every blink of your eye replies back with a picture of him burned in your mind, he’s everything you crave, for now and maybe for eternity. You let out a choked sob, the heaviness from countless situations drowning you back into the warm water he’s prepared for you. Every easing twitch in your muscles could to a tightness which brings dread and conspicuous fatigue to your mind and body alike. You’ve gotten yourself into a delicate quandary, and ironically, the only one to break your shackles is yourself. If talking to detective Choi could even clear Yunho’s name out in the slightest, you’d be happy.

Recounting to the blurry memories of last week, you do know Yunho was subjected to initial suspicion. However, a man reputed to be anything but kind, alongside his designation to be a paediatrician, cleared it off in a blink of an eye. As amusing as it was, reputation and money can bring you immense power to do as your heart desires. Yunho’s only desire? He wanted to keep you safe. Not himself. He wanted to keep you from the droning interrogations, manipulative tactics of the detectives and certainly, he doesn’t want you to spew the truth about that night to anyone.

You were way over in your head. One wrong word uttered to detective Choi, and you could be paying for it with your life. As much as you didn’t want to believe it, you knew Yunho would discard you with a snap of his fingers if anything goes south. You really a toy for him to play with, fuck with. There’s no way he’d care about you, right? He probably doesn’t. These inklings are so deeply rooted in your brain, the second they start resurfacing, you feel searing hot ache of fear rise in your chest. Your guts twist, stomach drops. The bath doesn’t comfort you anymore; it starts to suffocate you.

Water splashes everywhere when you frantically try to get out of the tub; you almost slip, stepping out. Fumbling to the bedroom, naked and trembling, you look around till your eyes land on the dress he’s laid out for you on the bed. A black maxi dress with lace detailing around the Victorian neckline and sequins across the hem, long sleeved to cover your arms, and still flattering enough to turn heads. He bought it for you a couple of months ago; said he couldn’t remember why he purchased it, but when he saw you wear it, he knew it wasn’t a pointless purchase. Yunho purposely bought you dresses which covered you up whole; he didn’t like showing his marks on your body to others. Only he got to see them, only he got to touch them and revere them. You never squeaked against his wishes.

When you’ve composed yourself, you stumble to your closet to grab a towel. You pick out a fluffy one, soft enough to pat yourself dry. Patting is the only way where your bruises didn’t hurt, or the cuts didn’t weep crimson. The warmth of towel contrasts gravely to the ache on your skin; you continue to pat yourself till you’re fully dry. Dressing up by yourself isn’t really a task, but having someone do it for you has become a habit you can’t break out of. Every time you slip on a piece of clothing, you’re reminded of Yunho’s gentle touch, and the praises he’d sing.

You’re halfway through slipping on your safety shorts when you hear the front door open and close. Yunho’s back already. Well he did say he wouldn’t take too long to return, neither is his clinic too far away from home. By the time he’s in the room, you’re pulling on the sleeves of the dress.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” he promises to someone on the phone; most probably Mingi. “Yeah, I just got home. I’ll change and leave…”

You watch him pace across the floor to stand behind you, one hand grabbing a hold of the zipper while the other held his phone. There’s a cigarette trapped between his lips in the corner of his mouth, tip burning red and smoke curling in air. With a simple tug, he pulls the zipper close. However he stops midway through to press a soft kiss to spine, right above the hooks of your bra; the cigarette returns between his lips, burning bright red. When your dress is zipped, he turns you around with one hand and wraps it around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. Like an instinct, your arms rest on his chest, the cashmere feeling soft and warm before you slide them to his waist too.

“I’ll give you a call when I leave, alright?” he hangs up the phone and pushes it back in the front pocket of his pants. “All dressed?”

You nod. “Everything okay at the clinic?”

“What could’ve gone wrong?” he whispers, a certain lilt lacing his voice. Both of his arms wrap tightly around you, pulling you even closer to him. “Let me know when you’re done, hmm? I’ll drop you off.”

You tense up, every inch of your muscle tightening; he could feel it too, and you know how easily he sees through your body language. “You don’t have to. I can drive by myself.”

“I know you can, love,” he mumbles, smiling widely. “Mingi and I have some stuff to deal with downtown. If I’m heading there, might as well drop you off at the bistro.” Pulling the cigarette from between his lips, he adds, “and wouldn’t your coworkers like to know you have a sweet little boyfriend who dropped you off? Or you rather have them think I don’t care about you at all?”

You shake your head in a frantic haze, the rough fabric gauze stinging your skin. “Babe, they—you really don’t have to.”

“Seongmi,” he states your name sternly; it’s a rare occurrence where Yunho would use your name, and even rarer when it’s during an argument. “I’m not asking you, love. I’m telling you.”

“I need to change my clothes over at my apartment,” he mumbles, taking a drag from his cigarette, “meet me down in the parking lot when you’re done.”

Clasping the cigarette in between his forefinger and middle finger, he blows out a cloud of smoke before kissing your lips. You’re all by yourself in the room, making final touches to your makeup, spritzing perfume, pretending you’re getting ready for a dinner date with your coworkers. You’re too scared of Yunho knowing the truth, too afraid he’s going to find out you’re lying just to meet the detectives from last week who really got on his nerves. If he loses his calm tonight, how would he react? What would that be like? More cuts? More bruises? More sadistic intimacy?

A short elevator ride later, you’re in the parking lot—you know his car by heart now, the black sedan you’ve had countless adventures in. He’s already there, smoking a cigarette, propped against the trunk, face alighted by his phone’s screen. You notice him scrolling, contemplating; judging by the twitch in his eyebrows, you could tell he was going through old texts from Mingi or someone else. The littlest of glimpse you could catch from his phone’s screen is the plethora of words blurred against a dark background. He’s too quick to lock his phone, stuffing it in his pocket before you could even question him.

When his eyes meet yours, you swallow even the smallest of doubts in your mind—the darkness in them always makes you cave, always reduces you to something you aren’t fond of. One of his hand slides to your cheek, cupping a side of your face while leaning in to peck your lips.

“There she is,” he whispers, “ready to go?”

You nod, running a quick gaze over him; he’s changed out of that cashmere sweater, replacing it with a black shirt and a leather jacket, the pants stayed the same. There’s slight tint to his lips, subtle gloss glimmering under the dimmed lights; his black rimmed glasses catch the similar glare before disappearing to a clear sight of his eyes. He takes your hand in his, purposely dragging his fingers across the length of your arm, tips creasing the fabric and your skin trickling with goosebumps.

The ride to the bistro is as quiet as it could be. Not much said, not much insinuated. Just the occasional comments he’d make on the songs from his playlist, breaking the beats of serenity between you two. City lights turn bleak on the windshield, creating a storm of neon and fluorescence. Outside the air seems to be free, moving, frisky—inside it’s stale, suffocating, cigarette stench lingering and concocting with Yunho’s scent. A whisper of musk, sweat, sandalwood and leather, contrasting sharply with your perfume which has citrus undertones. Throughout the drive, one of his hands stayed on the wheel while the other rested on your thigh, occasionally leaving to switch gears.

The last song on his playlist fades to a certain silence, he still hasn’t said much. Not more than a mumble. Regardless, it did not make you feel uneasy. Yunho’s silence sometimes speaks more than the words he utters and for all the odd reasons, you would rather prefer his speechlessness. When the next song picks up on its tempo, Yunho turns to you, the car slows down, signalling to the right and eases to the curb.

“Call me when you’re done,” he mutters, leaning over the console to kiss your nose, “I’ll come pick you up—and if time permits, maybe I’ll even drop by inside. Meet these coworkers you never mention to me about.”

You glare, but your lips curl to a playful pout, “are you teasing me?”

“Come on,” he chuckles, his shoulders shaking with pure amusement, “I just find it odd that suddenly, the people you hated at work, become important enough to meet on a Saturday night.”

“Yunho, if you’re instigating something, then say it outright. You know I don’t like games.” You whine softly.

He continues to laugh, body shuddering, “no—no, I’m not instigating anything at all. Just have fun, alright?” his hand squeezes your thigh lightly, “I’ll come pick you up. Give me a call.”

“Yeah, alright.” You shake your head and smile weakly at him, “I’ll see you later then.”

“Hmhm,” he hums softly, unlocking your door.

You step out of his car, onto the pavement leading to the bistro—a small, cosy establishment with an awning draped in fairy lights. It’s the same, nothing has changed since the first ‘date’ you had him after he moved in. You turn slightly, closing the door and crouching to look at him through the window he rolls down in exact time.

“Have fun,” he repeats one more time, a smile so wide on his face that it makes you hesitate. There’s an ulterior motive hidden in the plain sight; it’s something you won’t ever know until you’re knees deep in the mess he’s made. “See you soon.”

The echoes from his words keep you stranded to your spot, even when his car has left your vision line. Mind stuck on the smile he flashed, dissecting every fragment till it slipped to a fiendish frown, you don’t have the strength in you to visit the detective anymore. He knows. He definitely knows. He really was playing you, toying you around so you’d come clean to him. There are plenty of ways where he could force you to spit the truth out, but there’s a different kind of satisfaction when he pulls you to the point where you unravel yourself and blurt out everything.

Minutes later when you move, it’s not in the direction of the bistro’s entrance, it’s to hail a cab.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The precinct is unbothered to your presence; you sit in the chair propped in front of detective Choi’s desk, but his chair remains empty. You fiddle with your fingers, staring at the way your hands tremble in your lap. Faint and muffled ‘see you later’s reverberate in the distance, detectives saying their farewells, officers gathering their things to leave for the night. The rush was settling down, pulling you in and out of a daze, where you mulled over the coming consequences. Yes, you were reluctant to visit the precinct, and the hesitation was valid for all the right reasons.

A subtle crinkle in time peels your mind out of the trance, almost teary gaze focusing on the little notepad on his desk; detective Choi was said to be stuck in an important interrogation, not much details were offered by the police officer you came across, but he did say it might take him an hour or so to be done with it. You thought time would slip through your fingers like sand, instead it fleets and drones on and on. The cab ride to the precinct only took you thirty minutes, with the ticking clock now—it’s been a total of forty five minutes since you were made to wait. Which means, it’s been over an hour. You were measuring time in the hopes of not calling Yunho; he asked you to call him once you were done, but if you were done early, why would there be a need for you to call him?

You heave a sigh, and pull your phone out, thinking to pass your time scrolling through a banal conversation you had with your work friend. As amusing as it was Yunho, you really did not befriend any coworkers of yours, except for the woman you share your cubicle with. Her name is Soojin—she’s enthusiastic, determined and dedicated, and she makes you look better. Soojin has a tendency of speaking without processing it in her head first. She’s quite feisty, one might say but she’s also equally kind and eloquent. Though, you’re really not going over your texts, you’re trying to remember all that you had said to detective Choi during your last interaction. The words do come back, some vague, some quiet stern and prominent.

The only motive you had today was to clear your and Yunho’s name out of this investigation. You aren’t exactly the suspects, rather witnesses—a missing case has blown out of proportions when detective Choi found a smear of blood on the first floor’s landing. Lab reports confirmed they belonged to Jiwoo. Detective Choi got a lead, and the case took a new direction. Witnesses became suspects.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Park.” Detective Choi’s voice rings out to pull you out from your mind, “duty calls. Interrogations are turning to be quite taxing, you see.”

Your gaze travels in his direction, fixating on the way he walks and perches on the edge of his desk; he’s wearing a black leather jacket, similar to Yunho’s, and underneath is a blue plaid shirt, halfway tucked in. Detective Choi is shorter than Yunho, maybe by a few inches, but his physique is no joke. A well trained individual, putting in extra efforts to keep himself in shape—he’s mentioned kick boxing in passing, the last time he was questioning you. Silly thing to mention really.

“It’s fine,” you mumble. “I didn’t mind the waiting.”

His wince grabs your attention to his hands from his face. Knuckles bruised, skin split open to bleed while he figures out a way to tend to them.

He catches your eye and smiles, “went a little too hard on this guy. Some officers brought him in for petty crimes—robbery I suppose.” Moving effortlessly around, he grabs a bottle of antiseptic solution from the cabinet under his desk, and a fresh roll of cotton cloth. “If there’s one thing I really do despise, Ms Park, is a liar. Everyone’s hiding something, isn’t it? It’s my duty to bring the truth out, and I don’t care what measures I use to do so.”

You swallow audibly, hands grabbing the armrests of your chair in a haste. Clutching the smooth wood tight enough for your knuckles to turn while, you squeak, “I believe that is why you’ve called me in today?”

“I don’t deem you a liar, Ms. Park. Not yet,” he chuckles, struggling to open the bottle of antiseptic solution with one hand without hissing in pain at every subtle twitch of his fingers, “damn it.”

Listening to him curse, you get on your feet and open the bottle for him. You snatch the cotton cloth from is other hand, soak it with the solution and press it firmly against his bleeding hand; cradling it gently in yours, you make sure to clean every crevice of the knuckle while blowing air at his split skin.

“I’m not a liar, detective.”

“And I never said you were.” He whispers, “and call me Jongho. I think we should be on first name basis if you’re...”

The intention hangs heavy in air, his breath fanning your cheeks and your eyes meeting his; you hadn’t realised how close you were to each other, even if the corner of his desk was wedged between you two. Whiff of his scent lingers closely, a sensual concoction of wildflower and citrus undertones, something similar to yours but more manly. The intimacy isn’t surprising—the dainty caresses of your fingers against his knuckles, the cloth acting like a non-existent barrier between you—you’re used to it, but not used to his soft gaze hovering over every detail of you.

Jongho clears his throat, looking away, “I can take care of the rest,” he takes the cloth from you and starts dabbing on his knuckles himself. “While we’re at it…” he nudges slightly with his head to the chair, silently asking you to sit. “I’d like to have some follow up question regarding your last statement.”

You sit down with a heavy sigh. “I thought we cleared out all misunderstandings last time itself.”

Jongho shakes his head. “It’s more than that, Ms. Park.”

“And what could that be?”

“Like I said, just some questions,” he shrugs, wrapping the cloth around his hand before grabbing his notepad and a pen, “could you help me recollect that night’s events, Seongmi?”

Your throat runs dry, muscles tensing. “As much as I can recall, I didn’t meet or come across Jiwoo the entire day, I was at work.”

“And?” he prompts, “what about when you came back?”

You sigh. “Like I told you last time, I did not see her when I came back either.”

Jongho nods, “alright, if you say so,” he clears his throat again, “if I may, I’d like to read out your statement from last time.”

“On the night in question, I was at home after work. I remember I was really tired and exhausted from the day, so I stayed in and didn’t go out. There was an incident involving some sort of noise—not sure if it came from upstairs or from my next door neighbour’s apartment, but I was too lethargic to hear anything further.”

Jongho flips back to the fresh page on his notepad, pen slipping off from his fingers. “This is what you said last time, Ms. Park.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“You said you did not leave the apartment,” he states, “then why has your next door neighbour mentioned in his statement that he was with you the entire night?”

You swallow hard, lungs crashing down, mind falling steeper into a void. “Is that so?” you squeak, looking down at your trembling hands holding onto your knees, to anchor yourself to reality.

“I suppose, you aren’t the liar then, is it? Maybe your neighbour is.” He hums softly, “it’s fine, Seongmi. You can tell me what happened that night. If you speak the truth, I might let you go unharmed by the law.”

You look up at him, eyes welling up with tears but none steeping down your cheeks. “Alright,” you whisper with a broken voice, “I’ll tell you the truth.”

He hums and straightens up, setting the notepad aside and reaching over to the other side of the desk to grab his recorder. It gets placed on the desk, closer to you; he presses the start button and prompts you to speak up. You stare at the recorder, showing the running seconds and swallow the lump in your throat.

“Right, I—I was with my neighbour all night,” you begin, hands sliding onto the armrests, nails scratching at the coating on the wood. “I came back from work around eight, or so, I don’t really recall, maybe it was much later. I was lounging on the couch when I received a text from him, asking me to come over at his place. For a casual hangout.” You glance at Jongho, whose brow is raised high on his forehead. “I did go over to his place, we had a couple of drinks and that’s it.”

Jongho hums, mulling. He stops the recorder and sets it aside. “Is that all, Seongmi?”

“Yes,” you state firmly, bringing one hand up to your hair to fiddle with a few strands, “that’s all I can remember.”

“Then why did you lie the first time?”

You yelp, “because I was scared. I was worried I would be deemed to be a suspect.”

“Lying is the preamble to suspicion, Ms. Park.” Jongho clicks his tongue, getting off the desk with a swift slide and turning to sit in his chair, “it’s me who gets to judge you, whether you become a suspect or stay a witness. You do know that obstruction of important information can be a crime too?”

You stare at him, eyes wide, lips trembling, heart stuttering in your chest. There’s an ache in your ribs which flares with every second, with every breath you heave out. “I am not hiding anything. I’m as truthfully as I could be. Yes, I lied before. But I only did it over the concern of my well being.”

“Relax, Seongmi. You don’t have to be so defensive,” he shrugs, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him, “I’m not accusing you of the crime. Would never, I suppose. It’s still a missing persons case, regardless of the evidence…” he trails off, shifting suddenly in his chair to prop his elbows on the desk and lean closer to you, “…blood could hardly count as a solid evidence against anyone. Did we find the body yet? No. There is a possibility, this case could be a second degree murder.”

Your breath catches in your throat, body shuddering; your mind reels in time, going back to the cabin—Jiwoo’s body in a suitcase, Mingi, Yunho’s workshop.

“Need water, Seongmi?” he asks but slides a bottle to you regardless. “Drink some. It might help you calm your nerves.”

You pick up the bottle immediately and tear open the lid, guzzling down almost more than half of it before setting it back on the desk. “All better now?” you nod to him and take a deep breath, “a second degree murder?”

“Hmm. I suspect it is.” Jongho nods, “nothing premeditated, just a spur-of-the-moment killing with malice.”

“Who would do that to her?” you retort, “Jiwoo was a kind soul. No enemies. No bad blood. That’s not possible.”

“You’d be surprised with the kind of cases I have to deal with at times,” he chuckles, a satirical one, “I’ve seen people get killed for less.”

“But Jiwoo?” you whisper, “I don’t think…”

Jongho shakes his head, “believe me, Ms. Park,” he continues, “I’ve had cases much worse than hers.“

He grabs your half empty bottle from the desk and discards it in the bin under the desk. “Anyway, that’s not the point, is it? I did not call you here to discuss the law.” He laughs again, “I do have certain questions about your neighbour, though. Jeong Yunho…”

You visible stiffen at his words. “What about him?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he starts, “I did a thorough background check on that guy, and he is clean, really clean. Couldn’t find much on his family, though. Has he ever mentioned anything about his family to you?”

“We’re mere acquaintances, detective,” you reply, “I don’t suppose he has ever brought up his family in the conversations we’ve had.”

“Right,” he nods and leans back against the chair, crossing one leg over the other, “it would be strange if he spoke of his family to you,” his eyes narrow at your neck, “hurt yourself, Ms. Park?”

You unconsciously touch your neck, fingertips grazing the gauze which peeks from the neckline of your dress. “Oh—kind of, scratched myself a little too hard.”

“You should be careful, Seongmi.” He sighs, rubbing his temples, “pretty things lose their value when they get scratched up.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it’s supposed to mean,” he smirks slightly before glancing at the clock on his desk, “it’s getting late. Half of the precinct has emptied out. Do you eat dinner?”

You gawk, thrown off guard by his sudden question. “Of course I eat dinner. What kind of silly question is that, detective?”

“Then you wouldn’t mind eating with me, would you?” he asks, already getting up from the chair, “I made you wait long enough—and the questioning—I suppose you could spare an hour to have a meal with me. I’ll even drop you off.”

You contemplate, think really hard, weigh all the consequences which would follow if you agreed to his offer. What’s the worst that could happen? Yunho finds out you went to him, he conditions you in one of his brutal ways, chants apologies when he’s done and murmur I love yous to your face. The vicious cycle continues no matter what. There’s really no point in contemplating something when you’ve already made up your mind.

“Alright…”

“Jjigae sounds good, doesn’t it?”

The night air is colder tonight, biting into your skin while the warm stew proffers some comfort against it. You’re sitting across Jongho, who hasn’t said a word since the food arrived and has been too busy slurping the stew with eventual bites of the grilled fish. The restaurant was nothing more than a cluster of red plastic tables huddled under a heavy orange tarp. It was a small local restaurant a few blocks from the precinct, and something said the detectives and officers frequented this place quite often.

“Is it not good?” Jongho asks, sipping a spoonful of his kimchi stew, “it’s one of the best stews in the district,” he chuckles softly, setting his spoon down. “Do you not like stew or is this type of setting not really your thing?”

You shake your head, “no, it’s not that…”

You throw a gander around, noticing the sparse crowd of people occupying the farthest tables; some of them laughing loudly, some cheering, some drunk on the cheap soju, while some are arguing over mundane matters. The fluorescent bulbs cascade beams of lights across the table, but most of the spaces still stay in the shadows. The butane stove between you two on the table hisses with a sharp sound, burning with a blue flame to keep the stew nice and warm.

“Then what is it?” he asks, smile stretching his lips, “scared I’d interrogate you?”

“Not really,” you pick your spoon, “I doubt you’d even ask me questions out of the precinct.”

“Hey, I might,” he laughs, picking up his chopsticks, “but I’ll go easy on you.”

You take a sip of the stew, humming in satisfaction when the spices hit your taste buds. “What more could you ask?”

Jongho goes silent for a while, he picks at the white flesh of the fish, not really bothering to eat it; when the chopsticks roll out of his fingers, he grabs his glass of soju and guzzles it in one breath. The burn makes him wince, but it’s too subtle that you fail to notice his gaze back on you, intense and heated. Jongho’s eyes have a warming hue, a soft brown which drowns you in the throes of comfort and ease. He has an easy-going personality, something which forces you to put your guard down, instead of putting it up when you’re with Yunho, and trust him easily.

“He’s not the right man for you,” he blurts out, as if he needed the alcohol to put some courage in him, “Yunho has a dark past, Seongmi.”

“What do you mean?” you scoff, swirling your spoon in the bowlful of stew, watching the red ripples bring out shreds of kimchi.

Jongho sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair and leaning back in his chair. It squeaks to his weight, plastic feet straining only slightly before he barks a laugh, “a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be shackled in his cage, Seongmi.”

“I think you’ve had a little too much to drink, detective,” you snatch the bottle of soju from his side and set it closer to you, “no more soju for you.”

Jongho doesn’t retort, or whine, but a pout stays back on his face which makes it evident that he was upset. “How much longer will you deal with him before he decides you’re of no use to him?”

Your eyes narrow on him, throat running dry. “This isn’t relevant, detective.”

“Or maybe it is,” Jongho slurs his words, “does he know you’re here with me? Does he know you were coming to meet me?”

You shake your head.

“Then that calls for trouble, doesn’t it?” he lets out a scoff, “how can his little birdie leave his cage and make decisions on her own?”

“Detective.”

“Jongho,” he corrects you, “we’re not in the precinct anymore. We’re not tied to the roles…”

“Jongho,” you whisper, food forgotten long ago, for both of you, “you do not get to have any say in my personal life.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He sighs, “but that doesn’t mean I am forced to sit on the sidelines and watch you ruin your life.”

“You talk like you know me. Like you know him.” You spit out, “but you don’t.“

“I never said I did,” he mumbles, leaning over to grab the bottle of soju from you, “but you’re wrong there, Seongmi. I do know a lot about guys like him.”

He adds, finishing the bottle in one sip. “The guys who play into women’s vulnerability and reel them in, who manipulate and gaslight into thinking they’re saving them, but in reality, do you really feel safe around him or do you feel like you’re suffocating?”

Everything he said made sense in your head, but your heart did not beat for it; your heart only hammered when you thought of Yunho, when you thought of the love you had for him, which went deeper than the oceans. Jongho was all wrong about Yunho, he didn’t know him like the way you did. But why did the truth made you second guess every little sentiment you ever had for him?

You’re left to mull about it while Jongho stands up abruptly, calling out to the grandma sitting by the register, “ah, halmoni! I’d like to pay…”

Jongho leaves you with your thoughts at the table, going to pay for the meal at the register. You really do think hard, mind numbing with dilemmas and quandaries you no longer could solve on your own. Jongho’s scent lingers in the air, mixed with the aroma of stew still boiling on the stove, and the stale whiff of alcohol growing denser every second. You put your chopsticks down, slowly getting up from the chair and straightening out the imaginary creases on your dress.

You feel a warm presence on your back, breath tickling your ear while a set of sturdy arms wrap around your waist and pull back, making you collide with a hard chest. Jongho’s scent is back, too intense, too suffocating, too much for you to handle.

His lips brush against the shell of your ear, wispy voice slithering in, “you could tell me the truth, Seongmi and I’d do anything in my power to keep you safe.”

The next thing he is, you fail to recognise if it was purposeful or accidental, but his lips press against the spot below your ear, the touch lingering long enough for you to feel every shudder in your body coming alive. Jongho’s arms tighten around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest as if wanting to submerge you into him.

“You deserve a better man, Seongmi, you deserve better.”

Everything is a blur, right upto the moment you’re in the back of his car, straddling him, his mouth on yours, sucking your soul through it. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, using it as a leverage to grind yourself harder against his crotch; every roll of your hips causes for his cock to harden and stiffen up, slotting itself perfectly between your panty-clad folds. You’re beyond wet, dripping, soaking your panties and your inner thighs. Jongho groans into the kiss, pulling away slightly to stare at you, taking in the sight of your parted lips and heaving chest.

He pulls you in again, hand cupping the nape of your neck as tightly as he could, other one across your waist. A giggle bubbles in your throat, pushing past your lips and into the kiss. Jongho holds you close, feeling every curve of your body against his chest; his grip grows tighter, kiss escalating to all teeth and tongue. You’re breathless, holding onto the gasp of air you took meagre seconds before. There’s a pause where both of you go still, lips pressed against each other, eyes staring into each other’s with a knowing conversation passing through them. Panting, your body trembles when his hands around your waist push you back against the driver’s seat; he tucks the hem of your dress around your waist, holding it up with one hand while other traces up the length of your inner thigh. Every touch, every subtle caress brought shivers and tremors running along your skin.

The minutes are taxing, everything is draining—his hands, his lips, his eyes. Jongho’s warmth is addictive, it catches you off guard and brings out your need for safety. With Yunho, you try to find ways not to disappoint him. Jongho won’t be disappointed if you expressed yourself, would he? He won’t go to the extreme like Yunho does. And maybe that’s what your body needs right now.

“Can I?” he asks, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, stretching out the elastic till you have him the go ahead. Which you do, subtly nodding while sliding your hands from his neck to his chest.

Without hesitation, Jongho pulls your panties down, just enough to bare you to him. You part your legs around his thighs, bracketing them, making sure you give him space to slot his hands between them. He still keeps one on your waist, pinning the hem of your dress there; the other one crawl up your inner thigh, fingertips brushing your slick folds. He nudges his forefinger in you slit, groaning, feeling how much wetter you get the more he touches you. Rubbing his finger through your slit, he leans over to bury his face in the crook of your neck. Lips trail to find your sweet spot, blindly continuing to suck and kiss your skin till you squirm, whimpering his name.

“Jongho…” his fingers were slow and deliberate, his lips were feather-light and soft, caressing that particular inch of skin with a hunger.

“That’s it,” he hums, curling the tips of his fingers to notch inside you. “Fuck—so tight and warm.”

He pumps only the first inch of his fingers into you, your walls squelching just lightly and clenching to suck him further inside. A chuckle breaks out of his chest and rumbles with your skin. “Eager, Ms. Park?”

You catch his eye through your half-lidded ones, lips parting to let a moan out. Jongho’s fingers weren’t sleek as Yunho’s, but they were thick, stretching your walls so deliciously and you were aching around him. Your nails scratch at his jacket, clutching at it as you feel him pushing another inch of his fingers in.

“I were to believe you’d never let any other man touch you,” Jongho remarks, a grunt making his words sound much hoarser. “But here you are, in a stranger’s lap, mewling like a bitch in heat…” he purposely angles his fingertips to hit the spongy part of your walls, and it rips a loud moan from your chest.

Jongho chuckles, setting a relentless pace of his fingers; your back arches against the seat, chest heaving, every cut and bruise Yunho left behind sparks with an ache you can’t quite grasp onto, not unless the smoke in your head clears out and proffers clarity. You really are letting someone else touch you, someone who isn’t Yunho. As amusing as it is, you also find it ludicrous how your body seems to be attuned to Jongho’s presence—it’s quite the contrast between the two. You’re willingly giving yourself to Jongho, whereas with Yunho, he has to initiate and twist your words into thinking he’s saving you.

The night carries on outside, window of the car fogging up to your warm breaths; stench of sweat and sex lingers in the closed space, air going stale. Moonlight shines onto you, just till the clouds cover it back again, veiling it in sheer terror—the road is silent, almost deserted. Jongho drove the car to a remote corner of the district, somewhere between the shadows and silhouettes of skyscrapers and barren fields of nothing. It’s cramped in the backseat, for sure, it’s not typically designed to accommodate two grown adults having sex.

You buck your hips, rolling them onto fingers, forcing them further—Jongho growls, erupting from his chest when he feels his fingers plunging into your heart. Grabbing at the flaps of his jacket, you use it as a leverage to ride his fingers, lifting yourself up and dipping down, setting a steady pace. Jongho eyes you, sweat beads forming on his forehead, lips parted, chest heaving like yours, and his cock straining in his pants.

Soon your head tips against the headrest of the seat, eyes screwing close, the tightness in your stomach ebbing and flowing in like waves of ocean. You’re close. Every flutter in your wall is a preamble to the rush of pleasure slowly making its way to your body. If only, Jongho fingers could thrust the way Yunho’s did—if only he picked up his pace and sawed them in and out of you, like Yunho always does, you’d be gushing all over his fingers. Though something snaps, like a twig breaking in half and its echoes rupturing your senses; you’re actively cheating on a man who’s protecting you from the law. You’re letting someone else touch you, taint you in the way only he’s allowed to do—this isn’t like you. You wouldn’t disobey Yunho.

“Jongho…wait,” you whisper, voice breaking; your eyes open wide, lips quivering with pleas for him to stop, “Jongho please…”

Catching the faintest breath of yours, his fingers still in you, filling you up. He’s knuckles deep already, but unmoving, letting you feel how snug he really is inside you.

“Want me to stop?” he asks, lips caressing your neck; looking up at you, he frowns, “coming down from the high already?”

You shake your head, attempting to shove his chest, which doesn’t even budge him, but he gets the sign. Without second guessing, Jongho pushes himself away from you, falling back onto the seat as his eyes narrow on you. He curls his fingers once before letting them slip out, covered in your slick, glimmering under the dainty rays of moon. You watch him bring them to his mouth, lips parting just enough to wrap the tips and to help him push them inside. He hollows his cheeks, sucking his own fingers while never breaking the eye contact with you.

You squirm, still in need to have a release but the urges are soon trampled down when Yunho’s face burns in the back of your mind. And the high he helped you climb up dissipates to an unlikely sting in your heart; your hands slide down his chest, the sensation of his cold zipper lingering on your skin. You pull your panties up, straighten out the flounce of your dress, and slip off his lap to slump into the space next to him. Jongho takes out his fingers from his mouth with a lewd pop; he doesn’t speak, doesn’t squeak a sound, only palms his crotch before sitting up straighter against the seat.

“You let him own you, Seongmi,” Jongho speaks up, then shakes his head, “I suppose I do need to take accountability for leading you on and almost fucking you senseless in the back of my car.” He glances at you, clicking his tongue, “it’s a shame, really. To have someone like you reduced to nothing but a pet—what if your brother comes to know?”

Brother. It takes you a hot second to realise what he’s said. Not because you’re picking up the pieces of your shattered brain, rather because you’re too distracted to fathom a single thought left behind by the little rendezvous with him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you remark.

“Still in denial?” he scoffs out the question, “does pretending to not know him ease the burden on your shoulders?”

You sigh. “I have no idea what you’re trying to insinuate, detective.”

“You don’t?” Jongho laughs, the kind which resonates from the bottom of his stomach; he shakes his head, pulls out an engraved lighter—glinting silver against the car’s overhead light, and then flicks it open. “If I speak of him, would I live to see another day?”

The flames burns bright, his thumb pressing down the igniter. A faint glow catches on his face, sparkling on his dark eyes, kissing just enough of his skin to make him look harmless. Jongho is not harmless. Not in the slightest. He knows manipulation better than Yunho, but is he using it on you? Not really. He doesn’t want to play you like you’re one of his suspect, doesn’t want to interrogate you like you’re the culprit. Regardless of his rational conscience, Jongho wants to free you from the man you’ve chained yourself to. Does he know it was consensual? Does he know you were willing when the chains caught in your legs and twisted around your body to shackle your soul in a cage it didn’t belong to?

You heave out a breath, trembling, throat drying out. “The strings don’t adhere to us the way they used to before, Jongho.”

Jongho’s thumb slips off the igniter, plunging the space back to the dimly lit darkness. You turn to him, following his every movement as he presses a cigarette between his lips and plays with the igniter again. Sparks flicker, the metal snaps, sound coiling around you till it clips short to the hiss of flame burning bright. The flame engulfs the cigarette, tip glowing a hue of orange melting into ash and black of soot; a long drag later, the ash crumbles down onto his shirt, creased by your hands from before.

“And here I believed, favouring you would favour my chances at having a better life.” Jongho mumbles, putting his lighter back into his coat’s pocket, “your brother owns the streets, Seongmi. How sure are you that he doesn’t know?“

“I’m not saying he doesn’t,” you whisper, “I don’t know, Jongho. The farther he is from this mess, the better it is for me. Because Yunho has no clue who my brother is, or if I even have a brother.”

Jongho takes another drag in, the nicotine infusing with his blood and crawling in his lungs; he puffs out a cloud of smoke, twisting and turning in the air till it disappears. Wordlessly, he turns the overhead lights of the car off, and glances at you. There’s same intensity in his eyes, the kind which had bloomed a mere minutes ago when he was all over you (was it the other way around?). He lets the butt of cigarette stay trapped between the corner of his mouth, lips pressing down hard.

He hums. “There comes a point in life, Seongmi. The secrets you hide, unravel the second someone starts pulling.” The lock clicks, Jongho pushes the door open to step out, “it’s a matter of time who pulls first between the two of you. My bets are on you, you fragile little thing. One wrong move and everything falls apart, thread by thread.”

The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, lingering on your tongue even when it’s no longer coherent in your head. You won’t break so easy. You’re not fragile. You won’t let him get in your head. But maybe, he was already in your head.

Jongho drops you off a block before your apartment complex—you made him, because you didn’t want to run into Yunho (if that was possible) on your way up to your apartment. The coincidental meet in the lobby would be hell of an awkward situation neither of you won’t know how to deal with. Before leaving, however, you offered Jongho a piece of your mind—a lighthearted threat—if he was going to use your brother to his benefit, then maybe you could use that as your personal weapon. Your brother would never hesitate making your headaches disappear. He wouldn’t bat an eye if you called him right away to tell him about the detective who’s been nothing but a nuisance to you and have him gone from your life forever.

But there’s only one issue with that. You’re not on good terms anymore. A couple of years back, a simple argument led to you cutting all your ties with him. You left the house, didn’t use his name to gain you any favours from his closest allies, and still don’t plan on doing so, not unless the consequences call for it.

Your heels click on the concrete pavement, soles gliding against the rugged terrain; the moonless night calls for a mishap in the waiting, an omen you were anticipating. Empty street, and a deserted road, shops closed long back, while the distant barks of dogs echo from somewhere, the darker it got, the more scared you were. You wanted to be in your apartment as soon as you could, aching to feel the warmth of your bed, and Yunho’s lingering scent from the afternoon. Or maybe, you craved him, pining to be used by him so you could forget why you’re scared in the first place.

Relief crashes over you when the well-lit entrance of your apartment complex comes into your view. From then, you increase your pace and only think of getting inside. The lobby is warm the moment you set your foot in, and the further in you strayed, the warmer it got. Behind you, the doors slurred with a hiss before sliding close and locking themselves in place, waiting for whoever who’d come after you to unlock them. The elevator ride is a haze, a tepid concoction of panic, anxiety, and inflaming nerves. You fumble with the keypad on your lock, numbers beeping into place before the familiar mechanical bell rings out and dies down to silence in mere seconds.

The vestibule light turns on when you step in, door closing behind; you slip out of your heels, and slip into the house slippers. A strange sense of relief takes over, soothing every tremor your skin palpates with. You trudge to the living room, dimly lit—it gets even dimmer when the vestibule light flickers off, and then the aroma of Darjeeling tea wafts your senses. It sudden. All too sudden. You’re caught mid-thought about slumping on the couch, and are forced to glance at the kitchen. The space in between living room and kitchen was housed by a dining table—small, cosy one meant for two to four people—in one of the four chairs, Yunho sits, a ceramic cup raised to his lips. He’s still dressed in the same clothes from before—except, the leather jacket hands on the back of his chair.

You pause, taking a second to compose yourself before croaking, “hey, you’re home early.”

Yunho doesn’t respond right away. He sets his cup down first, then licks his bottom lip to rid the remaining drops of tea clinging to it. A short minute later, he clears his throat, gaze casted down on the cup instead of raising up to meet yours. Another second of silence settles in before he speaks up, “hmm, things got dealt with quite early.”

Three heartbeats later, he slowly gets up, “how was your night?”

His eyes find yours in the dim lights, not a twitch of muscle on his face. He’s assessing you, reading you—your body language; he’s noticed the slight slouch of your shoulders, the way your breath gets caught between your lips, and your hands clenched tightly at your sides.

“How would it go?” you let out a nervous chuckle, “it was alright. We ate, drank, gossiped. The usual.”

“The usual,” he repeats, stepping around the table and approaching you with deliberately long and slow strides. “Thats nice. What did you eat?”

For some reason, you preferred Jongho’s interrogation over this. You clear your throat, sweat beading across your forehead, sticking close to your skin. “You know, my favourite. Chicken Alfredo and red wine. Pairs the best.”

Yunho hums again, standing in front of you now; he towers over you, his silhouette engulfing yours in the eerie darkness he has in his eyes. You physically shiver, fingers curling tight enough for your nails to dig into your palms, skin close enough to breaking and bleeding. He reaches out for your chin with one hand, other one snaking around your waist, already establishing a tight grip. Pulling you flush against his chest, he tips your chin caught between his thumb and forefinger before leaning down to peck your lips.

“Yeah, it does,” he grumbles, pulling back, staring so deep into your eyes—you feel he’s going to snatch your soul from you, his lips stretching straight before convulsing to a frown.

Yunho’s eyes lurk on the gauze around your neck, a fresh blotch of crimson emerges from underneath—the wound must’ve opened up. Your breath hitches when he leans down and nuzzles against the skin, just an inch above the wound; he takes a deep breath, sniffing the scent.

“You know what else does? A detective and a wide eyed woman who thinks she can…” he growls, trailing off to let the words hang heavy in your head. “You smell like him—like whatever.”

“Yunho—wait, Yunho—you don’t understand, let me—let me explain,” you’re stuttering your side out, he’s smirking as if he’s caught you red handed.

“Explain what?” he steps back, a smile curling on his face; it’s not the kind which one would show upon met with amusement or wonder, it’s the kind which makes you shudder because he’s mad, disappointed. “Fine, go on. Tell me why you were with him.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes—you were terrified beyond compare, struck with panic which grows ten fold with every breath you take. Yunho’s hand slowly drifts from your waist, the other hand too drops from your chin. He takes another step back, creating a distance between you two while you stay frozen to your spot.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you lower your head and stare at the floor instead of anywhere else, “when I got his text in the morning, I felt—it felt like I—like I was obligated to meet him.”

Silence is all your receive from him, for the dragging minutes which seem never ending. The disappointment is too heavy this time; it lurks up on you, clutches you tightly and plunges you in shame. In the back of your mind, the moments from Jongho’s car replay, as if taunting you, making the humiliation last longer than it needs to. Your chest aches, lips tremble, and voice gets lost in your throat. A steady stream of tears rolls down your cheeks, vision blurring and neck flushing with heat.

“I did it for you,” you whimper, voice breaking, head rising slowly to meet his gaze. He stands a few feet from you, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched. You catch a strain of exhaustion gracing his face, melting to a tinge of dismay. “I swear—Yunho, believe me—I did it for us—I wanted—I wanted to be good for you.”

In a frantic daze, you scramble to hold his hand, wanting to pry it away from his chest and twine your fingers together, while crying out your side to him, so even when your heart is breaking to million pieces, his warmth still stays on you, comfort you. Yunho doesn’t let you, he instinctively creates more distance between you two.

“I told you not to involve yourself with any of those bottom feeders,” he states firmly, “but my doll wants to defy me,” as if a switch being flipped, his tone gets soft and he pouts, “I love you so much—I take care of you, and this is how you repay me, darling? It’s one thing I never wanted from you, and that’s betraying my trust.”

In a blink of an eye, he’s marching to the dining table; he grabs his phone from the table and the jacket from the back of the chair. Draping his jacket over his shoulder, he stuffs his phone inside and glares at you. Realisation hits your chest, twisting your heart and wrenching it out of your mouth. Before you could do anything—protest, beg, plead—he’s storming out. The door rattles loudly after him, leaving you to simmer in the fading vibrations of the sound. Your knees buckle, giving in to the lethargy and embarrassment; your drop down, boneless, mind consumed with his thoughts.

You want to run after him, but you can’t. You know you can’t because he won’t like it. And doing things which go against every desire of his, leads to more painful conditioning and punishments. So, what other choice do you have than to stay put and drive yourself crazy with the foreboding nuisance and wreckage?

An hour later, you’re pacing in your living room, phone pressed close to your ear. You’d stop every three steps, irked, panicked, scared, when the call would go straight to his voicemail. The window in your living room frames a quiet night outside; moonless, clouds drifting and veiling every inch of the starry sky you admired, and the sound of your heart breaking reverberating every second you reach his voicemail. He’s ignoring you on purpose, he’s trying to punish you—knowing how daft you are for his attention, he surely must be delighting in tormenting you like this.

With a grunt, you hang up the call mid-ring, and dial another number. Song Mingi’s contact appears on the screen, thumb pressing down without a second thought, and in a haste, you press the phone against your ear. Rings sound, one, then two, then three. On the fourth, Mingi’s deep and husky voice breaks your trance.

“Hello?” he mumbles, half in sleep—judging by the lull his tone carries, even through the line. He clears his throat, noticing your silence, “sweetheart?”

You shake your head and slump down on the couch. “Have you heard from Yunho?” you ask, words rolling off your tongue before your mind could even process them, “Mingi, he stormed out an hour ago, all my calls keep going to his voicemail—it’s scary, I’m scared.”

Mingi hums softly, in understanding, “first, calm down okay? Can you take a breath for me, sweetie, please?”

The soft undertones of concern and pleading take you off guard, and you really do take a deep breath to calm your nerves. Once you’re able to think straight, once the strain in your voice melts to firmness, you continue, “Mingi, I fucked up. I really need to talk to him. I need to apologise. I need to confess.”

“I know, sweet thing,” mingi tries to assure you, “you think he’s mad at you, and maybe he is, for whatever reason it is, but he won’t hold a grudge against you, Seongmi. Never.” There’s a pause, “can you tell me what happened that caused him to storm out? An argument—Yunho’s not the kind of guy to walk away from one, love…”

“He said I betrayed his trust by meeting up with—” your breath catches, “—with the detective from last week. But before I could even testify why I did that, he turned his back on me and slammed the door right in my face. Mingi—Mingi, I really need to tell him my side, please tell me where he is.”

Mingi clicks his tongue, the sound sharp, as if he’s judging you and your desperation. Even you did not comprehend where the pining was emerging from. To need yunho so badly, that your soul burns and thrashes, it’s certainly uncanny. You rock yourself on the couch, knuckles turning white with how tight your grip had gotten on your phone; Mingi’s breaths are soft, soundless, constrained. But yours are ragged, heavy with every push and pull of air—because you think you’d suffocate under the fear of losing Yunho.

“Honey,” Mingi chirps, a low grunt following after, “relax, okay? We’ll find him if you’re worried about him. But I bet he’ll show up tomorrow morning. You just need to give him some time, sweetheart. I’ve known him for decades, when he cools off, he’ll be back in your arms, hmm?”

You shake your head, not really assured by his words. “No—no—Mingi, I’m sorry but I really need to—I can’t even be alone right now,” you run your free hand through your hair, tousling it around. Before your heart knows it, you squeak, “can I come over? Please?”

The drive to cabin was short, detrimental to your mind since you kept replaying Yunho storming out of your apartment in it. Though, when Mingi opened the door for you, helped you on the couch and fixed you a cup of tea, your worries dithered to seemingly nothing. It gave you a reason to forget why you were panicking in the first place. When Mingi opened the door, he seemed to be irked—as if you had disrupted a peaceful hour of slumber. His pajamas were creased and rumpled—it wasn’t much, just a white tank top and stripped shorts which ended mid-thigh, showing off the elaborate ink on his left thigh. A creeper snaking around his skin, with bright and contrasting magnolia flowers—coloured ink spilling around the edges like they were real.

The cabin was quiet, lingering scent of sandalwood and pines—signature Mingi—but the air was tinged with a subtle stench of burning metal, more like blood. You don’t question it, not when you’re surrounded by preserved specimens of animals, and hides of animals kept on display. There could be a fresh kill rotting in the basement—in Yunho’s workshop, which is mostly utilised by Mingi whenever he brings home a fresh kill from his hunting trip.

You’re curled against Mingi’s side, holding a soft throw pillow from the couch on the other side. Heart clammers, lips tremble, tears show no sign of stopping, from the first words which slipped past your lips, when Mingi probed in all right places. You’re spilling your guts to him, wailing, sobbing—at times, your throat would close in, thick lumps would form at the base, and Mingi would force you to stop and help you take a sip of tea he brewed for you.

The cup clinks with the glass top of the coffee table, resounding just for a split second before your sniffles grow loud. “I love him, Mingi. I just…I just realised it—it hit me so hard when he walked away from me.”

Mingi doesn’t say anything, instead, he pushes himself closer to you and tightens his arm around your shoulder; you feel a subtle pull, then you’re smushed against his chest. He leans down, just enough for his warm breath to caress your cheek, then drift off to your ear. A soft kiss, lingering, gentle but grounding, looms on the shell of your ear. Your sniffles quite down, replaced by hiccups which take you by surprise.

You don’t question Mingi’s actions at all, not even when he’s peppering kisses across your neck, painting your skin with prickles and goosebumps—and bringing the butterflies alive in your stomach. A whimper parts your lips, pillow slipping from your grip as your own arms flail in urgency to wrap them around his shoulders.

“I love him.” You whisper, burying your face in the crook of his neck while he continues to litter kisses on yours, slowly trailing down to your collarbones. “I really love him.”

Minutes pass in a dull haze of tears and heavy whispers, promises made to Mingi’s chest instead of the man you were ruining yourself for. Little did you know, he was listening to every word that poured out of your mouth, every delicate sound you made—he hid in the hallway leading to the basement from the living room—he has been here all along, had been purposely sending your calls to his voicemail. This was his way of punishing you. Though, he didn’t know it’d pull out the deepest, darkest secret from your heart. You loved him. No, it didn’t amuse him—he knew you loved him, knew you’d fall for him.

You peek up at Mingi, slowly, fluttering your eyes while tears cling closely to your eyelashes. He’s just a blob of blurriness to you, his silver hair standing out however, glimmering even in the dim lights of the living room. You press your lips together and drop one arm from his shoulder, then the second; you untangle your body from his, leaning back to wipe your tears off with the back of your hand.

“I wish I could tell him before he stormed out,” you whisper, picking up the cup of tea from the coffee table, “he deserves to know, regardless of what he wants to do with me. Mingi, are you sure you don’t know where he is?” your voice thins out, desperation resurfacing, “I would chase him to wherever he is—whichever dark corner he’s hiding in. He must know what my heart thinks of him.”

Mingi, whose silence was now speaking louder than before, watches you with brows scrunched at the centre, eyes glinting with a sheen you can’t figure out what it is. He stares at you, gaze lingering on your neck—the gauze—he felt its raggedness against his lips when he kissed you before, he almost drove himself to his edge when he got a sniff of your blood through it. One beat passes, then he scoots away from you, stands up and eyes the hallway behind him.

“He’s here…” he whispers under his breath, looking back at you. “Yunho’s here…”

Your eyes widen just for a second, heart palpitating too hard in your bony cage—a glimmer of hope crosses your mind, body melting into the couch. It’s like you’re having an epiphany, the best kind. Your gaze follows Mingi’s, darkened hallway calling out to you. Though before you could get yourself up from the couch, Yunho’s silhouette emerges out. His eyes find yours without any effort, and they don’t seem to leave you until he’s standing in front of you; swiftly, he leans over, planting his arms on the backrest of the couch to cage you against it. You look up at him, tears welling in your eyes, lips quivering with words you want to use to express your joy, but he doesn’t let you. His lips crash into yours, slow and soft.

You bring your arms around his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss which leaves you aching for air. Yunho is relentless, sucking and biting your lips, tongue eventually slithering into the warmth of your mouth; you could taste the remnants of Darjeeling tea, and smoke—the classic Marlboro, it excites. But apparently, not as much as Yunho, who doesn’t let the kiss stop, no matter how much his lungs beg him to. When the threshold comes down to suffocation, both of you part, reluctant regardless.

Yunho rests his forehead on yours, one hand wrapped around your neck while the other stays on the backrest; he licks his lips, tongue swiping deliberately as if to taste you on them. A shuddering breath parts his lips and he mumbles, “you love me, birdie?”

You nod, clinging tightly onto his neck. “So much.”

He pecks your lips—once, twice—then it turns to another heated and sloppy kiss, spit sliding down your chin, drool catching up with his lips and cheeks. You continue to cling onto him and his broad shoulders, while his hand stays firmly around your neck. Soon, every meagre second slows down, and you relish the moment even longer than the laws of physics could allow it.

You’re on your back, on the same couch, still making out with Yunho while Mingi witnesses everything. You had forgotten about his presence almost, but when he took a sharp breath, it reminded you he was still in the room with you. A sharp ache of pleasure pulses between your thighs, and you buck your hips up to meet his; you’re lying under him, bare—dress abandoned on the floor, lingerie spread out on the coffee table—except for your panties, which were clutched tight in Mingi’s hand.

Comprehension is long lost, you didn’t know how it came to this; you confessed, Yunho made his appearance, you made out and baam, suddenly you’re writhing under him, arms bound with his belt and flung over the armrest of the couch, while his lips continue to abuse yours. One knee between your legs, Yunho balanced himself on top of you, hands on the armrest to support his weight. You fist your hands tightly, feeling his tongue prod your gums before slipping even further to graze your uvula—it takes meagre effort from you to not gag when he purposely plunges his tongue down your throat. You whimper, instinctively try to fist your hands tightly, nails digging into your palms, drawing blood in the forms of crescents.

The burning ache between your legs forces you to clench your thighs together, but Yunho stops you from doing so; he slowly pulls out of your mouth, teeth catching onto your lower lip before he bites down hard to rupture the already broken skin on it. You bleed into his mouth, for a split second because he’s pulling back, sitting straighter. His gaze wanders to Mingi, who’s lounging in the armchair across from the couch, legs spread and cock straining against his sleep shorts. The bulge on both men is obvious, aching in the bounds of their pants.

Yunho meets your eye, lips curling one side with a smug little smirk. He slowly tugs at the hem of his shirt, jacket long strewn across the floor, next to your dress—he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it down on the floor. You stare at his bare chest, toned, shining with silver stretches of scars and other wounds—your gaze drifts from his prominent collarbones to his chest, then follow the trail going down his abdomen and disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Bubbling urge to touch grows heavy, and you lift your arms, only to a certain degree when he grunts in disapproval.

“No, doll,” he states, “hands above your head, at all times.”

A needy whine punctures your lungs but you obey, dropping your hands back against the armrest. Mingi chuckles, “she’s whiny when things don’t go her way, isn’t she?”

Yunho smiles, “she really is. Maybe you could take care of that mouth next time—not now,” he glances at Mingi briefly before looking down at you. “She’s mine to ruin tonight.”

You nod, “yours.”

“Good girl,” he praises you, cupping a side of your face with one hand while the other works around the button and zipper of his pants; he pulls them down along with his boxers, just enough to let his semi-hard cock spring out.

He wraps the same hand around the base of his cock, fisting and pumping it with few strokes to bring it to its full hardness. A low growl rumbles in his chest, keeping his lips parted when he voices it; you whimper too, aching with desperation to be touched. You’re soaking through the couch cushions, you could feel it, every drop of your arousal leaking and sliding down past your folds and the crevice between your ass. You want him so bad.

You whine again. “Yunho—Yunho, please—need you—need you please.”

Listening to your broken voice, both men groan and Mingi comments, “poor thing is desperate, Yun. Don’t tease her any longer.”

When Yunho turns to Mingi, he finds the man palming his crotch with one hand and the other holds your soaked and soiled panties to his nose. “You think so?” Yunho scoffs, giving himself a slow tug, thumb brushing across the reddened tip to smear the bead of precum, “then I better relieve her from her misery…”

The anticipation wrecks you harder, twisting your gut and tightening the knot in your stomach a little too hard, you could feel yourself leaking more profusely than before. Yunho doesn’t give in just yet—not really, he continues to stroke him, and his other hand, which had been so warm and snug on your cheek, gradually pulls away and disappears behind his back. You know what comes next; there’s only one thing he keeps strapped to the back of his waist—his dagger. It’s an ornament to him, six inches of blade, handle crafted with delicate skills, carved with intricate flowers on the metal casing. It’s his favourite, and he carries it almost everywhere—he hides it in a waist carry, which adheres itself to the loops of his pants and at times to his belt.

Leather of his belt cuts through your skin, irritating and stinging the portion; you’re constraining yourself, adrenaline running rampant in your veins, and anticipation roiling all your senses. Mingi blows a low whistle when the glint from Yunho’s blade catches his eye; it’s raised in front of you, shaking slightly as it’s not held in his dominant hand.

“Be careful with that thing, Yun,” Mingi remarks, but rolls his eyes when Yunho glares at him, “I don’t want blood to stain the couch, it’s a pain getting them off.”

“That’s what you’re concerned about?” Yunho laughs, shaking his head. “Typical, Mingi. You hear that, love? He’s worried about bloodstains on his couch.”

You whimper, “Yunho…”

Mingi blinks twice, dropping your panties to the side while continuing to palm and stroke himself through his sleep shorts. “You broke her, Yun. You broke that pretty little thing—she’s only whining and whimpering for your dick.”

Yunho rolls his shoulders out before sighing exasperatedly, “just keep watching, Mingi.”

Mingi holds one hand up, defensive, “alright, I’m watching. Do your thing. Wreck her. Break her apart, piece by piece.”

Yunho doesn’t pay much attention to Mingi after that; he only stares at you, laid under him, at his mercy. His eyes drink you up from top to bottom, one hand stroking his cock, and the other holding the dagger. You feel so small under his gaze, but at the same time, you feel admired—and he probably is, admiring all the marks he’s left behind on you, the cuts which are now mere scabs, some still healing, some healed to form faded silver strokes. You don’t let your eyes waver, you hold his; he swiftly swaps the dagger in his dominant hand, and you almost expect him to press the against your sternum, where cigarette burns and a few deep cuts already house, but he doesn’t.

The blade comes down on his other hand, he wraps it tight around it and with a simple tug, he cuts his palm. Blood pools out in beads at first, little droplets running along the cut before it starts streaming, flowing down his palm like little rivulets of crimson sins. You let out a gasp, watching him use his bleeding hand to stroke himself, coat every inch of his cock with his blood, even the tip. The dagger gets flicked off to the side, he doesn’t bother that it clatters with the glass top of the coffee table.

He never looks away either, eyes boring into yours, while he presses his lips together to suppress a wince. What comes out is a low groan, right from his chest, “fuck—you said you love me—you’re giving me a piece of your heart, little bird. And I—and I love you for it,” he leans down, bracing his non-bleeding hand on the armrest, while resting his forehead on yours, “I love you too, doll. And this is my way of showing it to you. It always has been.”

He kisses your cheek and whispers, “I bleed for you too, just the way you do for me. And what I bleed, has a purpose for you.”

You moan softly, not because of the pleasure building between your legs, but because of his words—because of the sheer affection he’s expressing to you in his own twisted ways. Yunho kisses your cheek one last time before pushing off of you slightly; he creates some space to align his cock against you, the tip already nudging—he strokes himself between your folds, once, twice, stimulating your clit just enough to have you mewling and whimpering, before he sinks into you.

Every inch plunging into you, draws out a groan from both of you; Yunho now braces himself on top of you by placing both his hands on the armrest, using it as a leverage to hold himself and thrust into you at the same time. His bleeding hand does stain the couch, and Mingi does indeed whine; you’re too lost in the pleasure caused by the stretch from his cock to even be bothered by it. Your eyes flutter close, hands struggle against the bounds of his leather belt, fingers twitching to touch him—but even trapped in ecstasy, you know better than to defy him.

Yunho buries his face in the crook of your neck, setting a steady pace; you could tell he’s not pushing in too deep, only fucking you with his tip and a couple more inches after it. Every pull creates a dull ache in the pit of your stomach, and every hard push knocks the air out of you, turning it to a high pitched moan. Mingi’s grunts echo too; you only turn your head slightly to catch a glimpse of him—he’s still on the armchair, shorts and boxers pushed down, hand around his own cock, matching the tempo of Yunho’s shallow thrusts. He’s noticing everything, but his eyes are fixed at the point where Yunho’s cock disappears into you.

“Fuck—fuck..!” Yunho groans, pushing another inch in, “so fucking tight—fuck, doll—how many times do I got to—do I got to fuck this tight cunt, so you could take me without any prep?”

Mingi let’s out a trembling laugh, “have some mercy on that poor soul, Yunho—” he grunts, bucking his hips into his hand and throwing his head back, “—she’s already taking that monster like a champ.“

Yunho joins Mingi with a laugh too, it’s vibrations brushing against you skin, “you’re right—she’s a champ—taking my cock—with no prep…” every phrase is punctuated with a thrust, and every thrust, forces a new inch deeper into you.

“Ah fuck, Yunho…!” you groan loudly, eyes fluttering open in both pain and pleasure, a delightful knot coming together in the pit of your stomach.

Yunho goes still, feeling slight resistance, “am I hitting it…?” he whispers under his breath, grinding his hips to feel around inside you. He had indeed hit your cervical opening, you could feel the head of his cock prodding and slipping away a bit. “Shhh, it’s okay—fuck—feels too good, love.”

His face is still buried in your neck, hands still on the armrest; yours are there too, not daring to touch his even on accident. You roll your hips into his, raising them and holding them in the position for a hot minute till you feel his thickness stretching your walls deliberately wider. A half-gasp, half-scream bubbles from your chest—the stench of burnt copper soon fills up the room, Mingi hums in satisfaction the second it hits his nose, followed by Yunho, who kisses the bite wound on your neck through the gauze. It’s a terribly reminds you that it’s still there, taunting him.

Yunho pulls back slightly before slamming back into you, hips resting flush against yours; he picks up his pace, your walls squelching around his cock, and the sound of skin slapping starting to grow loud. You whimper, feeling the stretch, the ache, the tight knot searing its pain in your stomach—until his teeth tug at the bound gauze around your neck, just enough to reveal the healing-wound. He doesn’t think twice, and sinks his teeth into your flesh, opening the wound, letting it bleed in his mouth.

A hum clatters against your skin, making you scream his name, “Yunho…!”

Mingi’s moan blends in with it, he’s jerking off to the both of you; his hand shows no signs of faltering, picking up its pace every stroke till he’s fucking his own hand. You could not give any fucks about it; you’re trapped in your own dark world—pain and pleasure simultaneously ripping out every moan and whimper with calculated rhythm of his thrusts, and gradually increasing intensity of his bites. You writhe and squirm under him, body shuddering and aching from the impacts of his thrusts—he’s picked up his pace, and it’s causing for the couch to creak and squeak.

“Fuck—Yunho…! Right there,” you gasp and moan, feeling your walls flutter around him once when he hits your spot.

Smirking, he tries to repeat the same for a few more times and every time he hits it, your walls clench tighter around his cock. You feel too much of him, every ridge, every bulging vein—every push and pull, till the tightness in your stomach reaches a peak and comes down in mere minutes. Your walls flutter profusely, working up to suckle him in deeper, as if it was possible to take him in any deeper than he already was. Yunho’s eyes roll in the back of his head; he pushes off your neck, lips blood stained, teeth too—he’s staring down at you, eyes meeting yours in a silent way that only you know how to read.

Your body shudders, tremors wrecking a havoc and forcing you to squirm. The aftershocks roll in soon after, legs twitching and eyes screwing shut at the heavy sensation between your legs; your pussy becomes overstimulated from his thrusts in a few more minutes. Though, you know he’s close too. He’s twitching, his hips stutter one time—then continue to do so, until his warmth floods you. He empties his load in pulses, rope after rope—clinging to every corner of your cunt, staining every bit of your velvety walls.

He rides out his high with a few more shallow thrusts. Your eyes open, meeting his, lips parting wide for a low moan to escape—the mellowed out and shallow thrusts aid your oversensitivity too—a short lived but intense second orgasm follows, making your spasm out of nowhere. Yunho grunts, dropping his forehead against your before he goes completely still inside you, letting you ride out your release now.

You kiss his cheek, try to bring your hands up to run your fingers through his hair, but the constraints don’t let you—it forces you to bend your arms in an awkward way, so you let them be as they are. Yunho’s chest heaves against yours, breathing turning ragged and short, matching yours; you’re both drained, and so is Mingi—you glance at him through other teary eyes, to find him wiping his cum laden hand on his tank top over his chest. You catch the sheen of his cum sprayed all over his tank top, darkening few spots a little more than the rest.

A gentle kiss to your neck, brings your focus back to the man nuzzling into your chest. Yunho rests his head on your chest, hair falling soft against your skin, his eyes closing and opening, much like yours now. He slowly peeks up, sliding one of his hands from the armrest to your bound ones, intertwining fingers with one of them, while the other cradles the nape of your neck.

“I’m not mad at you,” he whispers, “I could never be mad at you,” he catches his breath then continues, fingers rubbing circles on your neck, “doll, you know how much I resent you getting into trouble. And that detective, he’s trouble, love.”

You hear shuffling from next to you, probably Mingi getting up and leaving the both of you to talk. “I know he is.”

“But you still went to him,” he mutters, turning his head to rest it sideways on your chest, “did he scare you?”

You nod, “he did.”

“I think he’s onto us,” Yunho mumbles again, “we need to be careful, love. One wrong move and he knows everything.”

You hum, totally disregarding his words and chiming in, “Yunho…?”

“Yeah?”

“I really do love you.”

He peeks up at you one more time, eyelashes falling on his cheeks when he blinks—he’s a little dazed, either from the blood loss or the tiredness. You need to tend his cut before it gets serious—but knowing Yunho, he probably didn’t even cut himself so deep that it would pose any danger to him. And again when you find yourself losing your train of thoughts, Yunho anchors you to him with a soft whisper—he’s stays the truth and you realised it the hard way—fooling around with Jongho only made your feelings for him stronger. And you know, it might have led you to confess your true feelings to him, but either that could prove to be very stupid or encourage you to commit more sins.

“I love you too.” He smiles, “no one can replace me in your heart, and I know it.”

Series Masterlist

[xerotiny]

400 notes. Yess. Every little victory is celebratory. In that case, part four is in the works. And might come out soon. Stay tuned!

[xerotiny]

[3:21 am]

(because sleep doesn’t come easy to me at times)

So, I’m just here thinking, working on the next part for The Boy Next Door series, and suddenly a thought pops into the back of my head.

Go along with me, just for a second, please. It’s anything but pure and I’m pretty sure I’m ovulating. But anyway…

So, I personally think Yunho is the kind of guy who would be big into cum play (just to put it in a niche category). But here’s what I’m actually thinking:

He’s the kind of guy who’d hate letting his cum go to waste.

He’s alone, jerking off to the thoughts of all the things he wants to do to you, or watching one of the many sex tapes he has filmed on his phone/camera and when he comes undone, unravels to every filthy detail he remembers or sees, all he can think about is how his cum is going to end up in the trash bin.

He doesn’t want that, of course.

He hates it watching go to waste in the trash, rather than in your stomach.

To him, his cum is special. And no, he’s not going to discard it just because you’re not there.

There has to be a way, right?

So he stores it.

Probably in a glass container, resembling those honey jars, if he’s planned it.

Or else, it’s the most random thing he could find around him.

That too, he only stores it in case he’s going to see or meet up with you the next day. Otherwise it’s better if it goes to the bin.

The next day, when you show up at his apartment, unaware, clueless, he’ll push you down on your knees, while he’s perched on the edge of the bed—and force the cum from last night down your throat.

It’s a little cold at first. Probably from the refrigeration.

Then it turns salty. Sour. Vaguely stale.

But it’s still him.

And he’s happy that you swallowed every drop of what he fed you.

He might even reward you with a fresh load if you swallow it without gagging.

[xerotiny]

The Boy in Your Heart ☥ Jeong Yunho

Pairing(s): Jeong Yunho x fem reader x Song Mingi (ft. Choi Jongho)

Genre: dark romance, psychological thriller/drama.

Tag(s): DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, twisted lovers, established dynamic, dark romance, psychopath au, boy next door!yunho, neighbour!reader, sadist!yunho, hard dom!yunho, sub!reader, detective!jongho, hunter!mingi, dom!jongho, switch!mingi

Warning(s): smut, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering (f! receiving), voyeurism, pussy slapping, thigh riding, vampirism, blood play, using blood as lube, piss kink/piss play, rough sex, praise kink, humiliation kink, degradation, breeding kink, size kink, jealous!yunho, cheeky!jongho, pervert!mingi

Synopsis: meeting the detective wasn’t really a bad decision, but it followed you home like a mishap.

Word Count: 19.07k (sorry)

a/n: alright, since it’s meant to be a series, the female character will have a name—and here, it’s Park Seongmi. Well everything stays the same. Only the reader has a name. It doesn’t necessarily make her an oc. But if you choose to believe that then you can.

part one | part two | part three (you are here)

The cheerful afternoon you had settled into, now withers away with the dread of the text. As if staring at your phone screen made you believe it’d disappear somehow. But it didn’t. It stayed, lingered in every corner of your mind; you recall each day from last week, pondering whether you had let something crucial slip to the detective during your interrogation. Nothing seemed to shed a light upon the darkness inhabiting your memory. The only way of knowing what bullshit you had spewed is by taking up the invite from detective Choi. Meeting him wasn’t the problem, what really tormented you is finding an excuse to leave Yunho and visit the precinct.

When you hear the shower turning off, you hastily set your phone back on the nightstand and stare at the bathroom door. Yunho steps out not long after; a towel draped around his waist, hair wet and dripping everywhere, including his shoulders and skin glimmering with fine droplets of water. He pushes the damp strands back, out of his face and slicks them with the rest. With every step he takes toward your closet, you catch a subtle bounce between his legs; you never seem to admit, but his physical presence always riles you up and has you leaking between your legs. You watch him as he drops his towel, and rummages through the shelf in your closet specifically dedicated to him and his clothes.

You clear your throat, getting his attention, “do you have to be at clinic?”

Yunho spares you a glance over his shoulder and hums, “I believe so, I need to go in for a routine check.”

You hum back, eyes drifting away from him as he gets dressed in a simple dress shirt and slacks. “Why?” he turns around, questioning you while buttoning his pants.

“No reason,” you mutter under your breath, “it’s the weekend, so I thought you wouldn’t have to go.”

“Aww, you’re missing me already?” he coos, walking to the edge of the bed, standing on the side across from you. “I’ll see you in the evening, though. It’ll be some mere hours before I’m back again.”

“Right,” you take a deep breath, fingers pinching at the hem of his hoodie. “Well, I need to meet some of my coworkers too.”

There’s a flash of darkness in Yunho’s eyes; it disappears in a split moment, replaced by a cheery glint. “Of course. Where are you meeting?”

Your breath hitches. Where? You hadn’t thought it through. “It’s the Italian bistro downtown. Remember, we went there after a month you first moved in.”

Yunho’s lips twitch slightly, curling ever so lightly into his cheek. “Perhaps I do,” he rolls his shoulders out and runs a hand through his hair, water sprinkling in the air, “so, who all are going to be there?”

“Just a couple of work friends. You don’t know them.”

He raises his brow at you. “Then maybe I should get to know them. I would certainly be delighted to know bout the people my girl accompanies herself with.”

“Do you think they’d mind if I joined?” he adds.

“Yeah, probably,” you blurt out quickly. “I mean, I’ve never mentioned anything about you to them.”

“Then maybe today’s the day.” He trudges over to your vanity in the corner of your room; he picks up the lotion and starts patting it into his face. “Let them know who you really belong to. Who’s keeping you trapped in a cage.”

His gaze meets yours briefly in the mirror, and you look away; when Yunho’s eyes held yours the way they did now, he immediately finds the cracks in your words, sniffs out the lie as if he sees right through you. A beat stutters in your heart, mind blanking on the surface and lips trembling.

“Maybe not today,” you glance at your phone, “some other day. I’m sure they’re as excited as you are to…” you trail off when you raise your head back to him; he’s no longer by the vanity, he’s towering over you.

His fingers gently grasp your chin, tilting your head up to stare into your eyes. The warmth in his eyes dissipates to a certain formidable intensity, brown hue shrouded by oddment. He leans down, pecks your lips and straightens up, hand dropping from your chin. You’re scratching your head, seeking the meaning behind his actions.

“Fine,” he lets on a small smile stretch across his face, “some other day.”

You nod. “Are you mad?”

Don’t be mad, please.

Yunho laughs, as if he’s read your mind. “Doll, why would I be mad at you for wanting to spend some time with your work friends?”

“I’m not a monster,” he remarks with a lilt to his tone.

He picks up his wet towel from the floor, from where he dropped it off before getting dressed, and takes it with him to the dry balcony adjoining your room. Silence is all that whispers in your ears, and the sound of his hums which force you to ramble.

“No, gods no, I never said you are,” you blurt out, “It seems I may have disappointed you. I—I really do resent myself when I let you down for things I can control.” You peek up, watching him stride in with an elegant gait before he stops right in front of you again; this time your words don’t die in your throat, they bubble up to your tongue. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to be a bummer. I—I swear—and now I’m probably aggravating you…”

He holds your chin in between his fingers again, thumb pressing down as hard as it could to stop your nonsensical blabbering. Your lower lip juts out, mouth staying parted slightly. Without warning, he leans down and bites down hard on your pouting lip, aggressive enough to break your skin and letting it bleed. You whimper the moment his incisors sink into your flesh, alongside the canines which dig much deeper and cause the agonising sting.

Suckling your blood in his mouth, he pulls away; he stands straighter, his silhouette covering your shuddering figure on bed.

“What have I told you about rambling?” he grunts, fingers brushing your chin once before sliding down to wrap around your throat.

“No rambling,” you squeak, feeling the weight of his fingers push into the walls of your throat. He’s not choking you yet.

He hums, “that’s it.” He squeezes your throat, thumb digging into your windpipe to restrict your breathing. You gasp, clawing at his wrist but it’s no use. Suffocation soon knocks you out, throat going dry, chest heaving; you try breathing from your nose, albeit it’s useless too. Eyes start fluttering close, darkness engulfing in short bursts of a despair, and he never loosens his grip.

“I really despise conditioning you, my love.” He whispers, sounding genuine, concerned. “But it’s necessary.”

You choke on air, lightheaded and dizzy. Nails dig into his skin, but your fingers, however, uncurl one by one till your hand falls to the side. You’re so close to passing out, so close to tasting the sense of relief—and the he eases his grip, thumb rubbing circles on your hyoid bone.

“It’s necessary for you to learn your lessons,” he adds, voice dropping even lower, “apologies need to be felt, love.”

Yunho slides his hand from your throat to the back of your neck; he cradles you, fingers threading in your hair to soothe your ache. On the surface, this gentleness is more detrimental than his aggression, but you don’t have a choice. The sting on your split lip burns, flaring till it catches on your head and you wince, tears streaming from your cheeks. Your lungs scream, chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow. Tears welling in your eyes, blurs the edges of him, the faint smear of blood still glistening on his lower lip. You notice him staring at you too intently with his pupils blown wide; feigned tenderness shining bright.

“Shhh,” he drags his thumb to your jaw, smearing the wetness of a stray tear rolling down, “breathe for me. Slow. In…out.”

You try. You really do. But every breath you take, cruelly reminds you how your body shudders. Every inhale tastes like burnt copper and stale iron on your tongue, every pull of breath is a quiet suffering in its own way. Yunho stares at you, studying you a second longer—he’s contemplating, deciding, trying to figure out how much more you can take before you finally break. He really does hate breaking you apart during his “conditioning” sessions. Sadist in his heart but his conscience is much purer than that; he doesn’t think of it as penalising your actions, it’s more about the discipline, measures to keep you in line and if he doesn’t, you’ll go rogue.

Seconds tick louder than the meaningless protest your body screamed at you; lip stinging and bleeding into your mouth, eyes tearing up, chest still burning with an urge to breathe without having to cough. You bring both your hands to Yunho’s, wrapping them around his wrists—a gentle request to anchor him back to reality, particularly wanting to put a stop to this inane act of sadism.

He clicks his tongue, “count.”

Ignoring your pleas, he uses his free hand to push your hoodie over to your chest; it bunches up awkwardly, but stays, as if even the piece of clothing is scared of defying his command. One hand tightens around your neck, while the other traces down to your lower belly—fingertips sending a shiver down your spine the moment they graze against your sternum, and the dainty scabs of carvings he pleasured himself in last week. He presses his hand harder, putting pleasure right on your bladder.

“Yunho—I’m sorry—please,” you choke out, squirming, struggling to set yourself free from under him. Curling your fingers around the sleeve of shirt, you really do make an effort to ground him back to his more gentle state of mind. “No more—hurts—really fucking hurts.”

Every supplication parting your lip is snubbed with either a grunt or a more painful push of his hand against your lower belly. “Stop begging now, love. Your stupid habits earned you this,” he tuts, another click of his tongue resounding in the space between you.

You let out a helpless cry, raggedly breathing while he emphasises again, “spread your legs and count.”

There’s no other choice than to obligate—as if you ever did have a choice, your body’s been conditioned to obey his every word. With a small nod of his head, and a gentle hum reverberating from his chest, he eases his hand over your lower belly and caresses it over to your mound. Slow, agonisingly slow—to give you the false sense of gentleness before cracking you down. He raises his hand and in one swift motion, it lands hard on your already weeping cunt. There’s a little shame in admitting that you were most definitely turned on by your current state

You groan, thighs clenching with an instinct but he parts them back, pushing you down into the heap of pillows behind your head by the hand that’s still draped around your neck.

“One,” you whimper, tears never stopping.

When the second smack lands, he deliberately drags his thumb across your clit, with a purpose, with a tender intention.

“Two.”

Smack.

“Three.”

Smack.

“Four.”

Each slap is harder than the last. Fingers deftly pressing on your swollen folds, thumb drawling circles on your clit and your mind drunk on a pleasured haze. You could feel your arousal dripping down your inner thighs, and very much to your surprise, you also felt the pressure increase intently on your bladder.

Fifth one shoves a sob from your chest; your bladder screams in protest from the lingering press of his hand from before. Yunho’s face doesn’t twitch to the slightest; you can’t tell if he’s pitying you, or if he’s delighted to have you squirming and pleading under him, or if he’s really mad at you. His silence is lot more difficult to perceive and comprehend, because when he’s quiet, the demons in his mind whispers louder than usual.

With a grunt, he switches—back of his hand now, a stinging crack makes your thighs quake and your split lip reopen as you bite down on it to muffle your cries.

“Six,” you whine, eyes red and puffy, tasting your tears on your tongue.

An almost indiscernible hum leaves Yunho’s lips, and he brings his other hand to your abdomen from your neck; his fingers splay, spanning across every inch of your skin, pushing down. Your hoodie strains around your chest, bunched up right below your breasts.

“You’re doing so well, love,” he murmurs a praise which doesn’t come too often from him. “Four more, doll. You can take it.”

He raises his hand again, pinning you down with his other on your lower belly, and when it lands harder down on your puffy cunt. A blood curdling scream rips out of your chest, body spasming, thrashing, aching to be let go. Your hands flail to grab his wrist, not the one hitting you, no, the one pressing so damn hard on your bladder that it’s almost on the edge of grotesque pain.

“Yunho—please—please hurts,” you plead, nails digging into his skin and the cuff of his sleeve, “please…”

He clicks his tongue, tutting to shut you up in a way that’s only discernible between you two. “Three more, love. You’re taking it so good…”

The eighth and ninth smack knock all air out of you; chest heaving, tears no longer welling in your eyes, body on the verge of shutting down. Yunho doesn’t seem to care though, but you on the other hand, want to be good for him, want to show him you can take it. His hand slips down your belly to your mound, thumb drawing circles—pleasure coils tight, walls almost fluttering but never quite there. You’re so full, so close to shatter your control. Then, the tenth slap comes out of nowhere, making you scream again.

“Good girl,” he preens, cupping your swollen cunt in the fraction of second. “Such a good girl.”

You drop your hands to your side, lifeless, but proud you didn’t let go. Not yet. Vision blurs on the edges as you look at him; he shifts, the warmth of his hands dithering away from your body. One knee plants next to your ribs, the other one between your legs, keeping your legs parted and your red and weeping cunt on display. His fingers collect your arousal, sliding between your slit before they plunge right into you; your walls accommodate two of his fingers well, stretching, twitching—you’re used to it. The situation is so obscene; you’re dripping wet, soaking the sheets under you, some of your slick even slipping into the cleft of your ass. The sole pillow under your head is wet too, absorbing your tears and sweat, drool too, followed by the blood from your split lip.

You don’t know what to focus on. His fingers? His hand? Your bleeding lips which stings every time you bite it to muffle your screams. Or the impending stress looming in your bladder, just waiting to be let go? Yunho’s fingers don’t show you any mercy, no signs of stopping from their brutal assault; every push and pull is deliciously agonising, intensifying the ache building with every thrust in the pit of your stomach. You’re so sure it’s not the familiar tautness lingering in your stomach, it’s different—more humiliating, more tragic—if you give into it, you’d be reduced to his pretty little doll who pisses on his command. Those things are a far cry from what he’s done to you though; his fingers continue to plunge deeper into your cunt, fleshy walls squelching to make vulgar sounds, fingertips almost brushing that one spongy corner at the end before they draw back.

You’re craving it, the end of it all. You want to feel lighter, more relaxed and less anxious—he’s bringing you to it, to the closeness of your release. But it’s not the one which brings pleasure, or satisfaction.

“That’s it, love,” he coos. “Let go, let it all out. Make a mess on my hand.”

Yunho presses his hand harder on your mound, so hard that it’s beyond your control anymore. With a particularly strong thrust of his fingers, you feel the dam break—you gush out, body spasming, shuddering—humiliation slowly creeps from your gut, dispersing to your chest and face. You turn your head and try to hide in the pillow, hair mussed and disheveled; the scent of your salty tears and burnt copper from your blood lingers, then the sound of your gush hitting the sheets echoes in the room. A small trickle at first, and a second later, you’re flooding and soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Good girl,” he whispers, watching you wet yourself, watching your slick and piss coat his fingers as they continue plunging into you; the pace of his fingers eases to a halt, and he pulls them out, noticing a thin, almost golden, rivulet trailing down his wrist. He chuckles, “aww, my little bird made a mess.”

You groan into the pillow, chest hurting with how hard you were breathing. You could feel the heat on your cheeks, the never-ending flush of humiliation still warm and nagging—your flow slows to a trickle again, and he finally lifts both his hands. Their warmth drifts to your sternum, lightly, a subtle change of heat before the hand which was inside you, covered in your slick and piss, forces its way to your mouth. You stare at him, eyes wide but not amused; he pushes the same fingers into your mouth, rubbing them on your tongue.

“Suck,” he commands and you obey, wrapping your lips around his knuckles and sucking his the digits.

You taste yourself, musky and salty, before gagging on his fingers as they slide down deeper into your throat. Once his fingers are clean, he pulls them out, dripping with your spit, shimmering under the crackling sunlight of late afternoon.

“Colour?” he has the audacity to ask.

Regardless, you reply, “green.”

The safeword system never comes to play with him, not unless he’s genuinely concerned and willing to acknowledge what he’s done. Yunho lets out a small hum before tracing your bottom lip with his thumb; your blood, having dried up now, smears just the slightest bit on his skin. With a click of his tongue, he picks you up in his arms, cradling you close to his chest. He carries you to the bathroom, sets you down on the sink counter, and straightens out your hoodie. You settle down with a wince, clinging onto his shoulders even as he steps back and out of the bathroom; in your own twisted way, you missed his warmth, missed his presence around you.

While you simmer in silence, Yunho takes off the ruined sheets, throws them in the washer in the dry balcony, and returns with a warm cup of tea. He sets the cup next to you, mumbling, “that should calm you.”

He opens the cabinet above the sink, pulling out necessities—soothing balm, a fresh roll of gauze, cotton swabs, antiseptic solution and some q-tips. Your cabinet is a mini pharmacy; so are the drawers of your nightstand—painkillers, bandages of all sizes, gauzes, pain patches, hot and cold compresses, contraceptives, box of condoms (which he only used one time), and other meds. As much as Yunho delighted himself in your pain, he wasn’t fond of letting you endure it through day and night; he would tend to your wounds, cuts, take care of your aches with drugs—and all the other things. All of it is sprawled over the counter while he takes a minute to unbutton his shirt and drop it into the laundry hamper beneath the sink. Bare from upper half, he steps back in front of you, close enough for you to feel his breath warming your cheeks.

“Did I hurt my doll?” he whispers, cupping your face with one hand as he uses the other pick up the tin of balm. “We need to change your bandage,” his fingers gently brush against the old gauze wrapped around your neck; he simply sighs and opens the tin, “first, let’s stop this bleeding. It looks a bit angry.”

You glare at his chuckle, but it soon softens to a look of gratitude and appreciation. He dips the tip of his thumb into the tin, coating it with clear salve-like gel before spreading it across your split lip. It stings for a tenth of second, before it dissolves to a comforting sensation. Yunho hums as he applies the balm; you just stare at him, lips parted, breaths hitching at the domestic proximity between you two.

“Should’ve had the tea before, love,” he mumbles, voice dropping low, “never mind, you can drink it once it’s dried up, hmm? I’ll reheat it for you.”

You bring your arms around his waist, a habit you’ve picked up on during tender moments like these. Aftercare with Yunho was the best; he spoke, he made an effort, he was a gentle giant—an astronomical contrast to who he is when his eyes are the darkest. You push yourself closer to him, tipping your head on his chest before looking up at him.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, “I didn’t want to make you angry.”

“It’s okay, doll,” he smiles, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “Even if you did, you learnt your lesson, didn’t you? And that makes me happy.”

He runs his free hand through your hair, while the other sets the tin aside. “I’m the happiest man alive when my baby listens to me.”

You hum softly, ingraining it in your brain; you’ve done it countless times before, inculcated his likes and dislikes in your bones by now. You know what makes him happy, you know what makes him mad, you know what disappointment means, and you are adept at knowing how rare these gentle moments are with him.

“Look up, my love,” he tilts your chin up lightly, dainty fingers going to the knot of gauze around your neck, “let me change this, hmm? Then I’ll run you bath, and pick your outfit for the night.”

The bandage and gauze come off smoothly, and once they’re discarded into the bin under the sink, he scrutinises and studies the bite mark on your neck. “Oh, it doesn’t look so bad,” he remarks, “it’s healing well—maybe in the coming two, three days it might heal completely.”

He keeps you engaged with soft talk while he douses a cotton swab in antiseptic solution. “I wish I could stay long enough to dress you up myself, make sure every inch of your body is covered—except for maybe some of my marks,” he trails off, pressing the cold cotton swab against the bite. You hiss, tightening your arms around his waist. “There, love. It’s fine—it stings all the time, doesn’t it? I’ll kiss it better soon.”

He moves onto applying an anti inflammatory cream to the cleaned wound; he’s gentle as always, careful not to sting you much. You do squirm, however, the cold sensation burning on your skin. His fingers are adept at that gentle touch, slow and steady.

“Is it hurting?”

You shake your head.

“What does it feel like?”

You slowly peak up at him. “It burns. But I love it.”

“Of course you do, my love.” He sets the tube aside and starts wrapping up the gauze around your neck. “I know my doll loves being mine,” he titters, tying up the ends of the gauze at the nape of your neck. “And I, get super ecstatic, when my little birdie knows who she belongs to. When she wears my marks so proudly.”

Your toes curl, arms tighten and a small gasp rips its way out your chest. “Yunho…”

“Yeah baby, I know.” He chuckles again, “all done for now. How are the cuts on your stomach…?”

“Healed,” you pull away, and lift your hoodie, showing off your stomach which hold the scabbed slashes he made a little while ago. “They itch.”

Yunho hums, “they absolutely do.” He wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest, “remind me after your bath, I have a spray which makes it more tolerable, hmm?” he leans in to kiss your temple, mumbling in your hair, “don’t get the bandage wet, alright.”

“I’ll get the bath started for you,” you nod at him, watching him with wide eyes as he leaves the bathroom and heads into the bedroom.

Sticky and covered in your own piss and slick, you wait for him patiently, letting your feet dangle off the sink counter. You don’t feel the burns on your skin anymore, what does ache in your stomach is the revelation of dependency. Manipulation has different names, but the most abhorrent one is love. Yunho loves you, he cares for you, it’s in his own way, his own language you’ve started to learn; he’s altered your brain chemistry too, coercing you to rely on him for every little thing.

Footsteps echo on the marble floor, Yunho strides in, now dressed in a black cashmere sweater and the same pants from before. He’s wearing his frameless glasses this time, dark eyes glistening with proud mischief and sinister glaze. Sparing you a glance, and a small smile, he rolls the sleeves of his sweater to his elbows. Once they were secured around his joints, he lets the tap run in the tub, warm water filling it up. He’s meticulous, and careful. You only watch him, eyes moving with every movement of his hands, or his body.

In minute’s time, the bathroom fills with wafts of lavender and rosemary; bath salts, bath oils, all the lotions and potions you like. He straightens up from the tub, approaching you with a gentle gait; he kisses the crown of your head before pulling off the hoodie from your body, baring you to him. You let your head fall against his shoulder when he picks you up in his arms and carries you to the bathtub. He lowers you with a gentle touch, your body sinking into the warm water; the initial resistance of your weight breaks to a relaxing spasm of your muscles. Water sloshes around you when you’re completely submerged inside.

A deliberately soft and lingering gets pressed to your lips, body going numb at the softest caress of his lips against yours. He stands up, as gracefully as he could, grabs your cup of tea from the sink and flashes you a twitch of his lips.

“Let me reheat this and I’ll bring it back to you.” He states before walking out back into the bedroom.

He’s not gone for long this time. The steaming cup of tea is placed on the boarder edge of the tub you were leaning against; you catch a glimpse of the steam rising, some dissipating into thin air, some merging with the mist from the water in the tub. Yunho slowly rolls down the sleeves of his sweater, and runs a hand through his hair, slicking back the stray strands.

“Are you leaving?” you squeak, noticing him tend to his hair with an exaggerated haste in the cabinet’s mirror right over the sink.

“Yeah,” he hums. “I have to. There was a batch recall on one of the paediatric antibiotics we use a lot.” He explains, “it’s a routine supply check, anyway. I’ll be back home soon.”

You nod and he continues. “I hope to be in time to see you all dolled up for your night.”

“It’s alright, you can take your time, love.” You mumble, closing your eyes as relaxation courses through your veins to your mind.

He pouts lightly, turning to you, “well, I already do not feel good about letting you dress on your own.”

“Did you pick out my outfit?”

He nods. “Laid on the bed. I’ve changed the sheets, so don’t worry about it. And the soiled ones are in the washer,” he resumes setting his hair, “if I’m early, I’ll let it dry in the balcony.”

You hum in satisfaction, barely even listening to him at this point. “We can’t let it stay in the washer…”

“I know…” he glances at you again, “if it’s done before you leave, then maybe you should do it.”

“I will,” you slowly open your eyes, looking at him, “will you be home early?”

“I might.” He steps back from the cabinet mirror. “I need to get changed before I go meet Mingi at the cabin.”

“A special occasion?”

“Something like that,” he says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants, “drinks and stuff.”

“Have fun.”

“Hmhm,” Yunho grunts as a response before walking out of the bathroom, stranding you in your tub.

When the slightest echoes of front door opening and closing reaches you, you sigh and grab your cup of tea; it’s piping hot, but the undertones of chamomile and Darjeeling tea are soothing enough to be even bothered by the accidental burn. The warmth of the tea spread from your mouth, down your oesophagus—snuggling in your chest before ending in your stomach. It’s the kind of comfort you never want to lose.

Time is at a standstill, a crack in nature’s soul; you soak up the warmth from water, lavender scent sticking to your skin like glue, and the scent of rosemary calming your nerves. Sulking in the dim lights, you close your eyes once more to truly relish the delight of your bath. Yunho knows what you need. All the time. He knows you like the back of his hand—the scents you’d crave, the soap you’d prefer, or the conditioner you’d like to leave in your hair. Aftercare with Yunho is the ultimate experience; he’s gentle, comforting, and amicable in ways you had never imagined him to be. At least not when he’s feasting on your body like it’s the last meal he’ll ever eat.

Every flutter in your heart is accustomed to him by now; every blink of your eye replies back with a picture of him burned in your mind, he’s everything you crave, for now and maybe for eternity. You let out a choked sob, the heaviness from countless situations drowning you back into the warm water he’s prepared for you. Every easing twitch in your muscles could to a tightness which brings dread and conspicuous fatigue to your mind and body alike. You’ve gotten yourself into a delicate quandary, and ironically, the only one to break your shackles is yourself. If talking to detective Choi could even clear Yunho’s name out in the slightest, you’d be happy.

Recounting to the blurry memories of last week, you do know Yunho was subjected to initial suspicion. However, a man reputed to be anything but kind, alongside his designation to be a paediatrician, cleared it off in a blink of an eye. As amusing as it was, reputation and money can bring you immense power to do as your heart desires. Yunho’s only desire? He wanted to keep you safe. Not himself. He wanted to keep you from the droning interrogations, manipulative tactics of the detectives and certainly, he doesn’t want you to spew the truth about that night to anyone.

You were way over in your head. One wrong word uttered to detective Choi, and you could be paying for it with your life. As much as you didn’t want to believe it, you knew Yunho would discard you with a snap of his fingers if anything goes south. You really a toy for him to play with, fuck with. There’s no way he’d care about you, right? He probably doesn’t. These inklings are so deeply rooted in your brain, the second they start resurfacing, you feel searing hot ache of fear rise in your chest. Your guts twist, stomach drops. The bath doesn’t comfort you anymore; it starts to suffocate you.

Water splashes everywhere when you frantically try to get out of the tub; you almost slip, stepping out. Fumbling to the bedroom, naked and trembling, you look around till your eyes land on the dress he’s laid out for you on the bed. A black maxi dress with lace detailing around the Victorian neckline and sequins across the hem, long sleeved to cover your arms, and still flattering enough to turn heads. He bought it for you a couple of months ago; said he couldn’t remember why he purchased it, but when he saw you wear it, he knew it wasn’t a pointless purchase. Yunho purposely bought you dresses which covered you up whole; he didn’t like showing his marks on your body to others. Only he got to see them, only he got to touch them and revere them. You never squeaked against his wishes.

When you’ve composed yourself, you stumble to your closet to grab a towel. You pick out a fluffy one, soft enough to pat yourself dry. Patting is the only way where your bruises didn’t hurt, or the cuts didn’t weep crimson. The warmth of towel contrasts gravely to the ache on your skin; you continue to pat yourself till you’re fully dry. Dressing up by yourself isn’t really a task, but having someone do it for you has become a habit you can’t break out of. Every time you slip on a piece of clothing, you’re reminded of Yunho’s gentle touch, and the praises he’d sing.

You’re halfway through slipping on your safety shorts when you hear the front door open and close. Yunho’s back already. Well he did say he wouldn’t take too long to return, neither is his clinic too far away from home. By the time he’s in the room, you’re pulling on the sleeves of the dress.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” he promises to someone on the phone; most probably Mingi. “Yeah, I just got home. I’ll change and leave…”

You watch him pace across the floor to stand behind you, one hand grabbing a hold of the zipper while the other held his phone. There’s a cigarette trapped between his lips in the corner of his mouth, tip burning red and smoke curling in air. With a simple tug, he pulls the zipper close. However he stops midway through to press a soft kiss to spine, right above the hooks of your bra; the cigarette returns between his lips, burning bright red. When your dress is zipped, he turns you around with one hand and wraps it around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. Like an instinct, your arms rest on his chest, the cashmere feeling soft and warm before you slide them to his waist too.

“I’ll give you a call when I leave, alright?” he hangs up the phone and pushes it back in the front pocket of his pants. “All dressed?”

You nod. “Everything okay at the clinic?”

“What could’ve gone wrong?” he whispers, a certain lilt lacing his voice. Both of his arms wrap tightly around you, pulling you even closer to him. “Let me know when you’re done, hmm? I’ll drop you off.”

You tense up, every inch of your muscle tightening; he could feel it too, and you know how easily he sees through your body language. “You don’t have to. I can drive by myself.”

“I know you can, love,” he mumbles, smiling widely. “Mingi and I have some stuff to deal with downtown. If I’m heading there, might as well drop you off at the bistro.” Pulling the cigarette from between his lips, he adds, “and wouldn’t your coworkers like to know you have a sweet little boyfriend who dropped you off? Or you rather have them think I don’t care about you at all?”

You shake your head in a frantic haze, the rough fabric gauze stinging your skin. “Babe, they—you really don’t have to.”

“Seongmi,” he states your name sternly; it’s a rare occurrence where Yunho would use your name, and even rarer when it’s during an argument. “I’m not asking you, love. I’m telling you.”

“I need to change my clothes over at my apartment,” he mumbles, taking a drag from his cigarette, “meet me down in the parking lot when you’re done.”

Clasping the cigarette in between his forefinger and middle finger, he blows out a cloud of smoke before kissing your lips. You’re all by yourself in the room, making final touches to your makeup, spritzing perfume, pretending you’re getting ready for a dinner date with your coworkers. You’re too scared of Yunho knowing the truth, too afraid he’s going to find out you’re lying just to meet the detectives from last week who really got on his nerves. If he loses his calm tonight, how would he react? What would that be like? More cuts? More bruises? More sadistic intimacy?

A short elevator ride later, you’re in the parking lot—you know his car by heart now, the black sedan you’ve had countless adventures in. He’s already there, smoking a cigarette, propped against the trunk, face alighted by his phone’s screen. You notice him scrolling, contemplating; judging by the twitch in his eyebrows, you could tell he was going through old texts from Mingi or someone else. The littlest of glimpse you could catch from his phone’s screen is the plethora of words blurred against a dark background. He’s too quick to lock his phone, stuffing it in his pocket before you could even question him.

When his eyes meet yours, you swallow even the smallest of doubts in your mind—the darkness in them always makes you cave, always reduces you to something you aren’t fond of. One of his hand slides to your cheek, cupping a side of your face while leaning in to peck your lips.

“There she is,” he whispers, “ready to go?”

You nod, running a quick gaze over him; he’s changed out of that cashmere sweater, replacing it with a black shirt and a leather jacket, the pants stayed the same. There’s slight tint to his lips, subtle gloss glimmering under the dimmed lights; his black rimmed glasses catch the similar glare before disappearing to a clear sight of his eyes. He takes your hand in his, purposely dragging his fingers across the length of your arm, tips creasing the fabric and your skin trickling with goosebumps.

The ride to the bistro is as quiet as it could be. Not much said, not much insinuated. Just the occasional comments he’d make on the songs from his playlist, breaking the beats of serenity between you two. City lights turn bleak on the windshield, creating a storm of neon and fluorescence. Outside the air seems to be free, moving, frisky—inside it’s stale, suffocating, cigarette stench lingering and concocting with Yunho’s scent. A whisper of musk, sweat, sandalwood and leather, contrasting sharply with your perfume which has citrus undertones. Throughout the drive, one of his hands stayed on the wheel while the other rested on your thigh, occasionally leaving to switch gears.

The last song on his playlist fades to a certain silence, he still hasn’t said much. Not more than a mumble. Regardless, it did not make you feel uneasy. Yunho’s silence sometimes speaks more than the words he utters and for all the odd reasons, you would rather prefer his speechlessness. When the next song picks up on its tempo, Yunho turns to you, the car slows down, signalling to the right and eases to the curb.

“Call me when you’re done,” he mutters, leaning over the console to kiss your nose, “I’ll come pick you up—and if time permits, maybe I’ll even drop by inside. Meet these coworkers you never mention to me about.”

You glare, but your lips curl to a playful pout, “are you teasing me?”

“Come on,” he chuckles, his shoulders shaking with pure amusement, “I just find it odd that suddenly, the people you hated at work, become important enough to meet on a Saturday night.”

“Yunho, if you’re instigating something, then say it outright. You know I don’t like games.” You whine softly.

He continues to laugh, body shuddering, “no—no, I’m not instigating anything at all. Just have fun, alright?” his hand squeezes your thigh lightly, “I’ll come pick you up. Give me a call.”

“Yeah, alright.” You shake your head and smile weakly at him, “I’ll see you later then.”

“Hmhm,” he hums softly, unlocking your door.

You step out of his car, onto the pavement leading to the bistro—a small, cosy establishment with an awning draped in fairy lights. It’s the same, nothing has changed since the first ‘date’ you had him after he moved in. You turn slightly, closing the door and crouching to look at him through the window he rolls down in exact time.

“Have fun,” he repeats one more time, a smile so wide on his face that it makes you hesitate. There’s an ulterior motive hidden in the plain sight; it’s something you won’t ever know until you’re knees deep in the mess he’s made. “See you soon.”

The echoes from his words keep you stranded to your spot, even when his car has left your vision line. Mind stuck on the smile he flashed, dissecting every fragment till it slipped to a fiendish frown, you don’t have the strength in you to visit the detective anymore. He knows. He definitely knows. He really was playing you, toying you around so you’d come clean to him. There are plenty of ways where he could force you to spit the truth out, but there’s a different kind of satisfaction when he pulls you to the point where you unravel yourself and blurt out everything.

Minutes later when you move, it’s not in the direction of the bistro’s entrance, it’s to hail a cab.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The precinct is unbothered to your presence; you sit in the chair propped in front of detective Choi’s desk, but his chair remains empty. You fiddle with your fingers, staring at the way your hands tremble in your lap. Faint and muffled ‘see you later’s reverberate in the distance, detectives saying their farewells, officers gathering their things to leave for the night. The rush was settling down, pulling you in and out of a daze, where you mulled over the coming consequences. Yes, you were reluctant to visit the precinct, and the hesitation was valid for all the right reasons.

A subtle crinkle in time peels your mind out of the trance, almost teary gaze focusing on the little notepad on his desk; detective Choi was said to be stuck in an important interrogation, not much details were offered by the police officer you came across, but he did say it might take him an hour or so to be done with it. You thought time would slip through your fingers like sand, instead it fleets and drones on and on. The cab ride to the precinct only took you thirty minutes, with the ticking clock now—it’s been a total of forty five minutes since you were made to wait. Which means, it’s been over an hour. You were measuring time in the hopes of not calling Yunho; he asked you to call him once you were done, but if you were done early, why would there be a need for you to call him?

You heave a sigh, and pull your phone out, thinking to pass your time scrolling through a banal conversation you had with your work friend. As amusing as it was Yunho, you really did not befriend any coworkers of yours, except for the woman you share your cubicle with. Her name is Soojin—she’s enthusiastic, determined and dedicated, and she makes you look better. Soojin has a tendency of speaking without processing it in her head first. She’s quite feisty, one might say but she’s also equally kind and eloquent. Though, you’re really not going over your texts, you’re trying to remember all that you had said to detective Choi during your last interaction. The words do come back, some vague, some quiet stern and prominent.

The only motive you had today was to clear your and Yunho’s name out of this investigation. You aren’t exactly the suspects, rather witnesses—a missing case has blown out of proportions when detective Choi found a smear of blood on the first floor’s landing. Lab reports confirmed they belonged to Jiwoo. Detective Choi got a lead, and the case took a new direction. Witnesses became suspects.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Park.” Detective Choi’s voice rings out to pull you out from your mind, “duty calls. Interrogations are turning to be quite taxing, you see.”

Your gaze travels in his direction, fixating on the way he walks and perches on the edge of his desk; he’s wearing a black leather jacket, similar to Yunho’s, and underneath is a blue plaid shirt, halfway tucked in. Detective Choi is shorter than Yunho, maybe by a few inches, but his physique is no joke. A well trained individual, putting in extra efforts to keep himself in shape—he’s mentioned kick boxing in passing, the last time he was questioning you. Silly thing to mention really.

“It’s fine,” you mumble. “I didn’t mind the waiting.”

His wince grabs your attention to his hands from his face. Knuckles bruised, skin split open to bleed while he figures out a way to tend to them.

He catches your eye and smiles, “went a little too hard on this guy. Some officers brought him in for petty crimes—robbery I suppose.” Moving effortlessly around, he grabs a bottle of antiseptic solution from the cabinet under his desk, and a fresh roll of cotton cloth. “If there’s one thing I really do despise, Ms Park, is a liar. Everyone’s hiding something, isn’t it? It’s my duty to bring the truth out, and I don’t care what measures I use to do so.”

You swallow audibly, hands grabbing the armrests of your chair in a haste. Clutching the smooth wood tight enough for your knuckles to turn while, you squeak, “I believe that is why you’ve called me in today?”

“I don’t deem you a liar, Ms. Park. Not yet,” he chuckles, struggling to open the bottle of antiseptic solution with one hand without hissing in pain at every subtle twitch of his fingers, “damn it.”

Listening to him curse, you get on your feet and open the bottle for him. You snatch the cotton cloth from is other hand, soak it with the solution and press it firmly against his bleeding hand; cradling it gently in yours, you make sure to clean every crevice of the knuckle while blowing air at his split skin.

“I’m not a liar, detective.”

“And I never said you were.” He whispers, “and call me Jongho. I think we should be on first name basis if you’re...”

The intention hangs heavy in air, his breath fanning your cheeks and your eyes meeting his; you hadn’t realised how close you were to each other, even if the corner of his desk was wedged between you two. Whiff of his scent lingers closely, a sensual concoction of wildflower and citrus undertones, something similar to yours but more manly. The intimacy isn’t surprising—the dainty caresses of your fingers against his knuckles, the cloth acting like a non-existent barrier between you—you’re used to it, but not used to his soft gaze hovering over every detail of you.

Jongho clears his throat, looking away, “I can take care of the rest,” he takes the cloth from you and starts dabbing on his knuckles himself. “While we’re at it…” he nudges slightly with his head to the chair, silently asking you to sit. “I’d like to have some follow up question regarding your last statement.”

You sit down with a heavy sigh. “I thought we cleared out all misunderstandings last time itself.”

Jongho shakes his head. “It’s more than that, Ms. Park.”

“And what could that be?”

“Like I said, just some questions,” he shrugs, wrapping the cloth around his hand before grabbing his notepad and a pen, “could you help me recollect that night’s events, Seongmi?”

Your throat runs dry, muscles tensing. “As much as I can recall, I didn’t meet or come across Jiwoo the entire day, I was at work.”

“And?” he prompts, “what about when you came back?”

You sigh. “Like I told you last time, I did not see her when I came back either.”

Jongho nods, “alright, if you say so,” he clears his throat again, “if I may, I’d like to read out your statement from last time.”

“On the night in question, I was at home after work. I remember I was really tired and exhausted from the day, so I stayed in and didn’t go out. There was an incident involving some sort of noise—not sure if it came from upstairs or from my next door neighbour’s apartment, but I was too lethargic to hear anything further.”

Jongho flips back to the fresh page on his notepad, pen slipping off from his fingers. “This is what you said last time, Ms. Park.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“You said you did not leave the apartment,” he states, “then why has your next door neighbour mentioned in his statement that he was with you the entire night?”

You swallow hard, lungs crashing down, mind falling steeper into a void. “Is that so?” you squeak, looking down at your trembling hands holding onto your knees, to anchor yourself to reality.

“I suppose, you aren’t the liar then, is it? Maybe your neighbour is.” He hums softly, “it’s fine, Seongmi. You can tell me what happened that night. If you speak the truth, I might let you go unharmed by the law.”

You look up at him, eyes welling up with tears but none steeping down your cheeks. “Alright,” you whisper with a broken voice, “I’ll tell you the truth.”

He hums and straightens up, setting the notepad aside and reaching over to the other side of the desk to grab his recorder. It gets placed on the desk, closer to you; he presses the start button and prompts you to speak up. You stare at the recorder, showing the running seconds and swallow the lump in your throat.

“Right, I—I was with my neighbour all night,” you begin, hands sliding onto the armrests, nails scratching at the coating on the wood. “I came back from work around eight, or so, I don’t really recall, maybe it was much later. I was lounging on the couch when I received a text from him, asking me to come over at his place. For a casual hangout.” You glance at Jongho, whose brow is raised high on his forehead. “I did go over to his place, we had a couple of drinks and that’s it.”

Jongho hums, mulling. He stops the recorder and sets it aside. “Is that all, Seongmi?”

“Yes,” you state firmly, bringing one hand up to your hair to fiddle with a few strands, “that’s all I can remember.”

“Then why did you lie the first time?”

You yelp, “because I was scared. I was worried I would be deemed to be a suspect.”

“Lying is the preamble to suspicion, Ms. Park.” Jongho clicks his tongue, getting off the desk with a swift slide and turning to sit in his chair, “it’s me who gets to judge you, whether you become a suspect or stay a witness. You do know that obstruction of important information can be a crime too?”

You stare at him, eyes wide, lips trembling, heart stuttering in your chest. There’s an ache in your ribs which flares with every second, with every breath you heave out. “I am not hiding anything. I’m as truthfully as I could be. Yes, I lied before. But I only did it over the concern of my well being.”

“Relax, Seongmi. You don’t have to be so defensive,” he shrugs, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him, “I’m not accusing you of the crime. Would never, I suppose. It’s still a missing persons case, regardless of the evidence…” he trails off, shifting suddenly in his chair to prop his elbows on the desk and lean closer to you, “…blood could hardly count as a solid evidence against anyone. Did we find the body yet? No. There is a possibility, this case could be a second degree murder.”

Your breath catches in your throat, body shuddering; your mind reels in time, going back to the cabin—Jiwoo’s body in a suitcase, Mingi, Yunho’s workshop.

“Need water, Seongmi?” he asks but slides a bottle to you regardless. “Drink some. It might help you calm your nerves.”

You pick up the bottle immediately and tear open the lid, guzzling down almost more than half of it before setting it back on the desk. “All better now?” you nod to him and take a deep breath, “a second degree murder?”

“Hmm. I suspect it is.” Jongho nods, “nothing premeditated, just a spur-of-the-moment killing with malice.”

“Who would do that to her?” you retort, “Jiwoo was a kind soul. No enemies. No bad blood. That’s not possible.”

“You’d be surprised with the kind of cases I have to deal with at times,” he chuckles, a satirical one, “I’ve seen people get killed for less.”

“But Jiwoo?” you whisper, “I don’t think…”

Jongho shakes his head, “believe me, Ms. Park,” he continues, “I’ve had cases much worse than hers.“

He grabs your half empty bottle from the desk and discards it in the bin under the desk. “Anyway, that’s not the point, is it? I did not call you here to discuss the law.” He laughs again, “I do have certain questions about your neighbour, though. Jeong Yunho…”

You visible stiffen at his words. “What about him?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he starts, “I did a thorough background check on that guy, and he is clean, really clean. Couldn’t find much on his family, though. Has he ever mentioned anything about his family to you?”

“We’re mere acquaintances, detective,” you reply, “I don’t suppose he has ever brought up his family in the conversations we’ve had.”

“Right,” he nods and leans back against the chair, crossing one leg over the other, “it would be strange if he spoke of his family to you,” his eyes narrow at your neck, “hurt yourself, Ms. Park?”

You unconsciously touch your neck, fingertips grazing the gauze which peeks from the neckline of your dress. “Oh—kind of, scratched myself a little too hard.”

“You should be careful, Seongmi.” He sighs, rubbing his temples, “pretty things lose their value when they get scratched up.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it’s supposed to mean,” he smirks slightly before glancing at the clock on his desk, “it’s getting late. Half of the precinct has emptied out. Do you eat dinner?”

You gawk, thrown off guard by his sudden question. “Of course I eat dinner. What kind of silly question is that, detective?”

“Then you wouldn’t mind eating with me, would you?” he asks, already getting up from the chair, “I made you wait long enough—and the questioning—I suppose you could spare an hour to have a meal with me. I’ll even drop you off.”

You contemplate, think really hard, weigh all the consequences which would follow if you agreed to his offer. What’s the worst that could happen? Yunho finds out you went to him, he conditions you in one of his brutal ways, chants apologies when he’s done and murmur I love yous to your face. The vicious cycle continues no matter what. There’s really no point in contemplating something when you’ve already made up your mind.

“Alright…”

“Jjigae sounds good, doesn’t it?”

The night air is colder tonight, biting into your skin while the warm stew proffers some comfort against it. You’re sitting across Jongho, who hasn’t said a word since the food arrived and has been too busy slurping the stew with eventual bites of the grilled fish. The restaurant was nothing more than a cluster of red plastic tables huddled under a heavy orange tarp. It was a small local restaurant a few blocks from the precinct, and something said the detectives and officers frequented this place quite often.

“Is it not good?” Jongho asks, sipping a spoonful of his kimchi stew, “it’s one of the best stews in the district,” he chuckles softly, setting his spoon down. “Do you not like stew or is this type of setting not really your thing?”

You shake your head, “no, it’s not that…”

You throw a gander around, noticing the sparse crowd of people occupying the farthest tables; some of them laughing loudly, some cheering, some drunk on the cheap soju, while some are arguing over mundane matters. The fluorescent bulbs cascade beams of lights across the table, but most of the spaces still stay in the shadows. The butane stove between you two on the table hisses with a sharp sound, burning with a blue flame to keep the stew nice and warm.

“Then what is it?” he asks, smile stretching his lips, “scared I’d interrogate you?”

“Not really,” you pick your spoon, “I doubt you’d even ask me questions out of the precinct.”

“Hey, I might,” he laughs, picking up his chopsticks, “but I’ll go easy on you.”

You take a sip of the stew, humming in satisfaction when the spices hit your taste buds. “What more could you ask?”

Jongho goes silent for a while, he picks at the white flesh of the fish, not really bothering to eat it; when the chopsticks roll out of his fingers, he grabs his glass of soju and guzzles it in one breath. The burn makes him wince, but it’s too subtle that you fail to notice his gaze back on you, intense and heated. Jongho’s eyes have a warming hue, a soft brown which drowns you in the throes of comfort and ease. He has an easy-going personality, something which forces you to put your guard down, instead of putting it up when you’re with Yunho, and trust him easily.

“He’s not the right man for you,” he blurts out, as if he needed the alcohol to put some courage in him, “Yunho has a dark past, Seongmi.”

“What do you mean?” you scoff, swirling your spoon in the bowlful of stew, watching the red ripples bring out shreds of kimchi.

Jongho sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair and leaning back in his chair. It squeaks to his weight, plastic feet straining only slightly before he barks a laugh, “a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be shackled in his cage, Seongmi.”

“I think you’ve had a little too much to drink, detective,” you snatch the bottle of soju from his side and set it closer to you, “no more soju for you.”

Jongho doesn’t retort, or whine, but a pout stays back on his face which makes it evident that he was upset. “How much longer will you deal with him before he decides you’re of no use to him?”

Your eyes narrow on him, throat running dry. “This isn’t relevant, detective.”

“Or maybe it is,” Jongho slurs his words, “does he know you’re here with me? Does he know you were coming to meet me?”

You shake your head.

“Then that calls for trouble, doesn’t it?” he lets out a scoff, “how can his little birdie leave his cage and make decisions on her own?”

“Detective.”

“Jongho,” he corrects you, “we’re not in the precinct anymore. We’re not tied to the roles…”

“Jongho,” you whisper, food forgotten long ago, for both of you, “you do not get to have any say in my personal life.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He sighs, “but that doesn’t mean I am forced to sit on the sidelines and watch you ruin your life.”

“You talk like you know me. Like you know him.” You spit out, “but you don’t.“

“I never said I did,” he mumbles, leaning over to grab the bottle of soju from you, “but you’re wrong there, Seongmi. I do know a lot about guys like him.”

He adds, finishing the bottle in one sip. “The guys who play into women’s vulnerability and reel them in, who manipulate and gaslight into thinking they’re saving them, but in reality, do you really feel safe around him or do you feel like you’re suffocating?”

Everything he said made sense in your head, but your heart did not beat for it; your heart only hammered when you thought of Yunho, when you thought of the love you had for him, which went deeper than the oceans. Jongho was all wrong about Yunho, he didn’t know him like the way you did. But why did the truth made you second guess every little sentiment you ever had for him?

You’re left to mull about it while Jongho stands up abruptly, calling out to the grandma sitting by the register, “ah, halmoni! I’d like to pay…”

Jongho leaves you with your thoughts at the table, going to pay for the meal at the register. You really do think hard, mind numbing with dilemmas and quandaries you no longer could solve on your own. Jongho’s scent lingers in the air, mixed with the aroma of stew still boiling on the stove, and the stale whiff of alcohol growing denser every second. You put your chopsticks down, slowly getting up from the chair and straightening out the imaginary creases on your dress.

You feel a warm presence on your back, breath tickling your ear while a set of sturdy arms wrap around your waist and pull back, making you collide with a hard chest. Jongho’s scent is back, too intense, too suffocating, too much for you to handle.

His lips brush against the shell of your ear, wispy voice slithering in, “you could tell me the truth, Seongmi and I’d do anything in my power to keep you safe.”

The next thing he is, you fail to recognise if it was purposeful or accidental, but his lips press against the spot below your ear, the touch lingering long enough for you to feel every shudder in your body coming alive. Jongho’s arms tighten around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest as if wanting to submerge you into him.

“You deserve a better man, Seongmi, you deserve better.”

Everything is a blur, right upto the moment you’re in the back of his car, straddling him, his mouth on yours, sucking your soul through it. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, using it as a leverage to grind yourself harder against his crotch; every roll of your hips causes for his cock to harden and stiffen up, slotting itself perfectly between your panty-clad folds. You’re beyond wet, dripping, soaking your panties and your inner thighs. Jongho groans into the kiss, pulling away slightly to stare at you, taking in the sight of your parted lips and heaving chest.

He pulls you in again, hand cupping the nape of your neck as tightly as he could, other one across your waist. A giggle bubbles in your throat, pushing past your lips and into the kiss. Jongho holds you close, feeling every curve of your body against his chest; his grip grows tighter, kiss escalating to all teeth and tongue. You’re breathless, holding onto the gasp of air you took meagre seconds before. There’s a pause where both of you go still, lips pressed against each other, eyes staring into each other’s with a knowing conversation passing through them. Panting, your body trembles when his hands around your waist push you back against the driver’s seat; he tucks the hem of your dress around your waist, holding it up with one hand while other traces up the length of your inner thigh. Every touch, every subtle caress brought shivers and tremors running along your skin.

The minutes are taxing, everything is draining—his hands, his lips, his eyes. Jongho’s warmth is addictive, it catches you off guard and brings out your need for safety. With Yunho, you try to find ways not to disappoint him. Jongho won’t be disappointed if you expressed yourself, would he? He won’t go to the extreme like Yunho does. And maybe that’s what your body needs right now.

“Can I?” he asks, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, stretching out the elastic till you have him the go ahead. Which you do, subtly nodding while sliding your hands from his neck to his chest.

Without hesitation, Jongho pulls your panties down, just enough to bare you to him. You part your legs around his thighs, bracketing them, making sure you give him space to slot his hands between them. He still keeps one on your waist, pinning the hem of your dress there; the other one crawl up your inner thigh, fingertips brushing your slick folds. He nudges his forefinger in you slit, groaning, feeling how much wetter you get the more he touches you. Rubbing his finger through your slit, he leans over to bury his face in the crook of your neck. Lips trail to find your sweet spot, blindly continuing to suck and kiss your skin till you squirm, whimpering his name.

“Jongho…” his fingers were slow and deliberate, his lips were feather-light and soft, caressing that particular inch of skin with a hunger.

“That’s it,” he hums, curling the tips of his fingers to notch inside you. “Fuck—so tight and warm.”

He pumps only the first inch of his fingers into you, your walls squelching just lightly and clenching to suck him further inside. A chuckle breaks out of his chest and rumbles with your skin. “Eager, Ms. Park?”

You catch his eye through your half-lidded ones, lips parting to let a moan out. Jongho’s fingers weren’t sleek as Yunho’s, but they were thick, stretching your walls so deliciously and you were aching around him. Your nails scratch at his jacket, clutching at it as you feel him pushing another inch of his fingers in.

“I were to believe you’d never let any other man touch you,” Jongho remarks, a grunt making his words sound much hoarser. “But here you are, in a stranger’s lap, mewling like a bitch in heat…” he purposely angles his fingertips to hit the spongy part of your walls, and it rips a loud moan from your chest.

Jongho chuckles, setting a relentless pace of his fingers; your back arches against the seat, chest heaving, every cut and bruise Yunho left behind sparks with an ache you can’t quite grasp onto, not unless the smoke in your head clears out and proffers clarity. You really are letting someone else touch you, someone who isn’t Yunho. As amusing as it is, you also find it ludicrous how your body seems to be attuned to Jongho’s presence—it’s quite the contrast between the two. You’re willingly giving yourself to Jongho, whereas with Yunho, he has to initiate and twist your words into thinking he’s saving you.

The night carries on outside, window of the car fogging up to your warm breaths; stench of sweat and sex lingers in the closed space, air going stale. Moonlight shines onto you, just till the clouds cover it back again, veiling it in sheer terror—the road is silent, almost deserted. Jongho drove the car to a remote corner of the district, somewhere between the shadows and silhouettes of skyscrapers and barren fields of nothing. It’s cramped in the backseat, for sure, it’s not typically designed to accommodate two grown adults having sex.

You buck your hips, rolling them onto fingers, forcing them further—Jongho growls, erupting from his chest when he feels his fingers plunging into your heart. Grabbing at the flaps of his jacket, you use it as a leverage to ride his fingers, lifting yourself up and dipping down, setting a steady pace. Jongho eyes you, sweat beads forming on his forehead, lips parted, chest heaving like yours, and his cock straining in his pants.

Soon your head tips against the headrest of the seat, eyes screwing close, the tightness in your stomach ebbing and flowing in like waves of ocean. You’re close. Every flutter in your wall is a preamble to the rush of pleasure slowly making its way to your body. If only, Jongho fingers could thrust the way Yunho’s did—if only he picked up his pace and sawed them in and out of you, like Yunho always does, you’d be gushing all over his fingers. Though something snaps, like a twig breaking in half and its echoes rupturing your senses; you’re actively cheating on a man who’s protecting you from the law. You’re letting someone else touch you, taint you in the way only he’s allowed to do—this isn’t like you. You wouldn’t disobey Yunho.

“Jongho…wait,” you whisper, voice breaking; your eyes open wide, lips quivering with pleas for him to stop, “Jongho please…”

Catching the faintest breath of yours, his fingers still in you, filling you up. He’s knuckles deep already, but unmoving, letting you feel how snug he really is inside you.

“Want me to stop?” he asks, lips caressing your neck; looking up at you, he frowns, “coming down from the high already?”

You shake your head, attempting to shove his chest, which doesn’t even budge him, but he gets the sign. Without second guessing, Jongho pushes himself away from you, falling back onto the seat as his eyes narrow on you. He curls his fingers once before letting them slip out, covered in your slick, glimmering under the dainty rays of moon. You watch him bring them to his mouth, lips parting just enough to wrap the tips and to help him push them inside. He hollows his cheeks, sucking his own fingers while never breaking the eye contact with you.

You squirm, still in need to have a release but the urges are soon trampled down when Yunho’s face burns in the back of your mind. And the high he helped you climb up dissipates to an unlikely sting in your heart; your hands slide down his chest, the sensation of his cold zipper lingering on your skin. You pull your panties up, straighten out the flounce of your dress, and slip off his lap to slump into the space next to him. Jongho takes out his fingers from his mouth with a lewd pop; he doesn’t speak, doesn’t squeak a sound, only palms his crotch before sitting up straighter against the seat.

“You let him own you, Seongmi,” Jongho speaks up, then shakes his head, “I suppose I do need to take accountability for leading you on and almost fucking you senseless in the back of my car.” He glances at you, clicking his tongue, “it’s a shame, really. To have someone like you reduced to nothing but a pet—what if your brother comes to know?”

Brother. It takes you a hot second to realise what he’s said. Not because you’re picking up the pieces of your shattered brain, rather because you’re too distracted to fathom a single thought left behind by the little rendezvous with him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you remark.

“Still in denial?” he scoffs out the question, “does pretending to not know him ease the burden on your shoulders?”

You sigh. “I have no idea what you’re trying to insinuate, detective.”

“You don’t?” Jongho laughs, the kind which resonates from the bottom of his stomach; he shakes his head, pulls out an engraved lighter—glinting silver against the car’s overhead light, and then flicks it open. “If I speak of him, would I live to see another day?”

The flames burns bright, his thumb pressing down the igniter. A faint glow catches on his face, sparkling on his dark eyes, kissing just enough of his skin to make him look harmless. Jongho is not harmless. Not in the slightest. He knows manipulation better than Yunho, but is he using it on you? Not really. He doesn’t want to play you like you’re one of his suspect, doesn’t want to interrogate you like you’re the culprit. Regardless of his rational conscience, Jongho wants to free you from the man you’ve chained yourself to. Does he know it was consensual? Does he know you were willing when the chains caught in your legs and twisted around your body to shackle your soul in a cage it didn’t belong to?

You heave out a breath, trembling, throat drying out. “The strings don’t adhere to us the way they used to before, Jongho.”

Jongho’s thumb slips off the igniter, plunging the space back to the dimly lit darkness. You turn to him, following his every movement as he presses a cigarette between his lips and plays with the igniter again. Sparks flicker, the metal snaps, sound coiling around you till it clips short to the hiss of flame burning bright. The flame engulfs the cigarette, tip glowing a hue of orange melting into ash and black of soot; a long drag later, the ash crumbles down onto his shirt, creased by your hands from before.

“And here I believed, favouring you would favour my chances at having a better life.” Jongho mumbles, putting his lighter back into his coat’s pocket, “your brother owns the streets, Seongmi. How sure are you that he doesn’t know?“

“I’m not saying he doesn’t,” you whisper, “I don’t know, Jongho. The farther he is from this mess, the better it is for me. Because Yunho has no clue who my brother is, or if I even have a brother.”

Jongho takes another drag in, the nicotine infusing with his blood and crawling in his lungs; he puffs out a cloud of smoke, twisting and turning in the air till it disappears. Wordlessly, he turns the overhead lights of the car off, and glances at you. There’s same intensity in his eyes, the kind which had bloomed a mere minutes ago when he was all over you (was it the other way around?). He lets the butt of cigarette stay trapped between the corner of his mouth, lips pressing down hard.

He hums. “There comes a point in life, Seongmi. The secrets you hide, unravel the second someone starts pulling.” The lock clicks, Jongho pushes the door open to step out, “it’s a matter of time who pulls first between the two of you. My bets are on you, you fragile little thing. One wrong move and everything falls apart, thread by thread.”

The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, lingering on your tongue even when it’s no longer coherent in your head. You won’t break so easy. You’re not fragile. You won’t let him get in your head. But maybe, he was already in your head.

Jongho drops you off a block before your apartment complex—you made him, because you didn’t want to run into Yunho (if that was possible) on your way up to your apartment. The coincidental meet in the lobby would be hell of an awkward situation neither of you won’t know how to deal with. Before leaving, however, you offered Jongho a piece of your mind—a lighthearted threat—if he was going to use your brother to his benefit, then maybe you could use that as your personal weapon. Your brother would never hesitate making your headaches disappear. He wouldn’t bat an eye if you called him right away to tell him about the detective who’s been nothing but a nuisance to you and have him gone from your life forever.

But there’s only one issue with that. You’re not on good terms anymore. A couple of years back, a simple argument led to you cutting all your ties with him. You left the house, didn’t use his name to gain you any favours from his closest allies, and still don’t plan on doing so, not unless the consequences call for it.

Your heels click on the concrete pavement, soles gliding against the rugged terrain; the moonless night calls for a mishap in the waiting, an omen you were anticipating. Empty street, and a deserted road, shops closed long back, while the distant barks of dogs echo from somewhere, the darker it got, the more scared you were. You wanted to be in your apartment as soon as you could, aching to feel the warmth of your bed, and Yunho’s lingering scent from the afternoon. Or maybe, you craved him, pining to be used by him so you could forget why you’re scared in the first place.

Relief crashes over you when the well-lit entrance of your apartment complex comes into your view. From then, you increase your pace and only think of getting inside. The lobby is warm the moment you set your foot in, and the further in you strayed, the warmer it got. Behind you, the doors slurred with a hiss before sliding close and locking themselves in place, waiting for whoever who’d come after you to unlock them. The elevator ride is a haze, a tepid concoction of panic, anxiety, and inflaming nerves. You fumble with the keypad on your lock, numbers beeping into place before the familiar mechanical bell rings out and dies down to silence in mere seconds.

The vestibule light turns on when you step in, door closing behind; you slip out of your heels, and slip into the house slippers. A strange sense of relief takes over, soothing every tremor your skin palpates with. You trudge to the living room, dimly lit—it gets even dimmer when the vestibule light flickers off, and then the aroma of Darjeeling tea wafts your senses. It sudden. All too sudden. You’re caught mid-thought about slumping on the couch, and are forced to glance at the kitchen. The space in between living room and kitchen was housed by a dining table—small, cosy one meant for two to four people—in one of the four chairs, Yunho sits, a ceramic cup raised to his lips. He’s still dressed in the same clothes from before—except, the leather jacket hands on the back of his chair.

You pause, taking a second to compose yourself before croaking, “hey, you’re home early.”

Yunho doesn’t respond right away. He sets his cup down first, then licks his bottom lip to rid the remaining drops of tea clinging to it. A short minute later, he clears his throat, gaze casted down on the cup instead of raising up to meet yours. Another second of silence settles in before he speaks up, “hmm, things got dealt with quite early.”

Three heartbeats later, he slowly gets up, “how was your night?”

His eyes find yours in the dim lights, not a twitch of muscle on his face. He’s assessing you, reading you—your body language; he’s noticed the slight slouch of your shoulders, the way your breath gets caught between your lips, and your hands clenched tightly at your sides.

“How would it go?” you let out a nervous chuckle, “it was alright. We ate, drank, gossiped. The usual.”

“The usual,” he repeats, stepping around the table and approaching you with deliberately long and slow strides. “Thats nice. What did you eat?”

For some reason, you preferred Jongho’s interrogation over this. You clear your throat, sweat beading across your forehead, sticking close to your skin. “You know, my favourite. Chicken Alfredo and red wine. Pairs the best.”

Yunho hums again, standing in front of you now; he towers over you, his silhouette engulfing yours in the eerie darkness he has in his eyes. You physically shiver, fingers curling tight enough for your nails to dig into your palms, skin close enough to breaking and bleeding. He reaches out for your chin with one hand, other one snaking around your waist, already establishing a tight grip. Pulling you flush against his chest, he tips your chin caught between his thumb and forefinger before leaning down to peck your lips.

“Yeah, it does,” he grumbles, pulling back, staring so deep into your eyes—you feel he’s going to snatch your soul from you, his lips stretching straight before convulsing to a frown.

Yunho’s eyes lurk on the gauze around your neck, a fresh blotch of crimson emerges from underneath—the wound must’ve opened up. Your breath hitches when he leans down and nuzzles against the skin, just an inch above the wound; he takes a deep breath, sniffing the scent.

“You know what else does? A detective and a wide eyed woman who thinks she can…” he growls, trailing off to let the words hang heavy in your head. “You smell like him—like whatever.”

“Yunho—wait, Yunho—you don’t understand, let me—let me explain,” you’re stuttering your side out, he’s smirking as if he’s caught you red handed.

“Explain what?” he steps back, a smile curling on his face; it’s not the kind which one would show upon met with amusement or wonder, it’s the kind which makes you shudder because he’s mad, disappointed. “Fine, go on. Tell me why you were with him.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes—you were terrified beyond compare, struck with panic which grows ten fold with every breath you take. Yunho’s hand slowly drifts from your waist, the other hand too drops from your chin. He takes another step back, creating a distance between you two while you stay frozen to your spot.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you lower your head and stare at the floor instead of anywhere else, “when I got his text in the morning, I felt—it felt like I—like I was obligated to meet him.”

Silence is all your receive from him, for the dragging minutes which seem never ending. The disappointment is too heavy this time; it lurks up on you, clutches you tightly and plunges you in shame. In the back of your mind, the moments from Jongho’s car replay, as if taunting you, making the humiliation last longer than it needs to. Your chest aches, lips tremble, and voice gets lost in your throat. A steady stream of tears rolls down your cheeks, vision blurring and neck flushing with heat.

“I did it for you,” you whimper, voice breaking, head rising slowly to meet his gaze. He stands a few feet from you, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched. You catch a strain of exhaustion gracing his face, melting to a tinge of dismay. “I swear—Yunho, believe me—I did it for us—I wanted—I wanted to be good for you.”

In a frantic daze, you scramble to hold his hand, wanting to pry it away from his chest and twine your fingers together, while crying out your side to him, so even when your heart is breaking to million pieces, his warmth still stays on you, comfort you. Yunho doesn’t let you, he instinctively creates more distance between you two.

“I told you not to involve yourself with any of those bottom feeders,” he states firmly, “but my doll wants to defy me,” as if a switch being flipped, his tone gets soft and he pouts, “I love you so much—I take care of you, and this is how you repay me, darling? It’s one thing I never wanted from you, and that’s betraying my trust.”

In a blink of an eye, he’s marching to the dining table; he grabs his phone from the table and the jacket from the back of the chair. Draping his jacket over his shoulder, he stuffs his phone inside and glares at you. Realisation hits your chest, twisting your heart and wrenching it out of your mouth. Before you could do anything—protest, beg, plead—he’s storming out. The door rattles loudly after him, leaving you to simmer in the fading vibrations of the sound. Your knees buckle, giving in to the lethargy and embarrassment; your drop down, boneless, mind consumed with his thoughts.

You want to run after him, but you can’t. You know you can’t because he won’t like it. And doing things which go against every desire of his, leads to more painful conditioning and punishments. So, what other choice do you have than to stay put and drive yourself crazy with the foreboding nuisance and wreckage?

An hour later, you’re pacing in your living room, phone pressed close to your ear. You’d stop every three steps, irked, panicked, scared, when the call would go straight to his voicemail. The window in your living room frames a quiet night outside; moonless, clouds drifting and veiling every inch of the starry sky you admired, and the sound of your heart breaking reverberating every second you reach his voicemail. He’s ignoring you on purpose, he’s trying to punish you—knowing how daft you are for his attention, he surely must be delighting in tormenting you like this.

With a grunt, you hang up the call mid-ring, and dial another number. Song Mingi’s contact appears on the screen, thumb pressing down without a second thought, and in a haste, you press the phone against your ear. Rings sound, one, then two, then three. On the fourth, Mingi’s deep and husky voice breaks your trance.

“Hello?” he mumbles, half in sleep—judging by the lull his tone carries, even through the line. He clears his throat, noticing your silence, “sweetheart?”

You shake your head and slump down on the couch. “Have you heard from Yunho?” you ask, words rolling off your tongue before your mind could even process them, “Mingi, he stormed out an hour ago, all my calls keep going to his voicemail—it’s scary, I’m scared.”

Mingi hums softly, in understanding, “first, calm down okay? Can you take a breath for me, sweetie, please?”

The soft undertones of concern and pleading take you off guard, and you really do take a deep breath to calm your nerves. Once you’re able to think straight, once the strain in your voice melts to firmness, you continue, “Mingi, I fucked up. I really need to talk to him. I need to apologise. I need to confess.”

“I know, sweet thing,” mingi tries to assure you, “you think he’s mad at you, and maybe he is, for whatever reason it is, but he won’t hold a grudge against you, Seongmi. Never.” There’s a pause, “can you tell me what happened that caused him to storm out? An argument—Yunho’s not the kind of guy to walk away from one, love…”

“He said I betrayed his trust by meeting up with—” your breath catches, “—with the detective from last week. But before I could even testify why I did that, he turned his back on me and slammed the door right in my face. Mingi—Mingi, I really need to tell him my side, please tell me where he is.”

Mingi clicks his tongue, the sound sharp, as if he’s judging you and your desperation. Even you did not comprehend where the pining was emerging from. To need yunho so badly, that your soul burns and thrashes, it’s certainly uncanny. You rock yourself on the couch, knuckles turning white with how tight your grip had gotten on your phone; Mingi’s breaths are soft, soundless, constrained. But yours are ragged, heavy with every push and pull of air—because you think you’d suffocate under the fear of losing Yunho.

“Honey,” Mingi chirps, a low grunt following after, “relax, okay? We’ll find him if you’re worried about him. But I bet he’ll show up tomorrow morning. You just need to give him some time, sweetheart. I’ve known him for decades, when he cools off, he’ll be back in your arms, hmm?”

You shake your head, not really assured by his words. “No—no—Mingi, I’m sorry but I really need to—I can’t even be alone right now,” you run your free hand through your hair, tousling it around. Before your heart knows it, you squeak, “can I come over? Please?”

The drive to cabin was short, detrimental to your mind since you kept replaying Yunho storming out of your apartment in it. Though, when Mingi opened the door for you, helped you on the couch and fixed you a cup of tea, your worries dithered to seemingly nothing. It gave you a reason to forget why you were panicking in the first place. When Mingi opened the door, he seemed to be irked—as if you had disrupted a peaceful hour of slumber. His pajamas were creased and rumpled—it wasn’t much, just a white tank top and stripped shorts which ended mid-thigh, showing off the elaborate ink on his left thigh. A creeper snaking around his skin, with bright and contrasting magnolia flowers—coloured ink spilling around the edges like they were real.

The cabin was quiet, lingering scent of sandalwood and pines—signature Mingi—but the air was tinged with a subtle stench of burning metal, more like blood. You don’t question it, not when you’re surrounded by preserved specimens of animals, and hides of animals kept on display. There could be a fresh kill rotting in the basement—in Yunho’s workshop, which is mostly utilised by Mingi whenever he brings home a fresh kill from his hunting trip.

You’re curled against Mingi’s side, holding a soft throw pillow from the couch on the other side. Heart clammers, lips tremble, tears show no sign of stopping, from the first words which slipped past your lips, when Mingi probed in all right places. You’re spilling your guts to him, wailing, sobbing—at times, your throat would close in, thick lumps would form at the base, and Mingi would force you to stop and help you take a sip of tea he brewed for you.

The cup clinks with the glass top of the coffee table, resounding just for a split second before your sniffles grow loud. “I love him, Mingi. I just…I just realised it—it hit me so hard when he walked away from me.”

Mingi doesn’t say anything, instead, he pushes himself closer to you and tightens his arm around your shoulder; you feel a subtle pull, then you’re smushed against his chest. He leans down, just enough for his warm breath to caress your cheek, then drift off to your ear. A soft kiss, lingering, gentle but grounding, looms on the shell of your ear. Your sniffles quite down, replaced by hiccups which take you by surprise.

You don’t question Mingi’s actions at all, not even when he’s peppering kisses across your neck, painting your skin with prickles and goosebumps—and bringing the butterflies alive in your stomach. A whimper parts your lips, pillow slipping from your grip as your own arms flail in urgency to wrap them around his shoulders.

“I love him.” You whisper, burying your face in the crook of his neck while he continues to litter kisses on yours, slowly trailing down to your collarbones. “I really love him.”

Minutes pass in a dull haze of tears and heavy whispers, promises made to Mingi’s chest instead of the man you were ruining yourself for. Little did you know, he was listening to every word that poured out of your mouth, every delicate sound you made—he hid in the hallway leading to the basement from the living room—he has been here all along, had been purposely sending your calls to his voicemail. This was his way of punishing you. Though, he didn’t know it’d pull out the deepest, darkest secret from your heart. You loved him. No, it didn’t amuse him—he knew you loved him, knew you’d fall for him.

You peek up at Mingi, slowly, fluttering your eyes while tears cling closely to your eyelashes. He’s just a blob of blurriness to you, his silver hair standing out however, glimmering even in the dim lights of the living room. You press your lips together and drop one arm from his shoulder, then the second; you untangle your body from his, leaning back to wipe your tears off with the back of your hand.

“I wish I could tell him before he stormed out,” you whisper, picking up the cup of tea from the coffee table, “he deserves to know, regardless of what he wants to do with me. Mingi, are you sure you don’t know where he is?” your voice thins out, desperation resurfacing, “I would chase him to wherever he is—whichever dark corner he’s hiding in. He must know what my heart thinks of him.”

Mingi, whose silence was now speaking louder than before, watches you with brows scrunched at the centre, eyes glinting with a sheen you can’t figure out what it is. He stares at you, gaze lingering on your neck—the gauze—he felt its raggedness against his lips when he kissed you before, he almost drove himself to his edge when he got a sniff of your blood through it. One beat passes, then he scoots away from you, stands up and eyes the hallway behind him.

“He’s here…” he whispers under his breath, looking back at you. “Yunho’s here…”

Your eyes widen just for a second, heart palpitating too hard in your bony cage—a glimmer of hope crosses your mind, body melting into the couch. It’s like you’re having an epiphany, the best kind. Your gaze follows Mingi’s, darkened hallway calling out to you. Though before you could get yourself up from the couch, Yunho’s silhouette emerges out. His eyes find yours without any effort, and they don’t seem to leave you until he’s standing in front of you; swiftly, he leans over, planting his arms on the backrest of the couch to cage you against it. You look up at him, tears welling in your eyes, lips quivering with words you want to use to express your joy, but he doesn’t let you. His lips crash into yours, slow and soft.

You bring your arms around his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss which leaves you aching for air. Yunho is relentless, sucking and biting your lips, tongue eventually slithering into the warmth of your mouth; you could taste the remnants of Darjeeling tea, and smoke—the classic Marlboro, it excites. But apparently, not as much as Yunho, who doesn’t let the kiss stop, no matter how much his lungs beg him to. When the threshold comes down to suffocation, both of you part, reluctant regardless.

Yunho rests his forehead on yours, one hand wrapped around your neck while the other stays on the backrest; he licks his lips, tongue swiping deliberately as if to taste you on them. A shuddering breath parts his lips and he mumbles, “you love me, birdie?”

You nod, clinging tightly onto his neck. “So much.”

He pecks your lips—once, twice—then it turns to another heated and sloppy kiss, spit sliding down your chin, drool catching up with his lips and cheeks. You continue to cling onto him and his broad shoulders, while his hand stays firmly around your neck. Soon, every meagre second slows down, and you relish the moment even longer than the laws of physics could allow it.

You’re on your back, on the same couch, still making out with Yunho while Mingi witnesses everything. You had forgotten about his presence almost, but when he took a sharp breath, it reminded you he was still in the room with you. A sharp ache of pleasure pulses between your thighs, and you buck your hips up to meet his; you’re lying under him, bare—dress abandoned on the floor, lingerie spread out on the coffee table—except for your panties, which were clutched tight in Mingi’s hand.

Comprehension is long lost, you didn’t know how it came to this; you confessed, Yunho made his appearance, you made out and baam, suddenly you’re writhing under him, arms bound with his belt and flung over the armrest of the couch, while his lips continue to abuse yours. One knee between your legs, Yunho balanced himself on top of you, hands on the armrest to support his weight. You fist your hands tightly, feeling his tongue prod your gums before slipping even further to graze your uvula—it takes meagre effort from you to not gag when he purposely plunges his tongue down your throat. You whimper, instinctively try to fist your hands tightly, nails digging into your palms, drawing blood in the forms of crescents.

The burning ache between your legs forces you to clench your thighs together, but Yunho stops you from doing so; he slowly pulls out of your mouth, teeth catching onto your lower lip before he bites down hard to rupture the already broken skin on it. You bleed into his mouth, for a split second because he’s pulling back, sitting straighter. His gaze wanders to Mingi, who’s lounging in the armchair across from the couch, legs spread and cock straining against his sleep shorts. The bulge on both men is obvious, aching in the bounds of their pants.

Yunho meets your eye, lips curling one side with a smug little smirk. He slowly tugs at the hem of his shirt, jacket long strewn across the floor, next to your dress—he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it down on the floor. You stare at his bare chest, toned, shining with silver stretches of scars and other wounds—your gaze drifts from his prominent collarbones to his chest, then follow the trail going down his abdomen and disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Bubbling urge to touch grows heavy, and you lift your arms, only to a certain degree when he grunts in disapproval.

“No, doll,” he states, “hands above your head, at all times.”

A needy whine punctures your lungs but you obey, dropping your hands back against the armrest. Mingi chuckles, “she’s whiny when things don’t go her way, isn’t she?”

Yunho smiles, “she really is. Maybe you could take care of that mouth next time—not now,” he glances at Mingi briefly before looking down at you. “She’s mine to ruin tonight.”

You nod, “yours.”

“Good girl,” he praises you, cupping a side of your face with one hand while the other works around the button and zipper of his pants; he pulls them down along with his boxers, just enough to let his semi-hard cock spring out.

He wraps the same hand around the base of his cock, fisting and pumping it with few strokes to bring it to its full hardness. A low growl rumbles in his chest, keeping his lips parted when he voices it; you whimper too, aching with desperation to be touched. You’re soaking through the couch cushions, you could feel it, every drop of your arousal leaking and sliding down past your folds and the crevice between your ass. You want him so bad.

You whine again. “Yunho—Yunho, please—need you—need you please.”

Listening to your broken voice, both men groan and Mingi comments, “poor thing is desperate, Yun. Don’t tease her any longer.”

When Yunho turns to Mingi, he finds the man palming his crotch with one hand and the other holds your soaked and soiled panties to his nose. “You think so?” Yunho scoffs, giving himself a slow tug, thumb brushing across the reddened tip to smear the bead of precum, “then I better relieve her from her misery…”

The anticipation wrecks you harder, twisting your gut and tightening the knot in your stomach a little too hard, you could feel yourself leaking more profusely than before. Yunho doesn’t give in just yet—not really, he continues to stroke him, and his other hand, which had been so warm and snug on your cheek, gradually pulls away and disappears behind his back. You know what comes next; there’s only one thing he keeps strapped to the back of his waist—his dagger. It’s an ornament to him, six inches of blade, handle crafted with delicate skills, carved with intricate flowers on the metal casing. It’s his favourite, and he carries it almost everywhere—he hides it in a waist carry, which adheres itself to the loops of his pants and at times to his belt.

Leather of his belt cuts through your skin, irritating and stinging the portion; you’re constraining yourself, adrenaline running rampant in your veins, and anticipation roiling all your senses. Mingi blows a low whistle when the glint from Yunho’s blade catches his eye; it’s raised in front of you, shaking slightly as it’s not held in his dominant hand.

“Be careful with that thing, Yun,” Mingi remarks, but rolls his eyes when Yunho glares at him, “I don’t want blood to stain the couch, it’s a pain getting them off.”

“That’s what you’re concerned about?” Yunho laughs, shaking his head. “Typical, Mingi. You hear that, love? He’s worried about bloodstains on his couch.”

You whimper, “Yunho…”

Mingi blinks twice, dropping your panties to the side while continuing to palm and stroke himself through his sleep shorts. “You broke her, Yun. You broke that pretty little thing—she’s only whining and whimpering for your dick.”

Yunho rolls his shoulders out before sighing exasperatedly, “just keep watching, Mingi.”

Mingi holds one hand up, defensive, “alright, I’m watching. Do your thing. Wreck her. Break her apart, piece by piece.”

Yunho doesn’t pay much attention to Mingi after that; he only stares at you, laid under him, at his mercy. His eyes drink you up from top to bottom, one hand stroking his cock, and the other holding the dagger. You feel so small under his gaze, but at the same time, you feel admired—and he probably is, admiring all the marks he’s left behind on you, the cuts which are now mere scabs, some still healing, some healed to form faded silver strokes. You don’t let your eyes waver, you hold his; he swiftly swaps the dagger in his dominant hand, and you almost expect him to press the against your sternum, where cigarette burns and a few deep cuts already house, but he doesn’t.

The blade comes down on his other hand, he wraps it tight around it and with a simple tug, he cuts his palm. Blood pools out in beads at first, little droplets running along the cut before it starts streaming, flowing down his palm like little rivulets of crimson sins. You let out a gasp, watching him use his bleeding hand to stroke himself, coat every inch of his cock with his blood, even the tip. The dagger gets flicked off to the side, he doesn’t bother that it clatters with the glass top of the coffee table.

He never looks away either, eyes boring into yours, while he presses his lips together to suppress a wince. What comes out is a low groan, right from his chest, “fuck—you said you love me—you’re giving me a piece of your heart, little bird. And I—and I love you for it,” he leans down, bracing his non-bleeding hand on the armrest, while resting his forehead on yours, “I love you too, doll. And this is my way of showing it to you. It always has been.”

He kisses your cheek and whispers, “I bleed for you too, just the way you do for me. And what I bleed, has a purpose for you.”

You moan softly, not because of the pleasure building between your legs, but because of his words—because of the sheer affection he’s expressing to you in his own twisted ways. Yunho kisses your cheek one last time before pushing off of you slightly; he creates some space to align his cock against you, the tip already nudging—he strokes himself between your folds, once, twice, stimulating your clit just enough to have you mewling and whimpering, before he sinks into you.

Every inch plunging into you, draws out a groan from both of you; Yunho now braces himself on top of you by placing both his hands on the armrest, using it as a leverage to hold himself and thrust into you at the same time. His bleeding hand does stain the couch, and Mingi does indeed whine; you’re too lost in the pleasure caused by the stretch from his cock to even be bothered by it. Your eyes flutter close, hands struggle against the bounds of his leather belt, fingers twitching to touch him—but even trapped in ecstasy, you know better than to defy him.

Yunho buries his face in the crook of your neck, setting a steady pace; you could tell he’s not pushing in too deep, only fucking you with his tip and a couple more inches after it. Every pull creates a dull ache in the pit of your stomach, and every hard push knocks the air out of you, turning it to a high pitched moan. Mingi’s grunts echo too; you only turn your head slightly to catch a glimpse of him—he’s still on the armchair, shorts and boxers pushed down, hand around his own cock, matching the tempo of Yunho’s shallow thrusts. He’s noticing everything, but his eyes are fixed at the point where Yunho’s cock disappears into you.

“Fuck—fuck..!” Yunho groans, pushing another inch in, “so fucking tight—fuck, doll—how many times do I got to—do I got to fuck this tight cunt, so you could take me without any prep?”

Mingi let’s out a trembling laugh, “have some mercy on that poor soul, Yunho—” he grunts, bucking his hips into his hand and throwing his head back, “—she’s already taking that monster like a champ.“

Yunho joins Mingi with a laugh too, it’s vibrations brushing against you skin, “you’re right—she’s a champ—taking my cock—with no prep…” every phrase is punctuated with a thrust, and every thrust, forces a new inch deeper into you.

“Ah fuck, Yunho…!” you groan loudly, eyes fluttering open in both pain and pleasure, a delightful knot coming together in the pit of your stomach.

Yunho goes still, feeling slight resistance, “am I hitting it…?” he whispers under his breath, grinding his hips to feel around inside you. He had indeed hit your cervical opening, you could feel the head of his cock prodding and slipping away a bit. “Shhh, it’s okay—fuck—feels too good, love.”

His face is still buried in your neck, hands still on the armrest; yours are there too, not daring to touch his even on accident. You roll your hips into his, raising them and holding them in the position for a hot minute till you feel his thickness stretching your walls deliberately wider. A half-gasp, half-scream bubbles from your chest—the stench of burnt copper soon fills up the room, Mingi hums in satisfaction the second it hits his nose, followed by Yunho, who kisses the bite wound on your neck through the gauze. It’s a terribly reminds you that it’s still there, taunting him.

Yunho pulls back slightly before slamming back into you, hips resting flush against yours; he picks up his pace, your walls squelching around his cock, and the sound of skin slapping starting to grow loud. You whimper, feeling the stretch, the ache, the tight knot searing its pain in your stomach—until his teeth tug at the bound gauze around your neck, just enough to reveal the healing-wound. He doesn’t think twice, and sinks his teeth into your flesh, opening the wound, letting it bleed in his mouth.

A hum clatters against your skin, making you scream his name, “Yunho…!”

Mingi’s moan blends in with it, he’s jerking off to the both of you; his hand shows no signs of faltering, picking up its pace every stroke till he’s fucking his own hand. You could not give any fucks about it; you’re trapped in your own dark world—pain and pleasure simultaneously ripping out every moan and whimper with calculated rhythm of his thrusts, and gradually increasing intensity of his bites. You writhe and squirm under him, body shuddering and aching from the impacts of his thrusts—he’s picked up his pace, and it’s causing for the couch to creak and squeak.

“Fuck—Yunho…! Right there,” you gasp and moan, feeling your walls flutter around him once when he hits your spot.

Smirking, he tries to repeat the same for a few more times and every time he hits it, your walls clench tighter around his cock. You feel too much of him, every ridge, every bulging vein—every push and pull, till the tightness in your stomach reaches a peak and comes down in mere minutes. Your walls flutter profusely, working up to suckle him in deeper, as if it was possible to take him in any deeper than he already was. Yunho’s eyes roll in the back of his head; he pushes off your neck, lips blood stained, teeth too—he’s staring down at you, eyes meeting yours in a silent way that only you know how to read.

Your body shudders, tremors wrecking a havoc and forcing you to squirm. The aftershocks roll in soon after, legs twitching and eyes screwing shut at the heavy sensation between your legs; your pussy becomes overstimulated from his thrusts in a few more minutes. Though, you know he’s close too. He’s twitching, his hips stutter one time—then continue to do so, until his warmth floods you. He empties his load in pulses, rope after rope—clinging to every corner of your cunt, staining every bit of your velvety walls.

He rides out his high with a few more shallow thrusts. Your eyes open, meeting his, lips parting wide for a low moan to escape—the mellowed out and shallow thrusts aid your oversensitivity too—a short lived but intense second orgasm follows, making your spasm out of nowhere. Yunho grunts, dropping his forehead against your before he goes completely still inside you, letting you ride out your release now.

You kiss his cheek, try to bring your hands up to run your fingers through his hair, but the constraints don’t let you—it forces you to bend your arms in an awkward way, so you let them be as they are. Yunho’s chest heaves against yours, breathing turning ragged and short, matching yours; you’re both drained, and so is Mingi—you glance at him through other teary eyes, to find him wiping his cum laden hand on his tank top over his chest. You catch the sheen of his cum sprayed all over his tank top, darkening few spots a little more than the rest.

A gentle kiss to your neck, brings your focus back to the man nuzzling into your chest. Yunho rests his head on your chest, hair falling soft against your skin, his eyes closing and opening, much like yours now. He slowly peeks up, sliding one of his hands from the armrest to your bound ones, intertwining fingers with one of them, while the other cradles the nape of your neck.

“I’m not mad at you,” he whispers, “I could never be mad at you,” he catches his breath then continues, fingers rubbing circles on your neck, “doll, you know how much I resent you getting into trouble. And that detective, he’s trouble, love.”

You hear shuffling from next to you, probably Mingi getting up and leaving the both of you to talk. “I know he is.”

“But you still went to him,” he mutters, turning his head to rest it sideways on your chest, “did he scare you?”

You nod, “he did.”

“I think he’s onto us,” Yunho mumbles again, “we need to be careful, love. One wrong move and he knows everything.”

You hum, totally disregarding his words and chiming in, “Yunho…?”

“Yeah?”

“I really do love you.”

He peeks up at you one more time, eyelashes falling on his cheeks when he blinks—he’s a little dazed, either from the blood loss or the tiredness. You need to tend his cut before it gets serious—but knowing Yunho, he probably didn’t even cut himself so deep that it would pose any danger to him. And again when you find yourself losing your train of thoughts, Yunho anchors you to him with a soft whisper—he’s stays the truth and you realised it the hard way—fooling around with Jongho only made your feelings for him stronger. And you know, it might have led you to confess your true feelings to him, but either that could prove to be very stupid or encourage you to commit more sins.

“I love you too.” He smiles, “no one can replace me in your heart, and I know it.”

Series Masterlist

[xerotiny]

I finished writing this by 4 am in the morning, so happy to see it cross 100 notes in less then 24 hours. Haha. Thank you!

[xerotiny]

WICKED GAMES ♱ ATEEZ SMUT-SERIES

ONGOING SERIES

The Boy Next Door Pairing: Jeong Yunho x fem reader (ft rest of atz) Synopsis: who knew the boy next door would cause you so much trouble? Tag(s): dark romance, psychological thriller, smut (a lots of it), boy next door!yunho.

Part One: The Boy Next Door Part Two: The Boy in Your Bed Part Three: The Boy in Your heart

HIATUS // INDEFINITE HIATUS

Guns and Roses Pairing: Jeong Yunho x fem reader Secondary Pairing(s): fem reader x Park Seonghwa, fem reader x Kim Hongjoong Tag(s): mafia au, dark romance, smut.

Part One: Under the Stars, Beyond the Sea

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Loving Prof. Jeong Pairing: Jeong Yunho x fem reader Secondary Pairing(s): fem reader x Song Mingi, fem reader x Kang Yeosang, fem reader x Park Seonghwa, fem reader x Choi San Tag(s): college au, professor and student dynamic, age gap, smut, forbidden, etc.

Part One: Antiserum D

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Hollowed Hearts Pairing: Jeong Yunho x fem reader Secondary Pairing(s): fem reader x atz ot8 Tag(s): psychopath au.

Part One: Room for Two

OR navigate using the tag ── 𝜗ৎ〔 𝘅𝗲𝗿𝗼'𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗴𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘀 〕.⋆♱

[xerotiny]

part three of the boy next door series out now.

[xerotiny]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐞𝐝 ♱⋆. 𝐉𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐮𝐧𝐡𝐨

Pairing: Jeong Yunho x Female reader (Cameo from Song Mingi)

Tag(s): DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, enemies to lovers, established dynamic, dark romance, psychopath au, boy next door!yunho, neighbour!reader, sadist!yunho, hard dom!yunho, sub!reader

Warning(s): smut, unprotected sex (p in v), oral sex (m! receiving), blood play (vampirism), praise kink, breeding kink, size kink, humiliation kink, big dick yunho, (let me know if I missed anything)

Synopsis: after hiding the body, things seem to take an odd turn between you and Yunho.

w.c: 9.1k

a/n: welp, I think I’m going to be turning this into a series. Anyone interested in this the way I am? Well…

READ PART ONE HERE

          The past few days have been dreadful. It’s one thing being an accomplice to a criminal, and something completely different being that criminal’s lover while also the accomplice. You helped Yunho that night because some twisted part of you loved him. Love might be a strong word to use here; however, you were aware whatever feelings erupted in your gut for him, were definitely past the line of friendship. Was there ever any friendship to begin with? You might delude yourself into thinking most of your relations were platonic, but in reality, they were beyond that. Yes, you were smitten with his boy next door personality, once. Heavy emphasis on once. Although, the perfect image shattered the moment you two got close for all the wrong reasons.

 

          Yunho is fascinating. The control he had over his mask of innocence and charm, was truly remarkable. To have it slip in split seconds before putting it back on, certainly required high-level skills. He is adept at it, at going back and forth from pleasing people to manipulating you psychologically. If there’s anything you’ve learnt from the past few days, it’s that Yunho is meticulous at altering your brain chemistry. He misleads with his affection, or the super kind words which roll off his tongue soaked in venom. You depend on him for many things; love topping off on the list, validation following closely enough. Yunho knows how to puppet you to his strings, and his intentions have never been pure.

 

           Which would explain why you’re on your knees in front of him, while he’s slumped on your couch with his pants undone and pushed down to show off his aching boner through his boxers, smoking one of those premium tobacco cigarettes. You’re bare and slotted between his legs, which he spreads even wider to let his boxers strain over his cock. The stench of smoke reminds you of the night when it was more prominent than the odour of peroxide you used to scrub the blood off the floor; in this case, however, it’s all you could focus on. He hums softly, wrapping his fingers around the cigarette to pull it out from between his lips.

 

           “Did you talk to them?” he mutters, “did you tell them anything you weren’t supposed to?”

 

           You shake your head. “Didn’t squeak a word, I promise.”

 

           “That’s my good girl.” He coos.

 

           “Did they…” you trail off, resting your head on his thigh, peeking up with wide eyes; Yunho’s heart palpitates at the sight of unbridled innocence seeping out the pools of warmth. “…you know, were you under fire too?”

 

           Yunho hums, “not really.”

 

           You nod slowly, looking up at him, gaze affixed onto the hot cherry of his cigarette pulsing with life as he takes a long drag before exhaling the smoke. He reaches out with a free hand to play with your hair, sleek fingers twining and threading in your wispy locks; you preen into his touch, leaning, seeking more than what it really is. To any other, it’d be a gesture of affection. To you, it’s a warning. A harbinger of the nightmare to come. Little moments like these with Yunho are preliminary foreboding of the doom in waiting. Care is just the preamble to kill.

 

           Yunho tilts his head, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth while he strokes the back of your head, gentle and slow. His lips twitch to a smile short-living on his face till it disappears to a scowl and his grip on the back of your head tightens. With a tug, he roughly pulls you close to his clothed cock, aching to be touched. Fisting his hand in your hair, he puppets you around, mostly your head, making sure your face rubs against his boner. You let out a needy squeak, forcing your arms to stay in the curve of your back, hands clenching. This is how he likes you, helpless and at his mercy, and the current situation wasn’t even the start of it.

 

           “Yeah, right there…” he grunts, watching you loll your tongue out while he guides your face across his shaft. “Drool a bit, birdie. Show me how eager you are to please.”

 

           You purposely gurgle out spit in your mouth, letting it drip over your tongue as it soaks into his boxers. From every angle of rationality, this is derogatory for your self-esteem. Though, do you care enough to pull back and draw a line with him? Absolutely the fuck not. You’re his to use. You’re not going to complain.

 

           He stills your mouth on his shaft, fingers winding tightly in your hair, so tight it stings your scalp. You squeal, looking up at him with your tongue out. Grey smoke curls around him, weaving a halo in air; a complete contrast to how he is in reality. You start drooling over him, wetting his boxers further than before—so much as to the fabric clings onto his shaft, defining the subtle curve.

 

           “That’s it, so perfect,” his words come out muffled with the cigarette still trapped between his lips, “you think you can take it in, sweetheart? Or do you need a minute to catch your breath before?”

 

           You nod and he loosens his grip on your hair, fingers slipping through the silk strands; you take a deep breath, preparing your lungs for the suffocation coming up ahead. Yunho hums in satisfaction, pulling out his cigarette to stub it against the wall behind him and couch before flicking it aside. You rest your head against his knee, controlling your breathing before the main event, while watching him intently. One of his hand dives into the pocket of his undid pants to pull out a small hair elastic while the other gathers your hair into a ponytail; he ties your hair with the same efficiency he uses in his clinic, and then proceeds to tug on the hair tie to make sure it’s tight enough.

 

           It’s his little habits. As much as you weren’t fond of it, Yunho preferred you had your hair up. It’s less distracting, more convenient, and doesn’t get in the way when he’s balls deep in your throat, testing your limits.

 

           He leans back into the couch, arms resting behind his head as he simply nods at you. There’s no need for a confirmation, you already know what he means; without much thought, you lean over on your knees and lower your head to hook your teeth with the waistband of his boxers. Cheeks flush, embarrassment creeping up your chest as you pull his boxers down with your teeth; you huff out a breath, fanning a sliver of his skin exposed through the hem of his shirt.

 

           

           As daunting and humiliating as it is, you manage to get them off his cock and have them pool by his knees. His semi-hard cock springs out, tempting you to stroke him to its full hardness. Though, you know he doesn’t allow it, doesn’t allow you touch him without his permission. The sight of him, unbothered and uninterested to do anything about it, turns you on even more. You lick your lips, salivating and swallowing it down to wet your throat. If he’s going to fuck it, you’re going to need it to be slick and wet, ready to have him slide in without any resistance.

 

           “Good girl,” he mumbles, “remember now, no hands, no teeth.” He lists off, “no gagging, no choking until I prompt you to.”

 

           Yunho’s gaze fixes itself on you, eyes half-lidded, “come on, darling. Open your mouth for me.”

 

           You sit on your knees, as comfortable as you could, knowing the carpet beneath will anyway leave burns on your skin; parting your lips, you take a deep breath and slack your jaw, letting it fall open as wide as it could. Yunho doesn’t make any effort to touch you, or guide you. You’re on your own. The scent of him is overwhelming, a concoction of musk and expensive soap with little hints of sea salt, when you lean in to suckle gently at his weeping head. You fit an inch in your mouth, sucking, hollowing your cheeks, and you feel the stretch around your lips, stinging with a kind of pleasure you delighted in. The salty taste of his precum tantalizes your senses, urging your lungs and chest to heave but you drown it down, not wanting to go against the imposed rules.

 

           “So good, darling,” he praises, “keep going.”

 

           You swallow your drool, realizing you had been leaking spit all around him and down your chin. Yunho revels in watching your spit dribble and coat your skin with thin shimmer, lips twitching to a disdainful smirk. He’s planning something, you see it in his eyes; the glint of mischief shines intensely, and the next thing you know, he’s bucking his hips into your face, stuffing your mouth with a few more inches of his cock.

 

Heeding to his warnings, you don’t squeak a sound, nothing at all. You don’t gag, as you would, certainly when something that thick is being pushed down your throat. He pulls back slightly, mimicking a subtle thrust, till he’s rolling his hips again. The sudden movement makes the tip of his cock breach the line of safety and plunge into the opening of your throat.

 

           You let out a sound, this time. Audible almost. A sound bordering closely on a gasp and yelp.

 

           “What was that, darling?” he stills himself, staying buried in your mouth. “Was that a sound? Did you gasp?” the accusatory tone to his words becomes too prominent, “you did, didn’t you?”

 

           You try to shake your head, but are not able to when he reaches out to hold your neck in one hand. His grip is tight, nails digging into your skin, not hard enough to break your skin—just enough to make you feel pain.

 

           “Oh, precious,” he scoffs, leaning off the couch to look down at you, “you made a mistake. And what happens when we make mistakes?”

 

           He pulls you back by your neck, his cock slipping out of your mouth and falling against the edge of his toned abs. You cough, peering down at his feet instead of his eyes, “get conditioned.”

 

            “Right, you get conditioned.” He repeats with a certain lilt to his tone, “so, what do you think you deserve now, little bird?”

 

           “To be reminded.”

 

           “Oh how poetic,” he chuckles, “my precious wants to be reminded, does she? Reminded what…?”

 

           “Who I belong to,” you mutter under your breath.

 

           Yunho is silent for a while. Eventually, with calm grace, his hand slips onto your ponytail, fisting it tight enough in his hands. He pulls at your hair, making your neck arch back with it at an awkward and agonizing angle. You’re gasping again, hands clenching behind you—palms sweating with a need to swat his hand away from you.

 

           “Wrong.”

 

           “Wrong?” you repeat, confusion and pain clouding your mind. Hearing you doubt him, he tugs at your hair again, wrenching a scream out of you at the way your neck ached. “Fuck! I meant—I meant—I meant to be reminded why rules are important.” You groan, screwing your eyes shut.

 

           “Wrong again.”

 

           He pulls so hard this time, you feel a flash of blinding hot throb dispersing all over your scalp.

 

           Tears stream down your face, eyes fluttering open to stare at him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—I don’t know Yunho!!” you sob, “please—please, I don’t know.”

 

           You make an attempt to claw at his wrist of the hand holding your hair; though as the fraction of second passes by, you feel a tormenting sting on your right cheek and your head rolls to the side. He had backhanded you, leaving a mark on your supple skin; the sensation forces out more tears, body shuddering from the brutal impact. You felt his bony knuckles dent your cheek from the slap.

 

           “Hands.” He commands.

 

           Taking his painful warning into consideration, you rest your hands on the small of your back. You’re still trembling, although it’s not as noticeable. The heat in your cheek is persistently growing with a rhythmic throb, a physical brand of your failure. Knowing you won’t control yourself with your hands again, you decide to place them under your knees, which upon noticing, Yunho smiles smugly.

 

           “Good girl,” his smile widens, “see, how much easier it is when you know your place already?”

 

           You nod, leaning into the hand which struck you; he caresses your welted cheek, almost with an eerie affection, pouting softly as if to portray his concern over it. Feigned concern, if anything. The tears in your eyes run dry, chest heaving with uncontrolled misery. Tiny tremors under your skin spark a case of humiliation, his thumb brushing the irked streaks on your cheek, demarcating his long fingers. You hold in a breath, suffocating on his scent, which absolutely drives you closer to your edge.

 

           He leans down, his silhouette engulfing you whole. “Does it hurt?” he questions as if he wasn’t the one to inflict the pain on you.

 

           You shake your head, as much as his grip on your hair allows, which on the other hand, starts loosening once he finds you complying with him. “No,” you whimper, melting into his touch. “Doesn’t hurt.”

 

           And as the smooth lie rolls of your tongue, Yunho pulls his hand back; he slumps back against the couch, both his hands on his side, and his eyes fixated on you. He lets out a sigh, running a hand through his dark hair, messing it up further because of impending frustration you could sense. He’s still hard, however, throbbing with a need for a release.

 

           “I’m sorry, baby.” He mutters, ire still lacing his tone somehow, “maybe I’m projecting, but the detectives showed up at my clinic yesterday.”

 

           You listen to him, resting your chin on his thigh, peering into his eyes as he continues with a deep sigh, “it’s infuriating. They keep chewing at the edges of my patience, little bird. I have a reputation, can’t have them ruining it for me.”

 

           Humming softly, you ask, “do they suspect you?”

 

           “Suspect me, darling?” he scoffs, lips staying upturned. “No, they don’t. They don’t have a reason to now, do they? No evidences, no leads, no witnesses to point their fingers at me.” He runs a hand through your hair, playing with it as a way to anchor himself, “I find it annoying how these bottom feeders are feasting on my reputation…” he trails off, fingers going still in your hair, “sometimes, I wish these badge-wearing nuisances wouldn’t exist. Just I and my little bird, breaking laws — pretending to be sane while unleashing our demons onto innocents.”

 

           “Right, darling?” he prompts.

 

           Yes, Yunho is crazy. A little too inane to your liking.

 

           You nod, “of course.”

 

           “I know,” he murmurs, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “We can’t make baseless wishes, though can we?”

 

           You shake your head, leaning into the warmth of his lips; you’re used to these tender moments breaking the linearity of unchastity. Quiet seconds thrum in your ears. He doesn’t speak, and neither do you, albeit, you find yourself staring at him, lips pursed, hands behind your back, eyes strained with innocence. One look from him and you would unravel, shatter in the palm of his hand the way you always do.

 

           “Stop looking at me like that,” he warns, continuing when you emit a low-sounding confused whine at his words, “like I’m your savior. Like I fucking hung the moon and stars in your sky.”

 

           You tilt your head slightly, “can’t I admire the man who has me trapped in his cage?”

 

           “Why would you?” he hums, softly grazing his fingers along the hair tie holding your hair in a ponytail. “I’ve killed someone, little bird. These hands you crave, are tainted with a stranger’s blood.”

 

           “Does it matter?” you whisper.

 

           He chuckles, “yes, it does.” His fingers slip through your hair, hand falling to his side. “Someday, I might get your blood on my hands too.”

You tense up, throat tightening in a way it has never before. Never with him. Does he mean it? Does he sound genuine to you? Yunho was pretty straightforward when it came to voicing his thoughts. There’s no chance in hell he was joking about something so vital just like that. His words often carry weight, and sometimes it crushes you deeply.

“You’re joking.” You laugh it off, raising your head from his lap.

Yunho’s shoulders jerk up and fall down, “maybe, I am.”

You bring your hands to his thighs, reaching up on your knees to kiss the underside of his jaw, just above his bopping Adam’s apple. A low groan rumbles from his chest, hands instinctively tangling around your waist to pull you up in his lap. His semi-hard cock rests against your inner thigh, making its presence known to you.

“Maybe I’m not.” He whispers, “you’ve willingly fallen into my life, darling. I, for one, cannot vouch for the catastrophes awaiting us.”

“Hasn’t it started already?” his chest shakes with another chuckle, “each day, we’re one step closer to doom. But that’s what I like about us. We’re both headed straight toward our ruination, and it keeps me from going insane. Even through our lowest, we should have each other to fall onto.”

You try to shift in his lap, feeling uncomfortable at the sound of his notions; he’s not amused in the slightest, not about your unease, or the flash of fear in your eyes. Without warning, he flips you on your back on the couch. Wrist in his hand, pinned over your head, back arching to the way he’s got them in his hold; his warmth engulfs you, seizing any distance between the two of you.

“Just be a good girl for me,” he grunts, burying his face in the crook of neck, nipping at your flesh; he mumbles against your skin, teeth grazing in heated passion, “be mine forever. Be the perfect little doll I need.”

Yunho knows how to twist you into his own skin, plague your mind with impending wrath then pretend to love your demons. Your demons? No, his. The darkest, deepest corner in his heart is where you find his vices clawing at the walls, brooding in patience to slip out, to torment souls like yours. You’re a victim to his heart, a prey out in the open with no sense of security. You’ve found yourself in the worst of situations, a plight grotesquely inbound to your life—you’re his obsession and he is yours, you’re his possession, his desire, and so is he. No matter the circumstances, or the dismal future you hold, you’ll come back to him, find your home in his arms.

He pulls back a bit, eyes meeting yours, lips trembling. The way light catches on his face, is a breathtaking sight and you’re breaking down your walls to keep him close. Yunho’s lips press against that one specific spot on your neck, the place where your skin stays warm and pulses with life—his cold touch, impassioned kisses steal your breath away. Soon enough, a dainty caress turns to a series of bites and suckles, leaving pretty marks behind, tainting your skin as his. With a subtle jerk of his hips, he grinds on you, his cock throbbing against your inner thigh. He lets go of your wrist, freeing your hands and his too; both of his arms band across your waist, pulling you closer, keeping you flush against his body as he works his hips to get the needed touch his cock ached for.

You slide your hands on his back, fingertips barely grazing the fabric of his shirt. Your touch grounds him—he’s told you before, he’s mentioned how much he yearns for your warmth seeping into him, his soul. And because it makes him feel more human, he never lets you touch him like this. The momentary silence is broken with a huff of his breath, chest grumbling against yours, hand tightening around your waist. He pulls away, this time all way back, enough to maintain the intimate proximity and still drown into your eyes.

“That’s all I ever ask,” he whispers, “all I ever starve for.”

Vague words choke your heart, suffocating, thrashing in your chest till you’re mewling and whimpering, “and if I defy?”

You see it, a shift in his eyes; the dim lights of your living room catch the slightest glimpse of indignation before it melts to the familiar warm brown. His lips twitch, fingers curling into your flesh as tight as they could to remind you who owns you. A brittle titter parts his lips in an incredulous manner, stuttering your heart in the way it makes you rethink your choice of language.

“Defiance is a sin in my world, doll.” He states, voice deepening with a trace of threat, “a sin so grave that even repentance can’t salvage your soul.”

Your breath hitches, hands fisting at the back of his shirt, clutching it as tightly as you could; he’s gone completely still, body pinning you down on the couch, cock fully hard and leaking against your thigh, slicking up your skin with precum. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, clinging onto him with a deliberate hope he won’t do anything catastrophically insane to you. His torment is no joke—all pain and blood, all bruises and no love. Your scabbed skin still remembers him, dotes on the way he carved it out with a kitchen knife. Every inch of you is his, the cigarette burns, cuts and gashes, bruises swelling under your skin to a shade of blue and purple—his shades.

“So tell me, love. Do you still wish to defy my love? Still choose to believe you’d walk away…” he trails off, burying his face in your neck again, slowly untangling his arms from your waist.

An animalistic growl erupts from his chest when he pushes in, gripping your thighs and spreading your legs, wrapping them around his waist. He grumbles curses in your neck, listening to your gasps and whimpers; you’re counting the shudders your body offers, breathing raggedly to accommodate him and pacify the sting on your walls. Pain dissolves to pleasure, sinking into your bones with every inch that breaches in, every grunt he pulls out of you, with every roll of his hips driving his cock deeper in your warmth.

You claw at his back, nails dragging along the fabric of his shirt which strains but doesn’t tear—you’re a mess of tremors and blinding indulgence. Your body knows him like no other, as if he’s imprinted his own soul onto yours. He pulls back all the way, giving you a split second to relax before slams back in, burying himself to the hilt. A distasteful moan punctures your lungs, eyes screwing shut, lips quivering from the sound you made.

“Just like that, take every inch of what I give you, little bird.” He groans, maintaining a steady pace of his hips. “Only you get to feel me like this, and only I get to see you so vulnerable under me.”

“Fuck—fuck birdie—you’re so fucking tight—gripping me, pulling me in, scared I’ll pull out.” He cackles deeply, words laced with a growl, “greedy little thing wants to milk my cock, hmm—want me to breed this cunt silly?”

You whimper, arching your back; chest heaving to the snaps of his hips which aren’t sparing you even a second to breathe. He’s lost himself in it, in the warmth and tightness of your pussy, of your walls starting to clench and pulsate around him, yet you’re far from your edge, he knows it. He’s trained your cunt to his will—knows how to toy with you to keep on the fence, to make sure he’s numbed your rationality before taking you apart.

Air slowly forces its way in your lungs when he goes still, face buried in your neck, spit drooling on your skin; he takes a shuddering breath in himself, pushing his body off of you until he’s sitting back on his knees. Your eyes flutter open, sensing the weight of his cock slip out of you. His gaze finds yours, chest heaving, cheeks flushed, sweat beading across his forehead, dark hair sticking to his skin. He holds your attention with his stare, one hand reaching out to brush off the drool from his chin. His fingers linger on his lips before starts snapping off the buttons of his shirt; one by one, with aggression and hunger, impatience struggling to keep his head straight.

You watch him slip his shirt off his shoulders and drops it down on the floor. Scars glint on his skin, pale white scratches which you’ve noticed before but aren’t allowed to question him about. He’s never open about anything in his life, but you still dwell on little moments like these—when he’s burning some bridges for your sake, when he’s almost sympathetic.

Swallowing your words, you bring your hands to trace one nasty gash on his abdomen—it’s paler and menacing the other ones, long and intimidating. You don’t get scars like that from something small. Before your fingers crawl closer to it, Yunho grabs your wrists and pins both of them above your head. Using his free hand, he aligns his eager cock against you again and pushes in, then braces himself by placing the hand right next to your head. This time it’s much slower, much more agonising than before; he makes you feel it, every inch, every ridge and bulging vein. You arch your back, buck your hips to meet him halfway, aiding in the penetration.

A cry rips out of your chest, echoing through the room before it dies down into a whimper. “You’re—I should be scared of you.”

He grinds his hips slowly onto yours. A hum resounds from the back of his throat; he’s constraining himself, at least trying to. Picking up the tempo of his thrusts, he’s pushing in deeper, faster, and harder.

“And you’re not?” he asks, not a twitch on his face.

You shake your head, mewling when your body shudders from the pressure his cock is inflicting on your front walls. “Never…”

“Why not?” he slows down again, head tilting to a side as if he’s trying to make sense of it.

“I don’t know.” You whisper, tears welling in eyes, “every time you take a wall down, I just want more…”

The movements of his hips come to an abrupt halt; his grip on your wrists almost loosens a bit, his eyes soften—only for a fraction of the second before darkness consumes them all over again. Next thing you know, he’s snapping his hips against yours, thrusts deliberately fast and shallow, as if he’s enraged at you. Cries turn to high pitched moans, tears spilling down the side of your face and soaking into the couch; you squirm and scream, body moving and thrashing to the impact of his cock burying and stretching your fleshy walls.

“Yunho…!” you scream his name, eyes snapping shut as the pleasure turns to pain.

“You’re not—you’re never supposed to be scared of me, understood?” He punctuates each word with a punishing thrust, then goes still again, feeling the flutter of your walls. “If you’re ever scared of me—if you ever leave me, I’ll burn every place down that carries even a trace of you.”

You whimper his name and shake your head, swallowing hard as your eyes open to stare into his. A burn is starting to emerge in the pit of your stomach, an agonising sting which flares the more your walls clench and spasm around him. You’re close to your edge now, so close.

“I’ll keep choosing you…” you utter, breathless, chest heaving erratically—at your words, you felt his cock twitch, violently. It’s the first time he’s let his vulnerability slip.

He curls into your body, the sudden shift plunging his cock further into you, grazing your sweet spot; your velvet walls clench tightly again, already starting to suck him in deeper.

“You better,” he nuzzles in your neck, tongue darting out to lick a stripe along the side. “Because if you don’t, I’ll ravage every corner of this world and make you mine.”

“Say it again,” he starts moving again, slow and steady, thrusts mellowed out, hips rolling against yours. “Say you’ll choose me, all the time. I’m your endgame and no one else.”

You peek down at him, lips quivering, voice shrill and pitched as you spill the words. “Always, Yunho—I’m never leaving you.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you up at a certain angle to aid his thrusts, which grow aggressive and impactful, which knock the air out of you. With three more deep and sharp lunges of his hips, he’s unravelling you, forcing you to shatter and chant his name in breathless whispers. He buries his face in your neck, fingers denting your flesh with how tight he holds your thighs now. Your body spasms beyond your control, eyes rolling into the back of your head, back arching seamlessly and your walls sucking him in deeper, as if it was possible to anymore.

“You better not,” he mumbles against your skin, lips puckering to kiss the bruise he left behind.

You’re coming down from your high, still fluttering around him but he doesn’t let you ride it out, he never does. He picks up his pace, going back to the animalistic way of pounding into you; snarling whenever you clutched tightly onto him, snapping his hips till you’re bruised against his force. You were crying, screaming, wailing his name in whiling seconds, just like that. Throat dries out, chest aching with pleasure and pain, and your hands fisting tightly, pining to be out of his grip to hold onto him, to cling onto his broad sweaty shoulders as he split you in half.

Your nails dig into your palms, forming blood crescents which don’t break your skin yet.

“You’re never leaving me, doll.” He grunts, “you’re all mine—mine to ruin, mine to idolise, mine to love.”

You nod, tightening your legs around his waist; pain pronounces more than pleasure, brutal thrusts plunging his cock to the deepest extent of your cunt, bruising your cervical opening, almost. The way your body jolts and continues to shudder, is a cruel reminder that he really does have you in shackles, bound to his soul, bound to his devilry. Yunho bites down hard on your neck, on the same bruise, with the same intensity of his hunger—your skin breaks, canines sinking into your flesh as you bleed into his mouth.

“Ah fuck,” you groan at the sudden ache, chest flaring up with suffocation and tears spilling down your face. “Yunho—Yunho…!”

He hums in satisfaction, sucking, drinking your blood as if it’s the new normal. And maybe it is. He’s done it so many times before; you’ve bled into his mouth, on his fingers, into his soul. A wrinkle in time shatters his daze, hips stuttering, cock twitching and throbbing, while your walls clamp him down, keeping him deep in you. Another shallow thrust of his hips, and he’s rocking against you, feeling the tightness in his ball before he’s spilling his warmth into you. Pulsating ropes of his load stain every crevice of your cunt, clinging onto your walls and some even leaking and trailing down the shaft of his cock.

He raises his head from your neck, gently, slowly; licking the blood off his lips, he almost smiles but it disappears behind a scowl. You’re panting, and so is he. Sweat scatters across his skin, giving it a subtle glimmer, his scars seem more prominent now, more pronounced on him. His disheveled hair brushes against your cheek when he leans down to kiss you, making you taste your own blood. Sliding his arms up from your thighs to your waist, he effortlessly pulls you up while he slumps against the armrest. The kiss never breaks, it grows passionate, hungry; he’s ravenous, biting and sucking your lips, tongue slithering into your mouth to play with your own.

His cock, still buried in you, instead of going limp, hardens again. Taking short breaths, he snakes his arms tighter around your waist and pulls you close. The bite on your neck still bleeds profusely, crimson rivulets staining your skin, transversing across your collarbones and down to your chest. He feels your warm blood trickle on his chest, and he deepens the kiss briefly before pulling back.

Yunho’s eyes glint dangerously, gaze fixed on the droplets which race against time to dribble against your skin. He licks his lips, still panting, and leans in to swipe his tongue across your chest, getting one of your hardened nipple into his mouth and suckling deep. A laugh rumbles in his chest, lips peppering kisses before he pulls away and sinks back into the couch, propping himself against the armrest.

“Still scared of me?” he whispers, lolling his tongue out to show off your blood still clinging onto it. “I’ve got your blood in my mouth…”

You shake your head, whimpering when one of his hands comes to press its palm on your neck, attempting to stop the bleeding wound.

“Yunho…” you only spell out his name with a broken voice, bringing your hands to his chest, tracing the smaller scars there.

“I’m here,” he assures you, “always here for my doll.”

You’re amused to find him so comforting. A complete irony to things he’s done to you before. “Just the way she is for me,” he adds, “always taking my side, never judging me.”

He presses the palm of his hand harder, and brings the other one to cup a side of your face. His fingers curl around the nape of your neck, pulling you closer till his lips brush yours. The small, soft, yearning touch soon turns to a starving battle between both of your lips. You drag your fingers across his chest, sliding them down to his abdomen where the dent of that one nasty scar takes you off guard. Not lingering there, you bring them back to his chest and then eventually to his shoulders. He hums into the kiss, satisfied as if. You shift in his lap, straddling him better, bracketing his hips with your own; his cock slips an inch out of you, curving into your warmth at an awkward angle before he bucks his hips and buries himself right back in. You moan into the kiss, fingers deftly pressing into his shoulders and body shuddering.

Yunho tilts your head a little, puppeteering you by your neck, as the kiss breaks into a war of strength and dominance. He’s never let you take the lead before, and he won’t let you do it now either; his tongue wraps around your own, rubbing, slicking, exploring your warmth and every corner of your mouth. Seconds later, he’s only sucking and biting your tongue, relishing the sweet sounding grumbles which erupt from the back of your throat. He slowly lets his hands slide from your neck, both falling to your chest. His fingers caress your taut skin, thumbs ghosting over your hardened peaks.

Reluctant even when his lungs burned, Yunho pulls away, breaking the kiss. He rests his forehead on yours, not letting the distance between you grow. You look at him, mind weighing with thoughts from the past, your soul devoured by him. He’s thinking too, maybe about the same thing you are, or maybe not. A whimper keeps your swollen lips parted, your chest heaving when he rocks his hips into yours, grinding painstakingly slow to remind you he’s still inside you; he’s still claiming you, making you feel ever inch of his thick and pulsating cock.

“What’s on your mind, doll?” he asks, deliberately pushing up, making you see stars.

You give him a subtle shake of your head, lips pursing together.

“Aw, you won’t tell me? Fine,” he pouts, pretending to be hurt by you.

“The cabin,” you mutter, giving into his tricks, “thinking about the cabin and what we did.”

“Right,” he states, kissing your forehead, “the day we…”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

THAT DAY : ONE WEEK AGO

“We’re here.”

He announces in a husky voice, snapping you out of your daze. A sudden shiver, very minute for anyone to notice it, passes over your shoulders in the form of a flinch. Your sense acclimatise to the current situation—you’re in his car, strapped in the passenger seat, hands in your lap and gaze locked onto a secluded wooden cabin engulfed by throes of green. Dense forest covers the space, as far as your eyes could span; in the middle of it, there lies the cabin, standing tall, stretching wide. It mustn’t be as large as it seems on the outside, it could maybe be as big as a small two bedroom house.

On the porch‘s railing, leans a strange man, someone you hadn’t seen or heard of before. Whoever he was, he must be friends with Yunho. You turn to face him, watching him kill the engine and pull the keys out before tilting his head to meet your eyes. He rolls his shoulders out, as if tensed, as if he was the only one carrying the weight around. You hesitantly reach for his hand, resting on the console separating the two seats, and intertwine your fingers with his, holding tight to anchor your straying thoughts to him.

“Can you stop worrying?” he calmly utters, squeezing your hand. “I’m here, aren’t I? I told you I’ll handle it, just trust me.”

You nod, even though you hadn’t comprehended even an inch of the word which made out of his mouth. When he lets go of your hand, your attention drifts back to the man on the porch; silver hair blinding in the morning sun, eyes as dark as the night sky staring into yours, assessing you, studying you, and body as tall and broad as Yunho.

Yunho’s gaze follows yours and he heaves out a small breath, “that’s Mingi. He won’t hurt you, alright? And he knows about what happened anyway…”

The mere vibrations of his voice serenade your ears and are cut short by the sound of his door closing shut. You follow him right after, stepping out and closing your side of the door. Wispy grass tickles your ankles, sun flaring heat on your head, and the summer breeze teasing your damp hair; Yunho dressed you up before leaving his apartment, he even helped you take a bath. That moment alone was the gentlest he could ever be.

Yes, when the post-orgasm clarity sunk deep within your bones, the weight of situation weighed you down. Your unlikely ‘lover’ had killed a woman out of spite. Anxiety grew, adrenaline took over and you were lost, drowning in waves of emotions. For a good hour or so, you were traumatised—lying unmoving on the floor, in her blood. Regardless, Yunho picked you up, ran a hot bath for you, and got rid of all blood stains from your skin. He even helped you soak, hoping it’d calm your nerves and while that was in action, he cleaned up the mess in the living room. By the time you were out of the bathroom, wearing one of his shirts which he had placed on the sink, you found Yunho wrapping up the corpse in a black tarp. One thing led to another, you scrubbed the blood off the floor using peroxide and he managed to fit the body in a large suitcase.

Getting the body downstairs to the parking lot was a challenge. To have the suitcase taken down the elevator and into the lot, all while hoping to not have anyone stumble across you two, was definitely a task. But nothing stopped Yunho, nothing came between him and his plan. You were fortunate enough to have anyone in the complex question your actions, or maybe, people are too busy getting to work early in the morning to have noticed you two after all.

Yunho mentioned about a cabin, an isolated structure in the woods which he had given away to a friend of his. And the same person now stood in front of you. The first thing you notice about Mingi, is the dead-set eyes glimmering in the sun, and of course, the splatters of crimson binding close to his plaid shirt. He dressed lax, exactly the way one’s supposed to be on a summer noon; unbuttoned plaid shirt exposing an undershirt, khakis which were rolled up at his ankles and worn slip-on which ensured ventilation. Quite a contrast to Yunho’s dress shirt and slacks; he looks as if he has a causal meeting on a Sunday afternoon, clad in a white button down paired with a black tie, and light denims.

“There you are,” Yunho greets Mingi with a pat on his back, “knew I could count on you.”

You stand between them, on the porch, as Yunho lugs the suitcase around and lets it stay by his side. From the crease of its zipper, blood seeps out, drop by drop, tainting the wooden deck of the porch.

Mingi’s eyes drift from him to the bag, lips twitching, “I assume that’s her?”

“In flesh and bone,” Yunho chuckles, before letting the quietest murmurs of his joke dwindle down, “we need to deal with this as soon as we can. I’ve got work…”

“Always getting your priorities straight, huh?” Mingi frowns, turning to you, “and I suppose this is…”

“You know who she is, Mingi. Don’t play,” Yunho grunts, disgruntled and irked. “Just keep her company while I do my work.”

Yunho walks past Mingi and into the cabin, hauling the suitcase after him. You’re stranded with Mingi, hands clutching at the sides of your dress, which was picked out by Yunho, and gaze diverting to anywhere else but him. Mingi takes a step closer to you, leaning in till you can get a whiff of his scent—a bold musky stench laced with sweat and sandalwood.

“You’re his little bird.” He murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest, “quite prettier than the image he painted in my mind with his words.”

Your breath hitches at that. Mingi notices and straightens up, creating some distance between you two and extending his hand for you to take. Which you do, hesitating and scared; he wraps his fingers around your hand and pulls you inside with him. Mingi leads you to the living room of the cabin; a quaint space cluttered with many mundane things, some details quite possibly the worst ones you had ever seen. Along with a sectional and a coffee table, there were animal hides and bones strewn across on the floor. There’s no normal way to go on about it. Antlers, preserved heads, jars filled with formaldehyde and specimens—what even was this place?

“Sorry for the mess,” Mingi states, fluffing up a pillow on the sectional before dropping down on it, “if I had known he was bringing company, I’d have cleaned around.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you whisper, tearing your eyes off the eerie things cluttered around.

“Please, sit down.” Mingi pats the space next to him on the sectional, and you settle in that space, thighs brushing against his.

Silence drawls, neither of you speaking or uttering a sound. In the same serenity, you hear Yunho’s muffled grunts followed by a rhythmic buzz. You perk up, eyeing the hallway from where the sounds grow loud and clear.

Mingi clears his throat, “that’s the bone saw,” he informs with a deadpan, “useful for dismembering a body.”

You swallow thickly, “where is it…?”

“The basement,” he replies, “or as Yunho likes to call it, his workshop.”

“His workshop?” you squeak, flattening your palms on your thighs.

Mingi hums, “yeah, where he does the dirty work. Most of the time anyway.” He pauses and watches you, noticing the way your chest heaves. “You don’t possibly think it’s the first person he’s murdered, do you?”

“There’s been more?” you swallow hard again, the lump in your throat a persistent reminder of fear and fatigue.

Mingi heaves a humourless chuckle, dark, rumbling from deep within in his chest, the kind which carries a sudden weight. “A couple, yeah,” he shrugs again, as if it doesn’t faze him at all, “during his college days, if I recall it correctly.” He turns to you, “interested? Fascinated? Scared?”

“Terrified actually,” you whisper and Mingi laughs harder, “I like your sense of humour, birdie.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I,” Mingi’s voice drops a baritone, “you willingly give into his whims, his darkest desire, yet this is what terrifies you the most.”

You try to scoot away from him, but Mingi’s arm wrap around your shoulders in a blink of an eye. “Don’t run, I don’t bite. Unless you ask me nicely.” He snickers, “oh sweet thing, you sleep with a man who’s a little fucked in the head, his history can’t surprise you this much.”

“I’ve only known him for a few months,” you squirm in his grip, he callouses on his hand digging in your skin, rubbing roughly. “How would—how would I know…” your words are caught in your throat, barely spilling out.

Mingi nods, giving you space, arm sliding off your shoulder and dropping to his side. “True. No one’s really lasted this long before. You must be special.”

Your cheeks flush, heat crawls up your neck and ears. This isn’t something to be flustered about, but your mind registers it as a compliment somehow. There have been others, of course, though no one’s lasted as long as you. No one’s known him like you do. Mingi clicks his tongue and slides an inch away, leaning back and emitting a satisfied hum.

“He’s never brought anyone here,” he starts listing off, “never fucked anyone like he has fucked you. Never talked about anyone to me like he talks about you. And he definitely hasn’t cared about anyone the way he does for you.”

A beat passes like a wrinkle in time.

Then your heart skips one.

You take a deep breath to compose yourself but fail miserably. Mingi takes it as an opportunity and remarks, “you’re the luckiest girl alive.”

Wordlessly, you tilt your head to him and he grins, “cause you’re the only one he hasn’t buried off in the backyard of this very cabin.”

Hours later, Yunho emerges out from the basement, dressed in the same clothes without a drop of blood on them. He approaches you on the sectional, ignoring Mingi for the time being who had drifted apart and slumped over the other side of the couch. Mingi had kept you a great company in those droning hours; he made a comforting tea for your nerves, narrated quite a few tales about Yunho from his college years, and expounded on the cluttered mess in the living room. Yunho sits next to you, pulling your hands in his; your warmth immediately dissipates into his cold hands, grounding him. He pecks your temple, then your lips.

“See, all done.” He murmurs, pressing another kiss to your lips, “don’t worry, I’ve got it under control. And if the bloodhounds come sniffing her blood on you, don’t be afraid. You have an alias…” he nudges his head to Mingi, who nods back. “We’ll chalk out a storyline, get everything perfect in case something goes wrong.”

Mingi scoffs, looking up from his phone, “as if something would.”

Yunho calmly replies, “as much as I am particular about leaving any traces behind, some things don’t go as planned, Mingi.”

“You’re scaring her.” Mingi grumbles nonchalantly. “Maybe keep the fatalities for when she’s seen your true colours? We don’t want to scare this one off, Yunho. She’s a sweet little thing, maybe exactly what you need right now.”

Yunho scoffs and rolls his eyes, kissing your lips again. “Yeah, right.”

“She’s exactly what I need right now.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

PRESENT DAY.

Morning sun creeps through the blinds, flooding an aureate glow in your bedroom. You’re sitting in your bed, propped against the headboard, taking eventual sips from your cup of tea. With every sip you take, you feel the warmth travel through your body, soothing the storm of thoughts in your head. Yunho sleeps next to you, lying on his stomach, sheets tangled in his legs; his back is bared to you, red streaks from your nail scratches too evident against his pale skin. Blood stains his lips, his cheek, and his fingertips, all hardened and coagulated; another evidence from last night, which made your skin crawl.

You think about the day at his cabin, stuck in a broken loop of how things have turned out now; you think about Mingi, think about your conversations with him, which followed after your first interaction. After last night’s activities, you hadn’t thought you’d be up early in the morning. And you really didn’t; it was a little after noon when your sleep broke. You woke up with a sore throat, and punishing aches between your legs, which grew intense with every movement of your legs, or your back. Not giving it much thought, you slipped out of bed, took a warm soak, cleaned yourself inside out, and chugged one whole bottle of water with two pills of ibuprofen. Then you pulled over one of his hoodies which you stole and limped to the kitchen; your stomach was grumbling, hungry for actual food this time.

An hour later, you were back in bed with a steaming cup of tea and a plate of cookies; you didn’t know how to spend your time, how to distract yourself from the myriad of things on your mind. A sigh leaves your lips, body shuddering with a delicious ache before it dissolves to mind-numbing pleasure; you still felt him in your cunt, felt the way he split you in half. There were new cuts on your body from last night, new bite marks, new wounds, new places he made you bleed from before sucking and licking them clean. At the end of it, however, he bandaged many injuries he inflicted on you; though the one around your neck—a sheer gauze taut around a bunch of cotton drenched in antiseptic—was the cruel proof of how sinister his desires can get.

You wince, setting the cup on the nightstand next to your side of the bed, right where your phone was charging—you hadn’t checked it in days, knowing many of the notifications would be from work. None from friends or family though; the thought of having someone worry and fuss over you, forces you to stare at him. He’s still lost in his slumber, chest rising and falling slowly, eyes squirming, lips parted slightly to breathe. You could hear his gentle snores, could notice the strain on his face even when he sleeps—he never lets his guard down it seems.

Watching your blood stain his cheeks and mouth, snaps a string in your heart. As much as you enjoyed being fed on last night, the memoirs don’t excite you. If anything, it reminds you how fucked up you are, and that brings shame, guilt, regret. Those need to be washed off, don’t they? With a heavy heart, you drag yourself back into the bathroom—fill up a small bowl with warm water and fish out a cotton rag from your closet. You sit back in bed, the bowl and rag placed on your nightstand. Deliberately, you soak the rag in the warm water and bring it to his cheeks first; you get the blood off, little by little, scraping it off gently with your fingers protruding from the rag. You get most of it out, then move to his mouth. Again, you’re careful when you’re wiping his lips; they’re delicate, and soft, but at the same time covered in your blood.

In the end, you come to his hands, to his sleek fingers. When you’re scrubbing off his middle finger, Yunho stirs, then a groan erupts from his chest. You don’t stop doing what you are, even though his fingers curl in your hand involuntarily.

“Doll?” he asks, voice deep and heavy from sleep; he clears his throat then speaks up, “what are you doing?”

“Just cleaning you up,” you answer, “did I wake you up?”

He looks up at you and shakes his head, “no.”

He’s more peaceful in the morning. No tricks. No games. No facades. Just him.

“I was dreaming about you.” He grins, voice still laced with sleep and husk. “I didn’t want to wake up, but then I realised, I am living my dream already.”

Your heart does that thing again, forces your stomach to knot and your body to go numb. “Oh, really?”

You move onto his other finger and he hums. “Yes, really.” Abruptly, he takes your hand in his, pulling you down to kiss your lips.

“I’m glad.”

His playful kiss turns to a lazy makeout session, which does escalate to round ‘you lost count’. When he’s done though, he cleans you up with the same rag you were using to clean him and wraps you up in your (his) hoodie; he’s currently taking a shower, humming a tune whose rhythm is muffled through the door, while you’re scrolling through your work group chat. Pending tasks. Droning texts from your coworkers. Some lighthearted threats. Nothing interesting. Bored, you close your group chat and navigate back to the main screen of your messages app.

You hadn’t noticed it before, or maybe it wasn’t there until now, but at the top of your inbox, there’s a text from an unknown number. With a trembling thumb, you click on it and read along the tiny letters.

‘Hello, this is detective Choi. I need to follow up on your statement from last week. Can you come meet me at the station today, maybe in the evening, around 6 pm - 7 pm. It’s urgent.’

Detective Choi.

Realisation dooms you. He needs a follow up on the statement you made last week, a statement you don’t recall anymore. Was it against Yunho? Or was it in his favour? This just became too real, didn’t it?

Wicked Games // Ateez standalone smut series

[xerotiny]

part three out now

[xerotiny]

THE BOY IN YOUR HEART ☥ JEONG YUNHO

Pairing(s): Jeong Yunho x fem reader x Song Mingi (ft. Choi Jongho)

Genre: dark romance, psychological thriller/drama.

Tag(s): DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, twisted lovers, established dynamic, dark romance, psychopath au, boy next door!yunho, neighbour!reader, sadist!yunho, hard dom!yunho, sub!reader, detective!jongho, hunter!mingi, dom!jongho, switch!mingi

Warning(s): smut, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering (f! receiving), voyeurism, pussy slapping, thigh riding, vampirism, blood play, using blood as lube, piss kink/piss play, rough sex, praise kink, humiliation kink, degradation, breeding kink, size kink, jealous!yunho, cheeky!jongho, pervert!mingi

Synopsis: meeting the detective wasn’t really a bad decision, but it followed you home like a mishap.

Word Count: 19.07k (sorry)

a/n: alright, since it’s meant to be a series, the female character will have a name—and here, it’s Park Seongmi. Well everything stays the same. Only the reader has a name. It doesn’t necessarily make her an oc. But if you choose to believe that then you can.

part one | part two | part three (you are here)

The cheerful afternoon you had settled into, now withers away with the dread of the text. As if staring at your phone screen made you believe it’d disappear somehow. But it didn’t. It stayed, lingered in every corner of your mind; you recall each day from last week, pondering whether you had let something crucial slip to the detective during your interrogation. Nothing seemed to shed a light upon the darkness inhabiting your memory. The only way of knowing what bullshit you had spewed is by taking up the invite from detective Choi. Meeting him wasn’t the problem, what really tormented you is finding an excuse to leave Yunho and visit the precinct.

When you hear the shower turning off, you hastily set your phone back on the nightstand and stare at the bathroom door. Yunho steps out not long after; a towel draped around his waist, hair wet and dripping everywhere, including his shoulders and skin glimmering with fine droplets of water. He pushes the damp strands back, out of his face and slicks them with the rest. With every step he takes toward your closet, you catch a subtle bounce between his legs; you never seem to admit, but his physical presence always riles you up and has you leaking between your legs. You watch him as he drops his towel, and rummages through the shelf in your closet specifically dedicated to him and his clothes.

You clear your throat, getting his attention, “do you have to be at clinic?”

Yunho spares you a glance over his shoulder and hums, “I believe so, I need to go in for a routine check.”

You hum back, eyes drifting away from him as he gets dressed in a simple dress shirt and slacks. “Why?” he turns around, questioning you while buttoning his pants.

“No reason,” you mutter under your breath, “it’s the weekend, so I thought you wouldn’t have to go.”

“Aww, you’re missing me already?” he coos, walking to the edge of the bed, standing on the side across from you. “I’ll see you in the evening, though. It’ll be some mere hours before I’m back again.”

“Right,” you take a deep breath, fingers pinching at the hem of his hoodie. “Well, I need to meet some of my coworkers too.”

There’s a flash of darkness in Yunho’s eyes; it disappears in a split moment, replaced by a cheery glint. “Of course. Where are you meeting?”

Your breath hitches. Where? You hadn’t thought it through. “It’s the Italian bistro downtown. Remember, we went there after a month you first moved in.”

Yunho’s lips twitch slightly, curling ever so lightly into his cheek. “Perhaps I do,” he rolls his shoulders out and runs a hand through his hair, water sprinkling in the air, “so, who all are going to be there?”

“Just a couple of work friends. You don’t know them.”

He raises his brow at you. “Then maybe I should get to know them. I would certainly be delighted to know bout the people my girl accompanies herself with.”

“Do you think they’d mind if I joined?” he adds.

“Yeah, probably,” you blurt out quickly. “I mean, I’ve never mentioned anything about you to them.”

“Then maybe today’s the day.” He trudges over to your vanity in the corner of your room; he picks up the lotion and starts patting it into his face. “Let them know who you really belong to. Who’s keeping you trapped in a cage.”

His gaze meets yours briefly in the mirror, and you look away; when Yunho’s eyes held yours the way they did now, he immediately finds the cracks in your words, sniffs out the lie as if he sees right through you. A beat stutters in your heart, mind blanking on the surface and lips trembling.

“Maybe not today,” you glance at your phone, “some other day. I’m sure they’re as excited as you are to…” you trail off when you raise your head back to him; he’s no longer by the vanity, he’s towering over you.

His fingers gently grasp your chin, tilting your head up to stare into your eyes. The warmth in his eyes dissipates to a certain formidable intensity, brown hue shrouded by oddment. He leans down, pecks your lips and straightens up, hand dropping from your chin. You’re scratching your head, seeking the meaning behind his actions.

“Fine,” he lets on a small smile stretch across his face, “some other day.”

You nod. “Are you mad?”

Don’t be mad, please.

Yunho laughs, as if he’s read your mind. “Doll, why would I be mad at you for wanting to spend some time with your work friends?”

“I’m not a monster,” he remarks with a lilt to his tone.

He picks up his wet towel from the floor, from where he dropped it off before getting dressed, and takes it with him to the dry balcony adjoining your room. Silence is all that whispers in your ears, and the sound of his hums which force you to ramble.

“No, gods no, I never said you are,” you blurt out, “It seems I may have disappointed you. I—I really do resent myself when I let you down for things I can control.” You peek up, watching him stride in with an elegant gait before he stops right in front of you again; this time your words don’t die in your throat, they bubble up to your tongue. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to be a bummer. I—I swear—and now I’m probably aggravating you…”

He holds your chin in between his fingers again, thumb pressing down as hard as it could to stop your nonsensical blabbering. Your lower lip juts out, mouth staying parted slightly. Without warning, he leans down and bites down hard on your pouting lip, aggressive enough to break your skin and letting it bleed. You whimper the moment his incisors sink into your flesh, alongside the canines which dig much deeper and cause the agonising sting.

Suckling your blood in his mouth, he pulls away; he stands straighter, his silhouette covering your shuddering figure on bed.

“What have I told you about rambling?” he grunts, fingers brushing your chin once before sliding down to wrap around your throat.

“No rambling,” you squeak, feeling the weight of his fingers push into the walls of your throat. He’s not choking you yet.

He hums, “that’s it.” He squeezes your throat, thumb digging into your windpipe to restrict your breathing. You gasp, clawing at his wrist but it’s no use. Suffocation soon knocks you out, throat going dry, chest heaving; you try breathing from your nose, albeit it’s useless too. Eyes start fluttering close, darkness engulfing in short bursts of a despair, and he never loosens his grip.

“I really despise conditioning you, my love.” He whispers, sounding genuine, concerned. “But it’s necessary.”

You choke on air, lightheaded and dizzy. Nails dig into his skin, but your fingers, however, uncurl one by one till your hand falls to the side. You’re so close to passing out, so close to tasting the sense of relief—and the he eases his grip, thumb rubbing circles on your hyoid bone.

“It’s necessary for you to learn your lessons,” he adds, voice dropping even lower, “apologies need to be felt, love.”

Yunho slides his hand from your throat to the back of your neck; he cradles you, fingers threading in your hair to soothe your ache. On the surface, this gentleness is more detrimental than his aggression, but you don’t have a choice. The sting on your split lip burns, flaring till it catches on your head and you wince, tears streaming from your cheeks. Your lungs scream, chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow. Tears welling in your eyes, blurs the edges of him, the faint smear of blood still glistening on his lower lip. You notice him staring at you too intently with his pupils blown wide; feigned tenderness shining bright.

“Shhh,” he drags his thumb to your jaw, smearing the wetness of a stray tear rolling down, “breathe for me. Slow. In…out.”

You try. You really do. But every breath you take, cruelly reminds you how your body shudders. Every inhale tastes like burnt copper and stale iron on your tongue, every pull of breath is a quiet suffering in its own way. Yunho stares at you, studying you a second longer—he’s contemplating, deciding, trying to figure out how much more you can take before you finally break. He really does hate breaking you apart during his “conditioning” sessions. Sadist in his heart but his conscience is much purer than that; he doesn’t think of it as penalising your actions, it’s more about the discipline, measures to keep you in line and if he doesn’t, you’ll go rogue.

Seconds tick louder than the meaningless protest your body screamed at you; lip stinging and bleeding into your mouth, eyes tearing up, chest still burning with an urge to breathe without having to cough. You bring both your hands to Yunho’s, wrapping them around his wrists—a gentle request to anchor him back to reality, particularly wanting to put a stop to this inane act of sadism.

He clicks his tongue, “count.”

Ignoring your pleas, he uses his free hand to push your hoodie over to your chest; it bunches up awkwardly, but stays, as if even the piece of clothing is scared of defying his command. One hand tightens around your neck, while the other traces down to your lower belly—fingertips sending a shiver down your spine the moment they graze against your sternum, and the dainty scabs of carvings he pleasured himself in last week. He presses his hand harder, putting pleasure right on your bladder.

“Yunho—I’m sorry—please,” you choke out, squirming, struggling to set yourself free from under him. Curling your fingers around the sleeve of shirt, you really do make an effort to ground him back to his more gentle state of mind. “No more—hurts—really fucking hurts.”

Every supplication parting your lip is snubbed with either a grunt or a more painful push of his hand against your lower belly. “Stop begging now, love. Your stupid habits earned you this,” he tuts, another click of his tongue resounding in the space between you.

You let out a helpless cry, raggedly breathing while he emphasises again, “spread your legs and count.”

There’s no other choice than to obligate—as if you ever did have a choice, your body’s been conditioned to obey his every word. With a small nod of his head, and a gentle hum reverberating from his chest, he eases his hand over your lower belly and caresses it over to your mound. Slow, agonisingly slow—to give you the false sense of gentleness before cracking you down. He raises his hand and in one swift motion, it lands hard on your already weeping cunt. There’s a little shame in admitting that you were most definitely turned on by your current state

You groan, thighs clenching with an instinct but he parts them back, pushing you down into the heap of pillows behind your head by the hand that’s still draped around your neck.

“One,” you whimper, tears never stopping.

When the second smack lands, he deliberately drags his thumb across your clit, with a purpose, with a tender intention.

“Two.”

Smack.

“Three.”

Smack.

“Four.”

Each slap is harder than the last. Fingers deftly pressing on your swollen folds, thumb drawling circles on your clit and your mind drunk on a pleasured haze. You could feel your arousal dripping down your inner thighs, and very much to your surprise, you also felt the pressure increase intently on your bladder.

Fifth one shoves a sob from your chest; your bladder screams in protest from the lingering press of his hand from before. Yunho’s face doesn’t twitch to the slightest; you can’t tell if he’s pitying you, or if he’s delighted to have you squirming and pleading under him, or if he’s really mad at you. His silence is lot more difficult to perceive and comprehend, because when he’s quiet, the demons in his mind whispers louder than usual.

With a grunt, he switches—back of his hand now, a stinging crack makes your thighs quake and your split lip reopen as you bite down on it to muffle your cries.

“Six,” you whine, eyes red and puffy, tasting your tears on your tongue.

An almost indiscernible hum leaves Yunho’s lips, and he brings his other hand to your abdomen from your neck; his fingers splay, spanning across every inch of your skin, pushing down. Your hoodie strains around your chest, bunched up right below your breasts.

“You’re doing so well, love,” he murmurs a praise which doesn’t come too often from him. “Four more, doll. You can take it.”

He raises his hand again, pinning you down with his other on your lower belly, and when it lands harder down on your puffy cunt. A blood curdling scream rips out of your chest, body spasming, thrashing, aching to be let go. Your hands flail to grab his wrist, not the one hitting you, no, the one pressing so damn hard on your bladder that it’s almost on the edge of grotesque pain.

“Yunho—please—please hurts,” you plead, nails digging into his skin and the cuff of his sleeve, “please…”

He clicks his tongue, tutting to shut you up in a way that’s only discernible between you two. “Three more, love. You’re taking it so good…”

The eighth and ninth smack knock all air out of you; chest heaving, tears no longer welling in your eyes, body on the verge of shutting down. Yunho doesn’t seem to care though, but you on the other hand, want to be good for him, want to show him you can take it. His hand slips down your belly to your mound, thumb drawing circles—pleasure coils tight, walls almost fluttering but never quite there. You’re so full, so close to shatter your control. Then, the tenth slap comes out of nowhere, making you scream again.

“Good girl,” he preens, cupping your swollen cunt in the fraction of second. “Such a good girl.”

You drop your hands to your side, lifeless, but proud you didn’t let go. Not yet. Vision blurs on the edges as you look at him; he shifts, the warmth of his hands dithering away from your body. One knee plants next to your ribs, the other one between your legs, keeping your legs parted and your red and weeping cunt on display. His fingers collect your arousal, sliding between your slit before they plunge right into you; your walls accommodate two of his fingers well, stretching, twitching—you’re used to it. The situation is so obscene; you’re dripping wet, soaking the sheets under you, some of your slick even slipping into the cleft of your ass. The sole pillow under your head is wet too, absorbing your tears and sweat, drool too, followed by the blood from your split lip.

You don’t know what to focus on. His fingers? His hand? Your bleeding lips which stings every time you bite it to muffle your screams. Or the impending stress looming in your bladder, just waiting to be let go? Yunho’s fingers don’t show you any mercy, no signs of stopping from their brutal assault; every push and pull is deliciously agonising, intensifying the ache building with every thrust in the pit of your stomach. You’re so sure it’s not the familiar tautness lingering in your stomach, it’s different—more humiliating, more tragic—if you give into it, you’d be reduced to his pretty little doll who pisses on his command. Those things are a far cry from what he’s done to you though; his fingers continue to plunge deeper into your cunt, fleshy walls squelching to make vulgar sounds, fingertips almost brushing that one spongy corner at the end before they draw back.

You’re craving it, the end of it all. You want to feel lighter, more relaxed and less anxious—he’s bringing you to it, to the closeness of your release. But it’s not the one which brings pleasure, or satisfaction.

“That’s it, love,” he coos. “Let go, let it all out. Make a mess on my hand.”

Yunho presses his hand harder on your mound, so hard that it’s beyond your control anymore. With a particularly strong thrust of his fingers, you feel the dam break—you gush out, body spasming, shuddering—humiliation slowly creeps from your gut, dispersing to your chest and face. You turn your head and try to hide in the pillow, hair mussed and disheveled; the scent of your salty tears and burnt copper from your blood lingers, then the sound of your gush hitting the sheets echoes in the room. A small trickle at first, and a second later, you’re flooding and soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Good girl,” he whispers, watching you wet yourself, watching your slick and piss coat his fingers as they continue plunging into you; the pace of his fingers eases to a halt, and he pulls them out, noticing a thin, almost golden, rivulet trailing down his wrist. He chuckles, “aww, my little bird made a mess.”

You groan into the pillow, chest hurting with how hard you were breathing. You could feel the heat on your cheeks, the never-ending flush of humiliation still warm and nagging—your flow slows to a trickle again, and he finally lifts both his hands. Their warmth drifts to your sternum, lightly, a subtle change of heat before the hand which was inside you, covered in your slick and piss, forces its way to your mouth. You stare at him, eyes wide but not amused; he pushes the same fingers into your mouth, rubbing them on your tongue.

“Suck,” he commands and you obey, wrapping your lips around his knuckles and sucking his the digits.

You taste yourself, musky and salty, before gagging on his fingers as they slide down deeper into your throat. Once his fingers are clean, he pulls them out, dripping with your spit, shimmering under the crackling sunlight of late afternoon.

“Colour?” he has the audacity to ask.

Regardless, you reply, “green.”

The safeword system never comes to play with him, not unless he’s genuinely concerned and willing to acknowledge what he’s done. Yunho lets out a small hum before tracing your bottom lip with his thumb; your blood, having dried up now, smears just the slightest bit on his skin. With a click of his tongue, he picks you up in his arms, cradling you close to his chest. He carries you to the bathroom, sets you down on the sink counter, and straightens out your hoodie. You settle down with a wince, clinging onto his shoulders even as he steps back and out of the bathroom; in your own twisted way, you missed his warmth, missed his presence around you.

While you simmer in silence, Yunho takes off the ruined sheets, throws them in the washer in the dry balcony, and returns with a warm cup of tea. He sets the cup next to you, mumbling, “that should calm you.”

He opens the cabinet above the sink, pulling out necessities—soothing balm, a fresh roll of gauze, cotton swabs, antiseptic solution and some q-tips. Your cabinet is a mini pharmacy; so are the drawers of your nightstand—painkillers, bandages of all sizes, gauzes, pain patches, hot and cold compresses, contraceptives, box of condoms (which he only used one time), and other meds. As much as Yunho delighted himself in your pain, he wasn’t fond of letting you endure it through day and night; he would tend to your wounds, cuts, take care of your aches with drugs—and all the other things. All of it is sprawled over the counter while he takes a minute to unbutton his shirt and drop it into the laundry hamper beneath the sink. Bare from upper half, he steps back in front of you, close enough for you to feel his breath warming your cheeks.

“Did I hurt my doll?” he whispers, cupping your face with one hand as he uses the other pick up the tin of balm. “We need to change your bandage,” his fingers gently brush against the old gauze wrapped around your neck; he simply sighs and opens the tin, “first, let’s stop this bleeding. It looks a bit angry.”

You glare at his chuckle, but it soon softens to a look of gratitude and appreciation. He dips the tip of his thumb into the tin, coating it with clear salve-like gel before spreading it across your split lip. It stings for a tenth of second, before it dissolves to a comforting sensation. Yunho hums as he applies the balm; you just stare at him, lips parted, breaths hitching at the domestic proximity between you two.

“Should’ve had the tea before, love,” he mumbles, voice dropping low, “never mind, you can drink it once it’s dried up, hmm? I’ll reheat it for you.”

You bring your arms around his waist, a habit you’ve picked up on during tender moments like these. Aftercare with Yunho was the best; he spoke, he made an effort, he was a gentle giant—an astronomical contrast to who he is when his eyes are the darkest. You push yourself closer to him, tipping your head on his chest before looking up at him.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, “I didn’t want to make you angry.”

“It’s okay, doll,” he smiles, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “Even if you did, you learnt your lesson, didn’t you? And that makes me happy.”

He runs his free hand through your hair, while the other sets the tin aside. “I’m the happiest man alive when my baby listens to me.”

You hum softly, ingraining it in your brain; you’ve done it countless times before, inculcated his likes and dislikes in your bones by now. You know what makes him happy, you know what makes him mad, you know what disappointment means, and you are adept at knowing how rare these gentle moments are with him.

“Look up, my love,” he tilts your chin up lightly, dainty fingers going to the knot of gauze around your neck, “let me change this, hmm? Then I’ll run you bath, and pick your outfit for the night.”

The bandage and gauze come off smoothly, and once they’re discarded into the bin under the sink, he scrutinises and studies the bite mark on your neck. “Oh, it doesn’t look so bad,” he remarks, “it’s healing well—maybe in the coming two, three days it might heal completely.”

He keeps you engaged with soft talk while he douses a cotton swab in antiseptic solution. “I wish I could stay long enough to dress you up myself, make sure every inch of your body is covered—except for maybe some of my marks,” he trails off, pressing the cold cotton swab against the bite. You hiss, tightening your arms around his waist. “There, love. It’s fine—it stings all the time, doesn’t it? I’ll kiss it better soon.”

He moves onto applying an anti inflammatory cream to the cleaned wound; he’s gentle as always, careful not to sting you much. You do squirm, however, the cold sensation burning on your skin. His fingers are adept at that gentle touch, slow and steady.

“Is it hurting?”

You shake your head.

“What does it feel like?”

You slowly peak up at him. “It burns. But I love it.”

“Of course you do, my love.” He sets the tube aside and starts wrapping up the gauze around your neck. “I know my doll loves being mine,” he titters, tying up the ends of the gauze at the nape of your neck. “And I, get super ecstatic, when my little birdie knows who she belongs to. When she wears my marks so proudly.”

Your toes curl, arms tighten and a small gasp rips its way out your chest. “Yunho…”

“Yeah baby, I know.” He chuckles again, “all done for now. How are the cuts on your stomach…?”

“Healed,” you pull away, and lift your hoodie, showing off your stomach which hold the scabbed slashes he made a little while ago. “They itch.”

Yunho hums, “they absolutely do.” He wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest, “remind me after your bath, I have a spray which makes it more tolerable, hmm?” he leans in to kiss your temple, mumbling in your hair, “don’t get the bandage wet, alright.”

“I’ll get the bath started for you,” you nod at him, watching him with wide eyes as he leaves the bathroom and heads into the bedroom.

Sticky and covered in your own piss and slick, you wait for him patiently, letting your feet dangle off the sink counter. You don’t feel the burns on your skin anymore, what does ache in your stomach is the revelation of dependency. Manipulation has different names, but the most abhorrent one is love. Yunho loves you, he cares for you, it’s in his own way, his own language you’ve started to learn; he’s altered your brain chemistry too, coercing you to rely on him for every little thing.

Footsteps echo on the marble floor, Yunho strides in, now dressed in a black cashmere sweater and the same pants from before. He’s wearing his frameless glasses this time, dark eyes glistening with proud mischief and sinister glaze. Sparing you a glance, and a small smile, he rolls the sleeves of his sweater to his elbows. Once they were secured around his joints, he lets the tap run in the tub, warm water filling it up. He’s meticulous, and careful. You only watch him, eyes moving with every movement of his hands, or his body.

In minute’s time, the bathroom fills with wafts of lavender and rosemary; bath salts, bath oils, all the lotions and potions you like. He straightens up from the tub, approaching you with a gentle gait; he kisses the crown of your head before pulling off the hoodie from your body, baring you to him. You let your head fall against his shoulder when he picks you up in his arms and carries you to the bathtub. He lowers you with a gentle touch, your body sinking into the warm water; the initial resistance of your weight breaks to a relaxing spasm of your muscles. Water sloshes around you when you’re completely submerged inside.

A deliberately soft and lingering gets pressed to your lips, body going numb at the softest caress of his lips against yours. He stands up, as gracefully as he could, grabs your cup of tea from the sink and flashes you a twitch of his lips.

“Let me reheat this and I’ll bring it back to you.” He states before walking out back into the bedroom.

He’s not gone for long this time. The steaming cup of tea is placed on the boarder edge of the tub you were leaning against; you catch a glimpse of the steam rising, some dissipating into thin air, some merging with the mist from the water in the tub. Yunho slowly rolls down the sleeves of his sweater, and runs a hand through his hair, slicking back the stray strands.

“Are you leaving?” you squeak, noticing him tend to his hair with an exaggerated haste in the cabinet’s mirror right over the sink.

“Yeah,” he hums. “I have to. There was a batch recall on one of the paediatric antibiotics we use a lot.” He explains, “it’s a routine supply check, anyway. I’ll be back home soon.”

You nod and he continues. “I hope to be in time to see you all dolled up for your night.”

“It’s alright, you can take your time, love.” You mumble, closing your eyes as relaxation courses through your veins to your mind.

He pouts lightly, turning to you, “well, I already do not feel good about letting you dress on your own.”

“Did you pick out my outfit?”

He nods. “Laid on the bed. I’ve changed the sheets, so don’t worry about it. And the soiled ones are in the washer,” he resumes setting his hair, “if I’m early, I’ll let it dry in the balcony.”

You hum in satisfaction, barely even listening to him at this point. “We can’t let it stay in the washer…”

“I know…” he glances at you again, “if it’s done before you leave, then maybe you should do it.”

“I will,” you slowly open your eyes, looking at him, “will you be home early?”

“I might.” He steps back from the cabinet mirror. “I need to get changed before I go meet Mingi at the cabin.”

“A special occasion?”

“Something like that,” he says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants, “drinks and stuff.”

“Have fun.”

“Hmhm,” Yunho grunts as a response before walking out of the bathroom, stranding you in your tub.

When the slightest echoes of front door opening and closing reaches you, you sigh and grab your cup of tea; it’s piping hot, but the undertones of chamomile and Darjeeling tea are soothing enough to be even bothered by the accidental burn. The warmth of the tea spread from your mouth, down your oesophagus—snuggling in your chest before ending in your stomach. It’s the kind of comfort you never want to lose.

Time is at a standstill, a crack in nature’s soul; you soak up the warmth from water, lavender scent sticking to your skin like glue, and the scent of rosemary calming your nerves. Sulking in the dim lights, you close your eyes once more to truly relish the delight of your bath. Yunho knows what you need. All the time. He knows you like the back of his hand—the scents you’d crave, the soap you’d prefer, or the conditioner you’d like to leave in your hair. Aftercare with Yunho is the ultimate experience; he’s gentle, comforting, and amicable in ways you had never imagined him to be. At least not when he’s feasting on your body like it’s the last meal he’ll ever eat.

Every flutter in your heart is accustomed to him by now; every blink of your eye replies back with a picture of him burned in your mind, he’s everything you crave, for now and maybe for eternity. You let out a choked sob, the heaviness from countless situations drowning you back into the warm water he’s prepared for you. Every easing twitch in your muscles could to a tightness which brings dread and conspicuous fatigue to your mind and body alike. You’ve gotten yourself into a delicate quandary, and ironically, the only one to break your shackles is yourself. If talking to detective Choi could even clear Yunho’s name out in the slightest, you’d be happy.

Recounting to the blurry memories of last week, you do know Yunho was subjected to initial suspicion. However, a man reputed to be anything but kind, alongside his designation to be a paediatrician, cleared it off in a blink of an eye. As amusing as it was, reputation and money can bring you immense power to do as your heart desires. Yunho’s only desire? He wanted to keep you safe. Not himself. He wanted to keep you from the droning interrogations, manipulative tactics of the detectives and certainly, he doesn’t want you to spew the truth about that night to anyone.

You were way over in your head. One wrong word uttered to detective Choi, and you could be paying for it with your life. As much as you didn’t want to believe it, you knew Yunho would discard you with a snap of his fingers if anything goes south. You really a toy for him to play with, fuck with. There’s no way he’d care about you, right? He probably doesn’t. These inklings are so deeply rooted in your brain, the second they start resurfacing, you feel searing hot ache of fear rise in your chest. Your guts twist, stomach drops. The bath doesn’t comfort you anymore; it starts to suffocate you.

Water splashes everywhere when you frantically try to get out of the tub; you almost slip, stepping out. Fumbling to the bedroom, naked and trembling, you look around till your eyes land on the dress he’s laid out for you on the bed. A black maxi dress with lace detailing around the Victorian neckline and sequins across the hem, long sleeved to cover your arms, and still flattering enough to turn heads. He bought it for you a couple of months ago; said he couldn’t remember why he purchased it, but when he saw you wear it, he knew it wasn’t a pointless purchase. Yunho purposely bought you dresses which covered you up whole; he didn’t like showing his marks on your body to others. Only he got to see them, only he got to touch them and revere them. You never squeaked against his wishes.

When you’ve composed yourself, you stumble to your closet to grab a towel. You pick out a fluffy one, soft enough to pat yourself dry. Patting is the only way where your bruises didn’t hurt, or the cuts didn’t weep crimson. The warmth of towel contrasts gravely to the ache on your skin; you continue to pat yourself till you’re fully dry. Dressing up by yourself isn’t really a task, but having someone do it for you has become a habit you can’t break out of. Every time you slip on a piece of clothing, you’re reminded of Yunho’s gentle touch, and the praises he’d sing.

You’re halfway through slipping on your safety shorts when you hear the front door open and close. Yunho’s back already. Well he did say he wouldn’t take too long to return, neither is his clinic too far away from home. By the time he’s in the room, you’re pulling on the sleeves of the dress.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” he promises to someone on the phone; most probably Mingi. “Yeah, I just got home. I’ll change and leave…”

You watch him pace across the floor to stand behind you, one hand grabbing a hold of the zipper while the other held his phone. There’s a cigarette trapped between his lips in the corner of his mouth, tip burning red and smoke curling in air. With a simple tug, he pulls the zipper close. However he stops midway through to press a soft kiss to spine, right above the hooks of your bra; the cigarette returns between his lips, burning bright red. When your dress is zipped, he turns you around with one hand and wraps it around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. Like an instinct, your arms rest on his chest, the cashmere feeling soft and warm before you slide them to his waist too.

“I’ll give you a call when I leave, alright?” he hangs up the phone and pushes it back in the front pocket of his pants. “All dressed?”

You nod. “Everything okay at the clinic?”

“What could’ve gone wrong?” he whispers, a certain lilt lacing his voice. Both of his arms wrap tightly around you, pulling you even closer to him. “Let me know when you’re done, hmm? I’ll drop you off.”

You tense up, every inch of your muscle tightening; he could feel it too, and you know how easily he sees through your body language. “You don’t have to. I can drive by myself.”

“I know you can, love,” he mumbles, smiling widely. “Mingi and I have some stuff to deal with downtown. If I’m heading there, might as well drop you off at the bistro.” Pulling the cigarette from between his lips, he adds, “and wouldn’t your coworkers like to know you have a sweet little boyfriend who dropped you off? Or you rather have them think I don’t care about you at all?”

You shake your head in a frantic haze, the rough fabric gauze stinging your skin. “Babe, they—you really don’t have to.”

“Seongmi,” he states your name sternly; it’s a rare occurrence where Yunho would use your name, and even rarer when it’s during an argument. “I’m not asking you, love. I’m telling you.”

“I need to change my clothes over at my apartment,” he mumbles, taking a drag from his cigarette, “meet me down in the parking lot when you’re done.”

Clasping the cigarette in between his forefinger and middle finger, he blows out a cloud of smoke before kissing your lips. You’re all by yourself in the room, making final touches to your makeup, spritzing perfume, pretending you’re getting ready for a dinner date with your coworkers. You’re too scared of Yunho knowing the truth, too afraid he’s going to find out you’re lying just to meet the detectives from last week who really got on his nerves. If he loses his calm tonight, how would he react? What would that be like? More cuts? More bruises? More sadistic intimacy?

A short elevator ride later, you’re in the parking lot—you know his car by heart now, the black sedan you’ve had countless adventures in. He’s already there, smoking a cigarette, propped against the trunk, face alighted by his phone’s screen. You notice him scrolling, contemplating; judging by the twitch in his eyebrows, you could tell he was going through old texts from Mingi or someone else. The littlest of glimpse you could catch from his phone’s screen is the plethora of words blurred against a dark background. He’s too quick to lock his phone, stuffing it in his pocket before you could even question him.

When his eyes meet yours, you swallow even the smallest of doubts in your mind—the darkness in them always makes you cave, always reduces you to something you aren’t fond of. One of his hand slides to your cheek, cupping a side of your face while leaning in to peck your lips.

“There she is,” he whispers, “ready to go?”

You nod, running a quick gaze over him; he’s changed out of that cashmere sweater, replacing it with a black shirt and a leather jacket, the pants stayed the same. There’s slight tint to his lips, subtle gloss glimmering under the dimmed lights; his black rimmed glasses catch the similar glare before disappearing to a clear sight of his eyes. He takes your hand in his, purposely dragging his fingers across the length of your arm, tips creasing the fabric and your skin trickling with goosebumps.

The ride to the bistro is as quiet as it could be. Not much said, not much insinuated. Just the occasional comments he’d make on the songs from his playlist, breaking the beats of serenity between you two. City lights turn bleak on the windshield, creating a storm of neon and fluorescence. Outside the air seems to be free, moving, frisky—inside it’s stale, suffocating, cigarette stench lingering and concocting with Yunho’s scent. A whisper of musk, sweat, sandalwood and leather, contrasting sharply with your perfume which has citrus undertones. Throughout the drive, one of his hands stayed on the wheel while the other rested on your thigh, occasionally leaving to switch gears.

The last song on his playlist fades to a certain silence, he still hasn’t said much. Not more than a mumble. Regardless, it did not make you feel uneasy. Yunho’s silence sometimes speaks more than the words he utters and for all the odd reasons, you would rather prefer his speechlessness. When the next song picks up on its tempo, Yunho turns to you, the car slows down, signalling to the right and eases to the curb.

“Call me when you’re done,” he mutters, leaning over the console to kiss your nose, “I’ll come pick you up—and if time permits, maybe I’ll even drop by inside. Meet these coworkers you never mention to me about.”

You glare, but your lips curl to a playful pout, “are you teasing me?”

“Come on,” he chuckles, his shoulders shaking with pure amusement, “I just find it odd that suddenly, the people you hated at work, become important enough to meet on a Saturday night.”

“Yunho, if you’re instigating something, then say it outright. You know I don’t like games.” You whine softly.

He continues to laugh, body shuddering, “no—no, I’m not instigating anything at all. Just have fun, alright?” his hand squeezes your thigh lightly, “I’ll come pick you up. Give me a call.”

“Yeah, alright.” You shake your head and smile weakly at him, “I’ll see you later then.”

“Hmhm,” he hums softly, unlocking your door.

You step out of his car, onto the pavement leading to the bistro—a small, cosy establishment with an awning draped in fairy lights. It’s the same, nothing has changed since the first ‘date’ you had him after he moved in. You turn slightly, closing the door and crouching to look at him through the window he rolls down in exact time.

“Have fun,” he repeats one more time, a smile so wide on his face that it makes you hesitate. There’s an ulterior motive hidden in the plain sight; it’s something you won’t ever know until you’re knees deep in the mess he’s made. “See you soon.”

The echoes from his words keep you stranded to your spot, even when his car has left your vision line. Mind stuck on the smile he flashed, dissecting every fragment till it slipped to a fiendish frown, you don’t have the strength in you to visit the detective anymore. He knows. He definitely knows. He really was playing you, toying you around so you’d come clean to him. There are plenty of ways where he could force you to spit the truth out, but there’s a different kind of satisfaction when he pulls you to the point where you unravel yourself and blurt out everything.

Minutes later when you move, it’s not in the direction of the bistro’s entrance, it’s to hail a cab.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The precinct is unbothered to your presence; you sit in the chair propped in front of detective Choi’s desk, but his chair remains empty. You fiddle with your fingers, staring at the way your hands tremble in your lap. Faint and muffled ‘see you later’s reverberate in the distance, detectives saying their farewells, officers gathering their things to leave for the night. The rush was settling down, pulling you in and out of a daze, where you mulled over the coming consequences. Yes, you were reluctant to visit the precinct, and the hesitation was valid for all the right reasons.

A subtle crinkle in time peels your mind out of the trance, almost teary gaze focusing on the little notepad on his desk; detective Choi was said to be stuck in an important interrogation, not much details were offered by the police officer you came across, but he did say it might take him an hour or so to be done with it. You thought time would slip through your fingers like sand, instead it fleets and drones on and on. The cab ride to the precinct only took you thirty minutes, with the ticking clock now—it’s been a total of forty five minutes since you were made to wait. Which means, it’s been over an hour. You were measuring time in the hopes of not calling Yunho; he asked you to call him once you were done, but if you were done early, why would there be a need for you to call him?

You heave a sigh, and pull your phone out, thinking to pass your time scrolling through a banal conversation you had with your work friend. As amusing as it was Yunho, you really did not befriend any coworkers of yours, except for the woman you share your cubicle with. Her name is Soojin—she’s enthusiastic, determined and dedicated, and she makes you look better. Soojin has a tendency of speaking without processing it in her head first. She’s quite feisty, one might say but she’s also equally kind and eloquent. Though, you’re really not going over your texts, you’re trying to remember all that you had said to detective Choi during your last interaction. The words do come back, some vague, some quiet stern and prominent.

The only motive you had today was to clear your and Yunho’s name out of this investigation. You aren’t exactly the suspects, rather witnesses—a missing case has blown out of proportions when detective Choi found a smear of blood on the first floor’s landing. Lab reports confirmed they belonged to Jiwoo. Detective Choi got a lead, and the case took a new direction. Witnesses became suspects.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Park.” Detective Choi’s voice rings out to pull you out from your mind, “duty calls. Interrogations are turning to be quite taxing, you see.”

Your gaze travels in his direction, fixating on the way he walks and perches on the edge of his desk; he’s wearing a black leather jacket, similar to Yunho’s, and underneath is a blue plaid shirt, halfway tucked in. Detective Choi is shorter than Yunho, maybe by a few inches, but his physique is no joke. A well trained individual, putting in extra efforts to keep himself in shape—he’s mentioned kick boxing in passing, the last time he was questioning you. Silly thing to mention really.

“It’s fine,” you mumble. “I didn’t mind the waiting.”

His wince grabs your attention to his hands from his face. Knuckles bruised, skin split open to bleed while he figures out a way to tend to them.

He catches your eye and smiles, “went a little too hard on this guy. Some officers brought him in for petty crimes—robbery I suppose.” Moving effortlessly around, he grabs a bottle of antiseptic solution from the cabinet under his desk, and a fresh roll of cotton cloth. “If there’s one thing I really do despise, Ms Park, is a liar. Everyone’s hiding something, isn’t it? It’s my duty to bring the truth out, and I don’t care what measures I use to do so.”

You swallow audibly, hands grabbing the armrests of your chair in a haste. Clutching the smooth wood tight enough for your knuckles to turn while, you squeak, “I believe that is why you’ve called me in today?”

“I don’t deem you a liar, Ms. Park. Not yet,” he chuckles, struggling to open the bottle of antiseptic solution with one hand without hissing in pain at every subtle twitch of his fingers, “damn it.”

Listening to him curse, you get on your feet and open the bottle for him. You snatch the cotton cloth from is other hand, soak it with the solution and press it firmly against his bleeding hand; cradling it gently in yours, you make sure to clean every crevice of the knuckle while blowing air at his split skin.

“I’m not a liar, detective.”

“And I never said you were.” He whispers, “and call me Jongho. I think we should be on first name basis if you’re...”

The intention hangs heavy in air, his breath fanning your cheeks and your eyes meeting his; you hadn’t realised how close you were to each other, even if the corner of his desk was wedged between you two. Whiff of his scent lingers closely, a sensual concoction of wildflower and citrus undertones, something similar to yours but more manly. The intimacy isn’t surprising—the dainty caresses of your fingers against his knuckles, the cloth acting like a non-existent barrier between you—you’re used to it, but not used to his soft gaze hovering over every detail of you.

Jongho clears his throat, looking away, “I can take care of the rest,” he takes the cloth from you and starts dabbing on his knuckles himself. “While we’re at it…” he nudges slightly with his head to the chair, silently asking you to sit. “I’d like to have some follow up question regarding your last statement.”

You sit down with a heavy sigh. “I thought we cleared out all misunderstandings last time itself.”

Jongho shakes his head. “It’s more than that, Ms. Park.”

“And what could that be?”

“Like I said, just some questions,” he shrugs, wrapping the cloth around his hand before grabbing his notepad and a pen, “could you help me recollect that night’s events, Seongmi?”

Your throat runs dry, muscles tensing. “As much as I can recall, I didn’t meet or come across Jiwoo the entire day, I was at work.”

“And?” he prompts, “what about when you came back?”

You sigh. “Like I told you last time, I did not see her when I came back either.”

Jongho nods, “alright, if you say so,” he clears his throat again, “if I may, I’d like to read out your statement from last time.”

“On the night in question, I was at home after work. I remember I was really tired and exhausted from the day, so I stayed in and didn’t go out. There was an incident involving some sort of noise—not sure if it came from upstairs or from my next door neighbour’s apartment, but I was too lethargic to hear anything further.”

Jongho flips back to the fresh page on his notepad, pen slipping off from his fingers. “This is what you said last time, Ms. Park.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“You said you did not leave the apartment,” he states, “then why has your next door neighbour mentioned in his statement that he was with you the entire night?”

You swallow hard, lungs crashing down, mind falling steeper into a void. “Is that so?” you squeak, looking down at your trembling hands holding onto your knees, to anchor yourself to reality.

“I suppose, you aren’t the liar then, is it? Maybe your neighbour is.” He hums softly, “it’s fine, Seongmi. You can tell me what happened that night. If you speak the truth, I might let you go unharmed by the law.”

You look up at him, eyes welling up with tears but none steeping down your cheeks. “Alright,” you whisper with a broken voice, “I’ll tell you the truth.”

He hums and straightens up, setting the notepad aside and reaching over to the other side of the desk to grab his recorder. It gets placed on the desk, closer to you; he presses the start button and prompts you to speak up. You stare at the recorder, showing the running seconds and swallow the lump in your throat.

“Right, I—I was with my neighbour all night,” you begin, hands sliding onto the armrests, nails scratching at the coating on the wood. “I came back from work around eight, or so, I don’t really recall, maybe it was much later. I was lounging on the couch when I received a text from him, asking me to come over at his place. For a casual hangout.” You glance at Jongho, whose brow is raised high on his forehead. “I did go over to his place, we had a couple of drinks and that’s it.”

Jongho hums, mulling. He stops the recorder and sets it aside. “Is that all, Seongmi?”

“Yes,” you state firmly, bringing one hand up to your hair to fiddle with a few strands, “that’s all I can remember.”

“Then why did you lie the first time?”

You yelp, “because I was scared. I was worried I would be deemed to be a suspect.”

“Lying is the preamble to suspicion, Ms. Park.” Jongho clicks his tongue, getting off the desk with a swift slide and turning to sit in his chair, “it’s me who gets to judge you, whether you become a suspect or stay a witness. You do know that obstruction of important information can be a crime too?”

You stare at him, eyes wide, lips trembling, heart stuttering in your chest. There’s an ache in your ribs which flares with every second, with every breath you heave out. “I am not hiding anything. I’m as truthfully as I could be. Yes, I lied before. But I only did it over the concern of my well being.”

“Relax, Seongmi. You don’t have to be so defensive,” he shrugs, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him, “I’m not accusing you of the crime. Would never, I suppose. It’s still a missing persons case, regardless of the evidence…” he trails off, shifting suddenly in his chair to prop his elbows on the desk and lean closer to you, “…blood could hardly count as a solid evidence against anyone. Did we find the body yet? No. There is a possibility, this case could be a second degree murder.”

Your breath catches in your throat, body shuddering; your mind reels in time, going back to the cabin—Jiwoo’s body in a suitcase, Mingi, Yunho’s workshop.

“Need water, Seongmi?” he asks but slides a bottle to you regardless. “Drink some. It might help you calm your nerves.”

You pick up the bottle immediately and tear open the lid, guzzling down almost more than half of it before setting it back on the desk. “All better now?” you nod to him and take a deep breath, “a second degree murder?”

“Hmm. I suspect it is.” Jongho nods, “nothing premeditated, just a spur-of-the-moment killing with malice.”

“Who would do that to her?” you retort, “Jiwoo was a kind soul. No enemies. No bad blood. That’s not possible.”

“You’d be surprised with the kind of cases I have to deal with at times,” he chuckles, a satirical one, “I’ve seen people get killed for less.”

“But Jiwoo?” you whisper, “I don’t think…”

Jongho shakes his head, “believe me, Ms. Park,” he continues, “I’ve had cases much worse than hers.“

He grabs your half empty bottle from the desk and discards it in the bin under the desk. “Anyway, that’s not the point, is it? I did not call you here to discuss the law.” He laughs again, “I do have certain questions about your neighbour, though. Jeong Yunho…”

You visible stiffen at his words. “What about him?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he starts, “I did a thorough background check on that guy, and he is clean, really clean. Couldn’t find much on his family, though. Has he ever mentioned anything about his family to you?”

“We’re mere acquaintances, detective,” you reply, “I don’t suppose he has ever brought up his family in the conversations we’ve had.”

“Right,” he nods and leans back against the chair, crossing one leg over the other, “it would be strange if he spoke of his family to you,” his eyes narrow at your neck, “hurt yourself, Ms. Park?”

You unconsciously touch your neck, fingertips grazing the gauze which peeks from the neckline of your dress. “Oh—kind of, scratched myself a little too hard.”

“You should be careful, Seongmi.” He sighs, rubbing his temples, “pretty things lose their value when they get scratched up.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it’s supposed to mean,” he smirks slightly before glancing at the clock on his desk, “it’s getting late. Half of the precinct has emptied out. Do you eat dinner?”

You gawk, thrown off guard by his sudden question. “Of course I eat dinner. What kind of silly question is that, detective?”

“Then you wouldn’t mind eating with me, would you?” he asks, already getting up from the chair, “I made you wait long enough—and the questioning—I suppose you could spare an hour to have a meal with me. I’ll even drop you off.”

You contemplate, think really hard, weigh all the consequences which would follow if you agreed to his offer. What’s the worst that could happen? Yunho finds out you went to him, he conditions you in one of his brutal ways, chants apologies when he’s done and murmur I love yous to your face. The vicious cycle continues no matter what. There’s really no point in contemplating something when you’ve already made up your mind.

“Alright…”

“Jjigae sounds good, doesn’t it?”

The night air is colder tonight, biting into your skin while the warm stew proffers some comfort against it. You’re sitting across Jongho, who hasn’t said a word since the food arrived and has been too busy slurping the stew with eventual bites of the grilled fish. The restaurant was nothing more than a cluster of red plastic tables huddled under a heavy orange tarp. It was a small local restaurant a few blocks from the precinct, and something said the detectives and officers frequented this place quite often.

“Is it not good?” Jongho asks, sipping a spoonful of his kimchi stew, “it’s one of the best stews in the district,” he chuckles softly, setting his spoon down. “Do you not like stew or is this type of setting not really your thing?”

You shake your head, “no, it’s not that…”

You throw a gander around, noticing the sparse crowd of people occupying the farthest tables; some of them laughing loudly, some cheering, some drunk on the cheap soju, while some are arguing over mundane matters. The fluorescent bulbs cascade beams of lights across the table, but most of the spaces still stay in the shadows. The butane stove between you two on the table hisses with a sharp sound, burning with a blue flame to keep the stew nice and warm.

“Then what is it?” he asks, smile stretching his lips, “scared I’d interrogate you?”

“Not really,” you pick your spoon, “I doubt you’d even ask me questions out of the precinct.”

“Hey, I might,” he laughs, picking up his chopsticks, “but I’ll go easy on you.”

You take a sip of the stew, humming in satisfaction when the spices hit your taste buds. “What more could you ask?”

Jongho goes silent for a while, he picks at the white flesh of the fish, not really bothering to eat it; when the chopsticks roll out of his fingers, he grabs his glass of soju and guzzles it in one breath. The burn makes him wince, but it’s too subtle that you fail to notice his gaze back on you, intense and heated. Jongho’s eyes have a warming hue, a soft brown which drowns you in the throes of comfort and ease. He has an easy-going personality, something which forces you to put your guard down, instead of putting it up when you’re with Yunho, and trust him easily.

“He’s not the right man for you,” he blurts out, as if he needed the alcohol to put some courage in him, “Yunho has a dark past, Seongmi.”

“What do you mean?” you scoff, swirling your spoon in the bowlful of stew, watching the red ripples bring out shreds of kimchi.

Jongho sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair and leaning back in his chair. It squeaks to his weight, plastic feet straining only slightly before he barks a laugh, “a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be shackled in his cage, Seongmi.”

“I think you’ve had a little too much to drink, detective,” you snatch the bottle of soju from his side and set it closer to you, “no more soju for you.”

Jongho doesn’t retort, or whine, but a pout stays back on his face which makes it evident that he was upset. “How much longer will you deal with him before he decides you’re of no use to him?”

Your eyes narrow on him, throat running dry. “This isn’t relevant, detective.”

“Or maybe it is,” Jongho slurs his words, “does he know you’re here with me? Does he know you were coming to meet me?”

You shake your head.

“Then that calls for trouble, doesn’t it?” he lets out a scoff, “how can his little birdie leave his cage and make decisions on her own?”

“Detective.”

“Jongho,” he corrects you, “we’re not in the precinct anymore. We’re not tied to the roles…”

“Jongho,” you whisper, food forgotten long ago, for both of you, “you do not get to have any say in my personal life.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He sighs, “but that doesn’t mean I am forced to sit on the sidelines and watch you ruin your life.”

“You talk like you know me. Like you know him.” You spit out, “but you don’t.“

“I never said I did,” he mumbles, leaning over to grab the bottle of soju from you, “but you’re wrong there, Seongmi. I do know a lot about guys like him.”

He adds, finishing the bottle in one sip. “The guys who play into women’s vulnerability and reel them in, who manipulate and gaslight into thinking they’re saving them, but in reality, do you really feel safe around him or do you feel like you’re suffocating?”

Everything he said made sense in your head, but your heart did not beat for it; your heart only hammered when you thought of Yunho, when you thought of the love you had for him, which went deeper than the oceans. Jongho was all wrong about Yunho, he didn’t know him like the way you did. But why did the truth made you second guess every little sentiment you ever had for him?

You’re left to mull about it while Jongho stands up abruptly, calling out to the grandma sitting by the register, “ah, halmoni! I’d like to pay…”

Jongho leaves you with your thoughts at the table, going to pay for the meal at the register. You really do think hard, mind numbing with dilemmas and quandaries you no longer could solve on your own. Jongho’s scent lingers in the air, mixed with the aroma of stew still boiling on the stove, and the stale whiff of alcohol growing denser every second. You put your chopsticks down, slowly getting up from the chair and straightening out the imaginary creases on your dress.

You feel a warm presence on your back, breath tickling your ear while a set of sturdy arms wrap around your waist and pull back, making you collide with a hard chest. Jongho’s scent is back, too intense, too suffocating, too much for you to handle.

His lips brush against the shell of your ear, wispy voice slithering in, “you could tell me the truth, Seongmi and I’d do anything in my power to keep you safe.”

The next thing he is, you fail to recognise if it was purposeful or accidental, but his lips press against the spot below your ear, the touch lingering long enough for you to feel every shudder in your body coming alive. Jongho’s arms tighten around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest as if wanting to submerge you into him.

“You deserve a better man, Seongmi, you deserve better.”

Everything is a blur, right upto the moment you’re in the back of his car, straddling him, his mouth on yours, sucking your soul through it. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, using it as a leverage to grind yourself harder against his crotch; every roll of your hips causes for his cock to harden and stiffen up, slotting itself perfectly between your panty-clad folds. You’re beyond wet, dripping, soaking your panties and your inner thighs. Jongho groans into the kiss, pulling away slightly to stare at you, taking in the sight of your parted lips and heaving chest.

He pulls you in again, hand cupping the nape of your neck as tightly as he could, other one across your waist. A giggle bubbles in your throat, pushing past your lips and into the kiss. Jongho holds you close, feeling every curve of your body against his chest; his grip grows tighter, kiss escalating to all teeth and tongue. You’re breathless, holding onto the gasp of air you took meagre seconds before. There’s a pause where both of you go still, lips pressed against each other, eyes staring into each other’s with a knowing conversation passing through them. Panting, your body trembles when his hands around your waist push you back against the driver’s seat; he tucks the hem of your dress around your waist, holding it up with one hand while other traces up the length of your inner thigh. Every touch, every subtle caress brought shivers and tremors running along your skin.

The minutes are taxing, everything is draining—his hands, his lips, his eyes. Jongho’s warmth is addictive, it catches you off guard and brings out your need for safety. With Yunho, you try to find ways not to disappoint him. Jongho won’t be disappointed if you expressed yourself, would he? He won’t go to the extreme like Yunho does. And maybe that’s what your body needs right now.

“Can I?” he asks, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, stretching out the elastic till you have him the go ahead. Which you do, subtly nodding while sliding your hands from his neck to his chest.

Without hesitation, Jongho pulls your panties down, just enough to bare you to him. You part your legs around his thighs, bracketing them, making sure you give him space to slot his hands between them. He still keeps one on your waist, pinning the hem of your dress there; the other one crawl up your inner thigh, fingertips brushing your slick folds. He nudges his forefinger in you slit, groaning, feeling how much wetter you get the more he touches you. Rubbing his finger through your slit, he leans over to bury his face in the crook of your neck. Lips trail to find your sweet spot, blindly continuing to suck and kiss your skin till you squirm, whimpering his name.

“Jongho…” his fingers were slow and deliberate, his lips were feather-light and soft, caressing that particular inch of skin with a hunger.

“That’s it,” he hums, curling the tips of his fingers to notch inside you. “Fuck—so tight and warm.”

He pumps only the first inch of his fingers into you, your walls squelching just lightly and clenching to suck him further inside. A chuckle breaks out of his chest and rumbles with your skin. “Eager, Ms. Park?”

You catch his eye through your half-lidded ones, lips parting to let a moan out. Jongho’s fingers weren’t sleek as Yunho’s, but they were thick, stretching your walls so deliciously and you were aching around him. Your nails scratch at his jacket, clutching at it as you feel him pushing another inch of his fingers in.

“I were to believe you’d never let any other man touch you,” Jongho remarks, a grunt making his words sound much hoarser. “But here you are, in a stranger’s lap, mewling like a bitch in heat…” he purposely angles his fingertips to hit the spongy part of your walls, and it rips a loud moan from your chest.

Jongho chuckles, setting a relentless pace of his fingers; your back arches against the seat, chest heaving, every cut and bruise Yunho left behind sparks with an ache you can’t quite grasp onto, not unless the smoke in your head clears out and proffers clarity. You really are letting someone else touch you, someone who isn’t Yunho. As amusing as it is, you also find it ludicrous how your body seems to be attuned to Jongho’s presence—it’s quite the contrast between the two. You’re willingly giving yourself to Jongho, whereas with Yunho, he has to initiate and twist your words into thinking he’s saving you.

The night carries on outside, window of the car fogging up to your warm breaths; stench of sweat and sex lingers in the closed space, air going stale. Moonlight shines onto you, just till the clouds cover it back again, veiling it in sheer terror—the road is silent, almost deserted. Jongho drove the car to a remote corner of the district, somewhere between the shadows and silhouettes of skyscrapers and barren fields of nothing. It’s cramped in the backseat, for sure, it’s not typically designed to accommodate two grown adults having sex.

You buck your hips, rolling them onto fingers, forcing them further—Jongho growls, erupting from his chest when he feels his fingers plunging into your heart. Grabbing at the flaps of his jacket, you use it as a leverage to ride his fingers, lifting yourself up and dipping down, setting a steady pace. Jongho eyes you, sweat beads forming on his forehead, lips parted, chest heaving like yours, and his cock straining in his pants.

Soon your head tips against the headrest of the seat, eyes screwing close, the tightness in your stomach ebbing and flowing in like waves of ocean. You’re close. Every flutter in your wall is a preamble to the rush of pleasure slowly making its way to your body. If only, Jongho fingers could thrust the way Yunho’s did—if only he picked up his pace and sawed them in and out of you, like Yunho always does, you’d be gushing all over his fingers. Though something snaps, like a twig breaking in half and its echoes rupturing your senses; you’re actively cheating on a man who’s protecting you from the law. You’re letting someone else touch you, taint you in the way only he’s allowed to do—this isn’t like you. You wouldn’t disobey Yunho.

“Jongho…wait,” you whisper, voice breaking; your eyes open wide, lips quivering with pleas for him to stop, “Jongho please…”

Catching the faintest breath of yours, his fingers still in you, filling you up. He’s knuckles deep already, but unmoving, letting you feel how snug he really is inside you.

“Want me to stop?” he asks, lips caressing your neck; looking up at you, he frowns, “coming down from the high already?”

You shake your head, attempting to shove his chest, which doesn’t even budge him, but he gets the sign. Without second guessing, Jongho pushes himself away from you, falling back onto the seat as his eyes narrow on you. He curls his fingers once before letting them slip out, covered in your slick, glimmering under the dainty rays of moon. You watch him bring them to his mouth, lips parting just enough to wrap the tips and to help him push them inside. He hollows his cheeks, sucking his own fingers while never breaking the eye contact with you.

You squirm, still in need to have a release but the urges are soon trampled down when Yunho’s face burns in the back of your mind. And the high he helped you climb up dissipates to an unlikely sting in your heart; your hands slide down his chest, the sensation of his cold zipper lingering on your skin. You pull your panties up, straighten out the flounce of your dress, and slip off his lap to slump into the space next to him. Jongho takes out his fingers from his mouth with a lewd pop; he doesn’t speak, doesn’t squeak a sound, only palms his crotch before sitting up straighter against the seat.

“You let him own you, Seongmi,” Jongho speaks up, then shakes his head, “I suppose I do need to take accountability for leading you on and almost fucking you senseless in the back of my car.” He glances at you, clicking his tongue, “it’s a shame, really. To have someone like you reduced to nothing but a pet—what if your brother comes to know?”

Brother. It takes you a hot second to realise what he’s said. Not because you’re picking up the pieces of your shattered brain, rather because you’re too distracted to fathom a single thought left behind by the little rendezvous with him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you remark.

“Still in denial?” he scoffs out the question, “does pretending to not know him ease the burden on your shoulders?”

You sigh. “I have no idea what you’re trying to insinuate, detective.”

“You don’t?” Jongho laughs, the kind which resonates from the bottom of his stomach; he shakes his head, pulls out an engraved lighter—glinting silver against the car’s overhead light, and then flicks it open. “If I speak of him, would I live to see another day?”

The flames burns bright, his thumb pressing down the igniter. A faint glow catches on his face, sparkling on his dark eyes, kissing just enough of his skin to make him look harmless. Jongho is not harmless. Not in the slightest. He knows manipulation better than Yunho, but is he using it on you? Not really. He doesn’t want to play you like you’re one of his suspect, doesn’t want to interrogate you like you’re the culprit. Regardless of his rational conscience, Jongho wants to free you from the man you’ve chained yourself to. Does he know it was consensual? Does he know you were willing when the chains caught in your legs and twisted around your body to shackle your soul in a cage it didn’t belong to?

You heave out a breath, trembling, throat drying out. “The strings don’t adhere to us the way they used to before, Jongho.”

Jongho’s thumb slips off the igniter, plunging the space back to the dimly lit darkness. You turn to him, following his every movement as he presses a cigarette between his lips and plays with the igniter again. Sparks flicker, the metal snaps, sound coiling around you till it clips short to the hiss of flame burning bright. The flame engulfs the cigarette, tip glowing a hue of orange melting into ash and black of soot; a long drag later, the ash crumbles down onto his shirt, creased by your hands from before.

“And here I believed, favouring you would favour my chances at having a better life.” Jongho mumbles, putting his lighter back into his coat’s pocket, “your brother owns the streets, Seongmi. How sure are you that he doesn’t know?“

“I’m not saying he doesn’t,” you whisper, “I don’t know, Jongho. The farther he is from this mess, the better it is for me. Because Yunho has no clue who my brother is, or if I even have a brother.”

Jongho takes another drag in, the nicotine infusing with his blood and crawling in his lungs; he puffs out a cloud of smoke, twisting and turning in the air till it disappears. Wordlessly, he turns the overhead lights of the car off, and glances at you. There’s same intensity in his eyes, the kind which had bloomed a mere minutes ago when he was all over you (was it the other way around?). He lets the butt of cigarette stay trapped between the corner of his mouth, lips pressing down hard.

He hums. “There comes a point in life, Seongmi. The secrets you hide, unravel the second someone starts pulling.” The lock clicks, Jongho pushes the door open to step out, “it’s a matter of time who pulls first between the two of you. My bets are on you, you fragile little thing. One wrong move and everything falls apart, thread by thread.”

The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, lingering on your tongue even when it’s no longer coherent in your head. You won’t break so easy. You’re not fragile. You won’t let him get in your head. But maybe, he was already in your head.

Jongho drops you off a block before your apartment complex—you made him, because you didn’t want to run into Yunho (if that was possible) on your way up to your apartment. The coincidental meet in the lobby would be hell of an awkward situation neither of you won’t know how to deal with. Before leaving, however, you offered Jongho a piece of your mind—a lighthearted threat—if he was going to use your brother to his benefit, then maybe you could use that as your personal weapon. Your brother would never hesitate making your headaches disappear. He wouldn’t bat an eye if you called him right away to tell him about the detective who’s been nothing but a nuisance to you and have him gone from your life forever.

But there’s only one issue with that. You’re not on good terms anymore. A couple of years back, a simple argument led to you cutting all your ties with him. You left the house, didn’t use his name to gain you any favours from his closest allies, and still don’t plan on doing so, not unless the consequences call for it.

Your heels click on the concrete pavement, soles gliding against the rugged terrain; the moonless night calls for a mishap in the waiting, an omen you were anticipating. Empty street, and a deserted road, shops closed long back, while the distant barks of dogs echo from somewhere, the darker it got, the more scared you were. You wanted to be in your apartment as soon as you could, aching to feel the warmth of your bed, and Yunho’s lingering scent from the afternoon. Or maybe, you craved him, pining to be used by him so you could forget why you’re scared in the first place.

Relief crashes over you when the well-lit entrance of your apartment complex comes into your view. From then, you increase your pace and only think of getting inside. The lobby is warm the moment you set your foot in, and the further in you strayed, the warmer it got. Behind you, the doors slurred with a hiss before sliding close and locking themselves in place, waiting for whoever who’d come after you to unlock them. The elevator ride is a haze, a tepid concoction of panic, anxiety, and inflaming nerves. You fumble with the keypad on your lock, numbers beeping into place before the familiar mechanical bell rings out and dies down to silence in mere seconds.

The vestibule light turns on when you step in, door closing behind; you slip out of your heels, and slip into the house slippers. A strange sense of relief takes over, soothing every tremor your skin palpates with. You trudge to the living room, dimly lit—it gets even dimmer when the vestibule light flickers off, and then the aroma of Darjeeling tea wafts your senses. It sudden. All too sudden. You’re caught mid-thought about slumping on the couch, and are forced to glance at the kitchen. The space in between living room and kitchen was housed by a dining table—small, cosy one meant for two to four people—in one of the four chairs, Yunho sits, a ceramic cup raised to his lips. He’s still dressed in the same clothes from before—except, the leather jacket hands on the back of his chair.

You pause, taking a second to compose yourself before croaking, “hey, you’re home early.”

Yunho doesn’t respond right away. He sets his cup down first, then licks his bottom lip to rid the remaining drops of tea clinging to it. A short minute later, he clears his throat, gaze casted down on the cup instead of raising up to meet yours. Another second of silence settles in before he speaks up, “hmm, things got dealt with quite early.”

Three heartbeats later, he slowly gets up, “how was your night?”

His eyes find yours in the dim lights, not a twitch of muscle on his face. He’s assessing you, reading you—your body language; he’s noticed the slight slouch of your shoulders, the way your breath gets caught between your lips, and your hands clenched tightly at your sides.

“How would it go?” you let out a nervous chuckle, “it was alright. We ate, drank, gossiped. The usual.”

“The usual,” he repeats, stepping around the table and approaching you with deliberately long and slow strides. “Thats nice. What did you eat?”

For some reason, you preferred Jongho’s interrogation over this. You clear your throat, sweat beading across your forehead, sticking close to your skin. “You know, my favourite. Chicken Alfredo and red wine. Pairs the best.”

Yunho hums again, standing in front of you now; he towers over you, his silhouette engulfing yours in the eerie darkness he has in his eyes. You physically shiver, fingers curling tight enough for your nails to dig into your palms, skin close enough to breaking and bleeding. He reaches out for your chin with one hand, other one snaking around your waist, already establishing a tight grip. Pulling you flush against his chest, he tips your chin caught between his thumb and forefinger before leaning down to peck your lips.

“Yeah, it does,” he grumbles, pulling back, staring so deep into your eyes—you feel he’s going to snatch your soul from you, his lips stretching straight before convulsing to a frown.

Yunho’s eyes lurk on the gauze around your neck, a fresh blotch of crimson emerges from underneath—the wound must’ve opened up. Your breath hitches when he leans down and nuzzles against the skin, just an inch above the wound; he takes a deep breath, sniffing the scent.

“You know what else does? A detective and a wide eyed woman who thinks she can…” he growls, trailing off to let the words hang heavy in your head. “You smell like him—like whatever.”

“Yunho—wait, Yunho—you don’t understand, let me—let me explain,” you’re stuttering your side out, he’s smirking as if he’s caught you red handed.

“Explain what?” he steps back, a smile curling on his face; it’s not the kind which one would show upon met with amusement or wonder, it’s the kind which makes you shudder because he’s mad, disappointed. “Fine, go on. Tell me why you were with him.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes—you were terrified beyond compare, struck with panic which grows ten fold with every breath you take. Yunho’s hand slowly drifts from your waist, the other hand too drops from your chin. He takes another step back, creating a distance between you two while you stay frozen to your spot.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you lower your head and stare at the floor instead of anywhere else, “when I got his text in the morning, I felt—it felt like I—like I was obligated to meet him.”

Silence is all your receive from him, for the dragging minutes which seem never ending. The disappointment is too heavy this time; it lurks up on you, clutches you tightly and plunges you in shame. In the back of your mind, the moments from Jongho’s car replay, as if taunting you, making the humiliation last longer than it needs to. Your chest aches, lips tremble, and voice gets lost in your throat. A steady stream of tears rolls down your cheeks, vision blurring and neck flushing with heat.

“I did it for you,” you whimper, voice breaking, head rising slowly to meet his gaze. He stands a few feet from you, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched. You catch a strain of exhaustion gracing his face, melting to a tinge of dismay. “I swear—Yunho, believe me—I did it for us—I wanted—I wanted to be good for you.”

In a frantic daze, you scramble to hold his hand, wanting to pry it away from his chest and twine your fingers together, while crying out your side to him, so even when your heart is breaking to million pieces, his warmth still stays on you, comfort you. Yunho doesn’t let you, he instinctively creates more distance between you two.

“I told you not to involve yourself with any of those bottom feeders,” he states firmly, “but my doll wants to defy me,” as if a switch being flipped, his tone gets soft and he pouts, “I love you so much—I take care of you, and this is how you repay me, darling? It’s one thing I never wanted from you, and that’s betraying my trust.”

In a blink of an eye, he’s marching to the dining table; he grabs his phone from the table and the jacket from the back of the chair. Draping his jacket over his shoulder, he stuffs his phone inside and glares at you. Realisation hits your chest, twisting your heart and wrenching it out of your mouth. Before you could do anything—protest, beg, plead—he’s storming out. The door rattles loudly after him, leaving you to simmer in the fading vibrations of the sound. Your knees buckle, giving in to the lethargy and embarrassment; your drop down, boneless, mind consumed with his thoughts.

You want to run after him, but you can’t. You know you can’t because he won’t like it. And doing things which go against every desire of his, leads to more painful conditioning and punishments. So, what other choice do you have than to stay put and drive yourself crazy with the foreboding nuisance and wreckage?

An hour later, you’re pacing in your living room, phone pressed close to your ear. You’d stop every three steps, irked, panicked, scared, when the call would go straight to his voicemail. The window in your living room frames a quiet night outside; moonless, clouds drifting and veiling every inch of the starry sky you admired, and the sound of your heart breaking reverberating every second you reach his voicemail. He’s ignoring you on purpose, he’s trying to punish you—knowing how daft you are for his attention, he surely must be delighting in tormenting you like this.

With a grunt, you hang up the call mid-ring, and dial another number. Song Mingi’s contact appears on the screen, thumb pressing down without a second thought, and in a haste, you press the phone against your ear. Rings sound, one, then two, then three. On the fourth, Mingi’s deep and husky voice breaks your trance.

“Hello?” he mumbles, half in sleep—judging by the lull his tone carries, even through the line. He clears his throat, noticing your silence, “sweetheart?”

You shake your head and slump down on the couch. “Have you heard from Yunho?” you ask, words rolling off your tongue before your mind could even process them, “Mingi, he stormed out an hour ago, all my calls keep going to his voicemail—it’s scary, I’m scared.”

Mingi hums softly, in understanding, “first, calm down okay? Can you take a breath for me, sweetie, please?”

The soft undertones of concern and pleading take you off guard, and you really do take a deep breath to calm your nerves. Once you’re able to think straight, once the strain in your voice melts to firmness, you continue, “Mingi, I fucked up. I really need to talk to him. I need to apologise. I need to confess.”

“I know, sweet thing,” mingi tries to assure you, “you think he’s mad at you, and maybe he is, for whatever reason it is, but he won’t hold a grudge against you, Seongmi. Never.” There’s a pause, “can you tell me what happened that caused him to storm out? An argument—Yunho’s not the kind of guy to walk away from one, love…”

“He said I betrayed his trust by meeting up with—” your breath catches, “—with the detective from last week. But before I could even testify why I did that, he turned his back on me and slammed the door right in my face. Mingi—Mingi, I really need to tell him my side, please tell me where he is.”

Mingi clicks his tongue, the sound sharp, as if he’s judging you and your desperation. Even you did not comprehend where the pining was emerging from. To need yunho so badly, that your soul burns and thrashes, it’s certainly uncanny. You rock yourself on the couch, knuckles turning white with how tight your grip had gotten on your phone; Mingi’s breaths are soft, soundless, constrained. But yours are ragged, heavy with every push and pull of air—because you think you’d suffocate under the fear of losing Yunho.

“Honey,” Mingi chirps, a low grunt following after, “relax, okay? We’ll find him if you’re worried about him. But I bet he’ll show up tomorrow morning. You just need to give him some time, sweetheart. I’ve known him for decades, when he cools off, he’ll be back in your arms, hmm?”

You shake your head, not really assured by his words. “No—no—Mingi, I’m sorry but I really need to—I can’t even be alone right now,” you run your free hand through your hair, tousling it around. Before your heart knows it, you squeak, “can I come over? Please?”

The drive to cabin was short, detrimental to your mind since you kept replaying Yunho storming out of your apartment in it. Though, when Mingi opened the door for you, helped you on the couch and fixed you a cup of tea, your worries dithered to seemingly nothing. It gave you a reason to forget why you were panicking in the first place. When Mingi opened the door, he seemed to be irked—as if you had disrupted a peaceful hour of slumber. His pajamas were creased and rumpled—it wasn’t much, just a white tank top and stripped shorts which ended mid-thigh, showing off the elaborate ink on his left thigh. A creeper snaking around his skin, with bright and contrasting magnolia flowers—coloured ink spilling around the edges like they were real.

The cabin was quiet, lingering scent of sandalwood and pines—signature Mingi—but the air was tinged with a subtle stench of burning metal, more like blood. You don’t question it, not when you’re surrounded by preserved specimens of animals, and hides of animals kept on display. There could be a fresh kill rotting in the basement—in Yunho’s workshop, which is mostly utilised by Mingi whenever he brings home a fresh kill from his hunting trip.

You’re curled against Mingi’s side, holding a soft throw pillow from the couch on the other side. Heart clammers, lips tremble, tears show no sign of stopping, from the first words which slipped past your lips, when Mingi probed in all right places. You’re spilling your guts to him, wailing, sobbing—at times, your throat would close in, thick lumps would form at the base, and Mingi would force you to stop and help you take a sip of tea he brewed for you.

The cup clinks with the glass top of the coffee table, resounding just for a split second before your sniffles grow loud. “I love him, Mingi. I just…I just realised it—it hit me so hard when he walked away from me.”

Mingi doesn’t say anything, instead, he pushes himself closer to you and tightens his arm around your shoulder; you feel a subtle pull, then you’re smushed against his chest. He leans down, just enough for his warm breath to caress your cheek, then drift off to your ear. A soft kiss, lingering, gentle but grounding, looms on the shell of your ear. Your sniffles quite down, replaced by hiccups which take you by surprise.

You don’t question Mingi’s actions at all, not even when he’s peppering kisses across your neck, painting your skin with prickles and goosebumps—and bringing the butterflies alive in your stomach. A whimper parts your lips, pillow slipping from your grip as your own arms flail in urgency to wrap them around his shoulders.

“I love him.” You whisper, burying your face in the crook of his neck while he continues to litter kisses on yours, slowly trailing down to your collarbones. “I really love him.”

Minutes pass in a dull haze of tears and heavy whispers, promises made to Mingi’s chest instead of the man you were ruining yourself for. Little did you know, he was listening to every word that poured out of your mouth, every delicate sound you made—he hid in the hallway leading to the basement from the living room—he has been here all along, had been purposely sending your calls to his voicemail. This was his way of punishing you. Though, he didn’t know it’d pull out the deepest, darkest secret from your heart. You loved him. No, it didn’t amuse him—he knew you loved him, knew you’d fall for him.

You peek up at Mingi, slowly, fluttering your eyes while tears cling closely to your eyelashes. He’s just a blob of blurriness to you, his silver hair standing out however, glimmering even in the dim lights of the living room. You press your lips together and drop one arm from his shoulder, then the second; you untangle your body from his, leaning back to wipe your tears off with the back of your hand.

“I wish I could tell him before he stormed out,” you whisper, picking up the cup of tea from the coffee table, “he deserves to know, regardless of what he wants to do with me. Mingi, are you sure you don’t know where he is?” your voice thins out, desperation resurfacing, “I would chase him to wherever he is—whichever dark corner he’s hiding in. He must know what my heart thinks of him.”

Mingi, whose silence was now speaking louder than before, watches you with brows scrunched at the centre, eyes glinting with a sheen you can’t figure out what it is. He stares at you, gaze lingering on your neck—the gauze—he felt its raggedness against his lips when he kissed you before, he almost drove himself to his edge when he got a sniff of your blood through it. One beat passes, then he scoots away from you, stands up and eyes the hallway behind him.

“He’s here…” he whispers under his breath, looking back at you. “Yunho’s here…”

Your eyes widen just for a second, heart palpitating too hard in your bony cage—a glimmer of hope crosses your mind, body melting into the couch. It’s like you’re having an epiphany, the best kind. Your gaze follows Mingi’s, darkened hallway calling out to you. Though before you could get yourself up from the couch, Yunho’s silhouette emerges out. His eyes find yours without any effort, and they don’t seem to leave you until he’s standing in front of you; swiftly, he leans over, planting his arms on the backrest of the couch to cage you against it. You look up at him, tears welling in your eyes, lips quivering with words you want to use to express your joy, but he doesn’t let you. His lips crash into yours, slow and soft.

You bring your arms around his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss which leaves you aching for air. Yunho is relentless, sucking and biting your lips, tongue eventually slithering into the warmth of your mouth; you could taste the remnants of Darjeeling tea, and smoke—the classic Marlboro, it excites. But apparently, not as much as Yunho, who doesn’t let the kiss stop, no matter how much his lungs beg him to. When the threshold comes down to suffocation, both of you part, reluctant regardless.

Yunho rests his forehead on yours, one hand wrapped around your neck while the other stays on the backrest; he licks his lips, tongue swiping deliberately as if to taste you on them. A shuddering breath parts his lips and he mumbles, “you love me, birdie?”

You nod, clinging tightly onto his neck. “So much.”

He pecks your lips—once, twice—then it turns to another heated and sloppy kiss, spit sliding down your chin, drool catching up with his lips and cheeks. You continue to cling onto him and his broad shoulders, while his hand stays firmly around your neck. Soon, every meagre second slows down, and you relish the moment even longer than the laws of physics could allow it.

You’re on your back, on the same couch, still making out with Yunho while Mingi witnesses everything. You had forgotten about his presence almost, but when he took a sharp breath, it reminded you he was still in the room with you. A sharp ache of pleasure pulses between your thighs, and you buck your hips up to meet his; you’re lying under him, bare—dress abandoned on the floor, lingerie spread out on the coffee table—except for your panties, which were clutched tight in Mingi’s hand.

Comprehension is long lost, you didn’t know how it came to this; you confessed, Yunho made his appearance, you made out and baam, suddenly you’re writhing under him, arms bound with his belt and flung over the armrest of the couch, while his lips continue to abuse yours. One knee between your legs, Yunho balanced himself on top of you, hands on the armrest to support his weight. You fist your hands tightly, feeling his tongue prod your gums before slipping even further to graze your uvula—it takes meagre effort from you to not gag when he purposely plunges his tongue down your throat. You whimper, instinctively try to fist your hands tightly, nails digging into your palms, drawing blood in the forms of crescents.

The burning ache between your legs forces you to clench your thighs together, but Yunho stops you from doing so; he slowly pulls out of your mouth, teeth catching onto your lower lip before he bites down hard to rupture the already broken skin on it. You bleed into his mouth, for a split second because he’s pulling back, sitting straighter. His gaze wanders to Mingi, who’s lounging in the armchair across from the couch, legs spread and cock straining against his sleep shorts. The bulge on both men is obvious, aching in the bounds of their pants.

Yunho meets your eye, lips curling one side with a smug little smirk. He slowly tugs at the hem of his shirt, jacket long strewn across the floor, next to your dress—he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it down on the floor. You stare at his bare chest, toned, shining with silver stretches of scars and other wounds—your gaze drifts from his prominent collarbones to his chest, then follow the trail going down his abdomen and disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Bubbling urge to touch grows heavy, and you lift your arms, only to a certain degree when he grunts in disapproval.

“No, doll,” he states, “hands above your head, at all times.”

A needy whine punctures your lungs but you obey, dropping your hands back against the armrest. Mingi chuckles, “she’s whiny when things don’t go her way, isn’t she?”

Yunho smiles, “she really is. Maybe you could take care of that mouth next time—not now,” he glances at Mingi briefly before looking down at you. “She’s mine to ruin tonight.”

You nod, “yours.”

“Good girl,” he praises you, cupping a side of your face with one hand while the other works around the button and zipper of his pants; he pulls them down along with his boxers, just enough to let his semi-hard cock spring out.

He wraps the same hand around the base of his cock, fisting and pumping it with few strokes to bring it to its full hardness. A low growl rumbles in his chest, keeping his lips parted when he voices it; you whimper too, aching with desperation to be touched. You’re soaking through the couch cushions, you could feel it, every drop of your arousal leaking and sliding down past your folds and the crevice between your ass. You want him so bad.

You whine again. “Yunho—Yunho, please—need you—need you please.”

Listening to your broken voice, both men groan and Mingi comments, “poor thing is desperate, Yun. Don’t tease her any longer.”

When Yunho turns to Mingi, he finds the man palming his crotch with one hand and the other holds your soaked and soiled panties to his nose. “You think so?” Yunho scoffs, giving himself a slow tug, thumb brushing across the reddened tip to smear the bead of precum, “then I better relieve her from her misery…”

The anticipation wrecks you harder, twisting your gut and tightening the knot in your stomach a little too hard, you could feel yourself leaking more profusely than before. Yunho doesn’t give in just yet—not really, he continues to stroke him, and his other hand, which had been so warm and snug on your cheek, gradually pulls away and disappears behind his back. You know what comes next; there’s only one thing he keeps strapped to the back of his waist—his dagger. It’s an ornament to him, six inches of blade, handle crafted with delicate skills, carved with intricate flowers on the metal casing. It’s his favourite, and he carries it almost everywhere—he hides it in a waist carry, which adheres itself to the loops of his pants and at times to his belt.

Leather of his belt cuts through your skin, irritating and stinging the portion; you’re constraining yourself, adrenaline running rampant in your veins, and anticipation roiling all your senses. Mingi blows a low whistle when the glint from Yunho’s blade catches his eye; it’s raised in front of you, shaking slightly as it’s not held in his dominant hand.

“Be careful with that thing, Yun,” Mingi remarks, but rolls his eyes when Yunho glares at him, “I don’t want blood to stain the couch, it’s a pain getting them off.”

“That’s what you’re concerned about?” Yunho laughs, shaking his head. “Typical, Mingi. You hear that, love? He’s worried about bloodstains on his couch.”

You whimper, “Yunho…”

Mingi blinks twice, dropping your panties to the side while continuing to palm and stroke himself through his sleep shorts. “You broke her, Yun. You broke that pretty little thing—she’s only whining and whimpering for your dick.”

Yunho rolls his shoulders out before sighing exasperatedly, “just keep watching, Mingi.”

Mingi holds one hand up, defensive, “alright, I’m watching. Do your thing. Wreck her. Break her apart, piece by piece.”

Yunho doesn’t pay much attention to Mingi after that; he only stares at you, laid under him, at his mercy. His eyes drink you up from top to bottom, one hand stroking his cock, and the other holding the dagger. You feel so small under his gaze, but at the same time, you feel admired—and he probably is, admiring all the marks he’s left behind on you, the cuts which are now mere scabs, some still healing, some healed to form faded silver strokes. You don’t let your eyes waver, you hold his; he swiftly swaps the dagger in his dominant hand, and you almost expect him to press the against your sternum, where cigarette burns and a few deep cuts already house, but he doesn’t.

The blade comes down on his other hand, he wraps it tight around it and with a simple tug, he cuts his palm. Blood pools out in beads at first, little droplets running along the cut before it starts streaming, flowing down his palm like little rivulets of crimson sins. You let out a gasp, watching him use his bleeding hand to stroke himself, coat every inch of his cock with his blood, even the tip. The dagger gets flicked off to the side, he doesn’t bother that it clatters with the glass top of the coffee table.

He never looks away either, eyes boring into yours, while he presses his lips together to suppress a wince. What comes out is a low groan, right from his chest, “fuck—you said you love me—you’re giving me a piece of your heart, little bird. And I—and I love you for it,” he leans down, bracing his non-bleeding hand on the armrest, while resting his forehead on yours, “I love you too, doll. And this is my way of showing it to you. It always has been.”

He kisses your cheek and whispers, “I bleed for you too, just the way you do for me. And what I bleed, has a purpose for you.”

You moan softly, not because of the pleasure building between your legs, but because of his words—because of the sheer affection he’s expressing to you in his own twisted ways. Yunho kisses your cheek one last time before pushing off of you slightly; he creates some space to align his cock against you, the tip already nudging—he strokes himself between your folds, once, twice, stimulating your clit just enough to have you mewling and whimpering, before he sinks into you.

Every inch plunging into you, draws out a groan from both of you; Yunho now braces himself on top of you by placing both his hands on the armrest, using it as a leverage to hold himself and thrust into you at the same time. His bleeding hand does stain the couch, and Mingi does indeed whine; you’re too lost in the pleasure caused by the stretch from his cock to even be bothered by it. Your eyes flutter close, hands struggle against the bounds of his leather belt, fingers twitching to touch him—but even trapped in ecstasy, you know better than to defy him.

Yunho buries his face in the crook of your neck, setting a steady pace; you could tell he’s not pushing in too deep, only fucking you with his tip and a couple more inches after it. Every pull creates a dull ache in the pit of your stomach, and every hard push knocks the air out of you, turning it to a high pitched moan. Mingi’s grunts echo too; you only turn your head slightly to catch a glimpse of him—he’s still on the armchair, shorts and boxers pushed down, hand around his own cock, matching the tempo of Yunho’s shallow thrusts. He’s noticing everything, but his eyes are fixed at the point where Yunho’s cock disappears into you.

“Fuck—fuck..!” Yunho groans, pushing another inch in, “so fucking tight—fuck, doll—how many times do I got to—do I got to fuck this tight cunt, so you could take me without any prep?”

Mingi let’s out a trembling laugh, “have some mercy on that poor soul, Yunho—” he grunts, bucking his hips into his hand and throwing his head back, “—she’s already taking that monster like a champ.“

Yunho joins Mingi with a laugh too, it’s vibrations brushing against you skin, “you’re right—she’s a champ—taking my cock—with no prep…” every phrase is punctuated with a thrust, and every thrust, forces a new inch deeper into you.

“Ah fuck, Yunho…!” you groan loudly, eyes fluttering open in both pain and pleasure, a delightful knot coming together in the pit of your stomach.

Yunho goes still, feeling slight resistance, “am I hitting it…?” he whispers under his breath, grinding his hips to feel around inside you. He had indeed hit your cervical opening, you could feel the head of his cock prodding and slipping away a bit. “Shhh, it’s okay—fuck—feels too good, love.”

His face is still buried in your neck, hands still on the armrest; yours are there too, not daring to touch his even on accident. You roll your hips into his, raising them and holding them in the position for a hot minute till you feel his thickness stretching your walls deliberately wider. A half-gasp, half-scream bubbles from your chest—the stench of burnt copper soon fills up the room, Mingi hums in satisfaction the second it hits his nose, followed by Yunho, who kisses the bite wound on your neck through the gauze. It’s a terribly reminds you that it’s still there, taunting him.

Yunho pulls back slightly before slamming back into you, hips resting flush against yours; he picks up his pace, your walls squelching around his cock, and the sound of skin slapping starting to grow loud. You whimper, feeling the stretch, the ache, the tight knot searing its pain in your stomach—until his teeth tug at the bound gauze around your neck, just enough to reveal the healing-wound. He doesn’t think twice, and sinks his teeth into your flesh, opening the wound, letting it bleed in his mouth.

A hum clatters against your skin, making you scream his name, “Yunho…!”

Mingi’s moan blends in with it, he’s jerking off to the both of you; his hand shows no signs of faltering, picking up its pace every stroke till he’s fucking his own hand. You could not give any fucks about it; you’re trapped in your own dark world—pain and pleasure simultaneously ripping out every moan and whimper with calculated rhythm of his thrusts, and gradually increasing intensity of his bites. You writhe and squirm under him, body shuddering and aching from the impacts of his thrusts—he’s picked up his pace, and it’s causing for the couch to creak and squeak.

“Fuck—Yunho…! Right there,” you gasp and moan, feeling your walls flutter around him once when he hits your spot.

Smirking, he tries to repeat the same for a few more times and every time he hits it, your walls clench tighter around his cock. You feel too much of him, every ridge, every bulging vein—every push and pull, till the tightness in your stomach reaches a peak and comes down in mere minutes. Your walls flutter profusely, working up to suckle him in deeper, as if it was possible to take him in any deeper than he already was. Yunho’s eyes roll in the back of his head; he pushes off your neck, lips blood stained, teeth too—he’s staring down at you, eyes meeting yours in a silent way that only you know how to read.

Your body shudders, tremors wrecking a havoc and forcing you to squirm. The aftershocks roll in soon after, legs twitching and eyes screwing shut at the heavy sensation between your legs; your pussy becomes overstimulated from his thrusts in a few more minutes. Though, you know he’s close too. He’s twitching, his hips stutter one time—then continue to do so, until his warmth floods you. He empties his load in pulses, rope after rope—clinging to every corner of your cunt, staining every bit of your velvety walls.

He rides out his high with a few more shallow thrusts. Your eyes open, meeting his, lips parting wide for a low moan to escape—the mellowed out and shallow thrusts aid your oversensitivity too—a short lived but intense second orgasm follows, making your spasm out of nowhere. Yunho grunts, dropping his forehead against your before he goes completely still inside you, letting you ride out your release now.

You kiss his cheek, try to bring your hands up to run your fingers through his hair, but the constraints don’t let you—it forces you to bend your arms in an awkward way, so you let them be as they are. Yunho’s chest heaves against yours, breathing turning ragged and short, matching yours; you’re both drained, and so is Mingi—you glance at him through other teary eyes, to find him wiping his cum laden hand on his tank top over his chest. You catch the sheen of his cum sprayed all over his tank top, darkening few spots a little more than the rest.

A gentle kiss to your neck, brings your focus back to the man nuzzling into your chest. Yunho rests his head on your chest, hair falling soft against your skin, his eyes closing and opening, much like yours now. He slowly peeks up, sliding one of his hands from the armrest to your bound ones, intertwining fingers with one of them, while the other cradles the nape of your neck.

“I’m not mad at you,” he whispers, “I could never be mad at you,” he catches his breath then continues, fingers rubbing circles on your neck, “doll, you know how much I resent you getting into trouble. And that detective, he’s trouble, love.”

You hear shuffling from next to you, probably Mingi getting up and leaving the both of you to talk. “I know he is.”

“But you still went to him,” he mutters, turning his head to rest it sideways on your chest, “did he scare you?”

You nod, “he did.”

“I think he’s onto us,” Yunho mumbles again, “we need to be careful, love. One wrong move and he knows everything.”

You hum, totally disregarding his words and chiming in, “Yunho…?”

“Yeah?”

“I really do love you.”

He peeks up at you one more time, eyelashes falling on his cheeks when he blinks—he’s a little dazed, either from the blood loss or the tiredness. You need to tend his cut before it gets serious—but knowing Yunho, he probably didn’t even cut himself so deep that it would pose any danger to him. And again when you find yourself losing your train of thoughts, Yunho anchors you to him with a soft whisper—he’s stays the truth and you realised it the hard way—fooling around with Jongho only made your feelings for him stronger. And you know, it might have led you to confess your true feelings to him, but either that could prove to be very stupid or encourage you to commit more sins.

“I love you too.” He smiles, “no one can replace me in your heart, and I know it.”

Series Masterlist

[xerotiny]

BEFORE WE WERE US - Chapter Ten

⟢ 10: Before We Were Us.

"This!" she gleed, handing him the sheet of paper, "keep this with you, gang-a-ji."

Yunho smiled, examining the paper, "moonflowers?"

In-Na nodded proudly, "you said you're going to be a tattoo artist, right?"

He raised a brow at her. "Okay, and?"

"And, I want you to tattoo that on me when you become one."

"You know, this looks like a scribble from a three-year old." Yunho joked but it didn't go unanswered by her.

In-Na whined, "meanie. It's coherent! And well-drawn."

He took a breath, "fine, fine. I'll tattoo this on your arm."

"Promise me?"

"I promise you."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Past should stay in the past. In-Na knows it better than anyone. She knows how detrimental it is to be stuck in it, to constantly regret every decision, to rethink how you'd have a different life if you had just taken a different turn.

But she never learns. Never learns from the catastrophes of her past. Never takes the detriment into consideration.

It had been months since she parted her ways with Yunho; the man she had a connection with in past. The same past she kept thinking, rethinking, pondering, and reassessing. She wanted things to end differently between them. She wanted to know what would've happened if she had fought for him, if she had tried to appease his pain by not straying further away from him.

Maybe that's why she's here. In front of his tattoo parlour, standing in pouring rain, drenched from head to toe. She has an umbrella but it's neatly folded in the cover and is held by her side. She's numb to the cold, or to the searing of pattering droplets.

She pushes door inside, instantly invited to warmth and a mild scent of disinfectant. Her boots squeaked against the polished floor, her clothes dripping pools of rainwater around her. Though, her gaze finds his. It softens when she sees him behind the reception desk; his tattoos are hidden under a fuzzy cardigan, and his hair isn't the same as it was when she first saw him here. It's much proper now, a dark brown-almost touching black. It suits him, she thinks.

Yunho's eyes don't leave her figure at all. His heart hammers in his chest, his lips quiver at the sight and his mind switches off. She was here. Months after the dawn he had given his testimony to her-they can't be together. It was a bitter truth he knew she'd never accept. Maybe that's why she's here, in front of him, in the very place where it all began. He notices her clothes drenched, the way her sweater sticks to her, the way her hair curls at the end and still frames her face. Her already soaked shirt grows wetter from the drops cascading through her hair, but she doesn't seem to mind it. He can see her shivering under the layers of clothes, and he moves quickly to remove her coat off.

"Didn't you have an umbrella?" he whispers when he tries to tug the drenched coat from her shoulder. "Don't you know how to use it?" he mumbles when he sees her gripping her umbrella.

"In-Na," he calls out, voice as gentle as a feather.

"Why can't we be together?"

Yunho pauses, his hand snaked around her umbrella to take it away before he could slide her coat off her.

"I already told you why we can't," he grumbles, setting the umbrella aside and proceeding to take the coat off. "We're too detrimental, In-Na, for each other and to the people around us."

"Why are you so stubborn?" she groans.

"I'm doing what's right."

"This is not right."

"It is." He sighs, grabbing his own coat from the coat rack in the corner and draping it over her shoulders; he knows it won't help but he still tries. "In-Na..."

"We're hurting even if we're away from each other." She interrupts, "Yeosang broke up with me, you know. A week after we-after we set things straight between us."

"Why?"

"Said it's not right...he felt guilty."

"Guilty for what?" Yunho's voice strains, "for coming between us? An old wound to tease, really, isn't it?"

In-Na's mind forces her to stay speechless, but her heart doesn't. "Maybe, he really does feel guilty."

"And what is he trying to prove?"

"Yunho," In-Na utters it more sternly than she had believed she would, "maybe the past haunts him more than us."

Yunho steps back, against his will, but he knows even the slightest of dithered proximity between them is catastrophic in a way. "It will continue to haunt us for as long as we don't let go of our demons. Maybe, Sang let go of his; a ghostly sentiment of his past where he was stuck on you. Why is it so hard for you?"

In-Na's chest rattles slowly, knocking every breath of air out of her lungs. "Because you don't know what it's like to have your memories stolen by death. I feel it sometimes, vague remembrances of every moment I shared with my closest people once. But it's just on the surface."

Yunho's eyes soften.

"My memory is-it's like, dropping a stone in a pond and the ripples are all I remember. They don't last forever either, do they?" In-Na continues, "Every day I spent with you, here, was a pebble. And I kept hoping the ripples would last me forever."

Time stands still for a while. Silence creeps through the corners of the room. Yunho, as wordlessly as he could, helps In-Na dry her hair off with a spare towel from the back. Their gazes would tangle for mere moments, but it would convey nothing more than longing. Both know it too well in their hearts, only a miracle could bring them back together. Though, miracles don't happen quite often. Besides, In-Na had already wished for one, in the past when she was involved in the accident.

A steaming cup of coffee sits snug in her hands, offering warmth. The storm had hushed minutes prior to Yunho bringing her coffee, but the whirlwind of emotions between them had been getting intense.

"I was never over your death," Yunho whispers as he sits next to her, "therapists called it denial, you know and for several years, I was stuck in that phase. Denying, pretending you were never taken away from me."

Both hold their coffee cups in the palms of their hands, steam rising up to warm their faces; In-Na takes a sip, and Yunho continues, "I knew what it was like, losing someone you love so dearly. I lost my younger brother, and going through it all again really fucked me up."

In-Na doesn't remember this, but she knows from their interview that he did have a younger brother. Yunho takes a deep breath and glances at her, noticing her stiff back and tensed look.

"I know you don't remember it, but I cried on your shoulder that night. The night I got the news," he sighs, but it leaves behind a small smile on his face, "you held me like a child. I don't know what took over me, I ran to you like I really needed you. And I really did."

"To me, it's a distant memory. Something I don't really like thinking about but I do find myself straying to that figment of my mind, from time to time. Because when you were gone, I had no shoulder to cry on." He clicks his tongue, staring down at his cup, "no one to hold me tightly and reassure me, no one to listen to my cries."

In-Na's breath hitches, "what are you trying to say, Yunho?"

"That my heart isn't ready to be shattered again." He replies, voice composed but it breaks regardless when he looks at her, "we can't be us anymore."

"Before we were us, we were in love."

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BEFORE WE WERE US - Chapter Nine

⟢ 9: They Won't Ever Find Love Like Ours

"You know what, gang-a-ji," she chuckled, "I think we'd be together forever."

He smiled widely. "Oh, really?"

"You don't believe me?"

"I do." He whispered, "but I wonder why you'd say that? A confirmation for you or me?"

"For both of us maybe." She bit her lip. "Do you ever-I sometimes think they'd never find a love like ours."

His heart swelled with pride and affection. "Okay, you are eerily confident about that."

"Don't you think too?"

"I do. We're one of a kind."

"Do you see a future with me?" she asked, out nowhere, snuggling closer to him under the blanket.

"Hmm, as clear as a day," he stated, firm. "I see us living in a small condo, together, for a first few years. Then we move to an apartment."

"An apartment?"

"The baby needs a lot of space to move around."

"Oh," she smirked up at him, tilting her chin on his chest. "How many kids do we plan on having in this future of yours?"

"Two. We need a mini-me to drive you crazy and a mini-you for me to spoil her rotten."

She smacked his chest. "Can you handle the attitude? It'll be twice as now."

"Excuse me, I don't see you complaining now."

"You have a point." She laughed. "Yunho, do you...do you really think we'd have such a stable future?"

"I can feel it in my bones we will," he reassured her, "stop overthinking, In-Na."

She looked up at him again, the movie was long forgotten anyway. "You know very well, I can't."

"Fine, then I'll keep reassuring you every time you have a doubt."

"Promise me?"

"I promise you."

That was his way of saying 'I love you forever'.

"Ah, gang-a-ji, stop being so sweet."

And that was hers.

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BEFORE WE WERE US - Chapter Eight

⟢ 8: Bittersweet Truths Unveil at Dawn.

They've played this game before. The game of hide and seek. The game which recurred in his every nightmare.

His heart had lost its beat the moment he got the call. Dread, guilt, all the horrors consumed his mind.

The stench of alcohol and disinfectant stung his stomach, thought there was another reason why his gut twisted with agony.

He stumbled with each step he took, looking both ways to find that specific room number.

He found it.

The overwhelming fear of losing her rushed in again, but he bit on a sob when his eye met with her mother. She told him then; the truth.

The truth he had to live with forever.

He felt his world shatter, the ground beneath his feet opening up to engulf him in. That was it, the end of them.

The end to what they could become.

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In the ambiguous darkness of his apartment, Yunho mulls over the conversation he had with Yeosang. A strange atrophy of unspoken scars emerges through his gut at the thought of it; the more he dove deeper into it, the heavier his soul felt. The impending conclusion came to one decision from his side, he needs to tug at that one thread which had fallen loose the moment he saw her enter his shop. The moment it unravels, untangles with a steady flow, is when he might move on. He might treat this confrontation as a closure, and maybe-just the slightest-maybe he could finally let go of the searing embers.

His daughter sleeps in her room, soundly, peacefully, unaware. She's five; she won't understand her father's dilemma either way. Time moves like it is in a hurry to be somewhere, to let the destiny do its work while hasting through the bounds and selfless boundaries. Yunho sits slouched on his couch, elbows on his knees, chin resting on the back of his intertwined fingers. His hair veils the glimmer of hope in his eyes. Silence gnaws at him, eats him away the way his thoughts have. He wasn't expecting Yeosang's confession, he wasn't expecting he would turn up on his doorstep to tell him the truth, he wasn't expecting anything at all.

Likewise, he wasn't expecting the doorbell to break his calm five minutes past midnight.

But it clatters deep within his chest.

He was not expecting to see her, standing in front of his door, eyes glassy, lips trembling, hair a mess as if she had run her hand one too many times through it and her heart on her sleeve. In-Na doesn't say a word, her eyes speak to him in quieter ways. The time splinters, dragging both of them in a haze of speechlessness and silence. Yunho clears his throat, and moves to the side to let her in. In-Na strides in, her feet hesitant at first. She doesn't look around, she doesn't access his abode like she usually would. She just slumps down on the couch, it was warm underneath her; Yunho had sat where she did, a moment before, contemplating, fighting his dilemma.

"You heard?" he asks, closing the door with a soft thud. "He told you everything?"

In-Na shakes her head, "some things, I rather know them from you."

"What do you want to know?" Yunho sighs, settling himself on the armchair opposite to her.

"Us!" she snaps, "was there more to us? What were we? What were we before this?" she moves her finger between them, frantically, trying to make sense. "I know there was more to us, once. I just don't understand why it was hidden all this long?"

"Yeosang didn't tell you that?" he's taken back, surprise etched on his brows and in the way his lips moved, "he didn't tell you why your parents did that?"

In-Na stays silent, Of course, Yeosang told her that. She wanted to hear it from him.

"You didn't question it?"

This time, Yunho snaps, "question, what? Your death? I was supposed to doubt your demise?"

"Yunho..."

"No, you listen to me, In-Na," his tone sounds aggressive, argumentative. But the aggression cuts his hearts into bits of flesh and he clears his throat, speaking more softly, "when...you were gone...I was told you were gone. You don't know what that felt like. What it felt like to have my whole world shatter when I heard it..."

In-Na took a deep breath in, steeling her nerves. She didn't want to feel the pain in his voice. But when it kept cracking at the seams, she realised how close he was to losing it all.

"The rug beneath my feet had been pulled so hard; I tripped and fell, and I kept falling into this darkness." He stares at her, his own eyes shimmering with tears, "I was told to come to terms with it. I was told to move on-that-that death is natural, that-that I'll find someone better."

"Did you?" In-Na whispers, biting her tongue. She wasn't supposed to question him that.

"Do you think I did?" he replies in same hushed tone, "she left me too. Quite early. But she left a piece of hers behind-a piece of us, if anything." He looks down at his trembling fingers; the memories still cause agonising tremors to burst under his skin, and he wasn't fond of it. "When I held our daughter in my arms, for the first time, I-I let go of the shackles which had bound me to you. But fate is cruel, you know. She was gone even before I could apologise for the dick I was to her."

In-Na's breath caught in her chest.

"I craved for stability, you know. Years and years passed, I wasn't me. It didn't feel like me." He continues, "but then you show up. You show up like nothing happened, ever. I didn't know if you were pretending, or even if you were real. I wasn't sure if you-if you were my ppang."

Ppang. That word pulsates in her head, but it doesn't do anything much.

"The more days I spent with you, the more I realised, you were...you are my ppang." He looks up at her, "but you didn't-you don't remember your gang-a-ji."

The words plunged into her heart like a dagger; or maybe it was the way he said it, with so much melancholy trapped in each syllable. In-Na wants to try her hardest to remember, to recall every day of her life she spent with him. Regardless of the blinding ache in her head, she wants to do it. Because she doesn't want to hurt him anymore. She doesn't want to be the reason why he suffers anymore. Silence becomes comfortable between them again, neither squeaking a word-just the sound of their placid breaths reverberates through the room. The moon had witnessed enough it seemed like, enough of their sorrows to come out in the open; even the celestial being took to hiding behind the clouds. But the world turned, it turned and turned until sun broke through the sheets of white mist like rays of new beginning.

Hours of serenity, spent in just staring, pondering, regretting and succumbing to guilt. Both, In-Na and Yunho weren't sure how they'd address a broken past between them.

Finally, In-Na speaks, from her heart, "what do we do now?"

"The truth will hurt you," he whispers, "it's a bitter one, because."

"Who will it hurt? Me, or you?"

"Both of us."

In-Na states, "I don't want to hurt you."

"That's non-negotiable."

"So, what does this mean?"

Yunho smiles weakly, "it means, we-we-we say goodbye."

Indeed, the truth is always bitter.

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BEFORE WE WERE US - Chapter Seven

⟢ 7: The Trunk of Lost Memories.

"I'm all yours, ppang." He laughed, pinching her cheek. "No one else deserves my attention but you."

She whined, smacking his hand away, "beware gang-a-ji, I bite."

"Aww, bread that bites."

"You know, you're not mine to keep, gang-a-ji," she murmured, slowing down in her steps, "I don't own you, do I?"

He stopped in his steps, looking back at her as she fell behind. "Where is this coming from?"

"Why does everyone mistake love for possession?" she questioned, hugging his waist in the middle of the street. "I don't think that should be possible. They're opposites, really: love and ownership."

He hummed, pressing a kiss against her head. "What exactly is true love then?"

"To truly love another person is to accept that the work of loving them is worth the pain of losing them." She replied.

Little did he know, losing her was going to be the death of him.

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The jingle of keys outside breaks the silence. The lock clicks, and In-Na steps inside, her movements soft and tired under the amber light in the vestibule, which had turned on sensing her motions. Her purse hangs loosely on her shoulder, and her eyes seem distant, as if her mind is elsewhere. She knows what she's fixating on: Yunho. The tattoo he showed her still lingers in the back of her head, the words he enunciated with every breath, reverberate in her ears; she's starting to ponder over the events of the night, all perplexing, yet offering her very little clarity.

She catches a glimpse of Yeosang, sitting on the couch, head resting over the swell of his hand; the darkness makes it hard to see, but she knows his eyes have turned stormy, very much like her mind. The keys in her hand clatter in the glass bowl on the shoe cabinet by the door, echoing till shrill vibrations lurk in the air to complete serenity. She hangs her coat on the rack and slips out of her shoes; Yeosang's attention is elsewhere, and she knows. It's unusual for him to be up past midnight, if anything, she's aware he's always the first to head early to bed. Guilt simmers in her stomach, realising he was awake because hadn't turned up at her routine time. It eats at her, though it soon dissipates to a mumbling haze of concern.

"Hey, you're up." She mumbles, biting her tongue, "I didn't think you'd be..."

"Babe, I was worried for you, where were you?" he asks after the rage in him evaporates to nothing but adoration for her, "it's too late for you to be out. You managed to burn me out with all the worry and overthinking."

In-Na steps closer to him, "sorry, I know it's late and I know I should've called you..."

He wraps his arms around her waist and rests his head on her stomach, "it's fine, it's fine. Don't need the justification, you're here now and that's all I need. I missed holding you in my arms."

In-Na chuckles, fond of his despair at times, "Sang, I missed you too."

Yeosang pulls her down onto his lap, nuzzling his nose into her cheek, "you seem tensed," he murmurs, lips caressing her skin as his hands roamed her back. "Troubled with the publisher or the tattoo artist?"

"More concerned about our wedding," she shakes her head slowly, gently pressing a kiss to his temple, "I know, it's nothing to be worried about but planning it in a month seems-the thought itself is too draining."

"Hey now, I'll hire an entire team if you think it's going to take a toll on you. Besides, both our families have agreed to help us whenever we need them." He cups her face, kissing the tip of her nose, "stop worrying about it. The wedding is our future, and it's pointless worrying about the future."

In-Na nods, relaxing in his arms. Yeosang leans back, knowing the woes haven't left her completely; he shifts and accommodates her more comfortably in his lap, his hands holding her waist. She still seems tensed, muscles on her back and shoulder flexed due to whatever storm that was brewing in her head. He knows her all too well, too well to figure out she's quietly struggling with her own thoughts.

A few minutes of silence breaks both of their unease. They settle in, like they usually do, gentle breaths harmonising together. In-Na however, bites her lip and the words on the tip of her tongue resound, "Sang, why did I have to lose all my memories?"

Yeosang takes a deep breath, his heart aching while confined in his bones, "I wish I had a better answer to that."

"If I ever see a shooting star, I'd wish to get them back." She whispers, resting her head on his chest, "because, life would be so much simpler if I...if I got them back."

"I know, love," he cards his fingers through her hair, knowing where this was headed, "but fate is too cruel, right?"

"A little too cruel in my case," she whispers.

Yeosang raises his brow at her, peering down. She's never really pondered over it; the accident, the memory loss, the regret, they've all resurfaced before but not so intensely as this time.

"What's wrong, love?"

"I'm trying to remember something I can't," she heaves out a breath, "trying to place a face in my memories, where it must belong but it belongs to a stranger now."

"Who?" he questions, oddly enough, he knows the answer before she could even spell it out for him.

"Jeong Yunho."

The next morning, In-Na finds herself back in the routine; shower, clothes and her laptop. She's skipped her breakfast as per usual, only taking occasional sips of her favourite concoction, bourbon and coffee. Her cup sits next to her laptop on the desk, steam rising and disappearing into the crisp morning sunlight. Keys on the keyboard create a rhythmic pattern, sounding too satisfying to her ears as she types out the first draft to the first chapter of her book. Yeosang is busy in the kitchen, accompanied by sombre sizzles of the pan and clicks of the coffee maker; he prepares breakfast with ease, knowing if his fiancée isn't handed her plate, she would starve herself till lunch and eventually forget about food altogether.

She plays with the strings of Yeosang's hoodie, the one she so happened to borrow from him on their second date, and hasn't returned to him so far. The fading print in front reads a name of one of the popular rock-bands from the west, though she only cares for the warmth it provides. Yeosang's scent doesn't always stay on it, but with her persistent cuddling with him, it does smell like him from time to time. One finger twirls around the string, while the other types, her eyes focused on the screen rather than her fiancé who was slowly making his way to her from the kitchen with a tray in his hand.

"Working hard, I see." He smiles, setting a neatly prepared tray down on her desk; the living room is filled with the heavenly wafts of stir fried tofu, and his signature seaweed stew. "Eat before it gets cold, and I'm not requesting, it's an order."

"Sir, yes sir." In-Na jokes, earning a playful glare from him. She saves the word document before hastily grabbing the bowl of rice from the tray. "I wasn't hungry, could've just made lunch."

"You need breakfast too. How else are you supposed to crunch those word counts and deadlines?" his smile widens and he absentmindedly straightens out the collars of his dress shirt, "besides, I need to step out for a bit. My manager wants to talk about a potential sponsor for an upcoming gig."

He watches her eat, rice grains sticking to her chin. Heaving out a soft chuckle, he picks out the grain from her chin and eats it, "slow down, tiger. If you eat this fast, your body won't metabolise the food."

"Yeah, yeah." She rolls her eyes, "so, you'll be gone for lunch?"

"Yes," he straightens up, after placing a kiss to her forehead, "I'll be home for dinner, though. Should be back by evening, at the most."

She nods, "got it."

"I've made more of your bourbon and coffee; it's on the counter," he murmurs, stepping to the shoe rack, "help yourself to it and take breaks whenever necessary, I don't want you sitting in front of your laptop for hours."

In-Na hums, listening to his dwindling footsteps and the sound of door shutting. All she's left with is silence and her troubled heart, thinking about him. Jeong Yunho, the man she seems to have some connection with, if not, the universe is sending her mixed signals in the form of forced déjà vus and misguided nostalgia. Regardless, the blurred memoirs of her past are screaming at her, telling her there's something she's missing out on. She must get to the root of this, of this sudden inclination towards a man who had been living in the dark until now.

Yunho's brows furrow as he speaks with frustration, feigning a small smile at his daughter who gazes at him from the chair, "what the fu-fudge am I supposed to do now, San? She's here with me."

San's voice cracks through the line, "first of all, nice save. And second, I promise I'll make it up to her. She won't hold any grudges against me, she's just a kid."

"She won't, but I might," Yunho grunts, his grip tightening on the phone, "you said you would babysit, it's half of the reason why I gave Hae-Na the day off."

"I know," he mumbles, "look, I will really-"

The doors open, followed by heavy set of footsteps making their way in; Yunho's attention perks up, his protective instincts flaring inside. He peeks up to find the person he had least expected to see in his shop. The man in front of him had grown into his features; his eyes were striking, just the way they were back in the days, and his lips were bent in the similar shaped scowl. No matter how many years pass between the two, Yunho could never get himself to forgive him. Yeosang had no different plans either.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Yunho scoffs, making his daughter look up from her colouring book with a pout.

"Snark all you want, Yunho. But I'm here to talk about something important with you," Yeosang sighs, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair, "I know you met In-Na, I know you pretended not to know her, and I know you still have feelings for her."

Yunho laughs softly, in disbelief almost. He didn't know whether to be amused by his speculations or be stunned that for the first time, he had actually hit a bullseye.

"Yun-Joon, why don't you go inside for a bit, huh? Daddy will be there soon." He directs himself at his daughter sprawled on the floor; she immediately grabs her books and crayons and disappears into the dimly lit hallway.

"She's smart." Yeosang murmurs, "how old is she?"

"Five," Yunho answers. "Sit. Do you need water, soda, or vodka?"

Yeosang heaves out a bitter laugh, sitting down in one of the chairs by the reception area, "water should be fine."

Yunho nods and grabs two bottles of water from under the counter's cabinet; he strides out from behind the counter and hands one to him. He sits next to him and stares ahead, cracking the bottle open and downing almost all of it in one breath.

"There's something you should know about In-Na," Yeosang speaks up, staring at him while his nerves acted out. His thumb peeled the sticker on the bottle off as he continued to speak in a soft manner, "twelve years back, when you thought-when she was-when the crash happened, she didn't die. She had a major concussion and some parts of her memories vanished off. The doctors called it retrograde amnesia, because she forgot everything that happened before the accident."

Yunho's expressions stay schooled under the bizarre storm brewing underneath. He remembers that day too well, that one call, those arguments, the fucked-up aftermath of drinking too much.

"Her parents took advantage of it. They made her believe you never existed, told you she died in the crash and got rid of everything that could potentially remind her of you." Yeosang takes a deep breath, "I always liked her, but you know what I was? A mere nobody to her. I watched you two from the sidelines, envious of the bond you had, aggravated with me for not being someone she desires. For not being you."

With a heavy heart, Yunho sighs, "you were a good friend to her." He arches his neck back and stares up at the ceiling, his arms crossed.

"But a terrible terrible boyfriend to her," yeosang mutters, "I didn't know how to act when our dynamic shifted so dramatically; her parents made sure she liked me. Fed her with new memories, manipulated many things for her to believe she dated me and not you."

"Such a sick game," Yunho whispers, humour lacing his tone, but lacking in reality. "So, I take that her parents didn't like me? Thought I wasn't the suitable suitor for their daughter."

Yeosang nods slowly, meeting eye with him, "they always had second thoughts about you. In-Na knew it too. Regardless of what her parents dictated, she always defended you. That is until the accident."

"Who's to blame here?" Yunho asks, "her parents or you?"

"Both." Yeosang sighs, "but I would never forgive myself if I came between you two now."

"I want to make it right. You two deserve to be with each other."

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[xerotiny]

BEFORE WE WERE US - Chapter Six

"Are you crying?" he asked, his tone gentle.

She buried her head further in the pillows, sniffling loudly, "do you even know how embarrassing that was for me?"

"Hey, ppang, I'm really sorry." He whispered against his own will, knowing he has to take the fall for her, even if he was right.

She looked up at his apology, a strange yet crooked smile gracing her face. "Gang-a-ji, do you mean it?"

"With all of my heart." He swore, crossing his heart with his forefinger, "I'll really die if I lie."

She sat up in her bed, teary eyes growing clear with her widening smile, "that rhymed."

He brushed the remnants of her tears away with his thumbs and kissed her cheek. "Your tears shimmer like the stardust, at times."

"Really?" she scoffed playfully and held his wrists tightly, as he cupped her face delicately. "Why do you always say things like that? It makes my heart beat all crazy fast."

"Because your eyes are like the stars. They're storytellers. I just speak for them, I voice what they say," he whispered, kissing her forehead, "my girlfriend is a storyteller."

"Who has stars in her eyes."

"Who has starts in her eyes," he repeated after her. They were together now. Forever.

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In-Na sits in front of Yunho, her trusty old notebook clutched closer to her chest. Her heart beats against the bony cage, vibrations resonating through her book, as felt on her skin. She is anticipating, brooding over the words he spoke in the past few minutes, and they trouble her. Discomfort has crossed its boundary in her head, her annoyance piquing just slightly at Yunho's remarks and deliberate attempts to change her mind about the initials. San had left early, stranding her alone with Yunho in the serene tattoo shop.

Yunho leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest; the sleeves of his purple flannel are rolled till his elbows, and his eyes lack the lustre they once used to hold. He swirls his tongue in his mouth, seeking comfort from the little metal sphere pierced at the tip. But to his surprise, nothing calms down the raging storm in his heart. Yunho has his reason to deny In-Na of her request, and he also knows, no matter how hard he tries to justify, In-Na won't listen to him.

"I don't have all night." Yunho grunts, his tone pure venom.

In-Na is caught off-guard, she clears her throat and asks him her first question, "what's one misconception the society holds against you?"

Yunho's eyes soften a bit and he grows visibly relaxed; he rolls his shoulders out and answers with a much calmer tone now. "That it's all about rebellion or making a statement. They look at our bold tattoos and see us working in this profession, to jump into petty conclusions." He tenses up again, "but, for most of us, it's about healing, connection and expression. We have the liberty to express ourselves the way we want, don't we?"

In-Na nods, jotting his words down, "how is it related to connection?"

"When someone comes to me, it's mostly because they want to hide a part of themselves." He takes a shuddering breath in, running a hand through his hair, "they trust you with their stories and I always keep them close to my heart. You don't just connect through ink and skin; it's more about the emotional connection. Because you are touching a part of them they only chose to show you."

In-Na acknowledges and writes it down. "So these stories, do you think, when strangers come to you with them, they find it therapeutic to share them with you?"

"Shouldn't they?"

Two simple words shatter In-Na's conscience with an eerie ponder. She's been doing the same, isn't she? Talking to him about his life, yet the story she needs to share is hidden deep within the layers of her superficial persona. Why can't she get herself to voice it out? Why can't she be completely honest with him about the sketch she was so drawn to in the beginning? He deserves to know the truth, doesn't he? After all, it was his sketch she chose to be permanently etched on her skin.

The night dawns over the two; solitude in the dark of it, while their hearts share words both never wanted to. Questioning him, for the character she has in mind, is starting to prove more daunting than before. It was no piece of cake, not anymore. Yunho's personality and his answers were shaping her character into someone she had always thought of. The accident may have taken away her reminisces but they sure left a void inside of her, which craves for the warmth similar to Yunho's.

Their give and take is almost coming to an end, and it terrifies In-Na, since she's supposed to give him her ultimatum about the initials' tattoo. She's down to the last three questions, all of them profound and thought provoking, one more than other. Though, as questions transitioned from personal to emotional, she got to see a part of Yunho, untouched and raw, hidden underneath all the layers of despair and unease.

"Do you think you're happy with what you're doing?"

"More than happy, I'm delighted to be doing what I'm doing," he smiles widely at her, "remember when I answered your first question?"

She nods, "when I asked you if you do what you do as a promise made to your younger brother or because you actually liked doing it?"

"I gave you the answer then, didn't I?"

In-Na nods again, closing her notebook. "I think this will be my last question then, oh wait, second last."

"Go on," he prompts her with a nudge of his head, crossing his legs and sitting back in the chair.

"Is there a tattoo, on your body..." she takes a deep breath, steeling her nerves, "...which holds a special in your heart?"

Yunho stares at her for a while, and soon breaks out into a knowing grin. Without a word, he starts unbuttoning his flannel, his kohl-smudged eyes never leaving hers. He rids himself of the shirt and shows off his bare form; from his sharp collarbones, to his toned abs, his skin was covered in black ink. Some patters bold, some designs way too intricate to be real, and some straight out masterpieces. He points at the pair of eyes etched right below his left collarbone, somewhere around where the heartbeats are felt.

"This one. Got this a few years back-maybe ten or something." He shrugs, "San made it for me and he did a damn good job."

In-Na squints her eyes to read in the details; the design was a pair of doe eyes, long lashes, and slim eyebrows. The irises glowed like embers. In-Na deems the phrase 'molten honey' more befitting to the shade of them. Upon one glance, anyone would think they are normal eyes but one doesn't realise the details the irises held. Stars glimmered everywhere, small and big. They cascaded down the lower lash-line and streamed down like tears. Stardust for tears?

Yunho continues, "I used to love a woman. She-she had the brightest eyes ever. Even when she cried, they shimmered through all the sorrow and trouble. And I kept wondering what it was that made her eyes so...special." He takes a deep breath, having lost himself in the memory, "she carried the entire galaxy in them and cried stardust, even her tears were sweet to taste."

In-Na only listens to what the man has to say, noticing the lilt in his speech, admiring the shine in his own eyes as he speaks about his lover. He slowly starts buttoning up his flannel.

"Was that your wife?" she dares to ask.

Yunho snaps, "an ex. As much as I loved my wife, she couldn't compare to my first love. The woman whom I called the love of my life is now just a distant memory, and every day I think about her, think about our days from the past."

In-Na grows silent, not knowing what more to say. Neither of them say a word, dwelling in the perfect tranquillity, only their breaths communicated.

"My last question," In-Na states.

"Go on," he swallows thickly and leans over, elbows on his knees.

"Why do you not want me to get Yeosang's initials on my arm?"

"It's permanent, In-Na. A tattoo isn't something you can take back if... things change." He forces a calm tone, though his chest tightens with every word.

"Why would they? Yeosang loves me, and I love him. This will show how committed I am."

His jaw clenches, the words on the tip of his tongue threatening to spill. He looks up, meeting her eyes, and softens just a fraction. "t's not just about commitment. A tattoo is a reflection of who you are. Are you sure this represents you-deep down?"

She hesitates, his words lingering in the air. "What are you trying to say?"

His voice drops, quieter now, almost pleading. "Sometimes, we think we're certain about something because it's what we've been told, or what others expect of us. But deep down, our heart knows the truth. Are you sure your heart is in this?"

"I... I think so. Why are you making this so complicated?" She looks away, uncertain. The confidence she had moments ago starts to waver.

He exhales, setting down the pen and meeting her confused gaze. "Because I don't want you to look back and regret it. Not this... not something that's supposed to be forever."

The tattoo shop was quiet now. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, its steady rhythm filling the silence that had grown between them.

In-Na closes her notebook again, her pen resting thoughtfully against her chin. She looks up at Yunho, who was meticulously cleaning his tools, his movements practiced and precise. The faint glow of the lamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his eyes.

"Thanks for taking the time, Yunho," she says, her voice breaking the stillness. "I know it's late."

He glances at her, offering a small nod. "It's fine. You got everything you needed?"

She smiles, tucking her notebook into her small purse. "Yeah. You've been... surprisingly open. It's going to help a lot with the character I'm writing."

Yunho's lips twitch, not quite a smile. "Glad I could help."

As In-Na slung her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the door, the cold night air seeped in through the small gap. Yunho glanced at the clock again, a faint frown creasing his brow.

"It's late," he mumbled, grabbing his black leather jacket. "I'll give you a ride."

In-Na blinks, caught off guard by the offer. "Oh, you don't have to-"

"It's not safe this time of night," Yunho interrupts her, his tone leaving little room for argument. He grabs his keys from the counter and held the door open for her.

Outside, the streets were quiet, the city winding down for the night. The distant hum of a motorcycle echoed through the alleys, accompanied by the occasional bark of a stray dog. In-Na hesitates, looking up at Yunho's broad shoulders as he walked toward his car. There was something steady and grounding about him, a quiet strength she couldn't quite put into words.

As they got into the car, the air inside was warm and faintly scented with leather. Yunho ignites the engine to life, his hands gripping the wheel as he drove through the dimly lit streets. Neither of them speak, the silence filled only by the soft hum of the radio.

In-Na steals a glance at him, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights. He seemed calm, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that there was a storm raging beneath the surface-something unspoken, something unfinished.

"Thanks," she said softly as they pulled up to her apartment.

Yunho glances at her, his gaze lingering for a moment before he nods sternly. "Goodnight, In-Na."

She hesitates again, as if wanting to say more, but instead gives him a small smile and steps out of the car. As she disappears into the building, Yunho exhales deeply, his grip on the wheel tightening.

The past had a way of catching up, even on the quietest nights.

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[xerotiny]

BEFORE WE WERE US - Chapter Five

⟢ 5: Commitments Are Like Death Wishes.

"You know what I've been thinking, gang-a-ji?" she murmured, sipping her coffee.

He looked up from his own cup, brow raised, "I know you're thinking about something philosophical."

"And I'm taking you down the rabbit hole with me." She said with a smile, and he knew what she was about already, "don't you think commitments are basically elaborate death wishes?"

"Real mature, so am I really too boring for you to consider this a death wish?" he whined, "for your information, you committed to this a month back."

She rolled her eyes at him, "okay, okay, but this is just an appetiser. I'm referring to the big fishes in the sea-relationships, careers, buying a house. Big commitments tie you down, suffocate you, they make you question everything."

His eyes softened, his heart a little heavy with her profound thoughts; though what he could see in front of him, was the woman he loved, wasn't ready for big commitments. The one he had in his mind.

He sighed, "freedom is overrated, ppang. Do you really want to float through life, umm, like a jellyfish?"

"I'd choose being a jellyfish over a human anytime," she snorted, running a finger along the handle of her cup, "commitments scare me, gang-a-ji."

"You won't be terrified of them once you find someone to commit yourself to."

She looked at his smile and mirrored it with her own. A lot was spoken from his side, but she still stayed oblivious to all the hints.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The cold winds drift in with her; flickering fluorescent lights and the warmth invites her further in, where she finds San sitting behind the reception desk with his mouth full of hotteok. His eyes widen as he takes in In-Na's sudden arrival, her presence pleasant, as always. He swallows the bite down and breaks into a big smile.

"I was thinking you weren't going to show up today." He wipes the corner of his mouth the sleeve of his sweater, "someone else was thinking the same."

In-Na shrugs, setting her purse down on the desk. "I was stuck with my publisher and honest to god, did that thing drag on. I need to decompress."

"Want one?" San offers, extending a paper bag with the remaining hotteoks, "just bought them off the corner. It was much needed for the cold tonight."

"Thanks," she mumbles, pinching one out from the bag; San is quick to hand her a tissue paper, "Yunho's busy with a friend right now. He should be done in ten more minutes."

In-Na nods, taking a bite of the confectionary. "How was your weekend?"

San rolls his shoulders out and offers her a pout, "boring. Yunho took us camping because Yun-Joo wanted to 'spend' time with her daddy."

"You say like it's a bad thing." She picks up on the emphasis, "any daughter would want to spend time with her father."

Watching her stand and eat, San nudges his head lightly at the spare chair in the corner. In-Na drags the chair over to the desk and sits beside him. The two exchange a look and In-Na sighs, noticing San's bored expression.

"As if I did not know that," San scoffs, "I was not having any fun. Ever tried third wheeling between a father and a daughter?"

"I'm more worried about the kind of uncle you are," In-Na laughs, taking another bite. She bites it for a whole minute and swallows it down. "You know, now that I think about it. The day I saw Yunho in the park, I suppose, the little girl he was sketching for, was his daughter."

A slow grin stretches San's lips, "obviously duh."

"Why didn't you tell me then?"

"What, that he has a daughter?"

In-Na nods, looking down.

San replies, "didn't think it was relevant."

"And his wife?" she adds, her breath hitching.

"Widower."

In-Na nods again, reeling back to the word again and again. "How? Do you happen to know...?"

"I sadly do not," San shrugs, crumpling up the tissue in hand and tossing it towards the trash can. It misses, but it doesn't bother him. He lies straight through his teeth, "I got to know him after I started working here. And what I've learnt, from all the past mistakes, you do not bring up his late wife, or his past life. Never, ever."

She heeds to the warning laced to his words, but there's a part, deep in her heart, yearning to unravel just a bit so she could know him better. In-Na's mind is fixated in untwining the conundrums; they could be helpful for her writing. If her book lacks anything, it is a distinct backstory to her male lead. The more authentic it is, the better. Perhaps, she could test the waters today, push Yunho's intangible boundaries into opening him up to her. As she recalls, he had let his walls down before, when she posed the question to his livelihood. Maybe he could do it again. Maybe.

San stares at her, gaze affixed to the subtle twitches of her face as she eats silently. She's down to the last bite, her lips slightly stained with caramel-like mixture. As he reads her, his mind is racking with all the things he could say, all the truths he could spill. Regardless of the itch, San knows better than to unveil the past, knows better than to put her back in a trauma she had been fighting for so many years.

"He's strong," she murmurs, breaking the dark sheet of silence which had fell between them.

San perks up, turning to her, "he sure is."

"Why does he not show it?" she adds in a whisper, her brows furrowing, "he needs help more than most of us."

"Vulnerability plays with a man's ego, In-Na," San chuckles softly, handing her wet tissue as she's done eating. In-Na takes it, wiping off the sticky remnants of the sweet, and San continues, "he'd rather suffer in silence than seek help from us."

"And how does that bode well with anything at all?"

"I do not know," he answers, getting up from his chair, "though, I do know, he copes in his own way."

Silence takes over again. Instead of their words, however this time it is fractured by muffled footsteps following out of the back. Then, a few words echo amidst the darkened hallway.

"You'd be a fool to let her go, again."

The words keep fading and emerging, regardless of the chatter that continues in hushed voices. Her gaze steers to the resonating sound of footsteps and she finds Yunho talking to a man she had seen before; the man with blue hair. Yunho's shoulders tense up again, like they had that night, the second time she met him, or the first time they had a proper encounter.

Yunho clears his throat and pats the other man's back, forcing a laugh from his chest. "I'll see you later, Hongjoong. And like always, don't pick at the scabs."

San watches the scene unfold from the desk, arms crossed over his chest.

The blue haired man, apparently named Hongjoong, rolls his eyes at Yunho and offers him a scowl. Though, his words don't exactly match the look on his face. "I'll try not to. See ya, Yunho. Goodnight."

He walks past the reception desk, brushing past In-Na like a gust of cold wind. It makes her shiver. It makes her wonder what this was all about. Before she could delve into her own mind to answer her riddles, Yunho speaks up, "gimme a minute. I'll set up the table and call you in."

In-Na tries to reply but Yunho has already turned on his heels, vanishing into the dark hallway. She swallows her words and nods to no one. San sighs and offers her a half-hearted titter.

"Don't mind him; he's been a little tense lately." San adds, his tone soft, "something happened to right after we came back from the camping trip."

In-Na nods again, acknowledging San's explanation even though she finds it hard to believe. "Who was that guy, by the way?"

San's brows scurry at the centre, "oh, you mean Hongjoong? One of Yunho's college friends I think. They've known each other since their sophomore year. That is if my memory serves me right." He's lying again. He knows the exact details of Yunho's and Hongjoong's friendship. He finds them pointless to elaborate on, finds them wasteful to tell her everything about them.

"I see," In-Na whispers.

Soon enough, Yunho's voice booms through, "San, send her in."

In-Na takes the hint; she enters the room she had been accustomed to over the few days. The same old room, dimly lit, carrying a scent of disinfectant and minor notes of lavender. Yunho's eyes follow her as she takes her coat off and then the protect film around her arm. He's not the one to notice someone so intensively, but In-Na's posh demeanour never ceases to amaze him. She's short, yet her personality is ten feet tall. She has baby cheeks, round and squishy. Her hair is always perfect, not a strand going out of place when it's styled in a bun. She's presentable, she always is and was. Yunho swallows thickly and turns away, realising he had been staring at her for a long while.

Meanwhile, Yunho's lingering eyes go unnoticed by her as she sits in the chair, her arm already propped up as it usually is. She catches the faint redness spreading from the tip of his ears and down from his neck. Having no clue about Yunho's stealing glances, In-Na lets her gaze fix on him as he gets everything ready. He still seems tensed, leaned over the table, the muscles on his back flexing under the purple flannel he wore. His once ashen blue hair was now dyed dark, pitch black-almost appearing unnatural. When he turns around to face her, their eyes meet and both of them look away simultaneously.

"This is going to be our last appointment."

In-Na's heart sinks to her gut at the mention. Oddly enough, she comes to term with it. Yunho's words lacked determination, regardless In-Na believed them.

She nods, eyes trailing back to him. He sits in his usual chair, snapping on the sterilised latex gloves. "So, considering this is our last meet, don't I get to ask you all of my questions now?"

"Right," he whispers and nods along, "you can, I don't have any more appointments scheduled for now. And I don't mind dropping you off at your place if it gets late."

"That sounds good," she hums, tracing the tattoo with her finger, absentmindedly, "oh, can I also request something?"

"In regards with the tattoo or the interview?" he mumbles, grabbing an alcohol pad. Gently wiping her half-etched tattoo, he looks up at her, eyes clouded with confusion.

"The tattoo," In-Na sighs, "can you add my boyfriend's initials-well, technically he's my fiancé now."

Yunho's breath hitches, "oh, congratulations. When did he propose?" he asks, ignoring a certain kind of burn in his chest.

"Over the weekend," In-Na replies softly, "after that charity event, we talked and we thought the time was right...it just happened and I-we, we got engaged."

The delicate jerk of her shoulder makes him realise that she was talking about it casually. "I would never say no to the man who stood by me after the accident, you know?"

Yunho hums, letting her words sink in. "If you don't mind me asking, what accident?"

In-Na stays quiet, as if weighing her words to narrate her story to him; while the tattoo gun whirs to life in Yunho's hand.

"I don't think I'd be comfortable to talk about it," she speaks up after a long time, her attention focused on the tip of the gun.

Yunho nods, tracing the remaining outlines; the mechanical whirring of the gun is somewhat comforting to the both of them. Though, Yunho's mind is plagued with uneasy notions, some harrowing sentiments he knows he'll never get rid of. As the time drags on, impeccably slow, he finishes up the remaining outlines, blackening them and shading them.

In-Na stares as the tattoo becomes whole on her arm, beautifully splayed out on her skin, contrasting gravely with her pale complexion. Yunho heaves out a breath, wiping off the extra ink with a sterilised pad and feigns a smile for her.

"So, where do you want the initials?" he asks, however his heart hammers with a sullen desire in his chest.

In-Na thinks, trying to accommodate Yeosang's initials through her eyes. "How about the flowers? There are three for each."

Yunho nods at her suggestion, lips still stretched into the smile he was faking. "Sounds good."

He proceeds to grab a sketch paper and transfer paper too alongside; on the piece of white sheet, he tries out a couple of strokes with a pen he grabbed, before turning to her.

"What are his initials?"

"K, Y and S." she smiles, her eyes crinkling by the corner.

His grip loosens around the pen, the realisation giving him a whiplash. Memories flood back, painful ones, and the melancholy causes his heart to rupture through the bony walls of his chest. Tears almost prick at the corner of his eye, but he blinks them away. Without uttering a word, he starts lettering the initials with various styles. Though, to In-Na, his cursive hand stands out the most.

"I like this one." She points out at the elaborate cursive script; the letters have an intricate swirl at the start and some at the end.

Yunho nods again, wordlessly. He just wants this to end.

"In-Na," he calls out softly, "are you really sure about it?"

"Yeah," she shrugs, "he asked me if I was ready to make big commitments and I said yes. This seems like a good idea to show him that I'm ready, right? I want him to know I'm as invested in this as he is."

"Tattoos are permanent, In-Na," he persists, "did you give this a good, long thought before coming to a conclusion?"

In-Na grows quiet, perceiving his words in a newer light than her own decisions. Yes, she had spent the last two nights, sleeplessly deciding on this. If she's lost her sleep over a mere decision, then it means she has thought it through.

"I have."

"Have you really?" Yunho repeats, knowing she would hesitate, "I don't know, don't want to discourage you from doing what you've set your heart to. But, I think as your tattoo artist, it's my duty to warn you."

"Warn me?"

"From making a mistake," he overlays the sketch on the transfer paper and outlines the letters over her tattoo, "yes, I'm all over my clientele, telling them what to do and what not to do. But, my number one priority is to keep them from getting something they'll regret."

"Yunho, I think I'm committed," In-Na states, but there's a waver in her voice.

His brows draw into the centre of his forehead, worry lines crease it too. "Commitments can be suffocating."

"I don't feel suffocated," she states again.

"I'll give you some more time." He whispers, pushing his chair back; as he rolls back, putting some distance between them, he takes his gloves off and throws them in the trash. "Why don't you interview me now? And by the end of it, make up your mind about those initials."

"Fine by me."

"Don't commit to something you might regret later, In-Na. Commitments are death wishes."

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