-m.

Seven minutes? Try an eternity.

Jungkook switches to auto mode and climbs onto the bed right next to you. He takes your phone away under your curious gaze, setting both devices by the pillow, and no longer able to contain the fire that consumes him, he goes in for a kiss.

You contract a bit of lust-fueled insanity from those lips you can never get enough of.

He deepens and deepens and deepens the kiss, and you just let him, wondering if he has any plans of stopping before he descends all the way down to your heart. A part of you knows he has to, but the other never ever wants him to.

It’s starting to terrify you, the lengths you’re willing to go for this man.

He peels his pants away and gets on his knees, then prods your lips with the tip of his cock. Dying to know what he would feel like in your mouth ever since this morning, you take him in eagerly. He feels like too much to take sometimes. He feels like he crosses the line at times.

He feels like he completes you somehow.

“You moan so much,” he caresses your cheeks. “He eats good, yeah?”

“Mpf…”

“Mm, that’s right. Only the best for my— Oh FUCK, yes!” he exclaims, then immediately commands Taehyung. “Get aggressive. She tastes fucking delicious when she squirts.”

“Well, isn’t that just great?” Taehyung looks up at him. “All this eating, but my throat was still parched for some reason.”

“God, you made me work up an appetite, too. Scoot.”

He pulls out and hurriedly settles next to Taehyung, and it is at that moment you no longer know if you’re alive or not. Taehyung hooks his fingers up to a delicious angle while Jungkook relentlessly licks your clit. The two men that adorn your fantasies embarrassingly frequently are right between your legs, devouring you whole and each other’s tongues while they’re at it.

is anyone else seeing double rn 😵‍💫 im DRIPPING on the floor someone come lick me i rly cant decide who i need to fuck anymore

“Go ahead, baby,” Jungkook demands, eyes no different than the devil’s. “Cum for your man.”

For the jillionth time, what the FUCK kinda insane wording is that?!

But you feel like that’s the only thing you’re supposed to do. The obscene squelch of the fingering, the ceaseless stimulation that’s been going on for god knows how long, the awareness that you’re not really alone in this room, everything, everything morphs into a ball of pure fire and scorches your sanity away as you squirt in Taehyung’s mouth. It’s as if time warps into slow motion as your back arches, and fragmented memories of an alley flash behind your eyelids like strobe lights.

“Gooood girl. Made me so so proud,” Jungkook climbs up and kisses your lips, then picks up the “control room” phone again. “Now get on your knees. Let’s show off how you suck cock.” 

You feel no different than a puppet. Your brain can only process one directive at a time, but only if it’s delivered in Jungkook’s voice. You trade places with Taehyung and get in position, not even waiting for him to feel comfortable when you take him deep down your throat.

“Jeeee—sus…” Taehyung groans like someone’s ripping his flesh apart. “How do you not fucking die in this mouth every day?!”

“Who says I don’t?” Jungkook smirks, one hand filming your oral skills in close-up, the other caressing himself to your rhythm. “That’s it. Stroke the shaft, too. Slowly.”

oh god he likes it SOOOO MUCH you hear the heavy breathing right?

“Of course I do. I love showing her off,” Jungkook acknowledges. “Go lower, baby. Show him how you eat, too.”

HOLY FUCK TAE PEGGING ERA? jk if you make that happen taeritorrials will build shrines after you JK FOR PRESIDENT LET US WATCH THIS MAN FUCKING LOSE IT

“Oh, you’re sooo fucked, man,” Jungkook lets out a hearty laugh, then strokes your hair with a kiss on your cheek. “They wanna see the prostate magic trick. Think you can do that for me?”

You nod eagerly.

“Good girl,” he presses his lips on your temple and lingers there a while. “Work him good for me.”

You let Taehyung go with a loud pop and drag your tongue down to his balls, slowly working your way to his entrance. Jungkook gets on his knees behind you and presses his tip against your sopping wet hole, making you moan at a decibel that’s absolute music to his ears as he slides right inside with ridiculous ease. The rhythm he fucks you with is just like this morning’s. So languid, not to cum, just to snack. He films the whole sight from his POV, proudly showing off how he fucks “his girl” while she ends a sex god’s life in her mouth. The sounds of skin against skin, moaning, groaning, hissing, all make for the perfect porn production.

It’s the filthiest bliss.

If only Jungkook didn’t catch a glimpse of the black diamond between your cheeks, maybe he wouldn’t suddenly crave you that violently.

“What a fucking simp,” Taehyung snickers. “Has to be latched to his girl at all ti— Oh fuck, that feels so good…”

You weren’t expecting that strong of a reaction when your fingers made landfall inside him, but now that you have Taehyung where you want him, you can’t let this go. You gently grope his thighs to steal his attention and look straight into his eyes, moaning louder against his balls in your mouth, one hand fervently stroking his leaking cock and the other pressing his annihilate button located deep inside him.

“Like that. Baby, like that. GOD I’m gonna cum so hard, yes. Yes. YES FINISH ME, FUCK!!!”

The satisfaction of making the man that gives you hot flashes cum is simply indescribable. Taehyung looks slightly in pain as he gushes all over your fist, but also clawing at the sheets, absolutely ascending, zero control over the volume of his moans as he drowns in pleasure.

No one can blame you for the ego trip because you made that happen.

“Don’t stop. Keep… Keep g— FUCK, just like that…”

You’ve thought they were just fucking around when they popped those pills, but he really doesn’t get soft no matter how ruthlessly you overstimulate him. But if His Majesty wants it, who are you to deny him?

omg coach tag tae in the public NEEDS a dp fever dream YOU FUCKING SLUT I LOVE IT

“Down for dual entry?” Jungkook lazily laughs, completely out of it.

Even though Taehyung has just emptied a concerning load on you, he nods with maniacal enthusiasm. Jungkook switches to auto mode again, and this time he puts all angles on screen.

“The moment of truth, baby,” he very carefully removes the plug that makes him short-circuit, and lowers himself to kiss all over your back. “I’m taking this out so you can sit on that cock for me, okay? You’re gonna make me proud again, right?”

He turns your face to himself and drowns you in kisses, effectively making it impossible to say no to him as if it was an option in the first place. Taehyung welcomes you into his arms like you’re his princess, picking up where Jungkook has left off to reward you with kisses all over your face. He then slowly turns you around, pressing his tip against your tight entrance.

“Deep breaths. There you go,” he reassures you, peppering kisses on your shoulders. “It will feel so good in just a second. I promise.”

As you try to take Taehyung’s massive size, Jungkook settles between your legs, holding both your hands instead of your thighs this time. He licks and licks and licks, but it’s not to get you aroused, nor to pleasure you. Just to relax you. Your eyes can only see Jungkook. You can only feel Jungkook. You forget all about the pain, and there is only this swelling in your chest.

look at how he eats my GOD he’s so in love simp <3 SIIIIIMP <333

“That’s it,” Taehyung tenderly pushes you to relax into his chest, spreading your legs a little wider. “Lean into me now.”

You let out a content exhale, and Jungkook stops his support with a kiss on your clit. He gets on his knees and rubs his tip against your folds, his eyes keenly observing your comfort.

“Ready for me?”

Of course you are. You will never not be ready for him. You ardently nod, impatient to feel him inside you again. His cock slowly disappears into you, and your moans melt into his ecstatic grunts. When they are both finally settled inside you, it’s like a dimension has changed.

You have never felt this full.

“You’re doing so great, baby. I’ve never been prouder,” Jungkook encourages you with a warm smile. “Enjoy it. Enjoy being used to the fullest.”

And when they both take off, you’re no longer in this mortal realm.

You’re dripping all over the place, and you can’t tell which fluid is which anymore. It can be spit, slick, cum, sweat, whatever. You just let yourself drown in it. You allow yourself to take pleasure in the raunchiest fucking fantasy your mind could ever conjure, and you don’t feel a shred of shame being a toy to not one but two men’s unhinged desires.

istfg im going CRAZY HERE EIFFEL WHO???? i never wished i had a dick this much god LOOK at that pussy

“You’re doing fucking incredible. Look at me,” Jungkook holds your face. “We’re almost at the finish line, baby. Let’s go. Kiss me.”

And kiss him you do.

Fine, your perception is distorted, but no one kisses like you’re the meaning of their entire life when they’re balls deep inside you, sharing you with someone else. He touches your face, and you’re electrified. He kisses your lips, and you feel so alive. He empties himself inside you, and you feel like you have found your life’s purpose.

His euphoria is the utopia you want to lock yourself in forever.

TF is anyone else crying rn and not down their legs oh to be loved like this 😩🥹 get u a man who can do superfreak AND loverboy lwk hate him for this i was doing JUST FINE pretending this genre of men didn’t exist

“Keep fucking my cum deeper into her,” Jungkook suddenly orders Taehyung.

As if he didn’t just spend half his soul on you, he lunges at the phone and gets between your legs again, capturing the moment Taehyung changes destinations in crisp detail.

“My god yes,” he growls, clenching his jaw like he wants to break it. “Let him use that tight little cunt, baby.”

He did have all the intention to assume the director role for one last scene, but can you blame him? You’re right there in front of him, tits fondled, neck kissed, pussy fucked, practically begging him to please please please make you feel good.

He’s not a monster; how can he ever say no to you?

He ditches the broadcast and goes straight for your clit, your moans tripling in volume when he starts licking you again. He loves the way your fingers are tangled in his hair, pushing his face deeper into your cunt.

“Oh, someone’s about to cum again,” Taehyung moans into your ear. “Go ahead, cum all over my cock. Let’s fill you up to the brim.”

“Jungkook, please,” you beg in earnest. “Please, I’ll do anything. It feels so good. So good, please!”

Well, no one in their right mind can expect Jungkook to stay still when you slap him really hard on the face with his own insane rule.

He turns the flick speed on your clit to such stratospheric heights that you come undone on his tongue in just a few seconds, and you clench around Taehyung so hard that he has no choice but to let himself go. You don’t know if it’s the lavender culprit or how oversensitive you are anymore, but you can feel every drop of Taehyung inside you.

And it gives you the most wicked idea.

“I… I wanna… taste it,” you mumble, barely audible. “Us… on… on you.”

Jungkook’s whole body receives the defibrillator treatment with your words because how can it fucking not? He takes a few seconds to process if he’s heard you right, but when you keep rambling the same thing over and over again, he obliges, his heart swelling in his chest for no reason at all. He dips cock into your pussy and coats himself with that swirl, offering himself to you for a taste.

He can’t believe he has to be the one to stop you, but he has no choice when your harmless licks turn into an assassination attempt in your mouth.

“Shh, slow down, baby,” he curls up right next to you, pulling you into his chest. “Come rest here for a bit.”

“That was fucking hot, right?” Taehyung addresses his audience when he can remember that this was supposed to be a broadcast. “Well, we’re beat as hell, so that’s it for the stream tonight. Hope you enjoyed it. Cum again!”

He finally turns off the stream and drapes an arm over his eyes, trying to recuperate from the intense high he’s coming down from. Nevertheless, even when you’re stroking Jungkook’s sweat-soaked hair, it doesn’t prevent him from lawyering from the comfort of your chest.

“Per intellectual property law, we own the future royalties to that video.”

“Bro, you have got to get your fucking priorities straight,” Taehyung scoffs.

“I’m not fucking joking. Send me monthly analytics and revenue data and pay us accordingly,” Jungkook continues, not even acknowledging the sarcasm attempt. “I’ll know if you fake the report.”

“I’ve learned not to fuck with you, thanks.”

“Can we use your shower?”

“Will it stop you if I say no?”

“Good man,” Jungkook taps Taehyung’s shoulder and jumps to his feet.

He helps you get up and leads you both to the bathroom, grabbing the unintended cuck that is his duffel bag on the way. You are properly spent, zero stamina, zero awareness of your surroundings, and in dire need of hydration and a boost in blood sugar. It can be considered a “bright side” that you don’t have the wits to load that much meaning into how Jungkook washes you so attentively, even combing and drying your hair himself.

But it is a bit of a problem when the shower reloads like 97kB of your senses because you can perceive he’s helping you put on clothes. Because that top is not yours. Because it’s his favorite hoodie that you keep fighting him for, and it does smell like him even through that fabric softener. And you’re supposed to not melt.

Swell…

He changes into a pair of hoodies and sweatpants himself, then shoves the clothes you came here in into his bag. The homeowner walks with you to the front door in his on-brand princely robe to see you off.

“Thank Taehyung for his services, baby,” Jungkook puts an arm around your shoulder.

“Thank you, Taehyung,” you repeat on autopilot with a dumb smile, fucked out as hell.

“Anytime, beautiful,” he leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Ditch this loser and come see me alone someday. I’ll show you a good time.”

“And I’ll make sure it looks like you did it for insurance when I burn your place down,” Jungkook flashes a fake-ass smile with chilling psychotic undertones. “Laters.”

As he drives the car that costs your whole life and then some, you just watch the streetlights out the window, and your feet just can’t touch the ground. Your afterglow is not neon plasma maybe, but every time Jungkook turns to his right, he catches a glimpse of you floating in air, and it makes him smile a little bigger. Neither of you talk, but the silence isn’t tense—the ambiance is still super chill even though Jungkook’s harlot jams aren’t even playing in the background.

It’s as if you’ve just caught a movie and not run three porn-athons back to back.

You’re surprised when your destination ends up being your favorite greasy spoon instead of home, and when you walk into that cozy little place, just the smell of pancakes is enough to shock your body back into consciousness. The owner couple welcomes you both with big hugs and don’t even offer a menu. Your usuals appear out of thin air within a matter of minutes, and three silent bites later, you finally find your voice somewhere in your throat.

“No feeding me at night?” you ask Jungkook, wiggling your eyebrows knowingly.

“Of course not,” he answers with a straight face. “You’re a gremlin.”

“Oh, fuck you, Jeon!”

He cackles at a volume that would disturb people if you were at any other joint, taking zero damage from your arm slap.

“That would require you to sit on my lap in public,” he annoyingly grins, pressing his tongue inside his cheek. “Sure you’re down for that?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you utter in a disgustingly saccharine tone.

“So,” he reaches for the gigantic water glass. “How’d you like being free used?”

First of all, the FUCK kinda debriefing agenda over a late-night breakfast, and second of all, this question can’t be answered just like that. It’s still so fresh, you’re still not 100% back, and you probably need to talk to a therapist first about the very rude awakening you’ve faced about yourself.

“Well, I’m… very sore,” you respond through a somewhat nervous giggle. “And quite surprised.”

“Why?”

“I kept waiting for something horrific to happen, but it never did,” you confess, a bit embarrassed by your presumptions. “Is that how it’s normally supposed to be?”

“Again, there’s no official playbook, but essentially yeah,” Jungkook replies. “Any favorite moments?”

“I mean my staple thirst trap manifesting out of thin air was definitely a highlight,” you eagerly react. “Was that planned, or just a last-minute decision?”

“Do you believe in my ability to be spontaneous?”

“No, but I believe in your ability to be a magnificent ass,” you sigh, too exasperated for his antics. “I’m serious. Like, was that for the ‘Fuck a stranger because I’m telling you’ thing? Or was there another reason he was involved?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“There was a reason.”

“Which is?”

“To make a point.”

“If you think I won’t attempt assault just because we’re in public, you’re sorely mistaken,” you grit your teeth.

You hate it when Jungkook looks at you like an absolute rascal, as if he knows something you don’t and is taking this massive pleasure in keeping you in the dark. He fucking knows it drives you up a wall when he’s being all cryptic, but unfortunately for you, it’s the very same reason why it’s one of his favorite pastime activities.

“Figure it out,” he chomps on his toast with a smirk that shouldn’t feel that sly.

Now, what do you do with this? Is there actually something to figure out here, or is he just messing with you again? For a guy who is blunt to his detriment, he sure can be extremely indirect, and you’re not the biggest fan of him pulling his counselor shenanigans on you.

The social standing with him should qualify for an exemption, Your Honor!

“There is… one more moment actually,” you let slip while you’re playing with your fork.

“Hm?”

You’re in two minds whether to say it or not, but he asked. Sure, some of the best parts were spicy enough to burn your mouth for a week, but… If you were under oath?

None of those were truly your favorite moment. None.

“The breakfast,” you avert your eyes from him as you answer, uncomfortable by your embarrassment. “It was… nice.”

Jungkook stops chewing for a full second, clearly not expecting that answer at all. The corner of his lips curl again, but the color of vexing qualities is at least two shades lighter than usual.

“You weren’t annoyed I kept stopping you?” he asks, peeling the wrapping around the toast more.

“Well, I got to eat it at the end, so…”

“So did I.”

He says that a bit too meaningfully, and the lack of annoying smile actually makes it worse. You can’t look him in the eye for some reason, and you need to change the topic fast!

“Something else that surprised me,” you clasp your hands on the table and lean into the booth, eyes narrowed, smiling like you’re so about to corner him. “You kiss a lot.”

“Why is it surprising that I like kissing?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “Guess I figured you’d be the ‘Ugh, gross, no kissing’ type.”

“Why though?”

Seriously, why though? Why did you expect that? There has to be a reason, right?

This is not the time to fumble, woman, focus!

“It’s uh… It’s very… intimate,” you stammer, indeed spectacularly fumbling your cross-examination, “and you don’t really… do intimate.”

A miniature silence comes to sit down with you at the table, and suddenly it’s tense again. Everything is tense when he doesn’t smile at you. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You certainly didn’t mean it as something like “Because you’re the epitome of emotional constipation, and they haven’t made a laxative for you yet.”

Oh fuck, did you unknowingly hurt him? What if it really came across like that? What if he now thinks that y—?

“I’m the one who buys you tampons when you run out, but I don’t do intimate?”

“OH MY GOD YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN STOP REFUTING ME!!!”

He cracks the hell up, and you finally take a deeeep breath of relief. You hate it when this motherfucker gets that serious, and even two seconds of silence is suffocating if it comes out of nowhere. You would much rather have him be maddeningly irritating if it means his laughter will stay intact. Doesn’t matter if it’s at the expense of your frustration reserves.

“Just because your gun smut bad boys don’t kiss doesn’t mean it’s universally icky,” he winks with a click of his tongue, then checks his watch. “Alright, you’re officially off the clock.”

“That’s it?” you look at your phone to confirm. “You still have a few hours.”

“Oh sorry, did you want to keep indulging my every insane whim?” he giggles. “I thought you’d crash by now.”

“I think I’m still hopped up on that Lavend-derall,” you purse your lips.

“I mean, I won’t say no if you get under this table, and—”

“TOO LATE! I’m off the clock, and I want chocolate soufflé with soft serve ice cream now,” you extend your hand. “Pay up, bitch!”

As he places your order through his giggles, you rewind the entire day in your head. Some discoveries, certainly many firsts, and as risky as it was, a hardcore stress-test of your bond with Jungkook. Now that you’ve confirmed it, it’s easier to say “I knew it all along,” but just a few hours prior, it didn’t feel like that at all. You were petrified to find out if one of your worst fears was indeed true, if your trust in him had only been “on paper”, but turns out...

You can’t tell for the life of you if it’s better or worse to realize that you trust him a lot more than you thought you did.

The emotional turmoil part aside, the first attempt at your horny Destressfest seems to be a success. Well, maybe a little too much success with all the ideas crawling in your head now, some of which would strictly be out of the question for you not too long ago. You pull up a few “instant replay” clips in your mind to test if they’ll still feel just as thrilling to you, or if it was only Lavend-derall’s doing.

Being under Jungkook’s strict commands, at his pleasure’s beck and call, receiving his praise, his affection, his kisses…

Being on display for Taehyung, for strangers online…

And how much Jungkook relishes flaunting you as long as your loyalty lies with him…

“Listen, um…” you squeeze your eyes close. “I have an idea, but… No pressure. Feel free to say no.”

“What is it?”

Yes, they do. Every scene, every memory, they all still feel just as thrilling to you. You think about worse things to do with Jungkook, and they feel even more thrilling to you. Letting him have the upper hand but having him wrapped around your finger, at your pleasure’s beck and call just so he can receive your obedience, your allegiance, willing to commit all kinds of malfeasance just to have you touch him with that same vehemence.

It feels too good to be true. But it is good. And it is so true.

You’re consumed with the thoughts of getting him irreversibly addicted to you.

“Could you ask Namjoon if he’d be okay with me coming to the bachelor party?” you ask rather nonchalantly.

“Duh, he invited us both,” he dips his spoon into your ice cream.

“Not like that.”

You look at each other for a few seconds, and when those three words finally spill from your lips, Jungkook cannot be sure if he’s heard you correctly. Because never in a million years, not even in his worst fantasies, would he be able to hear you say this.

And you’ve never thought there would come a day you’d be able to scandalize His Sluttiness.

“As the entertainment,” you stare dead into his eyes with a smirk that shouldn’t feel that sly.

<< previous

It starts like most nights do—low lighting, soft jazz, the smell of expensive bourbon and even more expensive cologne drifting through the speakeasy’s velvet-lined walls. The kind of place that pretends not to notice you unless it wants to.

He always notices you.

Minho’s already at the bar, polishing glassware with deliberate, almost surgical focus. No smile. No greeting. He doesn’t do small talk—just glances at you when you slip onto the stool you always take, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bare skin above your knee before it flicks away like you imagined it.

He slides a drink toward you without asking.

Tonight it’s something amber and sharp—neat, no garnish. Not the floral bullshit you usually order to irritate him but don't actually enjoy.

“You’re learning,” you murmur, fingers curling around the glass.

“You’re predictable,” he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Approval, maybe. It’s hard to tell with him.

You take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest before you speak again.

“Gonna make fun of me tonight, or just stare at my legs?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Why can’t I do both?”

You raise an eyebrow. He’s in a mood.

Good.

You lean in a little, voice dipping low. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me.”

Minho finally looks at you head-on, the edge of a smile ghosting across his mouth.

“If I liked you,” he says, smooth as glass, “you’d know.”

The heat that curls low in your stomach has nothing to do with the liquor.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been playing this game for weeks—weeks of drawn-out glances and sharp tongues, of letting your knee graze his thigh beneath the bar, of asking him questions you already know he won’t answer just to hear the dry curl of his voice when he tells you no.

But tonight, the rules feel different. The air feels heavier. Charged.

You blame it on the day you had. On the message you didn’t answer. On the fact that your body still remembers the way your so-called lover grabbed your wrist last night when you dared to pull away first. The apology this morning was short. Cold. Like a favor he did you.

You’re tired of favors. Of men who act like your body is borrowed space.

So maybe that’s why you’re here again. Why your dress is a little shorter than usual. Why your smile is a little sharper. Why you stare at Minho like you want him to cut you open and see what’s underneath.

“I think you like me,” you say, swirling the amber in your glass, eyes fixed on his fingers as he reaches for a bottle behind him.

He uncaps it without a word. Pours slow—like he’s buying time or maybe making you wait on purpose. The line of his jaw is clean and sharp in the bar’s dim light, a profile carved in something colder than marble.

You’ve never seen him fluster. Not once. That’s part of why you keep coming back. That composure, that razor-thin control—you want to see it slip. Just once. Just enough to know what he looks like when something matters.

But Minho doesn’t rattle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He sets the bottle down, replaces the cap with the same care you imagine he uses with everything else—his knives, his words, his hands.

“I think you like being watched,” he says finally, without looking at you. “That’s not the same thing.”

Your lips curl. “Is that what you do? Watch me?”

He glances up, and the full weight of his gaze hits you square in the chest—dark, steady, measuring.

“Only when you want me to.”

You swallow. Hard.

There’s nothing coy about it now. No masks, no playful deflection. Just static in the air and the slow realization that this isn’t banter anymore.

It’s foreplay.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the bar. The liquor burns differently now—hotter, deeper.

Minho sees it—how your legs shift, how your breath stutters—but he doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The power slips over him like a second skin, smooth and effortless, like he was born to unravel people slowly and never touch them at all.

You try to hold your ground, try to find something clever to say, but the words stick to your tongue. They don’t come.

He leans forward—just slightly, just enough that you catch a whisper of his cologne, clean and sharp like crushed pepper and steel. The kind of scent that makes you ache without knowing why.

“You always drink faster when you’re upset,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think he’d blow you off again.”

Your stomach flips.

You didn’t tell him that.

Not out loud.

But you’ve mentioned him in passing before—your almost-boyfriend, your never-quite-yours. The man who texts when he’s bored and shows up when he’s drunk, who fucks you like a secret and then disappears for days. You’ve never named him. You never had to.

Minho’s too observant for that.

You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Minho hums like he understands. Not kindly—accurately. Like a blade understanding the softest part of skin.

“Didn’t think you would.”

His voice is soft. Low enough that it doesn’t carry over the jazz humming through the room, but not so low that it misses the mark. It slides under your skin, settles there. Warm. Heavy.

You press the rim of your glass to your lips, but don’t drink. You’re stalling. He knows it.

“Is this where you offer comfort?” you ask, tilting your head toward him, trying to claw some of the power back with your voice. “Tell me I deserve better?”

Minho chuckles—quiet, sharp-edged. “You know you deserve better.”

He lets it hang there for a beat too long, until you can feel the unspoken part of it clawing up your spine.

You deserve better, and I could give it to you. But I won’t.

Not yet.

His fingers flex against the bar’s edge. It’s the first crack in his control tonight, the only betrayal of the restraint wound tight through every part of him. You don’t think he even notices it—but you do.

Because that’s what this has always been, hasn’t it? A standoff. A war of glances and gestures. Who can make the other want without asking.

You swirl the last inch of liquor in your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, pretending like you’re not memorizing the shape of his hand against the bar.

Minho isn’t looking at you anymore. Not directly. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond you—on a bottle that doesn’t need touching, a thought that doesn’t need voicing. But his body betrays him in small, precise ways. That flex of his hand. The stillness of his shoulders. The slow, measured breaths like he’s giving himself rules to follow.

Don’t reach for her. Don’t say her name. Don’t touch unless she begs.

You can feel it—how close he is to undoing himself. How he’s fighting it like it would cost him something if he gave in.

And that makes you reckless.

“Why haven’t you?” you murmur, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “If you’ve thought about it—which you have. Why haven’t you done anything?”

You lick your lips—subtle, involuntary—and his eyes drop to your mouth like it was the only thing in the room worth watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your pulse thrum in your throat.

“You’re not going to offer comfort,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than him. “That’s not your game.”

Minho doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t comfort girls who let men treat them like that,” he murmurs, voice like slow smoke. “I fuck it out of them.”

Your breath catches.

You can’t help it.

It punches the air straight from your lungs—just for a second. Just long enough for your lashes to flutter and your grip on the glass to falter and your entire body to go still.

You should’ve known that’s where he’d take it. You should’ve seen it coming. But hearing it—feeling it—low and steady like that, like an invocation and not a threat?

It’s something else entirely.

Your thighs clench beneath the bar. Instinctive. Useless. You feel suddenly too warm in your skin, in your dress, in this damn chair. Like the room’s shrunk down to just the two of you and the weight of those words lingering in the air between them.

He said it like a fact. Like a promise. No smirk. No tilt of his head. No performance.

Just Minho—staring at you with that terrifying, surgical precision that’s never been louder than it is now.

He knows what he just did.

Knows you’re squirming. Knows you’re soaking. Knows exactly where your mind’s gone—and he hasn’t even touched you.

Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.

And that’s when he leans in.

Not by much—just enough that his mouth is close enough to graze the rim of your glass if you tilted it.

“I’d start with your mouth,” he says, barely louder than the jazz, like he’s confessing something obscene to a priest. “Because I know you’d still try to be smart with it. Even while you’re choking.”

Your stomach drops.

Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but it’s no use. His voice is a velvet hand at your throat, gentle enough to tease, firm enough to hold

Minho doesn’t linger.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch into tension, doesn’t wait for your reply, doesn’t press a single inch further into the ache he’s just created.

He simply pulls away.

Smooth, unbothered, like he didn’t just fillet you open with nothing but words. Like your insides aren’t still ringing with the ghost of him. He reaches for a towel, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the rim of a coupe glass, and then—casually, almost bored—slides the folded slip of paper toward you across the polished marble.

Your bill.

Back to business.

It’s maddening. Unbearably normal. Like he didn’t just spit filth into your ear that made your spine arch in the seat. Like he didn’t just speak to you like he already owned your body and was only waiting for the right time to claim it.

Your hand moves on autopilot.

Fingers dip into your purse, fishing out your card, swiping it through the reader like this is any other night, like you’re not unraveling at the seams. Like you’re not trembling just slightly beneath the surface of your skin, still burning with every word he spoke to you moments ago.

The reader beeps.

Declined.

You blink.

Try again. Slower this time. Like it might make a difference.

Declined.

The air shifts.

You don’t look up. Can’t. You stare at the reader, thumb hovering over the chipped edge of your card like pressing harder might fix it. Like it wasn’t inevitable. Like you haven’t been running on fumes and stubbornness and overdraft protection for longer than you want to admit.

You exhale through your nose. Force a quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you mutter, trying for nonchalant. “Guess it’s been a week.”

Minho doesn’t move.

You finally glance up—and he’s already looking at you.

Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.

Then he takes the bill back without a word.

Folds it in half.

Tucks it beneath the register.

“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is different now—softer, low and careful like a hand on the back of your neck. “I’ve got it.”

You hesitate. “No, really. I can come back tomorrow—”

“I said it’s okay.”

The quiet in his tone settles over you like a coat. Warm, heavy. Weighted with something you don’t quite recognize yet.

You search his face for a catch. A smirk. A condition. But there isn’t one.

And that—that’s what undoes you more than anything else.

Because it’s not a trade. Not a tease. Not a power play.

It’s just kindness.

Uncomplicated. Unexpected.

From him of all people.

You swallow hard. Nodding feels dangerous, so you don’t.

You just sit there, small and grateful and aching in a way you didn’t expect.

“I’ll pay you back,” you say quietly. “Next time.”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re not a charity case,” he says finally. “I know you’ll settle.”

You nod again. This time it lands.

He straightens. Pulls your empty glass away, sets it behind him.

“You staying a while?” he asks. Not teasing. Not performative. Just… offering.

And you want to say yes.

But your throat is tight and your wrist still hurts beneath your sleeve and your body feels like too much tonight—too raw, too full, too loud.

So you say, “Think I’ll head out,” and your voice sounds gentler than it should. Like you’re asking permission.

Minho nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t try to stop you. Just wipes the bar in front of your empty seat like he’s already preparing for the next ghost to sit down.

You stand slowly. Adjust your bag over your shoulder, glance toward the hallway that leads to the exit.

He doesn’t say anything at first. But you feel him watching you—not your ass, not your dress, but the way you cradle your arm. The way your hand hovers over your wrist like you’re guarding something.

And then—

“Did he grab you?”

Your spine stiffens.

Like someone cracked ice down your back.

You don’t turn around right away. You just stand there, shoulders drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag.

“Excuse me?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

Minho doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t repeat himself, either. Just waits.

You finally turn, chin lifted in that familiar tilt—the one you wear like armor, the one you’ve perfected for moments like this. When someone sees too much. When someone dares to ask.

“I don’t need you psychoanalyzing my love life,” you say flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

Minho says nothing.

Which somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, you can’t stop talking.

You huff a laugh, bitter and breathless. “Jesus. You let one card decline and suddenly you think you’re my therapist?”

Still nothing.

Just that same steady gaze. Not pitying. Not cold. Just... seeing.

And maybe that’s why it stings. Because he’s not wrong.

You fold your arms, fingers pressing hard over the bruise like you can erase it by force. “He didn’t mean to,” you finally mutter.

Minho’s voice is quiet. Even.

“But he did.”

You look away.

It’s not a fight. He’s not raising his voice. He’s not accusing you of anything. But something about the way he says it—flat, factual, calm—makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something shameful.

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

His expression doesn’t change. “It never is.”

You exhale hard through your nose. Every part of you wants to run. You don’t like feeling cornered like this—especially not by someone like him. Someone who doesn’t play pretend

Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.

“I’m not some broken girl who needs saving,” you snap.

“I know.”

And again—it’s not cruel. Not dismissive. Just a truth, spoken plainly.

That disarms you more than anything else.

He knows.

He knows you’re angry and proud and stubborn. He knows you want control, even when it costs you peace. He knows you’re clawing your way through something you don’t want to name yet. He knows—and still, he said nothing until you were already walking away.

You sigh. The kind of sigh that tastes like surrender.

“I’m fine,” you say. Softer now. “Okay? I’m fine.”

Minho doesn’t agree. Doesn’t argue. Just nods like he’s filing it away for later.

And then, gently:

“Text me when you’re home.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

The dark sweep of his lashes. The slow tension in his jaw. The barest flex of his fingers against the rag he’s holding—like he’s grounding himself on the bar instead of reaching for you.

“I don’t have your number,” you say, quiet again.

He doesn’t even blink.

Just reaches for a napkin. Writes it down in clean, deliberate strokes. Slides it to you without flourish, like it’s nothing.

You take it with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

The napkin is soft, a little damp in one corner, the ink bleeding just slightly where his pen dragged too slow over cheap paper. His handwriting is neat. Precise. The kind you’d expect from him. Not a flourish in sight.

You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.

Like if you memorize them now, maybe you won’t have to admit how much you care that he gave them to you.

“I’m not going to cry in the cab,” you mutter. Not to him. Just to yourself. A warning. A promise. A lie.

Minho’s mouth twitches—too fast to call it a smile. “Good. They charge extra for that.”

You roll your eyes, but the sound that escapes you is almost a laugh.

Almost.

You fold the napkin once. Then again. Tuck it into your purse like it’s fragile, like it’s worth something, like it matters. You don’t say thank you. Can’t. The words would taste too much like gratitude and not enough like the armor you’re trying to put back on.

He doesn’t press. Just nods once—final, quiet—and goes back to polishing the same glass he’s been holding all night. Like none of this ever happened.

You walk away before you can change your mind.

Before you do something stupid, like apologize for flinching. Like ask him to say it again, that he knows you’re not broken. Like ask if he’s ever been hurt in a way that still echoes years later.

The hallway is dim. The velvet curtains at the door part with a whisper. The street outside is colder than you remembered.

You step into it anyway.

That night, lying on your side with the city leaking through the blinds in long gray stripes, you stare at your phone screen for too long.

You’ve opened a new message three times. Deleted it each time.

Minho’s number sits untouched in your contacts now. Just a string of digits and a name that feels like something you shouldn’t be allowed to keep.

Eventually, you type:

[you]: home.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Then nothing.

Then:

[bartender]: good. sleep.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

Just those two words. No punctuation. No fluff. Just simple, clean concern dressed up like a command.

You can almost hear his voice in it—low, even, with that deliberate edge that makes everything sound like a dare.

You think about typing something back. A joke. A thank you. Something to make it lighter.

But it’s too late for pretending now. And maybe—just maybe—you like that he didn’t say take care or sweet dreams or anything that would let you brush this off as ordinary.

Because it’s not.

You set the phone on your nightstand.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before the sun rises.

The bass is too loud.

It rattles your ribs, crawls down your spine, settles behind your eyes like a headache waiting to happen. Bodies press in on all sides—sweaty, glittered, half-drunk strangers shouting lyrics they only know the chorus to. The lights strobe fast enough to make you nauseous.

You wish you were having fun.

You should be having fun. It’s Maya’s birthday. Everyone showed up. Friends, coworkers, mutuals you forgot you still followed. You wore the good dress, the one that makes you feel like the sexiest version of yourself. You downed two shots at the bar and danced until your skin burned.

And for a while—it worked.

Until he showed up.

You feel him before you see him. Isn’t that always the way?

That weight in the room. The static against your skin. The sharp twist in your stomach that feels too close to guilt to be anything else.

You turn. And there he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a show of it. He doesn’t look at you at first. He never does. Always lets you spot him first. Lets you feel him before he lets you see him.

Your heart drops anyway.

It’s been three weeks since you told him not to text you again.

Not after the last time—not after his fingers curled too tight around your wrist and left a bloom of purple that took a week to fade. Not after he said your name like a curse when you tried to walk away. You were never his. That was the whole point. And yet… it never seemed to matter.

You turn back toward your friends. Pretend you don’t see him.

It works for ten minutes.

Then a hand slides around your waist.

“You look good tonight.”

You freeze.

His breath is warm against your ear. Familiar. Suffocating.

You force a smile, even as your whole body goes still. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he murmurs, voice syrup-smooth. “Say hi to my favorite girl?”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not your anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His fingers flex at your waist. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve already lost something.

You shove his hand off. Step back.

“I said don’t.”

He laughs—soft and cruel. “You’ve got some nerve, walking around like that. That dress. That mouth.”

You’re not sure what breaks first—the fear or the fury.

But your hand moves before your mind can catch up, pushing at his chest, not hard enough to knock him back but enough—enough to draw a line, enough to say stop, stop, STOP.

He stumbles back half a step, but the grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.

“Oh, she’s got teeth tonight.”

You hate that he says it like he’s proud. Like he likes it when you push back—because it means he gets to push harder.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, louder this time. Louder than you meant it to be. Louder than the beat crashing around you.

A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.

He laughs, cruel and close and reeking of entitlement. “Calm down, drama queen. We used to have fun, remember?”

You take a step back.

He follows.

His hand shoots out again, this time not for your waist—but for your face. Fingers clamp around your jaw, sudden and firm, yanking you forward so fast your breath lodges in your throat.

You gasp.

Pain sparks where his thumb digs in. Your hands shoot up instinctively, trying to pry him off, nails raking across his skin in desperation.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Your voice breaks—sharp, raw, real—and for a second, just one, the crowd parts around the two of you like the air shifted.

He leans in closer. His mouth is at your ear. “You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice low and mean. “Is that it? That little bartender got you feeling brave?”

The blood drains from your face.

Because you never mentioned Minho. Not to him. Not to anyone who would repeat it.

It hits you like a punch to the chest. Not just the shock of his voice, low and poisonous in your ear—but what he said.

That little bartender.

Minho.

He knows.

You don’t know how. Don’t know who told him or what he heard or why it matters to him at all—but the fact that he said it means he’s been watching. Listening. Picking up pieces you didn’t even know you were leaving behind.

Your stomach lurches.

“I said—” you shove him with everything you have, panic fusing with rage “—get off me!”

This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.

His grip slips from your jaw, and you recoil like you’ve been burned, taking three steps back so fast you nearly trip. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes sting. The club feels too loud, too tight, the lights flashing like warning signs behind your eyelids.

But he recovers fast.

Too fast.

And now he’s pissed.

“You fucking slut,” he spits, voice ugly and thick with venom. “You think someone like him is gonna want you for anything more than your mouth? You think he’s any different?”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

You turn.

You run.

You don’t care that your friends will wonder where you went, that your drink is still half-full on the table, that your heels weren’t meant for this kind of escape.

You just run.

Out through the club doors, down the street, across the crosswalk without waiting for the signal. You walk like if you stop, he’ll catch up. Like the weight of his voice will sink into your skin and stay there. Like you’ll never feel clean again if you don’t keep moving.

You’re breathing too fast. Hands shaking. Vision blurry. Heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.

You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, the panic curling its claws up your spine, pressing down hard on your ribs like punishment.

And before you even know where you’re going, your feet are taking you there.

You don’t remember making the turn. Don’t remember crossing the street. You just blink—and suddenly the neon glow of the bar bleeds into your vision, cool and low and familiar in the haze of your panic. The bar. His bar.

And he’s there.

Outside, leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. The glow of the cherry lights his face in pulses—his cheekbone, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a smear of something on his forearm. 

He hasn’t seen you yet.

Not until your steps falter and the click of your heels dies out beneath the sound of his exhale.

Then—he lifts his head.

And his whole body goes still.

You must look like a disaster. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Shoulders drawn up like a cornered animal. Your lipstick smeared, hair falling out of place, the strap of your dress slipping.

But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.

Just watches you.

The silence stretches for a moment too long. Then, quietly—

“Did something happen?”

Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.

Low. Measured. But not indifferent.

There’s something else beneath it. A thread of tension wound so tight it barely makes it to the surface. The kind of control that only comes from practice. From restraint.

He doesn’t take a step toward you.

Doesn’t reach out.

Minho can read a room better than anyone you’ve ever met, and right now, you’re a room filled with alarms—flashing, screaming, crumbling.

He sees it.

“I…” Your voice falters. “No.”

You mean yes. You mean everything.

But the syllables won’t fit in your mouth.

He nods once. Slow. Like he hears what you didn’t say.

The cigarette between his fingers burns to the filter before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.

You don’t realize you’ve been swaying on your feet until your hand shoots out to brace against the wall.

Minho’s eyes flick to the motion, then back to your face. He still doesn’t move.

Instead, his voice softens—somehow quieter than before, like he’s afraid even sound might be too much for you right now.

“I’m just down the block.”

You blink at him, still catching your breath.

“My place,” he adds, nodding toward the street, toward the night that still hums like static around you. “Nothing weird. Just… quieter. Warmer. No one else there.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t trust him—you do, in ways you probably shouldn’t—but because your whole body still feels wrong. Like your nerves are too close to the surface, like any wrong move might set them off again.

Minho sees it.

He doesn’t rush to reassure you. Doesn’t over-explain or fumble for comfort.

Just lifts a shoulder in a light shrug and says, dryly, “I have cats.”

Of all the things he could’ve said. “Cats,” you repeat, the word catching oddly on your tongue like it doesn’t belong in a night like this. Like it’s too soft, too domestic, too absurdly normal for the way your heart is still hammering inside your ribs.

Minho nods. “Three of them.”

You raise an eyebrow—wary, trembling, but still capable of curiosity. “Three?”

“Soonie. Doongie. Dori,” he says. “They're spoiled. Judgmental. Loud as hell.” His tone doesn’t change. Still calm. Still flat. But there’s something careful behind it. Like he’s offering you a rope. Something to hold onto. Something that doesn’t smell like sweat and fear and everything you just ran from.

You nod. Just once. And somehow, that’s enough.

His apartment is small. Not cramped, not cold—just lived-in. Clean in that intentional way, like someone takes pride in it but doesn't obsess. The floors are wood, soft under your bare feet when you kick off your heels by the door. The kitchen glows faintly from the under-cabinet lights he left on, casting long amber streaks across the floor.

And the cats… the cats are waiting.

One sits perched on the back of the couch like he owns the place—which, judging by the scratch marks in the armrest, he might. Another peeks out from under the coffee table. The third appears from the hallway, tail high, meowing like you’ve personally offended him by existing.

You blink again.

“They’re boys,” Minho explains as he hangs his keys. “But they act like little old ladies. Dori’s the mouthy one.”

The meowing continues. A chorus now. You’re too stunned to respond at first. But then—Doongie, maybe?—pads up to you with those wide, judgmental eyes and headbutts your calf like it’s his god-given right.

Something inside you breaks. Not in the sharp, painful way. Not like at the club. No. This is different. This is soft. Shaky. This is the moment your body decides it’s safe enough to start crumbling. You crouch down—slow, careful—and let your fingers curl into his fur.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel it drip from your chin. Until your breath stutters. Until you fold over completely, arms wrapped around a cat who didn’t ask for this, face pressed into the warm softness of something alive and gentle.

Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn't touch you. You feel him move quietly behind you—setting a glass of water on the coffee table, flicking off the main lights until only the soft kitchen glow remains. And then… he just sits. A few feet away. Cross-legged on the floor, still in his black button-up and rolled sleeves, watching you like you’re made of glass and still trying to figure out if the cracks were already there.

You stay curled there on the floor for a while—knees tucked beneath you, fingers knotted in soft fur, cheek pressed to Doongie’s side like it might anchor you to something solid.

The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional swish of a tail or soft thump of paws. You can feel the warmth of Minho’s presence without looking at him. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just stays—close enough that you don’t feel alone, far enough that you don’t feel trapped.

Eventually, your breath starts to come steadier. The shaking dulls. And when you finally lift your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears and eyes too tired to hold anything else, he’s still there—arms resting loosely over his knees, gaze steady. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, half-laughing, half-apologizing.

“Sorry,” you murmur, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—fall apart all over your cat.”

Minho shrugs. “He probably liked it.”

You snort, exhausted. “He’s purring.”

“Doongie’s kind of a slut for attention.”

You laugh—a real one this time, hoarse and soft—and drag your fingers through Doongie’s fur once more before sitting up straighter, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress.

Minho stands slowly, careful not to startle the moment, and disappears into the hallway without a word. A minute later, he’s back, holding a folded bundle in his arms—what looks like a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie so worn it’s probably been through a hundred washes. He sets them gently on the arm of the couch beside you.

“Shower’s through there,” he says, nodding toward the narrow hallway. “First door on the right. Towels are on the rack. The water takes a second to heat up.”

You blink up at him, the offer settling slowly over you like warmth. He doesn't say you look like a mess. Doesn’t tell you to clean yourself up. Just offers you comfort in the quietest way he knows how. You nod.

The bathroom is small, clean, and filled with that same soft golden light that seems to follow him everywhere. You peel yourself out of your dress, step under the spray, and let the steam unwind you. It’s the first time all night you feel like you’re breathing in something clean. Like maybe there’s still space in your skin for something that isn’t fear.

You stay until the water starts to run cold. When you finally step out, dressed in his clothes, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, your heart thuds with a strange, fragile kind of relief.

And then you see it.

The couch. The cushions have been cleared, a blanket folded neatly at the foot, pillow fluffed, a glass of water on the side table. One of the cats is curled up like a sentry near the armrest, blinking at you lazily as if to say it’s fine now.

You stare for a second. Because it’s not just that he made up the couch. It’s that he didn’t assume. Didn’t point you toward his bed. Didn’t insist. Didn’t press. He just knew.

You sit down slowly, tucking the blanket over your legs, body sinking into the cushions like they were waiting for you.

Minho reappears from the hallway, already dressed down—black joggers, a loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he rinsed off too. He gestures toward the light. “You good if I kill this?”

You nod. He flips the switch. The room dims. He doesn’t say goodnight. Doesn’t do the awkward lingering thing. He just turns, quiet as always, and heads for his bedroom.

And for a moment, you let him go.

For a moment, you think it’s fine. But the second the door clicks shut, something tightens in your chest. Your breath catches. Your pulse jumps. That same fear from earlier curls back in under your skin—not loud, not sharp. Just a whisper now. A what if. What if he comes back. What if he finds out where you went. What if this silence isn't safety at all, but the space before another breaking point.

You sit up. “Minho?”

A beat. His door opens again. The light from his room spills into the hall. He’s already halfway back into the living room when he says, “Yeah?”

Your throat works around the words. They feel small. Silly. Needful. But you say them anyway. “Can you stay?”

He pauses. Looks at you. And you can tell—he knows. Knows exactly what you mean. Knows it’s not about him. Not about company. Not about flirting or closeness or warmth. It’s about safety. It’s about knowing the world can’t get to you if he’s there. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make a sound. Just disappears for a second, then comes back with two blankets folded under one arm and a spare pillow under the other. He drops them on the floor beside the couch, shrugs out of his hoodie, and settles down without a word.

The hoodie slips off his shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing the thin black tank top underneath—clinging just enough to map the sharp cut of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders.

You don’t mean to stare.

But the fabric hangs loose at the chest, dipping just low enough to expose the curve of ink over his left pectoral—black lines disappearing into shadow, something abstract and intricate. Just a glimpse. Just enough to wonder what the rest of it looks like when he breathes.

Minho doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just too tired—or too gracious—to call you on it.

He lies on his back beside the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach. Doongie circles once on the rug, then collapses beside him like a guard, chin resting on his forearm.

You turn onto your side. The room is still. Not quiet—still. Like the air itself is holding its breath. You don’t sleep. You can’t. Not with the phantom heat of a hand still lingering on your face. Not with the aftershocks of fear still curling around your ribs. Not with the weight of this unfamiliar kindness just a few feet away, warm and steady and unearned.

So you watch him. And eventually, he turns his head. Eyes open. Heavy-lidded but focused. A slow drag up your face. Your cheekbone. The faint shadow blooming just below your temple. His jaw ticks, subtle but sharp, and he doesn’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper.

He blinks. Like the words take a second to land. “Mm.”

His gaze flicks down briefly—to where the fabric clings to his chest, then back to your face. There’s no smirk, no warning, just a shift in the air, like gravity tilting. “Wanna see it?”

The question isn’t loaded. It’s not teasing. It just is. You nod. Minho sits up slowly, one hand tugging at the hem of his tank top. The fabric slides up and over his head in one clean motion, soft and soundless. He tosses it to the side and leans back on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing, loose and languid.

The tattoo stretches across the left side of his chest—black ink, fine lines, bold shapes. It isn’t a compass. It’s a storm. A swirl of wind and waves, jagged mountains etched in silhouette. At its center, the faint outline of a wing—fractured and rising, like something caught between ruin and flight. The ink moves with him, flexes when he breathes, like it’s alive beneath his skin.

You stare.

Not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it feels right on him. Like he was born with it. Like whatever storm he came from left its mark on the inside first, and this was just its echo.

Your hand moves before you can stop it.

Slowly, like reaching for fire. Like asking for permission with the space between your fingers. When you don’t meet resistance, you touch him.

Just a single point at first—your fingertip landing lightly on the edge of the wing, where ink meets skin just beneath his collarbone. His breath hitches, subtle but real, a flicker of tension in his chest. You feel it before you hear it. Then you trace. Softly. Reverently. Down the curve of the wing, across the stormline where jagged wind spirals out into broken waves.

Your touch drags slow, deliberate, following the black lines like you’re learning a language. One that only his body speaks. Minho doesn’t move. He just watches you. The way your lashes lower, the way your lips part slightly like you’re holding your breath for him. The silence between you is thick but not heavy—dense with something neither of you are ready to name.

When your finger glides over the highest peak—inked mountain just above his heart—his head tilts back slightly, like the contact pulls something from him. His throat bobs with the swallow he doesn’t bother to hide. You pause. Right over his heart now. The skin is warm. Steady. And for a second, the storm beneath your own ribs goes quiet—like his rhythm tames yours without trying. He exhales.

His eyes flutter shut for a beat, then open again—slow, measured. He looks at you like you’ve unraveled something in him, like your touch left ink on him instead. But when his gaze drops lower, it changes. Softens. Darkens. And then his hand moves. Carefully. Cautiously. Like he’s seen too many things break when touched too fast.

He lifts it to your face, the backs of his fingers ghosting along your jaw—light enough to be mistaken for air. He doesn’t go straight for the bruise. He lingers near it, watching you, waiting for the slightest sign of retreat.

You don’t give it.

So he shifts—just slightly—until his knuckles brush the edge of the swelling beneath your eye. You flinch. Not because of the pain. Not because it hurts. Because of how gentle it is. Like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he doesn’t know how to hold something unless he’s sure it won’t shatter. Like he wants to carve your bruises from your skin and wear them instead. His fingers hover there. Still. Tense. A breath away from trembling.

“Fucker’s lucky I wasn’t there,” he murmurs.

You inhale—slow, shallow. The air catches in your throat like it’s thick with something unspoken, something too big to name. Minho’s hand starts to pull back. And maybe that’s why you speak. Maybe that’s why you reach for something else, anything else, before the room folds in too tightly.

“So,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “that tattoo.”

Minho pauses. Just for a moment. His eyes flick back to yours, and he knows what you’re doing. Of course he does. The deflection is transparent, but he lets it happen anyway—lets you steer them away from the heaviness still clinging to your skin like ash.

“What about it?” he murmurs, settling back on his elbow, the other hand now resting on his chest near the ink you traced. You mirror him slightly, folding into the edge of the couch, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes fixed on the storm etched into his skin.

“The wing,” you say after a beat. “In the center. What’s it mean?”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “Freedom.”

You blink. “It’s broken.”

His mouth quirks—barely a smile, not quite bitter. “Yeah. It usually is.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you say nothing. Just let your gaze trace the peaks and spirals, the places where black lines blur like smoke, the edges of him carved in ink instead of bruises. His body tells a story too. You just haven’t read all the pages yet.

Minho shifts again, slowly lying back down on the floor, the side of his arm brushing the base of the couch now. You're above him on the couch, laying on your side so you can look at him.

“You can ask,” he says softly.

“About the tattoo?”

“About anything.”

You hum—soft, skeptical. The kind of sound that curls into the quiet and lingers, not quite a no, not quite a yes. You’re tired now. The real kind. The kind that settles into your limbs like gravity, like wet sand. Your eyes flutter half-shut, your voice feather-light.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Minho lets out a low exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Maybe.”

Your gaze slips to his again—his eyes open, trained on the ceiling like the answers might be there if he stares hard enough. One hand still rests loosely over his chest, the other pressed against your cheek.

You reach for it. Not with purpose. Not even with need. Just because it’s there. Because it feels like the thing to do.

Your fingertips graze his, gentle, thoughtless. And then his hand shifts—just slightly—so his pinky catches yours. Hooks. Holds.

It’s not a kiss. It’s not a confession.

But it feels like both.

You don’t speak for a while. Don’t need to.

The silence feels clean now. Like rain after smoke. Like you could fall asleep inside it without drowning.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just lets you anchor there—your hand half-curled over his, your lashes brushing your cheek as your eyes slip closed.

But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:

“You have a nice voice.”

You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.

“Yeah?” he says, and it’s quieter than anything else he’s said tonight—rough around the edges like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment.

You nod against the pillow. “Mhm.”

There’s a beat.

“You’ve heard me say some pretty fucked-up things.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “Have I?”

He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just a sound with history behind it. With edge. With weight.

“Don’t play innocent,” he murmurs. “You remember.”

You do.

Of course you do.

Words like silk and smoke, coiled tight with implication. The things he said across the bar, into your drink, into your skin without ever laying a hand on you.

You remember all of them.

But you’re tired. Softened. And the edges of those memories feel dulled now—faded by warmth and flannel and the rhythm of his breathing a few feet from your chest.

So you hum again, lashes still pressed to your cheeks. “They didn’t sound fucked-up at the time.”

Minho’s quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet that hums.

You can feel it in the space between your bodies—how the air thickens again, but not with tension. With memory. With the weight of everything you haven’t said and the things you probably never will.

“That’s the problem,” he says eventually, voice low enough that you almost miss it. 

Your eyes open again. Just barely. The room is still steeped in shadow, but your vision finds him easy—half-lit, half-lost in the floor beside the couch. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other still tethered to yours.

You study the line of his jaw, the way it tenses and relaxes like he’s caught between restraint and regret. He’s not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll answer for him this time.

“You say that like you’re proud of it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just exhales, rough and dry.

“No,” he says. “I say it like I don’t know how to stop.”

That hurts in a way you didn’t expect. Not because of what he said—but because of the way he said it. Like a flaw in the foundation. Like a truth carved into him long before you ever stepped foot inside that bar.

You shift a little, turning more fully toward him, cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. Your fingers are still slotted with his. His skin is warm. Callused at the tips.

“You don’t have to stop,” you say quietly. “Just don’t lie about what you mean.”

That gets him.

His gaze flicks to yours—fast, sharp. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like no one’s ever said it to him quite like that before.

“I never lied,” he says.

You blink at him. Slow. Sleepy. “No. But you hide.”

Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches you. Face unreadable. Chest rising slow beneath the ink on his skin.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I don’t want to scare you.”

That makes you pause. The silence stretches thin and long between you.

“You don’t.”

Minho swallows. His thumb brushes, barely, against your knuckle.

“Not yet.”

You shake your head. Your voice is nearly gone now—nothing but a breath. “I think I’m harder to scare than you think.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m starting to believe that.”

The air settles again. Like the truth came in and made itself comfortable.

You close your eyes, finally letting your body sink into the couch. Letting the warmth of him—his hand, his presence, his voice—press into all the places that still feel fragile.

“Don’t stop talking,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your voice,” you murmur, already half gone. “It’s nice. It helps.”

And when you drift off like that—quiet, safe, held by nothing more than the sound of him—Minho stays awake long after. Eyes on the ceiling.

Still talking.

Just in case you can still hear him.

You wake to the scent of coffee and something faintly savory—garlic maybe, or eggs. The couch beneath you is warm where your body curled into it, blanket tangled around your legs. A cat is pressed to your ribs like a living paperweight, tail flicking once when you stir.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget what happened. Forget him.

Then the ache hits. Dull and deep, low in your chest and blooming outward. You shift to sit up, and it all comes back.

The club. The hands. The words.

The running.

And then—Minho.

His apartment is quiet now, but not empty. There’s music playing low from somewhere down the hall. You follow the sound on slow feet, dragging the blanket with you like armor.

You find him in the kitchen, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up. He’s at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. There’s a pan of eggs on the burner. A second mug waiting beside the sink.

He doesn’t turn when you enter. Just glances over his shoulder and says, “Mornin’.”

His voice is rough with sleep. Deeper. It hits somewhere low in your spine.

You hover at the doorway, feeling small in his clothes—his hoodie draped over your frame, sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Making breakfast,” he says, cutting you off with casual finality. “You still eat, right?”

You blink. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” He turns back to the pan. “Then sit.”

You do. Quietly. At the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of the mug he left for you. It smells like cinnamon.

He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Pushes the dish toward you and leans back against the counter with his own. He eats without looking at you at first, fork moving in clean, efficient motions.

When he does speak again, his voice is softer.

“You don’t have to go back.”

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.

“What?”

Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.

“I’m serious. If you don’t feel safe there…” He trails off, jaw tensing. “Stay here.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch far.

“I’ve got room,” he adds. “Cats already like you. You don’t snore.”

That last part earns the smallest smile from you. “You don’t know that.”

“I was up half the night,” he says, mouth twitching. “I’d know.”

You look down at your plate, pretending to rearrange the toast like that’ll somehow buy you time to think. But the words—stay here—they’ve already lodged themselves under your ribs. Warm. Unexpected. Real.

And terrifying.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say finally. Quiet. Like if you speak too loud, you’ll ruin the softness of it all.

Minho sets his fork down.

The sound is soft, deliberate. When you glance up, he’s watching you again. Really watching—like he does when he’s about to say something that’ll cut deeper than you expect.

“You’re not.”

Just that. Nothing flowery. Nothing performative. Just the fact of it, laid bare on the table between you like it shouldn’t be questioned.

You want to believe him.

You almost do.

But then your fingers twitch near your coffee, and the pain in your face pulses a little sharper—pulling you back into the fragile ache of your own body. You shift to look away, to hide the swelling that’s bloomed across your cheekbone and down to your jaw.

But Minho doesn’t let you.

He moves around the counter slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you. His hand is warm when it finds your chin again—fingertips brushing along your jawline, coaxing your face toward his. Gentle. Grounded.

“Let me see.”

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb ghosts beneath your cheekbone, skimming over the darkened bloom that’s bloomed overnight. His brow furrows—not in pity, not even in anger. Just... stillness. A silence that hums with the kind of fury he’s learned how to wear like armor.

His voice is low when it comes.

“I hate that he touched you.”

You blink. Something thick swells in your throat, too full to swallow down.

“I hate that I didn’t find you first.”

That hits you harder than it should.

You try to speak—but your voice sticks somewhere behind your teeth. So you just nod, your cheek pressing into his palm like your body can answer for you.

Minho doesn’t let go—not yet. His fingers trail down to the edge of your neck, where the fabric of his hoodie pools at your collarbone. You’re not sure if he realizes how close he’s gotten. How the warmth of him wraps around you now, even without touching anything else.

“I want you to stay,” he says again, steady now. “Not because I feel bad. Not because you need help. I want you here.”

Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.

His thumb moves again—just a gentle stroke along your jaw.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You breathe in once, shaky and thin. “Okay.”

The corners of his mouth pull—slow, subtle. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Relief, maybe.

He lets your face go with that same care—like he’s afraid it’ll leave a mark if he’s not gentle enough. Then he steps back, returns to his plate, and picks up his fork again like he didn’t just hand you the softest kind of shelter.

You take another bite of your eggs.

They taste better than they should.

You don’t move in all at once.

There’s no official decision, no suitcase moment. Just the slow accumulation of things—your toothbrush beside his, a sock that somehow never made its way back into your bag, a t-shirt folded neatly at the foot of the bed that you don’t remember taking off. A rhythm forms. One that begins with his voice in the morning—low, rough, coffee-laced—and ends with the soft click of the front door when he comes home from the bar past midnight, thinking you’re asleep.

You never are.

The apartment starts to feel different. Lived-in. Yours, even if you never say it out loud. Your shoes by the door. Your laughter echoing off the tile. Your perfume clinging to his sheets like memory.

Minho doesn’t comment. Not once. He just starts making a second cup of coffee without asking. Starts keeping almond milk in the fridge. Throws your laundry in with his like it’s never been separate.

And you—you watch him fall into it as easy as breath.

He moves through the apartment like smoke. Silent, confident, present in ways you’ve never been used to. There’s no performance with him, no empty gestures. If he folds your towel, it’s because it needed folding. If he brings home your favorite tea, it’s because he remembered. And if he looks at you too long in the mirror while you brush your teeth, it’s because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.

One night, he comes home late. The bar ran over, and the cats had started pacing like they could feel the quiet shift without him. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, a half-finished movie playing on low, just waiting for the lock to turn. When it does, and he steps inside—shoulders drawn, eyes tired, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to him—you don’t say anything at first.

Just watch him.

He slips off his boots. Shrugs off his jacket. Walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water like he’s not sure how to be here yet.

Then he grabs the pack from the counter.

You sit up.

“Minho.”

He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.

You rise slowly, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, padding barefoot to meet him.

“You said you were trying to quit.”

“I am.”

“You’re also lighting a cigarette at midnight.”

He exhales through his nose. Tired. “Rough night.”

You stop just short of the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, bare toes curling against the tile, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Want to talk about it?” you ask softly.

“No,” he says.

Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.

Minho pulls the cigarette from the pack with that same familiar motion—two fingers, flick of the wrist. The sound of the lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. He doesn't look at you as he inhales, jaw tight, lashes low. The cherry glows in the dim.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

He leans against the counter, exhales slow, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. It swirls around the line of his jaw, catches the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, clings to him like it’s part of his skin.

You hate how good he looks like this. Angry. Quiet. Unreachable.

But you hate more that you can’t reach him.

“Was it something at the bar?”

His lips twitch. He doesn’t answer.

You step closer, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”

“I’m not,” he says. Still not looking at you. “I’m carrying it just fine.”

You frown.

“Minho—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

And this time, it is clipped. Sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts more than it means to. He finally looks at you then—eyes rimmed with something hot and unreadable, mouth hard.

The silence that follows is cold.

You shift your weight, wounded but trying not to show it. “Okay.”

Minho’s jaw ticks. Like he wants to take it back, but doesn’t know how. Like everything in him is fraying at the edges, and you just happened to be the softest thing close enough to get caught in it.

He curses under his breath. Stubs the cigarette out halfway through, presses the filter down into the tray until it smears.

Then, quieter: “It’s not you.”

“I know.”

He runs a hand down his face, palm dragging hard across his mouth like he’s trying to erase himself. Then he sighs and looks at you—really looks at you. The hoodie swallowed around your frame. The bare legs. The worry softening your brow.

His voice breaks a little on the next part.

“Had a guy come into the bar tonight. One of those types—smiles too wide, looks through women instead of at them. He kept cornering this girl, leaning over the counter, asking me why I gave a shit when I told him to back off.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

Minho swallows. “He called me a cockblock. Said I must’ve been jealous.” His gaze drops, eyes narrowing. “Said I looked like the kind of guy who watches.”

You don’t interrupt.

“He grabbed her arm when she tried to leave. Wouldn’t let go."

The words hang there. Not just what he’s saying—but why he’s saying it. You feel it bloom in your chest. Cold. Familiar.

You walk the last few feet.

He doesn’t stop you this time.

Your hand finds his wrist—warm, tense, still trembling slightly. You run your thumb over the bone there, grounding him.

“You’re not that kind of man.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to be.”

That makes you pause.

He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.

“I wanted to slam him into the bar. Make him bleed. Make him feel small. And the worst part?” A breathless laugh. “I would’ve enjoyed it.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

You squeeze his hand.

It’s quiet for a while. The kitchen lit only by the soft amber under the cabinets, casting warm shadows along the tile. The cats have settled somewhere in the living room. Even the city feels hushed.

He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.

Then, suddenly: “He looked at her the same way—”

He stops himself. His jaw locks.

You swallow.

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You know.

And he knows you know.

So you step closer. Gently. Carefully. Press your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something like home. You pluck the cigarette from his lips and he lets you, watches as you toss it into the sink.

“Come to bed,” you murmur.

He doesn't move.

You tug on his hand again. “Please.”

Minho glances at you—eyes a little too tired, a little too dark—but he lets you guide him.

He doesn’t say much once you're in the bedroom. Just peels his shirt off and tosses it into the corner. You catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest again—the wing in the center of the storm, fractured, fighting to stay airborne.

You turn away to climb into bed, give him space.

But when you settle under the blanket, he’s already there. Already behind you. Warm and solid, arm slipping around your waist without hesitation. His chest to your back, his breath against your neck.

He’s quiet for a long time. And then:

“I hate that I couldn’t stop it. What happened to you.”

You close your eyes.

His fingers tighten slightly against your side. Not rough. Just firm. Just real.

“I think about it more than I should,” he murmurs. “What I’d do if I saw him again.”

You shift, just enough to feel him breathe differently—like your movement catches him off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to respond. But you don’t turn around, not yet. You just let your voice slip into the quiet, soft and slow.

“What would you do?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then another.

His breath ghosts across your shoulder. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d scare you.”

His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Measured. Sharp at the edges like he’s spent all night filing it down.

You blink slowly into the dark, heart thudding, air thick between your bodies. You feel him behind you—warm, solid, tense. A wall at your back. A shield. A fuse.

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t exhale.

And just when you think he might pretend he didn’t hear you, Minho speaks.

“I’d wait,” he says, voice low, words heavy like molasses. “Wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t warn him. Just watch. Let him come close. Let him think he could try again.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers curl slightly where they rest on your waist, grounding himself in the shape of you.

“Then I’d take his hand,” Minho murmurs, “the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

A chill snakes down your spine.

Not fear.

Just something colder. Older. Like someone had finally said the thing you weren’t allowed to say out loud. That it wasn’t okay. That it would never be okay.

“And when he screamed,” Minho continues, voice almost tender now, “I wouldn’t stop. I’d make sure he understood what it feels like to lose control. To be small. Helpless. The way he made you feel.”

You turn in his arms.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Face to face now.

His jaw is clenched. Eyes storm-dark. He looks dangerous like this. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s loyal. Because he means every word and there’s no drama in his voice—just truth. Cold and clean.

You reach for him without thinking.

Your hand moves to his face, fingers threading into the hair at his temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone like you’re trying to soothe something in him—or maybe in yourself. And Minho… he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften either. He just lets you hold him, lets your touch settle over the anger still thrumming in his bones like a warning bell that hasn’t stopped ringing.

“You wouldn’t scare me,” you whisper.

His brow twitches, just slightly. “You should be scared of a man who wants to hurt for you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I’ve been scared before. You’re not that kind of man.”

His mouth parts. His breath hits your lips. The weight in his eyes shifts—something cracks beneath it. Not entirely. Just a fracture. A weakness. A truth.

“You don’t know what I’d do,” he murmurs.

You lean in, close enough that your breath brushes his skin when you speak.

“I don’t need to,” you whisper. “I know what you’ve already done.”

His brow furrows, but you go on—soft and steady, the words falling between you like they’ve been waiting for a place to land.

“You made space. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You let me have silence without asking for anything in return.” Your fingers press more firmly against his jaw, thumb brushing just below his lower lip. “That’s enough. That’s more than anyone else ever did.”

Minho’s eyes darken—not with lust—but with something thicker. Something closer to reverence. Like the weight of your trust is heavier than all the violence he ever imagined inflicting in your name.

His hand rises slowly, palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that borders on fragile. His thumb swipes beneath your eye like he’s checking for something he missed.

“I don’t deserve that,” he says, voice raw.

“Maybe not,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “But you have it.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough to make him move.

Minho kisses you like he’s falling. Like he’s been holding himself upright for so long, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to give in. His mouth finds yours, and there’s no hesitation in it—only heat, only hunger. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet groan that vibrates in your chest.

You gasp softly when he pushes you back, his body pressing you into the mattress, weight balanced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One hand slips under your shirt, fingers skimming up your ribs, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast.

He pulls back barely an inch, eyes flicking over your face like a question.

His breathing is uneven, but his touch isn't. His hand rests there—still beneath your shirt, just barely cradling your breast like he's not sure he deserves to hold anything so soft. So willing. His thumb strokes gently, slowly, and his eyes search yours like he's waiting for a line to cross. Or worse—waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the hem of your shirt, dragging it up with trembling fingers. You don’t break eye contact. Don’t speak.

You just offer.

And Minho accepts.

He helps, silent, peeling it over your head with quiet reverence. He looks at you like you’re made of something rare and unrepeatable. And when his gaze drags over your chest, down the soft swell of your ribs to your stomach, he breathes your name like a confession.

His voice is wrecked when he says it—your name, cracked and reverent like he’s saying it for the first time. Like it’s a word he isn’t worthy of.

“Fuck, look at you.” His hands drag down your sides, slow and sure, palms wide and heavy like he’s trying to ground himself. He shifts over you, mouth lowering to your breast, and he moans as soon as his lips close around your nipple—no restraint, no performance. Just need. He sucks hard. Just once. Like he can’t help himself. Then he pulls back, panting, and shakes his head like he’s already losing it. “I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smile—lazy, wrecked, already warm all over—and tilt your head just enough for your lashes to sweep up, gaze locked on his. You reach for him, fingers trailing down his arm until your palm flattens against his chest, right over the fractured wing. “I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper.

Minho’s breath stutters—one of those shallow, fractured exhales that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. Not when your palm is flat against his chest, thumb grazing the tip of that wing inked over his heart. Not when your eyes look like that—half-lidded, dark, shining with something he’s not sure he deserves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Keep lying to me.”

But he doesn’t pull away. He watches you. Watches the way your hand trails lower, slow and certain, down the cut of his abdomen. Fingertips ghosting over the faint dip of muscle, over the waistband of his pants, teasing the edge like you’re not sure yet—like he has any say in it anymore.

Minho goes still. Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he does. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against the fabric, already leaking for you. But there’s something in his face—tightness around the mouth, tension in his jaw. A flicker of control barely clinging to the edge. And you see it. You see all of it. So you press your lips to his collarbone—soft, reverent—and whisper, “Let me.”

Minho shudders. And then he nods. You sink down the bed a little, propping yourself on one elbow, other hand already slipping beneath his waistband. He lifts his hips to help, pants shoved just low enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and thick, tip slick with precome, veins standing in sharp relief.

“Jesus,” you murmur, fingers curling around the base. “You’re so hard…”

“Because of you,” he rasps. “You lying, teasing little thing—”

You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.

You give him another stroke, tighter this time, and the sound he makes punches straight through you—low and ragged, a shattered groan caught in the back of his throat. His hips twitch, almost against his will, and you can feel the restraint vibrating through his body, every muscle tight like he’s on the verge of snapping.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, almost teasing. “What happened to all that control?”

Minho laughs—just barely. Just a breath.

“Keep talking like that,” he mutters, “and I’ll ruin you before you even get the chance to try.”

But the way his eyes flutter shut when you twist your wrist on the upstroke says otherwise. “Hah—fuck—” He’s panting now, head tipped back, one arm holding himself up beside your head for support while the other fists the sheets like he needs something—anything—to hold onto.

You lean up, breath brushing the underside of his jaw, your voice soft and honey-sweet in his ear.

“You gonna beg for it?”

He freezes. His eyes snap open, and there’s something electric in the silence between you. His cock throbs in your hand, twitching like the idea alone nearly undid him. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing yours.

“Do you want me to?” he whispers.

You smile, smug and slow. “Wouldn’t hate it.”

He groans—deep, guttural, wrecked—and it makes your cunt clench. He looks like he could devour you whole, like he might if you ask nicely. Or if you don’t.

“I’d get on my fucking knees if you told me to,” he mutters, mouth moving along your jaw, your cheek, your throat. His hand finds your hip and grips, firm enough to bruise. “I’d crawl. I’d beg. I’d say please—is that what you want?”

You don’t answer. You just stroke him again—slow, tight, deliberate—and feel the way he shudders against you, how his whole body flinches like your hand alone is enough to wreck him.

“Mm— baby, slow down—fuck—” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin.

“I’ll give it to you,” he murmurs. “Anything. You want me desperate? Pathetic? Done. Just say it.”

You hum, soft and pleased, lips brushing his temple. “I think I like you pathetic.”

Minho groans—“Fuck, you’re evil,”—but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he sinks into it. Into you. Every stroke of your hand wrings another sound from his throat, each more desperate than the last.

You swipe your thumb over the slit, smear precum down the shaft, and his entire body jolts.

“Shit—don’t—f-fuck—”

“You gonna make a mess in my hand, baby?” you ask sweetly, tightening just a little. “Gonna come like this? Without even being inside me?”

He growls. “No.”

You blink up at him, lips parting in mock surprise. “No?”

Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes absolutely wrecked. Hair messy, jaw clenched, throat flushed with effort. He’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“I’m not coming until I’m inside you,” he says, voice low, dark, edged with pure hunger. “Until I’m fucking deep in that pretty cunt, feeling you squeeze me while I lose it. You think I can come just from your hand?”

He leans in, nose to yours, breath harsh. “I’d beg for the chance to do it right.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then you let go of his cock. Minho groans like it physically hurts.

“Then beg.” He stares at you. One long, heavy moment. Then he kneels back on his haunches, hands splayed on your thighs, and dips his head.

“Please.”

Just one word—but fuck, the way he says it. Voice hoarse, raw, like it’s scraped from the bottom of his chest. His lips graze the inside of your knee as he speaks again.

“Please, let me in. Let me fuck you slow. Let me feel you stretch around me.”

You exhale shakily.

He presses another kiss higher. “Let me make you come on my cock. Let me ruin you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

Your thighs tremble. He reaches for your underwear, eyes flicking to yours for permission, and when you nod—barely, breathless—he tugs them down with reverence, slow enough to make you whimper.

Minho drags your underwear down your legs like it’s the last ribbon off a present, like beneath it is something he’s been waiting his whole life to unwrap. When the fabric slips past your ankles, he tosses it somewhere behind him without a glance. His gaze never leaves you. You’re already soaked.

He sees it—feels it when he runs two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open with a breathless “fuck me.” His knuckles tremble.

He sees everything. Every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your thighs, every slick sound his fingers make as they glide through you, slow and reverent. His knuckles tremble, but his touch doesn’t falter—not even a little. If anything, the way his hand moves only deepens, turns hungrier.

“Fuck me,” he breathes again. He parts you with two fingers, spreads your folds and watches your cunt clench on nothing, dripping for him, aching.

“Look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t help it. “So wet I can see my reflection. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

You’re panting now, back arching just slightly off the sheets, eyes half-lidded but fixed on him, on the way he looks at you like you’re something sacred and ruined all at once.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “Please.”

Minho sinks two fingers into you in one smooth stroke—slow, thick, curling just right until your breath hits the back of your throat. He groans, low and guttural, watching your cunt stretch around his fingers like it’s something holy.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “How the fuck am I gonna fit my cock in you if you’re already this tight around my fingers?”

The question is low, more to himself than to you, but it rips through you like heat, like lightning. Your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers at the thought, and Minho groans—long, drawn out, wrecked.

“Oh, you like that,” he breathes. “You want me to stretch you open, don’t you?”

Your answer is a breathy whimper, more sound than word—your hips canting up, your fingers curling in the sheets. Minho watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s the one being touched, like you are the thing unraveling him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he’s lining up. His cock drags through your folds, thick and flushed, already smeared with your slick. He grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting the head catch against your clit before slipping lower. When he presses in, the stretch burns, even as your cunt welcomes him, soaking and clenching and shaking just from the promise of it.

“Jesus—ngh, fuck—you’re tight,” he growls, jaw clenched, forehead tipped against yours. “Gonna ruin me.”

He gives you an inch. Then another. Then thrusts the rest of the way in with a groan that sounds like it’s been caged in his throat for weeks.

You cry out—sharp, startled, stretched to the brim in one sudden, devastating motion.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he pants, not stopping. His hips roll into yours, hard and deep, dragging his cock through your walls like he’s trying to etch himself into them. “You can take it. I know you can. Look at you—fuck—made for this.”

The first few thrusts are brutal. Snapping, deliberate, filthy. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. He pins your hips down like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t keep you there. Every time he sinks back in, your breath knocks out of your lungs, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer—wrecked, endless, real.

“Just like that,” he grits, cock dragging against your walls, soaked in you. “Let me fuck it into you—let me make you feel me.”

But then— Then he slows. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he wants to feel all of it. His hand slides under your thigh, hikes your leg higher around his waist, and he sinks into you again—slower this time. Deeper. His hips roll instead of snap, the rhythm shifting into something that feels closer to worship than fucking.

He fucks into you slow, deep—each thrust wringing a breathy moan from your throat, each drag of his cock carving his name deeper into the heat of you. The sweat on his skin glistens under the low light, hair clinging to his forehead, jaw tight with effort and restraint. You’re clinging to him now—arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back, body arching to meet every roll of his hips. And then he says it—low, ragged, right in your ear.

“Feel good?”

You gasp, nod, whisper-plead a breathless “Yes.”

He hums—a soft, dark thing, almost smug. He thrusts a little harder, just once, like a reward, like a test. “Yeah?” he pants. “How good? Tell me."

You try—but your voice catches. It’s just air at first, punched out of you by the deliberate grind of his hips, by the thick, aching stretch of him moving so slowly inside you you could scream. You manage a broken, breathy sound: “So—fuck—so good…”

And Minho groans. Long, low, full of grit. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your lips—messy, hot, open-mouthed. His breath fans against your skin as he mutters, “That all you’ve got for me, baby?”

You dig your nails in—fuck him, he knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how good he feels, the way his cock strokes that spot just right, again and again, with filthy precision. The way his hand curls around your thigh to keep you spread for him, to keep you right there

You whimper his name—soft, ruined—like it’s the only word you remember, and he groans, sharp and deep, lips dragging along the sweat-slick curve of your throat.

“God, you feel—” he pants, voice splintered, barely holding. “You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re so tight, so warm, you—fuck, you ruin me.”

Another thrust—slow, deep, devastating—and your head falls back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry. Minho watches your face twist, watches your chest heave, and it breaks something in him.

“I—shit—I think I’m in love with you.”

It slips out like a sin. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like he couldn’t hold it in one second longer.

Your whole body goes still beneath him—just for a moment. Like your brain’s catching up. Like his words are a second kind of penetration, sharp and unexpected. He freezes, too. Breath held. Eyes wide. The moment burns.

And then you whisper, broken and trembling: “Say it again.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate this time. “I love you.”

He moans it into your mouth, like it hurts to say, like it hurts more not to. His hand slides up your side, tender now, reverent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, forehead pressed to yours, hips still rolling deep, slow, full of everything he never knew how to say before now.

“You hear me? You’re not just someone I fuck, you’re—god, you’re everything.”

Your lips part—words rising up like breath, like instinct—but you don’t get the chance.

Minho kisses you before you can speak.

Not soft. Not tentative. It’s all tongue and teeth, heat and hunger, the kind of kiss that steals thought and gives only feeling in return. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it—like he’s still starving, even now, with his cock buried deep inside you and your body curled so sweetly beneath his.

You gasp into him, and he drinks it down—tongue licking into your mouth, filthy and tender and real.

And then it’s all friction.

The slow roll of his hips turns urgent, dragging moans from your throat he swallows between kisses. He fucks into you like he means it now—like every thrust is a promise carved into your bones. You cling to him, helpless against the way your body arches, the way your cunt tightens around him, soaked and pulsing, every nerve on fire.

“M-Min—hah—Minho—”

He pulls back just long enough to look at you—just long enough to let you see how wrecked he is, how far gone, how in it he is with you.

“You’re mine,” he pants, voice rough and wrecked, thrusts hitting deeper now, harder, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. “You hear me? Say it.”

You nod, broken. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

And that’s all he needed.

He groans—loud, guttural—and buries himself deeper, cock twitching as he fucks you through it. His thrusts lose rhythm, chasing his high, and you’re barely hanging on, every drag of him inside you rubbing all the right places, the sweet heat spiraling again in your belly.

You’re both so close. So close.

And when you come again—tight and soaked and shaking all around him—he feels it. Feels you flutter and pull and milk him until he can’t hold back anymore.

He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, voice wrecked.

“I love you—fuck—I love you, I love you—”

It’s not gentle when he comes.

It’s everything.

And when the tremors subside, when your nails loosen from his back and your breaths sync again, he still doesn’t let you speak.

Not yet.

He just kisses you.

And kisses you.

And kisses you.

You learn something about Minho that night. That as nonchalant and unshakable as he seems—cool and composed, cigarette smoke and sharp tongues—when he gets going, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re crying his name again. Not until your thighs tremble and your voice is wrecked and your body’s too boneless to beg for more, even though your eyes still plead with him.

You lose track of how many times.

The night runs long and slow and molten—fucking turns to touching, touching turns to laughing, and every kiss feels like a secret passed between mouths.

Now, the room is quiet again. Still.

You’re sprawled across the sheets, skin bare, limbs warm and heavy with exhaustion. The duvet’s been kicked down to your ankles, your body slick with the soft sheen of sweat, your chest rising in steady, sated waves.

Minho is gone—but only for a second.

You hear the quiet thud of the fridge door, the sound of a glass under the tap. When he returns, he’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding out a glass of water like it’s some sacred offering.

“Drink,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex. You sit up just enough to take it, careful not to meet his eyes at first—and then you see them.

The marks. Dark smudges blooming across the sharp cut of his hips. Nail trails raked down the meat of his shoulders. A bite on his collarbone, faint and already bruising. All yours. And suddenly you feel… Shy.

You didn’t before—when his mouth was on you, when his hands were everywhere, when your back arched and you begged him not to stop. But now, in the soft quiet, with morning somewhere close on the horizon, it hits you. So you reach for the blanket, dragging it up your chest like modesty matters, like you didn’t spend the whole night unraveling beneath him.

Minho sees. Of course he sees.

And he smiles.

That slow, crooked thing. The one that doesn’t show teeth but somehow says everything.

“Oh?” he murmurs, placing the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed. “Now you’re shy?”

You don’t answer. Just burrow into the pillow, cheeks hot. He slips beneath the duvet anyway—doesn’t give you a choice. Just tugs it down again with a smug little hum, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your embarrassment.

“I like the marks,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Wish you’d left more.”

You blink at him. He just keeps going—slow, lazy kisses trailed down your arm, his body curling around yours like he can’t bear the distance. One arm loops under your waist. The other hooks over your thigh. And then he’s half on top of you, all weight and warmth and him. Clingy.

He tucks his face into your neck like it’s the only place he knows how to breathe. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of it when he speaks again—low, slurred, thick with sleep and smugness.

“Gonna have to start wearing long sleeves to work.”

You choke on a breath, eyes fluttering open. “Because of me?”

“Mm.” He kisses your jaw. “Unless I want to get fired.”

You raise an eyebrow. "You work at a bar, not an office."

“Yeah,” Minho hums, lazy and amused. “But people tip more when I’m unmarked.”

The words slip out casual, offhand—like a throwaway comment he doesn’t mean anything by.

But your smile falters anyway.

Just a flicker. Just enough for him to see it.

You shift beneath him, eyes drifting away, teeth catching your lower lip before you can stop the twist of something sour in your gut. You don’t say anything—not right away—but your silence says enough.

Minho stills.

Then lifts his head, just barely, so he can see your face.

“Hey.”

You blink up at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his voice.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, tone low. Honest. “Because I’ll quit.”

Your heart stutters.

“What?”

“I mean it.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “If you don’t like it—me working there, people flirting, whatever—I’ll quit. I don’t give a fuck about the tips.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can answer.

“I only took that job to kill time. To pay rent. But you—” His brow furrows. “You’re not something I’m willing to risk for a few extra bills thrown in a jar.”

You swallow hard.

He watches you.

Your eyes search his face—his furrowed brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark smudge of sleep still softening the corners of his eyes—and there’s no doubt. No teasing in his voice, no smirk on his lips. Just Minho. Serious. Steady. Unflinching in his honesty.

“I’d rather be yours than anyone’s favorite bartender,” he says, quieter this time.

Your throat tightens.

And for a second, you can’t speak. You can only stare, caught between the weight of his words and the way his fingers stay curled so gently around your jaw—like you might vanish if he lets go.

You whisper, “I don’t want you to quit.”

He waits.

You blink slowly, pulling in a breath thick with the scent of him, the warmth of his body still heavy across yours. “I just didn’t like the idea of someone else looking at you like I look at you.”

Minho’s expression shifts—barely, but you feel it. Something in his chest loosens. His eyes soften, flicking between yours.

“No one else gets to,” he says simply. “Not anymore.”

You exhale, shaky with something that feels suspiciously close to relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans down, brushes his lips against yours—so soft, so sure. “They can look all they want. But I go home with your marks on me. I come home to you.”

Your pulse trips. Your hand fists the sheets at your side, but he feels it. Feels the way the tension bleeds out of you when he says it like that. Like a promise.

And then he flops on top of you.

Dead weight. Limbs loose. Hair flopping messily across his forehead as he buries his face in your chest with a dramatic sigh.

You laugh, startled. “Minho!”

“Mmm,” he grunts, nuzzling between your breasts. “Too early for serious talks. Thought we were in our post-sex cuddling era.”

You squirm under the sudden weight, still giggling, breath hitching when his cheek brushes the swell of your breast. “We can’t be in our post-sex cuddling era if you suffocate me in it.”

He hums again. Doesn’t move.

Just slings an arm over your ribs like a human paperweight, sighs through his nose like he’s never been more at peace. “Shhh,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

You let your fingers find his hair, carding gently through the tangled strands at his nape. He melts into it, chest rising and falling slow against your stomach. The silence between you stretches—soft, golden, alive with the echo of everything that came before. Of everything that now lingers.

Minho doesn’t say anything else for a while. He just breathes you in. Lets you trace lazy shapes along his spine. Lets his lips ghost across your skin every now and then, aimless, unthinking. Like he needs the taste of you to fall asleep.

Eventually, you murmur, “You’re not really gonna wear long sleeves, are you?”

He snorts into your chest. “Hell no.”

“Good,” you whisper.

He hums again, content. Almost purring.

Then, after a beat: “Might even go shirtless.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” His voice is muffled against your skin, low and lazy. “Let ‘em see everything. Let ‘em know I’m taken. Ruined. Whipped.”

You huff a laugh, warm and breathless, chest shifting beneath him. “You’re not whipped,” you tease, even though your heart trips a little at the word. The way he says it like a badge of honor, like something he wants people to know.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.

“Babe,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, “I let you suck a bruise into my neck while my dick was still inside you. I think the jury’s in.”

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”

He grins, smug and sleepy and so clearly unrepentant. “Should’ve taken a picture. Hung it behind the bar.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious.” He nuzzles into your sternum, exhales a satisfied sigh. “Caption it: Do not touch. Fed and fucked.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “You’re insane.”

He chuckles. “I’m in love.”

The words land softer than they should, but firmer than you'd expect. Not casual—comfortable. Like truth in its final form. And you feel it, all the way down: the weight of his affection, the certainty of it, so tangled up in the ridiculous things he says that it feels like breathing.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left for him to go. “You’re still insane,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hairline.

“And you’re stuck with me.”

The truth of it rings out between you—not heavy, not sharp. Just there. Simple. Whole. You are. He is.

His fingers drum a slow beat against your ribs. He studies you for a second longer, then tucks himself back in, face hidden against your skin, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, already halfway there. “We can fall in love more tomorrow.”

You close your eyes.

And you do.

It’s been a few weeks.

A few golden, quiet, full-bodied weeks—where everything that once felt fragile now feels real. Whole. Yours.

Minho had asked you properly—booked out the bar for the night, turned the lights low, played your favorite song on vinyl, and gave you a private bartender show complete with one too many shirtless shaker tricks and your name carved into a lemon twist.

He cooked, too. And kissed you between courses. And pulled you into his lap to ask—not casually, not like it was assumed—if you’d be his girlfriend.

You said yes.

Of course you did.

And now you live together. Officially. Your clothes are in his drawers. His toothbrush sits next to yours. He makes you coffee and you fold his laundry and somewhere in the haze of shared spaces and soft kisses, you forgot what it felt like to flinch.

And then it happens fast.

One moment, you’re walking up the block—hands tucked into your sleeves, heart light from the texts Minho sent not even ten minutes ago.

[Minho] : hurry up[Minho] : wear that thing i like [Minho] : might be drunk by the time you get here if i keep taste-testing the menu

The bar’s glowing ahead, amber light spilling out of the windows like warmth. You’re already rehearsing the way you’ll slip onto a barstool, lean over the counter just far enough for him to grab your waist and kiss you across the spill mat—

You weren’t expecting him.

The ex.

Slurring your name like a threat. Blocking the sidewalk like a curse you thought you’d buried for good.

And for a second, it startles you. Not because you’re afraid—no, not anymore. But because how dare he.

How dare he still think he has access. How dare he act like the time you spent clawing your way out of the wreckage didn’t matter. Like the scars he left didn’t teach you how to fight.

You meet his stare.

Voice steady. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh, now you’ve got a mouth?” he slurs, taking a step forward. “What, dick that good it grew you a backbone?”

You don't flinch.

Not when he leans in, not when he sways close enough for you to smell the sour reek of alcohol clinging to his breath like bile. Not even when his voice drops lower, curling around your name like it still belongs to him.

It doesn't.

"You heard me," you say again, firmer this time. "Move."

But he doesn't. He laughs instead—ugly, mean, mouth curled in that old, familiar smirk that used to make your stomach sink.

Now it just makes you angry.

“You always thought you were better than me,” he sneers, stepping closer, invading your space like he owns it. “Acting like you're some fucking saint now, just ‘cause you got a new dick to suck—”

You move to sidestep him, but his hand shoots out—grabbing your wrist, hard.

Too hard.

You stumble back with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the alley beside the bar. Pain sparks up your arm, sharp and hot where his fingers dig into your skin.

"Let—go of me—"

He doesn't.

His grip tightens.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me—”

And then it happens in a blink.

A blur of dark hair, a sharp crack of movement, and suddenly your ex is off you, shoved back so fast and so hard he nearly falls into the curb. The momentum knocks him sideways, but he catches himself, stumbling back with a curse.

Minho steps between you.

Calm.

Controlled.

Lethal.

Minho’s voice is low. Measured.

“You have until the count of three.”

Your ex scoffs, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “The fuck are you gonna—”

“Three.”

No warning. No buildup.

Just violence.

Minho’s fist slams into his jaw with a sickening crack, the force of it snapping his head sideways. He stumbles—off-balance, stunned—but Minho doesn’t let up. Another punch, straight to the ribs, and you hear the breath leave his lungs in a strangled wheeze.

Your ex hits the ground hard.

But Minho’s not done.

He drops to one knee beside him—precise, deliberate—and grabs his hand.

The hand he used on you.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

Because you remember.

“Then I’d take his hand, the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

And now—

Now you watch it unfold in real time.

Minho takes that wrist in both hands, pins it to the pavement, and presses down—hard—until your ex screams.

“No—no, fuck—stop—!”

Minho’s grip doesn’t waver.

He curls his fingers around one of your ex’s.

“First one,” he mutters—almost gently. Like he’s naming something, not destroying it.

Then he bends.

The crack is sharp, grotesque. It splits the air like a firework misfired—brief and brutal and final.

Your ex howls, voice cracking as he thrashes beneath Minho’s knee, but it doesn’t matter. Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Just shifts to the next finger.

“Second.”

Another break. Another scream.

You don’t look away.

You should—maybe. A part of you knows that. But the rest of you, the part that remembers—remembers shaking hands, bruised ribs, the way your ex used to whisper apologies into your hair while you cried onto the bathroom tile—that part of you watches.

And breathes.

Minho leans closer.

Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.

“Third.”

Crack.

Your ex is crying now. Tears, snot, spit—he’s babbling nonsense, slurring pleads that dissolve into whimpers.

“Stop—please—I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Minho grabs the fourth finger. “You meant it every time.”

“Fourth,” he says, and the word falls like a guillotine.

He pulls.

The snap is quieter this time—deeper, more internal. A tendon giving way. A joint yanked cruelly from its socket. Your ex lets out a broken sound, not quite a scream anymore. Not loud. Just raw. Hollow. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes no one’s coming to save him.

Minho still hasn’t raised his voice.

Hasn’t needed to.

Because this isn’t rage. It isn’t revenge.

It’s justice.

Delivered slow. Delivered steady. Delivered by the man who saw every crack in you and loved you anyway—especially because you survived them.

Minho shifts again.

“Fifth.”

“No,” your ex gasps, eyes rolling, lips slick with blood from where he must’ve bitten through them. “No—no more, I—please, please, I—”

But Minho’s hand is already there, curling around that last finger like a closing grave.

And this time, he doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at him—right in the eyes. Like he wants this to be the last thing your ex ever remembers when he reaches for something in the dark.

Then he snaps it clean.

The sound is sickening.

The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.

“Touch her again,” Minho murmurs, bending the wrist back until the guy writhes, “and I’ll break your fucking spine next.”

And finally—finally—Minho lets go.

He rises slowly, like he’s not rushing to leave the wreckage behind, like he wants your ex to feel every second of what it means to be beneath him. A shadow cast by justice. A reminder that some hands don’t heal—they answer.

He turns to you.

And all of it—the sharpness, the stillness, the steel in his spine—it bleeds away when his eyes meet yours.

He sees the shock there, the tremble hiding in your shoulders.

And he moves to you—not with fire this time, but with the same careful quiet he always gives you after storms. Hands gentle. Expression softer now, but no less certain.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

You nod—but it’s shallow. Fragile.

So he cups your face in both hands, grounding you.

“Look at me,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

And you know it's true.

Because he is here.

It all began when you were hanging out with Namjoon and his wife, and Jiwon was seated on your lap, giggling while playing with your breasts. Namjoon had made a joke at the expense of your daughter, something about how she was more obsessed with your tits than her dad and Jungkook grumbled in response “I guess.” 

To which you then slapped his shoulder because he couldn’t possibly be annoyed with his angel of a daughter. 

Jungkook has always loved your breasts. Gives them extra love when he’s fucking into you, flicking your nipples to ensure they’re hardened. He even made you cum once just from nipple stimulation, which is one of his greatest feats. So Jeon Jiwon stealing your tits from him was blasphemous. Utterly unheard of. He couldn’t let that slide. 

Thus began the Great Tit War. Some would argue scarier than the thought of World War 3.

“Good job, Jiwonnie.” You kiss your daughters forehead as she happily latches onto your nipple, doe eyes twinkling with delight. Rocking back and forth in the feeding chair set up in her room, you caress the sprouts of hair curling from her head. She’s only just begun to grow hair, and you can’t wait until it gets long enough to put into cute little bows. “You’re so perfect, my bug.” 

You watch as she sucks and sucks, wiping droplets off her puffy cheek as she feeds. 

A knock at the door causes your head to instinctively swing up, a hesitant little rap against the doorframe, and you look up from Jiwon’s face to find Jungkook hovering in the entryway. Sometimes he lingers in the entrance, unsure if he’s allowed in. 

“Come in, Koo,” you giggle, keeping your rocking steady. He shuffles in slowly, sock feet quiet against the nursery rug, hands tucked into the front pocket of his trusty black hoodie. His hair is still messy from his headset. There’s probably a game paused downstairs, controller resting against the couch cushion, waiting for him. When his eyes drift to Jiwon, his entire body relaxes, a glow on his cheeks. 

Her eyes are fighting the sleep as she continues to suck. She gets sleepy once she’s full, so it’s only a matter of time. Her tiny fist is curled against your breast, and a little bubble forms at the corner of her mouth that you wipe off with a smile. Jungkook crouches down to chair level, forearms on his knees, and looks at her the way he always does. Jungkook was always meant to be a girl dad, you presume. When they had pulled her from your vagina and he got to hold her for the first time, there was no denying the twinkle in his eyes, the undying admiration lingering in the air for her. 

Jiwon’s eyes flutter open. Find him immediately, some homing instinct tuned specifically to her father’s frequency. Her whole face does the thing where it scrunches in delight. The gummy almost-smile that isn’t quite a smile yet but is.

She reaches out, fingers splayed, grasping at air in his direction. Jungkook offers her his index finger without hesitation, and she latches onto it with your nipple still tucked between her pink lips. He lets out a quiet breath through his nose. 

Jungkook loves her in a way that frightens him sometimes. You’ve watched him hold her at 3 AM when she won’t settle, swaying in the dark with his cheek pressed to the top of her head, whispering things you can’t hear from the doorway. 

You never interrupt those moments. They belong to the two of them.

Finding alone time since Jiwon arrived has been its own comedy of errors. She wakes at odd hours with no pattern you’ve been able to crack, usually just as you’ve finally gotten comfortable. It’s always you she summons first and you’ll stumble down the hall half-asleep while Jungkook makes grabby hands at the warm space you left behind. But on the nights she wants him, she makes that known too. He’ll be up before you can even register it, padding down the hall, saying I got her, go back to sleep in a voice still rough with exhaustion.

Intimacy after children is something you schedule around a nine-pound tyrant who controls your life and whom you would die for without hesitation.

Jungkook tears his gaze from Jiwon and looks at you. “When will you be done here?”

You giggle at the implication of the question. “Soon, Koo.” Adjusting Jiwon slightly, you brush her cheek with your thumb. Her eyes are drooping again, fighting a losing battle. “I want to make sure she sleeps through the night.”

He hums. Looks back at Jiwon, then his eyes lower to land  at your breast. 

The urge to roll your eyes is almost too hard to resist. Yours and Jungkook’s sex life has definitely slowed down (but not enough to say you’re celibate by any means), but ever since Namjoon made that irreversible comment about your tits, Jungkook has made it extra known that he values your chest just as much as your infant daughter. He once motorboated you during sex. Another time, he left hickies littered on your tits, and poor Jiwon had to see them. 

Jiwon unlatches with a tiny pop, milk-drunk and boneless, eyes fully closed now, her whole body gone heavy in your arms. You shift her carefully onto your shoulder, one hand supporting her head, and begin the gentle rhythmic pat on her back.

Jungkook’s eyes drop down yet again. You didn’t even have time to cover yourself.

The look on his face speaks volumes. You have catalogued that look across years of being with this man. He wore it constantly when you were pregnant, borderline feral about the way your body was changing, specifically about your chest, specifically all the time, to a degree that was flattering for the first month and then became its own part-time job to manage.

They’re so much bigger, he had said. They’re sore and hurt like hell, you had replied.

And then he proceeded to suck your nipples, toying with them while he was balls deep inside you at a pace that had you cumming in under five minutes. 

“Jungkook.” Your voice is stern. It bounces off him completely.

“What?” he innocently asks. 

“I see you.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re making a face at me,” you argue. 

He scoffs, “I don’t have a face.”

Jiwon burps, and you sigh in relief. Kissing her temple, you smile. “Good girl.”

Jungkook tears his gaze up to your face with visible effort. “I’ll wait for you in bed.”

“I’ll come in twenty.”

“Come now,” he whines, slumping his shoulders. 

“Jungkook, I have a baby on my shoulder.” 

“I can see that.” His eyes flicker to Jiwon and her relaxed expression, practically snoring from where she’s perched on your body. 

“Then you understand why now is not an option.”

He slumps back against the nursery wall in utter distress. He is a man with tattoos and a streaming setup worth more than most people’s cars, and here he is pouting in a room decorated with little pastel clouds.

Jiwon has finally settled after another few minutes of rocking and watching her face for the telltale stillness that means she’s properly under and not pretending. You’ve been fooled before. You’ve made the mistake of putting her down too early and you refuse to repeat it.

“Okay,” you whisper, tucking Jiwon against the mattress, pulling the little cloud-print blanket up. You and Jungkook stand over the crib for a moment in the dim glow of the nightlight, watching her sleep. Her little lips are pursed. A tiny wrinkle between her brows, like even in dreams she has things to say.

She gets that from him.

On the way out, Jungkook takes your hand. In the hallway, the door eased shut behind you, you readjust your nursing bra and pull your shirt down. Jungkook watches and you don’t miss the way his eye twitches. .

Padding toward your bedroom, you joke, “Most husbands just say ‘hey you look tired, let me give you a back rub.”

He perks up. “I can give you a back rub.”

You snort. “Jeon, that is not what your face was saying in there.”

He follows you into the room, and you hardly have time to turn around before his warmth envelops you, hands finding your waist, chin dropping to look at you.“I missed you,” he says.

“You see me every second of the day, baby.”

He digs his nose into your neck, inhaling your scent. “But I feel like it’s been a few hours.”

You laugh, letting him walk you back toward the bed. “Well, I was being a mother to your baby.”

“I think I’m nutritionally deprived of my wife.” His voice comes out muffled against your skin. 

“You are not—”

“I want your titties.”

You halt in your tracks. Slowly, you remove his hands from around your waist, turning to glare at him. “…I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.”

Oh. So he is serious and not manic. 

“I need you to say it again so I can confirm I didn’t hallucinate,” you deadpan. 

“I want—”

“Jungkook oh my god.” You press your hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking. Honestly, you don’t even want to hear the words again. “Where is this coming from?”

“It’s not coming from anywhere.” He sits on the edge of the bed, manspreading. “I’m just saying. Jiwon gets them everyday.”

Your jaw falls agape. “Jiwon is a baby. Our baby, actually.” 

“And I’m your husband.”

“Those are not equivalent positions!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. 

“I’m not saying they’re equivalent. I’m just saying. I’ve been very patient and waited my turn.” This hardly qualifies as him waiting his turn. He has the instinct of a newborn child. 

To be honest, you’re not entirely opposed to the idea of Jungkook fucking you. It’s been a few days since you’ve been able to have alone time, and the clock is ticking as you speak. “Go brush your teeth,” you say.

“After.”

“After what?”

He levels you with a look.

“Go brush your teeth, Jeon Jungkook,” you chastise as though he’s a toddler. 

He groans and drags himself off the bed like you’ve asked him to do the impossible. You watch him disappear into the bathroom and take the opportunity to change into your sleep shirt, a worn one with the stretched collar, and get under the covers and close your eyes. A quick prayer for a full eight hours even though you know that’s not happening.

The tap water runs for about four seconds before promptly being shut off. 

You exhale. “You did not brush your teeth that quick.”

“I actually did.” He appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’s taken his hoodie off, buff, tatted arms on display to where you remember oh, right, you’re attracted to this person, which is inconvenient given the current circumstances. 

“Don’t you dare come over here and kiss me with stank breath.”

He crosses to the bed and climbs in next to you, gravitating toward your side the way, arm hooking around your waist. You feel his nose against your hair. This part you’ve missed all day, you think. This specific configuration of the two of you.

Then his hand starts to wander.

“Jeon Jungkook.”

“I’m just—”

“I know what you’re just.”

He subsides, shuffling under the duvet until you hear his voice again. “Can I ask you something?”

Oh no. “…Sure.”

“Hypothetically.”

Oh no oh no. “Okay.”

“If I were to—” He stops, choosing his words. It’s more alarming than if he’d just said it. Jungkook unfiltered you can manage. But he knows what he’s about to unleash on you is unhinged and is trying to land it anyway. “If I were to ask for something. And it was maybe a little unconventional…”

You nod for him to proceed. 

Jungkook clears his throat. “If your husband, who loves you very much, who is a very good husband by most metrics—”

“What metrics?” 

“—who fixed the leak under the sink last week without being asked—”

“You watched a YouTube tutorial, failed, then called Namjoon.”

“I still fixed it,” he says with dignity. “If that husband were to make a small, reasonable request—”

You sit up and peer at him. His hair is all pushed to one side, a small crease on his cheek from the pillow. 

“How is it,” you say, “that you’re whining more than our newborn daughter?”

“I’m not whining.”

“Jungkook, you have so far made a seven sentence case for why you deserve something and you haven’t even told me what it is yet,” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.

He sits up too. And then, because he is who he is, he pulls the duvet off him, and gets on his knees on the mattress. “Hear me out.” 

You’re not hearing anyone out. You think about the version of yourself from ten years ago, pre-Jungkook, and whether she could have predicted this specific moment. She could not have. No one could have.

“Jiwon,” he begins gravely, “gets to have your boobs every night.”

“She’s breastfeeding.”

“Every night,” he continues over you. “Multiple times. She just takes them.”

“Because she’s an infant,” you incredulously retort. 

“And I,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest, “have been very respectful. I have kept my feelings largely to myself and I just think that after everything I’ve given to this family, I just think I deserve to, at minimum, also..”

He wavers, gulping thickly. The rejection is already boiling on your tongue.

“…try some.”

Suddenly, the room is eerily quiet. Somewhere down the hall, Jiwon makes a small sleep sound and the white noise machine hums.

“People do it. Apparently, it’s normal and nutritious. It has antibodies,” he argues, bouncing on his knees. 

“You’re invoking antibodies right now.”

Grabbing a pillow and pressing it over your face, you scream into it. Your adult husband wants to be breastfed, and frankly, you might find it hot if you weren’t being used as a cow by your daughter everyday. 

You lower the pillow, and to your dismay, he’s peering at you expectantly, weaponizing those same doe eyes Jiwon utilizes against you.

“So… is that a yes?” 

“That is not a yes.”

He whimpers, lowering his head. 

You sigh. “Koo—”

“Just think about it.”

“I have thought about it. I thought about it for the three seconds it took you to finish the sentence and my answer is no.”

“Whyyyyy?” he whines again. You wish you could film the whole thing to show his friends. They might bully him enough to leave Jiwon fatherless.

You got a first-class ticket on the Jeon Jungkook experience and this is where it’s taken you. “What if I asked nicely?” he tries.

“Is there an even nicer way you plan on asking?”

“What if I said please””

“Jungkook—”

“Please.”

“No.”

He lets out a loud groan, and you grab the pillow back to smack him in the arm. “You are going to wake Jiwon,” you hiss.

Jungkook climbs back under the covers and you turn the lamp down lower. In the dim room, he curls toward you, head propped on one hand, despite your body language indicating bedtime. 

“I’m not changing my mind,” you preemptively tell him.

“Okay,” he retorts in a tone that means he disagrees.

He reaches out and moves a piece of hair from your face. After, his thumb traces your cheekbone. 

“Go to sleep,” you say. Your body can’t help but melt under his touch.

“I’m not tired,” he murmurs. 

“Then lie there quietly.”

He flops onto his back like a starfish and lets out a groan directed at the ceiling. Jungkook shifts around for a few moments, trying to find comfort.

The fundamental problem is that when his hand finds your waist under the blanket, butterflies erupt in your stomach like it’s the first time you’ve felt him.

In a weird way, you understand what he means when he says he misses you. Although you try to make time for sex, it feels like there’s a divide between you and him. Not one that’s high enough to keep you two apart, but it’s noticeable. It’s there, and you both struggle to climb over it when your newborn is so needy. It’s another thing you read about in your Mommy and Me Reddit group. 

“We’ve barely had time for anything since she came,” you admit.

“I know.” He presses his lips to your forehead. “I’m sorry about earlier. I’m not trying to pressure you. I just… really, really miss your boobs.”

And there goes your empathy. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, laughing despite everything.

“I’m serious.”

You press your face into his shoulder, laughing quietly, and feel him grin against your hair. “You are so much, you know that? You are so much.”

“But you love me, right, baby?”

“Inexplicably.”

He squeezes you, and for a moment you just lie there together, his chin on top of your head, the white noise machine humming. You never thought you would end up like this with your top tipper on your OnlyFans. Maybe it was always meant to be you and Jungkook. 

And then his hand is moving. It’s the lightest drift of fingers at the hem of your sleep shirt.

“Jungkook,” you warn.

“I’m just touching you.”

“I know what just touching leads to with you.” 

It led to Jeon Jiwon. 

“Maybe I’ve changed.” His fingers trace along your side, and you would tell him to stop except it feels like the first time anyone has touched you like a person today rather than a feeding apparatus. “Maybe I’m a different man.”

Jungkook nudges the hem of your shirt up, palm flat against your stomach. “You’re so soft,” he murmurs. Pregnancy and after had changed you in ways you were still making peace with, but Jungkook had been annoyingly consistent about this. There’s not a day that goes by where he doesn’t remind you just how ethereal you are. 

His hand drifts higher and your breath catches in your throat. “Koo—”

He mouths at your jaw. “You can tell me to stop.” His lips drag down to your neck, pressing wet, warm kisses to your skin. 

Fuck. 

The last time you two had sex was rushed. A quickie in the morning during one of Jiwon’s naps, and you and he had cum in under three minutes. The steady pace sends your brain spinning. 

His hand finds the fabric of your nursing bra and he pauses. Even through the material you feel the warmth of him.

“Boobs still sore?” he whispers against your ear.

“Not tonight.”

You hear what might be a quiet inhale. His fingers trace the edge of the fabric. He’s obviously operating on the theory that if he moves slow enough you won’t notice the direction of travel.

A smile curves against your skin while his thumb traces a slow circle, and through the fabric, it draws an unbidden moan out of you. He lifts his head to look at you. His brown hair is a disaster, somehow looking younger than his years with how red his cheeks are. Quietly, without ceremony, he slides the strap of your nursing bra to the side.

The air is cool before his hand is there to warm you up, and he watches your face as he fully unbuckles your nursing bra, letting it fall to the carpeted floor. “Missed you,” he says again.

“You’re still not getting—” you start, and then his thumb brushes your nipple and you exhale sharply, fingers curling into the sheets. Immediately, your nipples harden under his touch, and he flicks them again, watching as they puff up.

“Still no?” he murmurs.

He rolls it gently between his fingers and your hips shift of their own accord. “You’re cheating,” you manage to say through a moan.

“I’m not doing anything.” His voice is rough as he’s entranced by how full your breasts look without the nursing bra. Jungkook’s mouth finds your shoulder, collarbone, traveling with intent while his hand continues its campaign and you feel the familiar tightening sensation that means—

Oh shit.

He pulls back, looks down and you already know from his expression, from the way his lips part, from the soft reverent oh that escapes him.

A tiny pearl of milk wells up from your nipple.

“Jungkook,” you whimper, and your voice has lost most of its authority.

“Can I?” He looks up at you and he’s not whining now, all the theatrics gone. Your hand intuitively finds the back of his head, fingers tangling into his hair.

“You’d better not wake Jiwon,” you say.

He lifts his head and smiles at you before ducking his head down. When you moan quietly into the dark of the room, you press your palm to the back of his head and hold him there. Jungkook’s tongue gently laps at the milk drop, smacking his lips as he tastes it. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he groans. “Keeping our baby girl fed.”

You giggle. “Really, Koo? You like it?” 

He massages your breasts again until a few more drops trickle out, and he laps those up eagerly too. “So fucking good, baby. It tastes so sweet.” The massage sends arousal to your cunt, your underwear beginning to soak. His tattooed hands are so big and veiny around your breasts, and the sight alone is enough to cause your body to shiver. 

Jungkook leans down, sucking on your nipple while massaging the other. He peers up at you like he wants to devour you. Your face contorts into a series of expressions, mouth falling open in a silent moan. Jungkook ruts against the mattress, trying to relieve the pressure that’s grown in his sweatpants. “Mmm,” you sweetly moan. “Koo, i-it feels so nice.”

“Yeah, mama?” His voice is huskier with desire, eyes now a shade of onyx you hardly recognize. And you have trouble concentrating from how good his lips feel around your nipple, tongue flicking the hardened peak back and forth, so full of that feeling you only get with him. “Your tits are perfect, baby.”

You whimper, legs trembling from the overstimulation. “Koo, I-I want you inside me.”

He lets go of your nipple with a pop, his free hand traveling down to rub over his boxers. Jungkook continues to stimulate your breasts while singlehandedly kicking off his sweats and boxers. It’s quick, your head spinning in rapid circles as though you just got off a merry-go-round. He pushes the comforters off your bodies, letting it fall somewhere to the floor. Pushing your sleep shirt up to your neck, he gets a full good view at your underwear that’s soaked through the mattress. “You’re so fucking wet for me, mama. You like when I play with your tits, don’t you? Trying to deny me these perfect things when you know it’s what you want.”

He chastely presses his lips to yours, fingers wandering down to slip your thin panties to the side. He gathers your slick on his pointer fingers, taking it to your mouth for you to suck. “Open up,” he taps against your lips, and you follow like a lost puppy, sucking your arousal off as he watches. “Taste so sweet, angel. You always do.”

Hurriedly, his hand comes to wrap around his cock, which you’ve now realized is angry, precum seeping from the tip. His veins are engorged, doused in purple. His head lolls back for a moment before he rubs his mushroom tip over your entrance, causing you both to groan in unison. “Shit, Koo.” 

“This pussy was made for me, hm, mama? No one else gets to have you like me,” he groans as he presses his cock to your clit in a way that makes your vision hazy. “So fucking perfect.”

You want to answer yes, it’s all yours, always will be, but you can’t, because he starts pushing inside you at an excruciatingly slow pace, to the point where you can feel every inch stretching you open. Jungkook’s hand falls beside your head, bracing himself, your face scrunching up in pleasure. “Oh, fuck, baby,” he whimpers. “God, you always feel so good, so nice and warm.” 

The slide feels almost endless, despite the fact you’ve had sex at least a million times. It always feels new, somehow feels like he’s grown to double his size. Jungkook bottoms out, pelvic bone pressed to your clit, and you choke on your moans, mouth open in silent pleasure. “Ah, shit,” he groans, flicking your nipple. “It’s so tight, baby. You’re dripping onto my cock.” 

His hand pushes your leg higher up on his waist, and the angle makes you sob into the air. He pulls all the way out, slowly, tentatively, watching the creamy arousal build up on his cock, before pushing back in at a more steady pace. It makes you crazy, thinking that you’ve made him like this, that he’s riding that edge because your breasts produce milk, and you can’t help but hook an ankle over his thigh and tug him forward, forcing him to move. “Please, Koo, keep going.”

Jungkook speeds up, fingers digging into your plush thigh as he draws in and out, your cunt squelching with each movement. The bed creaks, practically scraping across the floor as he goes faster, rougher, desperately trying to finish inside you like he always does. “Fuck… sweetheart, how are you so fucking wet?”

Jungkook leans down again to suck your nipple, tonguing at the pebbled peak. You can feel the milk dribbling onto his tastebuds, and he moans so beautifully that for a mere second, you don’t care if there’s none left for your daughter. You run your hands through his messy hair, moaning, “Right there, fuck, baby.”

His other hand comes down to thumb at your puffy, swollen clit, and your back arches off the mattress. Your eyes meet his, an animalistic urge glinting in his eyes. His lips move from your nipple to your neck, undoubtedly leaving marks that all your Mommy and Me friends will see (and be jealous of). “Shit, shit, baby, I don’t know how long I’m gonna last,” he whines into your hot skin. 

“I-it’s okay,” you exhale, eyes nearly rolling back into your head from the stimulation of his cock hitting your sweet spot. “I want you to cum inside me. Get me pregnant again.”

And you don’t even really know what you’re saying, because you just gave birth no more than six months ago, but your hormones are going crazy and your nipples are leaking milk without preamble. He groans, kissing you but barely slotting your mouths together from quickly he’s thrusting. The headboard slams against the wall, and god—please let Jiwon sleep through this. “Gonna let me cum inside this tight pussy? Give you another pretty baby? God, you’re the most perfect mama, baby. I—fuck—I love you.”

It’s been pretty clear from the moment he slid into your wet heat that neither of you would last very long. 

Your nails dig crimson marks down his broad back, eyes squeezed tight, tight, tight as you feel the coil in your stomach unclench, arousal coating his cock and leaking onto the sheets below. He feels your walls tighten around him, milking his cock. “S-shit, don’t do that, baby, ‘m gonna cum,” he moans. 

Your mouth rips open, uneven breaths falling from your lips as your orgasm crashes into you like a tsunami, washing over your entire being. You shudder underneath him, fingernails digging crescent moons into his golden skin. “P-please, Koo, I want your baby, please fill me up.” 

And that undoes him. His cock twitches inside you, his seed spilling into your cunt. Warmth envelops you as he paints your walls. Your brain is buzzing, toes curling, Jungkook saying into your ear, “Fuck, I’m gonna give you another baby, hm? Gonna get you nice and round with my seed, mama.” 

Nodding, you moan again, unable to control your volume any longer. He cums for what feels like forever until finally, he’s pulling out, a string of your arousal chasing his cock. Jungkook falls onto the mattress beside you, breathing heavily, eyes closed. His hair is stuck to his forehead, and the poor man looks utterly pussy drunk, kind of like how your daughter looks when she gets milk-drunk. You giggle, nestling yourself into his side. 

With his eyes shut tight, he smiles, wrapping his arm around your body to bring you even closer. His heartbeat thumps erratically in his chest. “Baby, Jiwon is having a fucking Michelin star meal with your milk. That shit’s incredible.”

You slap his chest, gawking. “Jeon Jungkook. Don’t you dare deplete my milk.”

“Just saying. She’s living the dream.” He pushes his hair off his forehead, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Think we got time before she wakes up for me to tittyfuck you?”

Well…

You’re not opposed. 

Looking up at him, you bat your eyelashes. “How do you want me, baby?”

His eyes light up like a kid’s at a carnival. But before he can move into position, before he can get his hands again on your plump breasts, the sound of Jiwon crying comes through the sleep monitor. Loud and clear, a wail that signals she wants her mommy, and she wants her now. 

“God damnit.” Jungkook groans, falling back onto his pillow. 

Laughing to yourself, you shake your head and pull down your sleep shirt. You press a kiss to his cheek before heading down the hallway to where your sweet baby girl is. 

And lo and behold, the Great Tit War continues. 

the wedding planners - @gukyi

enemies to lovers, wedding au, fluff, slight angst, smut mdni

jeon jungkook is three things: cocky, terrible, and your worst enemy. then your best friend hoseok gets engaged to the love of his life, and suddenly jeon jungkook is four things: cocky, terrible, your worst enemy, and the man you will be spending the next seven months with in order to plan your best friend's wedding.

and then, as if your life couldn't get any shittier, you make the poor decision of sleeping with him on the first day of the job.

forever hold your peace - @seokbite ⟢ my personal fav rn

infidelity au, bestman!jk x reader & fiancé!taehyung, kook is tae’s best friend, angst, physical violence, smut mdni

Forever was a long time to spend with someone you weren't in love with. Saying yes to Taehyung's proposal had been a mistake, one you didn't think you could walk away from in fear of destroying everything you've ever made for yourself. But, your heart laid with Jeon Jungkook, your grooms best man and best friend.

idealizations concerning real life relations - @venusiangguk

strangers to lovers, fuckboy!jk x hopeless romantic!reader, fwb, angst, smut mdni

jungkook loves to be loved, but he doesn't love in return.

something in the water - @vankoya

friends to lovers, camping au, mutual pining, slight crack au (tae funny as hellll) smut mdni

Sleeping in is a foreign concept to Kim Taehyung and his awkward,mismatched gang of pals. This is made all the more apparent when they rock up at ____'s doorstep at the ass crack of dawn, as if it is a natural time for any college student to be awake.

But when she is informed that it was the youngest of their group who insisted she join them on their spontaneous camping trip, she is suddenly not as reluctant to play along than when she was first awakened by her enigma of a best friend, slamming his fist against her front door.

chasing butterflies - @ddaenggtan ⟢ my favourite fic 4ever

idiots to lovers, college au, coffee shop au, weeb!jk x jock!reader, endless humour and anime jokes, mutual pining, losers in love.., smut mdni

you never meant to be a jock in school. the volleyball team had just needed people and you were there and then you had a knack for it. you just happened to be good at it and went with it. similar to how you saw jeon jungkook in your friend's orientation group and thought he was absolutely radiant and just went with it. for two years. you've spent the entire time pining from afar, mostly because you always seem to make a fool of yourself when he's around, but also because jungkook is part of that exclusive crowd, the ones that you never can seem to penetrate: the weebs. that is, until your friends get sick of your hopeless pining and decide to do something about it.

there is also a drabble after the events of cb

we can’t be friends - @taegularities ⟢ my fav author

exes au, college au, so much angst, smut mdni

Jungkook once planted a garden in your chest that he watered when he smiled and you killed when he left. But flowers withering isn't enough; that doesn't mend the ache. No - you want this entire story to die.

Or: If living on can't mend the pain of losing him, maybe forgetting him for good will.

mature - @jiminrings

friends to lovers, jealousy, fluff, kook kinda sucks sometimes but he gets a redemption arc

the good thing about professing your feelings to jungkook is that it'd be over with, whether or not he likes you back — the bad thing is that he rejects you, even if you haven't confessed.

alternatively, crushing on jungkook who's in your friend group is, has, and will never be a good idea.

divine feminine - @gimmethatagustd

fwb, college au, fluff, kook yaps about anatomy n then tries a hands on approach, smut mdni

No one can make you feel like a goddess better than Jeon Jungkook.

melomaniac - @jungkxook

friends to lovers, band au, punk!jk, mutual pining but it’s kinda forbidden, a tatted jk fantasy b4 it became reality, smut mdni

you're wholeheartedly, madly in love with jungkook and yet you shouldn't be because he's supposed to be your best friend and nothing more. worst part of it all is that you know he's in love with you too.

skirt chasers - @1kook

friends to lovers, college au, campus crush!kook ‼️ the end of this fic is my fav thing ever btw, kook has a thing for skirts, smut mdni

"Baggy clothes are in, but you wouldn't know that, Miss I Draw Inspiration From Catholic School Girls."

drabble list for sc 1 2 3 4 5 misc 1 misc 2

zipper - @taeshobipop ⟢ another fav author of mine

frenemies, college au, fratboy!jk, smut mdni

Jungkook isn't your date to the annual BTS gala, but he's the only one available to take you dress shopping. So when a zipper emergency arises in the boutique's tiny dressing room, who's there to help you?

the train of lost souls - @inktae

fantasy au, mentions of past death, angst, some fluff

The moment you step inside the train, you are given two options.

You can choose to live, to be given a second and a last chance in life, in exchange for your memories and your previous existence. You can choose to be alive again, but it can only be an entirely new life. Everyone you've ever crossed paths with would forget your name. All the pain and the love you knew, all the ups and downs that made you hurt and made you smile - all of it, completely gone.

Or you can choose to move on, to give your life away while keeping your memories until the end of time. To step out of the world of the living and to embrace a new kind of loneliness, but with the warmth of your past always safe between your cold hands.

politico - @hamsterclaw

politics au, smut mdni

Jungkook and you are staffers in the office of the Secretary of State. He's cut-throat, sneaky and goddamn it, everything you love about politics in one irresistible package. Ft Yoongi, Namjoon and Jimin.

i heard a rumour - @taeshobipop

friends to lovers, college au, campus crush!jk, mutual pining, smut mdni

One slip of a finger, and you realize you've liked an Insta photo of college hotshot Jeon Jungkook...from two years ago. You manage to unlike it within seconds, except it's too late - Damn Kim Namjoon and his lightning-fast eyes. Do not tell a soul, you hiss.

The man merely smirks. Next thing you know, a rumor is spread throughout campus. Y/n likes Jungkook...and now he knows.

morning rush - @atdawnsuga

strangers, college au, exhibitionism?, slight smut mdni

You develop a strange relationship with the boy you share your morning commute with.

orange tulips - @kainks

soulmates au, reincarnation au, lots of angst, fluff, light smut mdni

You'd remember Jungkook with every life you lived. Only he'd never remember you, never recall how your fates were written in the stars since the beginning of time.

catharsis - @junghelioseok

college au, fwb, ft. jimin, smut mdni

no matter what kind of release you need, he's there.

how long will we fall - @jiminrings

friends to lovers, soulmate au, unrequited love, so much angst, kook is emotionally constipated

if it's fate, it should already be set onto your skin - that's why jungkook's initials are already on your finger. he's always there for you, but not only for you. if you're his fate, he'd rather not have it.

alternatively, jungkook's your soulmate, but he doesn't want to be.

all i want for cockmas - @junqkook

jk is a mall santa lmfao, crack fic, smut mdni

you tell santa exactly what you want for christmas.

✦ series/multi-shot

incoming: elite chatboy- @kookingtae

ongoing 5/?, sex chat worker!jk, text au, humour, smut mdni

welcome to Elite Chatroom, a sex chat company with a wide variety of services such as text messaging, phone call, and video chat. you signed up online for the most basic text service plan not knowing what to expect, but you certainly didn’t think you’d end up actually liking the man behind the screen.

read part one here

the turing test - @fortunexkookie

indefinite hiatus 7/?, still added it :( cuz it’s my fav, android au, android!jk x creator!reader, mutual pining, shared tension, angst, smut mdni

"The Turing Test, developed by Alan Turing in 1950, is a test of a machine's ability to exhibit intelligent behavior equivalent to, or indistinguishable from, that of a human."

Jungkook fiddled with your hands in his, humming softly, as if deep in thought. You noted the way his eyebrows had furrowed, the sweet way his lips formed a pout, and wondered what could possibly be troubling him so much. What had he learned today?

"Creator," he began, dragging his gaze up to meet your own, "you gave me a mind that thinks, hands that feel, and a heart that beats, but did you give me a soul?"

read part one here

falling skies - @fortunexkookie

completed 6/6 enemies to friends to lovers, childhood friends au, slow burn, major angst, fluff, smut mdni

Jeon Jiyeon was your childhood best friend; her twin, Jungkook, was something else entirely.

prologue

you can also read part one here

killah - @citrustan

ongoing 9/?, strangers to lovers? maybe, infidelity au, managing partner lawyer!jk x spoilt brat! reader, angst, smut mdni

you wanted jeon jungkook the moment you laid eyes on him and the fact that he had a girlfriend wasn't going to stop you.

series masterlist can be found here

cradle robbers - @wintrbears

completed 3/3, childhood friends to lovers, accidental pregnancy au, fwb, slow burn, slight angst, smut mdni

You and Jungkook have been friends since diapers, and one day you decide to hook up for the fun of it, but then you end up pregnant with your best friend's baby. Chaos ensues.

series masterlist can be found here

cowabunga, baby! - @jungshookz

completed 2/2, lifeguard!jk, kook surfs as well he’s rlly hot, crack fic, fluff, slight smut mdni

you'd blow his whistle any day - if only you weren't such a wimp.

part 1 2

to build a home - @soft4gguk

ongoing/author hiatus 16/? strangers to lovers, ceo dilf!jk x nanny!reader, angst, kook becomes a single parent, fluff, slow burn-ish, smut mdni

at twenty-eight, jungkook sees himself go from a family of three, to one of two - heartbreak never comes easy, but nothing could've prepared him for being a single parent as a result of Ira walking out on him. pain brings chaos and he's in need of help. it's only fateful that you so happen to be a blessing in disguise... in many ways than one.

series masterlist can be found here

colour me in - @taegularities

ongoing 15/? fake dating, fwb, college au, fuckboy!jk, this fic is the best thing to ever happen to me btw, misunderstandings, fluff, angst, smut mdni

Jungkook's door only opens for you when there's a barter: a trade of lust and haze. But today you knock for something more, as intriguing as it is frightening - and you hope it doesn't close his door forever.

series masterlist can be found here

please make sure to support the authors who’ve been tagged <3 and by all means, please lmk if you’d like your fic removed.

this hasn’t even scratched the surface of all the jk fics i’ve read over the years, in fact i’ve got 10 years of reblogs & likes on this tumblr from the beginning of my bts era til now..

taglist: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne @oneshallsmile @ktownshizzle @jimineepaboya @lili-spots @themwordsblog @jub-jub @tryingtotwice @callmenoona25 @angellekookie

You and Namjoon have always gotten along well. Your relationship was built on trust and mutual understanding, underlined by open communication and the uncanny ability to read each other—which, in a way, translated into love. Because he could sense when something was wrong with you and fix it before it took root, the same way you could read the subtle shifts in his voice or expression before he ever said a word.

It worked, because you worked. Not without effort, but with care.

Now, that’s not to say the two of you went without the occasional fight over the years. In fact, you were both incredibly stubborn human beings—it’s just that you were rarely on opposite sides of the problem.

Still, it happened.

Sometimes more serious—arguments about time, priorities, what counted as enough. When one of you carried too much of the weight and the other didn’t notice soon enough. When love didn’t always translate to action. When frustration built up. Not from a lack of affection, and sometimes not even because either of you was at fault. Just from life. Because that’s how life, and relationships, sometimes are.

But you both agreed on one thing: that arguments, when handled right, could bring you closer.

And other times, it was merely for shits and giggles—because how else would the bullheaded get off, if not by ‘winning’ an ‘argument’.

Which is exactly how you ended up in the back of a sex shop in Itaewon , tucked between the flavored lube and glow-in-the-dark condoms, deep in debate with your boyfriend.

“Come on babe,” Namjoon picks up the little box like it’s going to help him prove his point, brows raised. “So you’re telling me this—” he waves it a little, “—does nothing?”

You glance at it. Pink packaging, some cartoon flames, a lot of suspiciously enthusiastic font promising the adventure of a lifetime and a pink kitty cat in the corner.

“Placebo. At best.”

He snorts, reading the label. “It’s got, like... plants. Herbs. Nature’s Viagra. Medicine or whatever.”

You give him a look. “Namjoon. Horny goat weed is not real medicine. That sounds like something a medieval witch made up after a weird dream.”

He grins. “You’re so cynical.”

“I’m realistic,” you say, crossing your arms. “You know what gets me in the mood? Good sleep. Respect. Decent lighting. You.”

Namjoon laughs. “Not... powdered maca root and ashwagandha?”

You roll your eyes. “If plants actually worked like that, don’t you think more people would be out here orgasming after every smoothie?”

He considers that, smirk tugging at his lips “...Honestly, that would explain a lot about your blender phase.”

You smack his arm. “I’m serious. This stuff only works if you think it will. That’s the point. Sugar Pills”

He leans over you, about to drop the box in your little basket, “So you won’t mind if I get them?”

You eye the box hovering over your basket. Make eye contact with the cat, then you eye him. “Are you really gonna spent twenty thousand won just to prove a point?”

Namjoon shrugs, far too pleased with himself. “What’s the point of being in a sex shop if we’re not buying something ridiculous and unnecessary?”

“I thought that’s what you were for,” you mutter, reaching up to snatch the box from him. He laughs, that soft, warm sound that always hits you right in the ribs. But he doesn’t let go.

You tug once. He holds firm.

“Are you going to take them just to prove me wrong?” He challenges, and you immediately arch a brow.

“Let me get this straight,” you say. “You don’t even know what’s in it. You just want to feed me questionable powdered plants on the off chance I’ll get handsy?”

“That’s not the only reason,” he says, smiling as he tugs it back toward himself. “Also, I think it’ll be really funny when you pretend it’s not working and then end up climbing me ten minutes later.”

You scoff. “Please. I’ve climbed you for less.”

He grins. “Exactly. So you won’t be able to prove anything.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re just mad I’m right.”

“And you’re just scared you’re not.”

Your fingers are still wrapped around the box when a store employee strolls by, glancing between the two of you and very obviously pretending not to hear any of it. Namjoon clears his throat. You stifle a giggle.

He lets go first.

“Fine,” you say, tossing the box into the basket. “We’ll try your magic sex dust.”

“Yes!” He does a little victorious fist pump, but you roll your eyes.

“And we’ll be abstaining, just so you eat your words.”

“Hey! No, wait—”Namjoon lunges forward, eyes wide, but you’re already turning on your heel, basket in hand, laughing as you walk towards the cashier.

~~~

You definitely didn’t abstain that night… But you also didn’t take the pills.

Because honestly, you kind of forgot about them the moment you chucked the entire bag into your spare bathroom cupboard. They got lost somewhere beneath bottles of shower gel, shampoo, flavored condoms, and that one lube you’d meant to toss out, because apparently “long-lasting” actually meant “numbing.”

It wasn’t until weeks later that you found the pills again.

There you were, elbow-deep in the cabinet under the sink, fully immersed in your playlist and in full-on cleaning mode, wearing bright yellow latex gloves and halfway through your spring cleaning, when you stumble across the baggie—completely confused.

You pull it out.

Immediately the kitty cat grins at you, still just as smug.

You blink.

Then laugh and reach for your phone to snap a picture and send it to Namjoon. He’s gone for the week, attending some important meeting or other in Busan, and you’ve never been one to hold back from teasing him, even when away.

You: [attached image] Look who I found hiding in the cabinet.

Namjoon 🐨: Oh my god They’ve been there the whole time???

You: Yup. Untouched

Namjoon 🐨: 😭 Betrayed by the pink kitty

You: She died in obscurity. As she deserved.

You smile, still crouched by the cabinet, phone in one gloved hand, the absurd little box in the other. His reply doesn't come for a while, so you go back to your cleaning. Five minutes later, your phone buzzes against the floor.

Namjoon 🐨: Check the date. Maybe they’re still good. Could be fun.

You: You want me to take expired jungle juice pills?

Namjoon 🐨: I want to believe in miracles And horny goat weed 🐐🌿

You can’t help but giggle at that, still you glance at the tiny print on the back of the box, squinting at it as you scrub away at the counter.

You: Expires in two years. So technically, still good. Still useless, but ‘good’.

Namjoon 🐨: Well, that’s reassuring. They should start marketing them as “timeless pleasure” :)

You: More like “timeless disappointment.”

Namjoon 🐨: Nah. I’m imagining you wearing just those gloves, def working for me. 😏

You burst out laughing right there on the bathroom floor. Honestly, you should’ve known he’d be dramatic about it. You should’ve known texting him the picture would start something. Still, you’re grinning as you set the box down next to you, blowing hair from your face before pulling back on one glove with a satisfying snap.

Another message lights up your screen:

Namjoon 🐨: Anyways… What if you took it? For science. 🐐💦

You: I'm blocking you.

Namjoon 🐨: Babe.

you: What do you want?

Namjoon 🐨: You know, for someone so adamant about them being placebo you sure sound scared.

You: I’m not scared. I just have pride. And I’m not giving you the satisfaction.

Namjoon 🐨: So you admit it might work

You: I admit you’re annoying and probably bored out of your mind in Busan.

Namjoon 🐨: Correct. Now send me a pic of you holding the blister. Real submissive and skeptical-like.

You: Absolutely not.

Namjoon 🐨: I’ll send you one tonight. All sweaty and yearning how you like me.

You pause, teeth tugging at your bottom lip.

…Damn him.

You: One photo. You: And only because I look hot in my cleaning gloves.

Namjoon 🐨: 😩😩😩 Thank you, my Queen.

You glance down at the ridiculous box. Then sigh, pull your other glove halfway off with your teeth, and hold it up for a quick, unamused selfie—wearing cleaning clothes, hair unwashed, brow arched, expression flat, pink kitty clearly visible.

You: [image attached]

Namjoon 🐨: Jesus Christ! I’m going to die in this conference room. Do not take the pill while I’m not there to supervise. I can’t be responsible for what happens then.

You: Oh no. You caught me! I was just about to pop one and start humping the mop.

Namjoon 🐨: IT BEGINS!!!

You: Delete my number

Namjoon 🐨: Delete your mop

You cackle, heart light. The ache of missing him doesn’t go away exactly—but it softens. Gets dressed in jokes and affection and emojis typed too fast. Which, honestly, is how it’s always been with you two.

You lean back against the bathroom cabinet, still smiling at your phone.

The pink kitty grins up at you. You glare at it.

“Shut up.” you mutter, shoving it away with your foot.

~~~

You take two.

Because you're certain it won’t do anything.

Because you’ve decided a few hours ago that Namjoon needs to be taught a lesson, for leaving on that trip in the first place. And teasing you with selfies of him in that pretty tailored suit.

Because he’s getting home later tonight, and what better way to be absolutely infuriating, if not by strategic abstinence to prove a point you both forgot about for a couple of weeks?

Because variety is the spice of life?

You even dry swallowed them, like that might somehow prove your superiority over weeds and fungi, and went about making dinner like normal.

Now you’re lying in bed, reading some boring financial book. Freshly showered, shaved and moisturized, dressed in Namjoon’s old t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. The room still smelling faintly of citrus and laundry detergent from the new sheets you got out.

The box is sitting on your nightstand—staring back at you like it knows.

You don’t feel any different. Not suddenly wild with need. Not mindlessly frenzied. Not even a little tingly.

Just… normal.

You glance at yourself in the dresser mirror once, then again, just to check if your pupils are blown or if you’ve grown devil horns or something. You even do a little test: scroll through your phone and look at Namjoon’s latest selfie—the one he took in his hotel room mirror, shirt collar undone, sleeves rolled, hair still a little messy from the day—and...

Okay.

Okay, yeah, fine. He looks really good. But not mop-humping good. Not climb him like a tree and never come back down good.

...Well, maybe a little.

But that’s not the pills. That’s just him.

You glance at the time again. It's nearly 9 p.m.

His train gets in around 10. He said he’d be home by a quarter past, if traffic’s not a mess.

You took the pills at 7. So you can officially declare yourself victorious.

You: Just so you know I took them. Nothing happened. Just like I said✨

Namjoon 🐨: You WHAT?? Babe I am on a moving train Do not get horny without me >:(

You snort, grinning.

You: Not even a little horny. I feel exactly the same. I’m reading about taxes actually.

Namjoon 🐨: Disappointing but scientifically fascinating Thank you for your sacrifice

You: Thank you for being wrong 💖

Namjoon 🐨: Never. The goat just needs a little time 🐐✨

You roll your eyes.

You: Do you need dinner? Coz you’re not getting anything else from me tonight✨

Namjoon 🐨:Wow wow wow wow so I leave ONE time. Also yes, dinner pls! Something with rice. Or noodles. Or mercy.

You: Oh hush, it's for science. 🐐🔬 can't make you feel good and have you thinking it's the pink cat when we’re done. Udon's on the stove btw.

Namjoon 🐨: And my mercy???

You roll your eyes, toss your phone on the bed, and settle deeper into the pillows picking up your book again. You’re not sure what you were expecting, really. Maybe some strange buzz, or warmth, or at least a little placebo-fueled edge. But all you really feel is—

…Well. Warm.

Okay. Slightly warm.

You frown.

Could be the blanket.

You make a move to shove it off. Nothing changes.

You slap your book closed and sit up, crossing the room to open the window. You stand there for a moment like an idiot, waiting for a gust of wind to shake you back to normal. Nothing…

Still warm.

Your gaze slides to the little pink box.

No. It’s goat parsley and mushrooms. There is absolutely no way that cheap, natural, organic aphrodisiacs could have that kind of effect.

In fact! You’ll prove it.

By finishing the dessert you started making earlier!

Because you are completely fine.

You scrape the bowl of the ice cream maker. Humming to yourself as you drizzle a little condensed milk over top—because Namjoon’s sweet tooth is the stuff of legends. And if he’s going to be a dramatic baby about abstinence, he can at least do it with something cold in his mouth.

The cream’s been sitting in the ice cream maker for an hour already; this is just a little extra step before chucking it in the freezer to set.

Still, the kitchen feels...weirdly muggy.

You look at the AC working overtime in the corner of the room.

And yet, you’re flushed. The back of your neck is damp.

Maybe the apartment is just hot? Maybe you left the stove on?

You shove the ice cream into the freezer so it gets a chance to actually ‘ice‘ by the time he gets home. Then pivot towards the stove, already bracing for the heat of a forgotten burner.

It's off.

The room temperature? Absolutely normal.

You slide the condensed milk into the fridge and grip the counter to regroup. Your heart rate is normal. Your breathing is fine. There’s just a little buzz in your fingertips. A pulse low in your belly. An ache you hadn’t noticed until—

“Oh, come on,” you mutter.

This is so dumb. It’s all in your head. You’re just a little warm because you got up and moved around and your hair’s still damp from the shower and you’re needy because you’ve been staring at Namjoon’s stupid forearms all day. That’s it.

Except.

The moment you straighten up, your heart actually goes erratic in your chest. That makes you do a full stop.

Because this suddenly turned from playful teasing into a possible medical emergency. And that is not how you want to spend your Sunday night—explaining to an ER nurse how you took horny pills to prove a point to your boyfriend.

You press a hand to your sternum, trying to slow your pulse by sheer force of will. Breathe in. Breathe Out.

You stand completely still. Wait. Count your pulse.

One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three— Jesus.

Okay.

Maybe not dying yet?

You barely make it to the bedroom and you curl up on the edge of the bed, fingers wrapped around your phone, stomach fluttering as you tap out a search:

“Aphrodisiac pill heart attack?”

Your finger hovers over “Search” for a moment, because God, you feel like you’re going to stroke out any second. And then you press.

The results pop up, clinical and boring, but with bullet points at the end.

Headache

Nausea

Temporary erectile dysfunction

Nope. That's not it.

“Viagra can be dangerous for someone with low blood pressure”. But you didn’t take Viagra. And you don't have low blood pressure.

You drop your phone on the mattress beside you with a dull thump and flop back against the pillows. The ceiling fan spins lazily above, doing absolutely nothing to cool your now-feverish skin. You blink up at it, trying to decide whether the weight in your lower abdomen is physical or just deeply, irritatingly psychological.

And then your phone buzzes again.

Namjoon 🐨: You’ve gone quiet. Feeling anything? 😼

You huff an irritated laugh, biting your lip. Your fingers are warm. Your thighs are warmer. You curl them a little tighter together, and immediately you stifle from the pins and needles, heart doing the thumpy thing in your chest.

You: I think I'm dying

Namjoon 🐨: ??? what??? WHAT??? is this a sex thing or a real thing do i need to call someone?

You: I’m serious. I took 2 pills.

That confession feels like an admission of stupidness. Like all your pride and silly games have finally caught up to you and now you’re paying way more than you ever should for being such a petty, stubborn human being.

You bury your face in your hands. You can feel the heat blooming now, licking along your skin in a way that’s… definitely not just psychological anymore. It’s not mental. It’s not the shower. It’s not even Namjoon’s selfie.

It’s all you. It's your stupid plan backfiring in real time.

It’s a kind of horny you didn’t know existed—the clawing at the sheets kind. The Crying to be folded like a lawn chair and have someone rearrange your guts kind. The kind, in which, if Namjoon doesn’t get home soon you’re going to hump furniture and do something unspeakable with the shower head.

Namjoon 🐨: you took another one???

You sigh.

You: No. Both at the same time... I think it’s hitting me full force now.

Namjoon 🐨: WOMAN. NO. Two at the same time? The fuck is wrong with you? 😭😭😭 That is not how aphrodisiacs work. This isn't mario cart. You don’t stack horny mushrooms for boosts. Why are you like this? Is this a cry for help?

You wheeze out a laugh that immediately turns into a groan. Curling tighter into yourself like that might contain the ache pulsing low in your belly —now insistent, beyond needy, humming in your blood like a song with way too much bass.

You: I was trying to prove a point.

Namjoon 🐨: what are you feeling?

You: I'm not sure but google said I have an erectile dysfunction now.

Namjoon 🐨:Please be serious for half a second. Also—i don’t think that’s how that works.

You: Well tell that to my non-existent erection and my rapidly melting brain.

Namjoon 🐨: okay okay okay What are your actual symptoms? Like the real ones How's your heart?! Is your vision okay? Can you stand? Are your thoughts still in full sentences?

You glance toward the ceiling fan again, watching the blades blur into a lazy, hypnotic spin. Your whole body feels like it’s being slow-roasted over an open flame made entirely of Namjoon’s stupid face and rolled-up sleeves. The ache has deepened—thick, steady, wet at the edges—and you swear you can feel your pulse between your legs now.

You can hear it echo in your ears.

You: I'm warm Fuzzy. Tingling . Horny in an itchy way. God Namjoon I'm so fucking wet come hom please :( My pulse is all fluttery I'm still thinking in words. They're just… sluttier now. I think my uterus is vibrating.

You groan. Refusing to read back the utter filth you had to type out. But it's true. Your pajama bottoms are completely ruined. Whatever cute lacy thing you were wearing underneath to tease him turned into your own biggest downfall because now every fabric felt like torture against your skin.

You shift to pull off your shirt but you end up tied up in it somehow, wrestling it for what feels like an eternity as your phone continues to buzz on the bed.

Namjoon 🐨: Good God, woman! I'm in public. Just made direct eye contact with an Ahjumma after reading my uterus is vibrating. Why are you like this?

You finally rip the t-shirt off over your head one triumphant, if breathless, pull, tossing it to the floor. Your skin immediately prickles under the cool air, but it barely lasts a second before your core flares again, the sensation running up your chest and down your thighs at the same time.

You: Honestly??? Unclear.

“Fuck me.” You mutter into the pillow, and you brain is too far gone to even register just how weak your voice is, how ragged your breath is, how you’re desperate to get the now irritating lace off of your chest.

Your whole body has gone into full emergency meltdown and you’re dying in the process.

The phone buzzes again—Namjoon’s name flashing like a lifeline in your haze. But you don’t reach for it right away. Your limbs feel heavy and electric all at once. Every nerve ending alive, skin practically burning where it’s touched.

The cool sheets under you, the lace of your underwear, the bra—none of it brings you any relief. Instead its a raw, itchy fire that crawling across your skin and burrows deeper into your core.

You press your face into the pillow, biting back a pathetic moan you don’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed about. Your breath comes quick and shallow, and your fingers twitch, desperate for something, anything, to ground you.

Namjoon’s next message blinks again.

Namjoon 🐨: okay. I’m texting our driver now telling him to floor it I AM COMING *HOME but also maybe coming? eventually. If i don't pass away on the highway because my girlfriend is sexting me in the weirdest way ever. If my girlfriend doesn't pass away coz she randomly decided to over dose on a Tuesday. 😀

You let out a helpless noise. It’s halfway between a laugh and a whimper, your body too wrung out and wired to know what response is appropriate anymore.

Because the only thing sexier than the sheer panic crawling up your spine, is the fact that he’s still joking through it.

You: Tell him if he hurries he can watch. 🫣 (I'm joking. Plz don’t. I wont be able to look Mr. Cheng in the eye no more.)

Namjoon 🐨: I already can’t look him in the eye and I haven’t said anything!

You shift again—awkward and twitchy, like you can’t settle, because nothing helps. Your thighs are slick and trembling, and your hands are practically useless against the bra clasp. Every time you move, your body lights up like it’s been plugged directly into a wall socket. And still, you can't stop squirming.

Your fingers slip again on the clasp. You whimper in frustration, trying to twist your arm behind your back, but everything is too much—your skin, the stickiness, the stifling lace cutting tight across your chest, pressing uncomfortably against your nipples. You’re burning and dizzy and soaked through, and all your body wants is Namjoon, naked. Now.

And he’s still not home.

You fall forward into the bed with a breathless curse. Legs slick and twitching, the sheet beneath you practically ruined. You shift your hips once, pressing hard against the mattress—just to try to relieve some pressure—and it’s a mistake. You gasp, body jerking, your own movement enough to spark another wave through your cunt. This is pathetic.

You do it again.

Your breath hitches as you drag one palm across your stomach—just below your navel. The muscles there jump under your nail grazing, and you shiver so hard it rattles the bed frame.

The phone buzzes again, but you’re done in, fingers slipping under the fabric, palm flat, desperate to get any semblance of relief.

Your hand shake, your movement clumsy, not at all teasing like usual, not slow and sure like you’re used to. It feels like its the first time all over again, and you have absolutely no fucking idea what you’re trying to do.

But you can’t afford to take your time. Not when every second without his dick in you feels like punishment. Not when every atom in your body is screaming for relief. When all you have is your own useless hand, and the memory of his touch in your head.

You whine when your fingertips brush slick heat, slightly embarrassed and definitely amazed at how wet you actually are. Like, a body shouldn't be able to do that from a pill…okay, two pills. But still. Still. This is criminal. You're actually dripping.

They were supposed to be just plants…

You shift again, arching into your own fingers moving against your clit like it might help, like you might get some traction. But it just makes things worse. Better. Worse.

Your hips jerk once, twice, chasing friction, chasing anything. You don’t even realize you’re grinding down into your palm until you hear yourself—whimpering, bitten off and strangled against your clenched teeth.

The edge is terrifyingly close, too close. Everything is too hot and too moist, every breath scraping like fire down your throat. The lace is digging in where it shouldn’t, soaked through and curling at the seams. Your legs tremble again, useless, and your wrist aches from how tense you are, fingers sliding around.

But none of it matters, because it does absolutely jack shit for you.

The phone buzzes again and you can’t even open your eyes to look at it.

You keep going, sloppily now—dragging the heel of your palm up against your clit, hips stuttering into the motion like your body can’t decide if it wants to run or fall apart.

And when you feel the knot tighten, when the ache coils impossibly low in your belly, when your heart slams against your ribs—

Your thighs snap closed on instinct, your whole body locking up with the pressure—and nothing fucking happens. No release. Just a cruel surge of heat that breaks over you and then hangs there, hovering just out of reach.

“Fuuuck,” you whimper, biting down hard on your lip, trying not to cry. You grind harder, faster, desperate to chase it down, but the second you even start to get close again, it just slips away.

You're broken. You single handedly ruined your entire sex life because you were too stubborn. And now you had to pay by faking orgasms for the rest of your pitiful, miserable, unsatisfied sexless life.

You claw the bra off with a ragged noise, not even caring if you rip it. Tossing it somewhere, maybe at the wall, maybe at the lamp, whatever.

Your nipples stiffen in the air, painfully sensitive. You run your palm over one just to give your other hand a break. But it just adds to the overload.

Your chest stutters, mouth parted in a silent cry as your hand works harder, faster—desperation replacing any rhythm. The slick sounds echo, lewd in the otherwise quiet room, and it only feeds the heat in your veins.

You can’t stop. You don’t want to stop. You’re so close you could taste it—but every time it starts to crest, it dissolves through your fingers, just out of reach.

You bite down on the pillow, trying to muffle another helpless moan. Your fingers are cramped, your thighs trembling like they might give out entirely. But none of it’s enough. Not even close.

You blindly grab at your phone to try and tell him to hurry the fuck up. That you need him. That you’re dying. That this is the single most embarrassing way a person can pass away, and you’d rather not. But texting with only one hand proved to be impossible when deranged, so you ended up recording a half-breathless audio message. Where you’re whimpering more than actually saying human words.

“Joon. I can’t—” you moan. “It won’t work. I need you, i need you, i need—”

Your voice cracks at the end, dissolving into a broken gasp as your hips jerk helplessly into your palm. The phone slips from your hand and thuds to the floor, buzzing once before going still.

Then silence.

Except for your panting. The slick drag of your fingers. The crinkle of sheets beneath your thighs. The occasional weak whimper stolen from between your lips.

And then—

Thud.

The main entrance door.

Footsteps. His keys still jingling in time with his steps.

You barely register it, brain too fogged. But your body reacts anyway—spine arching, breath catching, heart thudding in time with every stomp down the hallway.

“Jesus Christ,” Namjoon breathes when he spots you, framed by the door. His eyes wide and chest heaving, like maybe he ran up the building stairs instead of taking the lift.

“Namjoon” you weep, voice thin and wobbly.

And he’s at the bed, leaning over you, one large hand pressing lightly to your forehead, then to your chest—right over your frantic pulse where a new kind of heat is smouldering. His brows pinch in concern. His palm is cold and grounding, holding you like he’s trying to piece you back together. You lean into him, shuddering, overstimulated and so under-fulfilled that even this feels like it’s too much.

“Please,” you moan.

“Baby,” he mutters, eyes flicking over your clammy skin, your damp thighs, your fingers still circling your clit—to the bruised swell of your lips, your blown, wild eyes. “You’re burning up.”

“I told you,” you rasp, clinging to his wrist like that might do anything for you. “I took two of em’”

“Do you need water?” he asks, pushing the hair clinging to your forehead back.

You’re not even sure what he asked, you just agree.

He nods, already moving—quick but gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll burn away if he’s too rough. You hear the fridge open, the clink of glass, the hum of the water filter, all from where you’re sprawled and wrecked on the bed, trying to finger yourself, chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

By the time he returns, you’re barely upright, slumped against the pillows like that ikea bear, but way less innocent, still looking just as sad.

He grabs your wrist, and you whimper, too weak to fight him, as he cradles the glass to your lips, tilting it carefully.

“Slow,” he warns softly. “Just a sip first.”

You take it—cool water against your tongue, down your throat, grounding in the best way. You gasp as it hits your stomach, then groan, letting your head fall against his chest.

Namjoon strokes your back, the glass now abandoned on the nightstand. “Still fluttery?”

You nod, pupils blown wide. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Just breathe.”

“I tried that.”

“I know.” He squeezes your sides. “You’re okay.”

You blink fast, chest still rising too quick for comfort. “What if I gave myself a heart attack?”

He grins. “You didn’t.”

“You don’t know that, Namjoon—”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your flushed cheek. “Okay, well, if you did, it’s the sexiest medical emergency I’ve ever seen.”

You groan, and the moment he lets go of you, you plop back into the pillows, covering your face with your arms. “You are not funny.”

“And yet, you’re laughing.” He pushes your arms back, kisses your temple again.

“Stop it,” you mumble, squirming weakly, but you’re grinning now, helpless, wrecked, and delirious, but still grinning.

Namjoon kisses the corner of your mouth this time, then pulls back to study you again. “How are you feeling? Any better?”

You hum, dragging your hands down your face, wiping away some of the droplets of sweat collecting in your hairline. “Like a peach that’s been dropped down the stairs.”

He snorts. “Soft and bruised?”

“Sticky and tragic.”

“Still sweet though.”

You blink at him. “Are you seriously flirting with me while I’m this weak and can’t defend myself?”

“I missed you.” Namjoon hums, shameless. “And it’s not flirting if it’s true.”

You narrow your eyes—or try to. They don’t quite cooperate. “You’re taking advantage of a woman in distress.”

“You took double the dose of aphrodisiac and tried to go full olympic solo before i got home.”

“…Fair.”

He grins. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“By teasing me?!”

“By fucking your brains out.”

You let out a sound—half a laugh, half a moan—before it fizzles into something desperate again. The way he’s looking at you doesn’t help. Steady. Amused. So goddamn calm, while you're soaked and shaking and one more teasing word away from actually dying.

“That is only if you want it,” the smug bastard continues. You can see the glint in his eyes. He even has the audacity to wink at you, his grin slow and unbothered as his thumb brushes along your ribs, “I mean, I wouldn’t want to overstep on your whole abstinence spiel.”

You grab his wrist before he can move. Or try to, at least—you mostly just slap at it with jelly limbs. “Do not dare.”

“You said you made udon, right peach?” He smirks—quiet, low, maddening—and starts to rise from the bed like he’s actually going to leave you there. Like you’re not halfway feral and foaming at the mouth for him. Like the loss of contact doesn’t short-circuit your entire brain.

“You’re not funny!” You make another attempt to grab at him, but just end up weakly smacking at his chest.

He chuckles, like he’s finally found that one merciful bone in his body, and still decided to ruin you.

He moves slowly, rolling his sleeves up his arms, making a show of it like you aren't already delirious with thoughts of him twisting you like a pretzel. If you didn't feel this weak you might consider pouncing on him.

Or strangling him.

His hand finds your knee, gently pushing it open so he can move in between your legs, and just from that, you sob, hips hiking up immediately.

“Oh, fuck,” Namjoon groans, raking a hand through his hair as he drinks you in—topless, aroused and sweaty, legs spread and wet, the lace of your ruined panties stretched taut over your inner thigh. “Baby, you look wrecked.”

“I am.”

Namjoon’s eyes flicker—genuine now, none of the teasing smugness from before. Just focused, reverent. A little wrecked himself. “Fuck. You really weren’t joking huh?”

He exhales through his nose, steadying, and strokes his hand up the inside of your thigh, slow like he’s afraid you’ll break at his touch. And in all honestly? You might.

“This might be the best ‘welcome home gift’ ever.”

Your breath shudders. Your hips twitch toward him again, just as involuntary as the first time.

He swears under his breath again.

“Jesus, woman.”

You whimper. “I told you. It’s—it’s not funny anymore.”

“I’m not laughing,” he says softly, leaning in to kiss your knee. Then again, lower. “I’m just trying to figure out how to undo what you did to yourself without making it worse.”

“You are making it worse!”

“I am?” He trails his lips down your thigh, slow and lazy, voice low and warm. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You have—” You gasp as his breath ghosts over your cunt. “You are touching me now! Namjoon, please, please, please—”

“Oh, now you’re begging?” He murmurs, but there’s nothing cocky in it this time. “Never knew you to be one to stoop so low. You usually just take what you want.” He sits back on his knees to look up at you, fingers smoothing slow up your hips, your waist, as if trying to calm you down from the inside, but only making it worse.

Your eyes flutter shut, the last neuron you have firing off warnings that maybe you should be embarrassed about all of this. Still, your breath trembles under his touch, and every inch of your body is vibrating in time with his palm stroking over your ribs.

“I did try,” you whisper, almost ashamed. “I tried so hard. I—I sent you a voice message.”

Namjoon raises a brow, then huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. I got it. It’s my new ringtone”

You cover your face with both hands, groaning. “Delete it!”

“Not a chance,” he says, pinching a nipple. “I’m keeping that forever.”

You’re too wrecked to argue, too lost in him to care. He’s everywhere—his weight anchored between your thighs, his scent flooding your senses, his mouth dragging slow, reverent kisses down your stomach. One hand steadies him beside your hip, the other slinks lower… and lower.

You jolt when his fingers graze the soaked fabric between your legs, your breath fluttering.

“God, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice thick. “You’re dripping on the sheets.”

“I do the laundry! I’m allowed.” You try to argue, but it comes out as a weak pant, hips rising with his touch.

His head drops onto your stomach, just for a beat. Like he’s trying to compose himself. But you feel it—his quiet laugh rumbling against your skin—and you whine in protest, embarrassed and turned on in equal measures.

“God, you’re bratty when you’re desperate.” His voice is all amusement and heat, and he punctuates it with another sharp little pinch to your side.

You whine again. His name, stretched and broken, climbing high in your throat. You try to move, to grind against him, but his hands are firm and unmoving, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Go back to begging,” he murmurs, tasting the way your restraint crumbles.

You don’t. You can’t. You just shake your head and sniffle, blinking back tears you don’t fully understand—raw and stinging, dangerously close to something that feels like overstimulation. Which doesn’t make any sense. He barely touched you. He's only teased.

And still, your body is already coming apart at the seams.

“You’re so mean.”

Namjoon’s fingers press into your hipbones, holding you perfectly still as he leans now, mouth brushing over the damp lace of your panties one last time before dragging them down slowly, watching the fabric reluctantly peel from your skin.

“Yeah, well, you’re a brat.” He says, breath hot against your core. You whimper when the air hits you, and he just shushes you gently, tossing the ruined lace somewhere off the bed. “Fuck, you’re soaked. You’re—Jesus, baby, you’re quite the view.”

You can’t even answer. You can barely keep your eyes open. Your vision blurs with heat, and you sob when his thumb finally presses against your clit, like its exactly what you needed.

You jerk, crying out, hands flying to his forearm like you’re afraid he’ll pull away.

“Ohhh, baby,” he breathes, stroking soft, slow circles with maddening care. “You really fucked yourself up, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t—I needed—” Your words disintegrate into gasps as he slides two fingers through your folds, just barely pressing in before pulling out again, spreading your slick up to your clit and back down.“I can’t come. I tried. I—I couldn’t. I think I broke myself.”

His eyes drop to your core, swollen, to his fingers, soaked in you and glistening under the soft light, and smirks.

“No, baby,” he reassures, “You just need me.”

And finally, finally, finally, he presses the tip of his tongue along your pussy in a slow, deliberate stroke.

Your entire body arches. The sound that comes out of you is closer to a sob than a moan, raw and full of relief.

Namjoon groans low in his throat, lapping at you again like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting for this just as long, just as desperately. He flattens his tongue and drags it up from your entrance to your clit in one long, sinful stroke before closing his lips around it and sucking—just once, gently.

And you’re gone.

It hits like lightning. Your hips jackknife off the bed, a guttural cry ripping from your chest. Raw, helpless release that hits too fast and too hard and leaves you shaking like an earthquake.

Namjoon stills. Eyes wide. “Holy fucking shit. You just—” He looks down, at your cunt clenching around nothing, and then back at your face. “That was instant.”

You hiccup. “Told you I was stuck.”

He swears again, softer this time, watching you twitch through the aftershocks.

And then, instead of retreating, instead of being a good loving boyfriend, he ducks right back down like a menace. Except, this time, there’s no more teasing.

He locks his arms under your thighs, pulling you down the bed, anchoring you against his mouth like he’s intent on undoing every second of frustration you’ve ever suffered. His lips wrap around your clit, firmer now, more purposeful, while his tongue strokes in relentless, perfect circles.

Your scream catches in your throat. Your hand flies to his hair, fingers curling in tight, and he groans when you tug—deep and rough, the sound vibrating through you like a second mouth on your skin.

“Joon—” you gasp, the edge of another orgasm already boiling in your belly, coiled so tight it’s almost painful. “Too much! Too fast—”

“You can take it,” he growls against you, voice gravel-thick and dark with want.

He dips his mouth to your entrance, sucks hard—uses his fingers to push your release onto his tongue like he’s a man starved. Like he can’t get enough. Like he’s about to very willingly ruin you.

And it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. Not some new technique or secret code that promises to have any woman cumming in five minutes or less.

But right now, it feels completely new, raw and min-blowingly overwhelming.

And still not enough.

Maybe it’s the pills—amped up arousal turned to lightning under your skin, pulsing hot and endless through your nervous system. Maybe it’s the week long build-up, the nights of cold showers and dirty photos, whispering dirty things into the phone speaker because he left for that stupid fucking meeting.

Or maybe it’s just him.

The way he knows your body. The way he listens. How he adjusts his pace every time you flinch, how he flattens his tongue and grinds it just right against you when your hips twitch in that telltale way.

Either way, you’re begging.

“More! More! Don't stop! Namjoon. Don't fucking—” Your voice is foreign. So are the words, but still they leave your lips like a chant and a prayer wrapped in one.

And god—god—he’s thorough. He doesn’t stop when you cry out, doesn’t even slow down when your thighs start squeezing his head. He just wraps his arms tighter around your thighs and keeps going, lapping up everything you give him like he earned it, like he deserves it, like he’s missed it too.

“Nam-Namjoon!” You gasp again, already screaming through your next orgasm, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck. I can’t—”

It’s brutal, this one. Fiercer than the first. Your nails dig into his scalp and he moans, devouring you through the quake of it, never letting up. He doesn’t stop when you come again. Doesn’t stop when your body twitches and tries to wriggle away. Doesn’t stop when you cry out, wrecked and trembling and unable to think.

“Yes, you can,” he says, dragging his mouth up your body, voice rough and gleaming with pride. His lips shine. His chin soaked. His cheeks are flushed. He looks wrecked, like he’s the one who’s been fucked senseless. “You did, actually.”

Your head drops back against the pillow, tears streaking hot down your cheeks now. Your legs won’t stop shaking. Your breath won’t even out. Every inch of you is flushed and trembling, heartbeat thudding so hard in your ears it’s all you can hear.

“Okay,” Namjoon murmurs, catching your face in his hands. He leans in, kisses your temple, your cheek, the corners of your mouth like he remembered he might like having his girlfriend alive. “Okay, baby. Shhh. Breathe.”

You try. You do. But he's still pressed between your thighs, hard and aching and fully dressed with another stupid tailored suit. While you lie there bare and wrecked and dying. And his voice—good sweet god his voice.

“Too much,” you whimper, but it’s a lie and he knows it, because the very next thing that leaves your mouth is a whimpered “Namjoon. My baby. Love. Please. Please fuck me. Thoroughly. Hard. Now.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes once, slow and deep.

“Say it again.”

You don’t hesitate. You’re past shame. Past pride. Past whatever you ever had against begging and drag his face to yours. Wild eyes meeting his.

“I need you to fuck me.”

And you make sure to accentuate every word, on the off chance he might feel funny again and decide to actually put you in a grave early.

“God. I might need to record you.”

There it is. Bastard.

Still, he sits up, long enough to strip. His shirt goes first, buttons half undone and the rest dragged overhead, tossed somewhere blindly. His pants come next, revealing the line of his body in full. His broad chest flushed and heavy, abs flexing with restraint, cock hard and heavy and angry red where it juts out against his stomach. Your mouth waters at the sight of it.

Of him actually.

At the way his hand wraps tight around the base like he’s barely holding himself back.

He strokes once, slow and deliberate, watching the way you clench around absolutely nothing and cry out. All high and wrecked and already too close to the edge again.

It’s humiliating how little it takes, how just seeing him undo himself make your thighs fall open like a reflex, like muscle memory. Lizard brain.

“Fuck.” Namjoon breathes. “You’re still shaking.”

“Yes! I know.” You whisper, hips titling up, offering everything, desperate and unashamed. “Please, baby, please. I need you.”

Your single brain-cell had just one thought left and it was ‘fuck namjoon’. In all senses of the word.

And maybe he hears it, because he doesn't make you wait anymore.

One hand slides behind your knee, and he drags you to the end of the bed, hitching it high around his waist as he sinks into you slow, and deep, the stretch borderline sinful. He groans low in his throat, a rugged thing, like even he can’t believe how wet and tight the pills got you.

Your mouth falls open, no sound escaping at first. Just the raw stretch, the fullness of it, the dizzy pressure as he bottoms out in one long, shuddering thrust. The burn is instant, bright and devastating, but you chase it, legs locking tighter around him, hips lifting off the bed, like he’s the only anchor left on earth.

“Shit,” Namjoon groans, low and stunned. “You’re—god, you’re gripping me.”

“I can’t.” You pant, nails digging into the sheets, “Joon, I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“You can,” He laughs, pressing into you, grabbing the arch of your spine to keep you from falling, the weight of him glorious and crushing and perfect. “I’ve got you. I’ll fix you. Just hold on.”

And then he moves, drags out of you with aching slowness, just enough to make you feel every ridge, every vein, every impossibly thick inch—before slamming back in. The slap of skin on skin echoing sharp in the room. The bed jerks. You do too.

“Jesus, baby,” he grits. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight.” And he pauses just as fast. “Fuck. Look at that.” He mutters it like he’s half-cursing, half-worshiping, his palm pressing flat against your lower belly.

“Right there,” he whispers, voice tight with awe as he rocks his hips forward just enough to feel the weight of him push back against his own hand in this position. “You feel me? Right there, baby—so fucking deep.”

You whimper, nodding frantically, hips twitching beneath him. You feel impossibly full, stretched and trembling, every inch of your body slick with sweat and burning with a passion. “Don’t do that now!” You gasp, trying to push him away. “God—Joon, I feel you everywhere.”

He gives you a dopey grin, all dimples and dark intent, like he’s proud of himself for figuring it out. Then he moves, just slightly. A lazy roll of his hips, enough to make you jolt, breath catching as heat coils tight and sharp at the base of your spine.

You whimper, all nerves and no shame, because he’s right. You’re too wound up to make sense of anything anymore. All you know is the ache, the pressure, the stretch of him inside you.

Your nails dig into the mattress as he fucks you open, slow and hard, his hips grinding at the end of each thrust to press just right against every oversensitive spot inside you.

You can’t even speak anymore—only moan, only hold on. You even lost the ability to hold yourself up properly. It’s all him. He keeps you there, hitched up with strong veiny arm under your ribs and ridiculous forearms and muscle groups you don't remember the name of.

You're not even sure what part of you is trembling anymore. Just that he hasn’t stopped and you never want him to. Not when it feels like this. Not when he sounds like that—all low and breathless, half whispering praises and swearwords above you like he’s that close to getting overwhelmed too.

“Every time I move,” he pants, “I feel you pulling—fuck—it’s like your body’s trying to keep me inside.”

You cry out at that, broken, overwhelmed, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. Fingertips clutching at his forearms, his shoulders, whatever you could reach, nails dragging across skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself to him. And his fucking hand moves again, right there over your belly, driving you absolutely up the walls.

He watches you with heat in his eyes, then leans in, pressing his lips to yours—sloppy, desperate, as if he needs it just as badly. His voice ragged against your lips, threading between thrusts. “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

And sweet heaven on earth, his mouth is hot, sweet, and familiar. Exactly what you needed. The very thing that shatters you. The way he tastes like something you’d forgotten you were starving for.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And fuck him for only kissing you now.

He fucks you right through your nth orgasm, hips grinding into yours, a thick ring of cum at the base of his cock as he works you into complete, obliterated bliss. Up until he can’t move anymore. Until your body clenches too tight around him. He just groans, caught between holding on and falling apart right there with you.

You’re no longer able to say words. Just syllables that's merely semblance of his name, strung together like a mantra you can’t stop repeating.

And somehow, you’re still begging him for more.

Even though your thighs are dough. Even through your body feels like it’s been torn open and rebuilt around him. Even through every stroke now feels like too much. Too sharp, too good, too deep. You still want it.

Need it.

He pulls back just enough to look at your face. His brow is damp, jaw clenched, eyes wild as he makes sure you’re okay, before going right back at it. “Yeah? you want more?”

You nod so fast it’s practically a sob, mouth falling open like a fish out of water as he drags out just enough to make you feel empty, before slamming back in.

He cusses once you tighten around him again, your pleasure a constant build you no longer have the mind to announce now. What’s the point when you’re constantly there?

But he feels it. The way you twitch, the way you babble his name and trash against the mattress like you’re trying to hold on and let go at the same time.

And this asshole, this absolute jerk, this mean, mean, mean man you love leads you back to the edge, and then pulls away at the last second, completely ruining your orgasm.

You scream—raw, desperate, tears spilling hot and uncontrolled as your voice cracks into broken sobs. “Nooooo—“

But Namjoon smirks, breath ragged, chest damp with sweat, his hands already gripping your hips tight. “C’mon,” he rasps, flipping you with so much ease it makes your head spin. “You wanted this. You asked for this, remember?”

You're too fucked to react. Too dizzy to register just what he’s doing, or when he’s shifting, dragging you along with him.

You’re on top now, straddling him—but you’re trembling, useless, barely able to hold yourself upright. Your thighs are sodden and weak, your arms shaking as you try to brace on his chest, the last thread of control slipping away.

“Go on then,” he says, teasing but tender, watching you through lidded eyes. “Ride me.”

You try. You do. But it’s pathetic—your knees buckle, your hips twitch uselessly forward, and you let out this pitiful, breathless sound of defeat before your upperbody decides to go boneless and melt into his.

Namjoon groans. “Jesus, woman.” He sits up, pulling you in until your chest presses to his, his hands splayed wide across your back. “You really are gone, huh?”

“Baby,” you whimper, helpless. “Please. I can’t—”

He silences you with a tender kiss to the temple, all sweet and soft—then suddenly, without warning, he trusts up into you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

You jolt, hands scrambling uselessly at his shoulders as your entire body clenches down around him. “Fuck! Namjoon!”

His mouth is at your ear now, hot and panting, voice shredded. “Look at you. Taking all of me like you were made for it.”

You can’t do anything but cling, legs barely hooked around his waist as he fucks you—deep and hard, using the leverage of his arms wrapped tight around your back to keep you in place, chest pressed flush to his.

“J-Joon—” you sob, no longer even pretending to participate. You’re just there… held up entirely by this man.

“I got you,” he grits, pace stuttering only slightly as you clamp down again. “Shit—fuck, I got you.” He moans, before shifting, “Just—”

And then he groans low in his throat and pushes you back. You don’t have half the brain to even brace yourself. You just flop. Legs still spread, arms flopping weakly at your sides, a total wreck as he stays inside, braced over you on trembling forearms.

You can’t think. You can’t move. You’re just…open. Shaking. Flattened against the sheets and panting— barely the shadow of the woman you once were.

Your body’s twitching, over stimulated and overwhelmed, but he’s too far gone now—his thrusts hard, measured, brutal in how slow they are.

“You begged for it,” he reminds you, voice dark and tight, his hips grinding in deep until you cry out again. “You said please and everything, remember?”

You nod—or try to—but your mind’s gone syrupy and mushy, melting under him.

Tears are collecting at your temples. That lingering ache in your belly still humming, the knot in your absomen barely giving, and you’re just as overheated as you remember.

And truth be told, it’s only his relentless teasing that kept you tethered, stopped you from completely losing it and passing out half-way.

Even if he is impossibly evil for it.

Though, you’re pretty sure you’ve disconnected from reality. At least a little bit. Long enough for him to reposition you again.

Before you can process it, your face is buried in the pillows, and his hands are on your hips, lifting your ass up, just so—but you slide back down.

You hear his laugh—low and breathless, completely undone. “Fuck, baby,” he pants, dragging a hand down your back. “Still with me?”

You can’t even answer. Don’t even bother. You’re drooling into the pillow, arms sprawled out limply, trembling all over. The only sound you manage is a whimper when he shifts behind you—lining himself up again, one hand steady on your hip, the other gripping the back of your thigh to hitch it higher.

“Can’t even hold yourself up anymore,” he mutters, not even teasing now—just wrecked, amazed. “You’re so fucked-out I could do anything I want.”

And he does.

He sinks in again, thick and slow, watching the way your back arches for him, the way your whole body breaks down into shivers. You twitch around him the moment he bottoms out, another ragged cry punching out of your lungs.

“Still so tight,” he groans, thrusting once, then again, and again, each stroke pushing you further into the mattress. “And so wet.” He says it like it’s a compliment. “Baby, you’re—shit—you’re dripping down my thighs.”

You sob into the pillow, thighs trembling as your body gives out completely, splayed and helpless and used. “C-can’t,” you gasp. “Too much, Joon—”

Or you think you do, because he never responds, he just grinds in deep, not giving you a second of peace.

“Last one. I promise.”

His hand slides under your belly, palm flat against the tremble of your skin—holding you up, holding you still—as he fucks into you, deep and mean and unrelenting. His chest is plastered to your back now, breath hot against your neck, lips brushing your ear every time he exhales.

“You can do that, right?” He challenges, voice hoarse but somehow still fond.

You move—barely. It’s pathetic. You’re wrecked, ruined, a soaked mess beneath him. But you manage a broken little noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sob.

He chuckles—low, rough, breathless. “Good girl.”

Your fingers twitch where they’re splayed against the sheets. Your mouth is open but no sounds come now. Just air. Just heat. Just the slick drag of him inside you, thick and relentless and perfect.

And then his fingers find your clit.

You scream—a raw, cracked sound that rips through your throat like your body doesn’t know how else to respond. You’re already right there, already fluttering and gasping and barely conscious—and still he circles it, slow and cruel, groaning when your walls clamp around him again.

“That’s it,” he pants, almost shocked at how hard you come. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing the life out of me.”

You spasm beneath him, legs kicking uselessly, toes curling, nails scraping weakly at the sheets. You don’t even feel the tears anymore. You just shatter.

And Namjoon—God, Namjoon—he doesn’t stop. He presses you down, one hand on your back, the other still working your clit, chasing his own high now as you whimper through the aftershocks.

He groans when he feels you weakly squeeze him, each trust growing more desperate than the other, like he’s finally arrived at the end of his sanity. And you feel everything.

Every pulse, every drag, every wet, filthy sound your bodies make when crashing together—he stutters, slams in deep, and stays there, groaning raggedly into your shoulder as he finally lets go.

It’s hot. It’s deep. It’s endless.

You died and went to heaven.

Heaven is sticky and salty and dripping down the back of your thighs. Heaven is you squeezing the life out of him and milking him dry him. It's the rugged cry that sounds like you stole it straight from his chest.

It’s the way his arms wrap around you and hold you close to him, like he can’t bear the thought of being even an inch away from you.

And when he finally stills, he collapses forward to bury his face in the mess of your hair.

“You alive?” He mumbles, voice gone.

You think you nod.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Namjoon laughs again—barely breath, barely sound. Just a puff of warmth against your shoulder as he kisses the curve of it, soft now, reverent.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “You’re alive.”

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, draped over your back, one arm tucked underneath you to hold you close, the other smoothing over your side like he’s grounding both of you. His thumb strokes idle patterns into the sweat-slick curve of your hip.

You twitch, and he stills instantly.

“Too much?”

Your body jerks in response—maybe a whine, maybe a shiver. Maybe both.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your spine. “I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

He eases out slow, careful, whispering quiet apologies into your skin when you whimper at the stretch. You feel the wet slide of him between your thighs, the obscene mess cooling against your skin—and then the weight of the bed shifting as he finally pulls away.

“I’m gonna clean you up, alright?” He says, already reaching for tissues or a towel or whatever he can find, voice hushed like he’s afraid to scare you off the edge of consciousness.

You groan in response, more of a gurgle, face still mushed into the pillow.

He huffs a soft, fond breath. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

You don’t even have the strength to smirk. But maybe, just maybe, you manage to reach for him blindly with one hand—fingers curling in the direction you think he is.

And he catches it immediately.

“Got you,” he says again, like a promise. Like a fact. Like he always will, kissing your knuckles.

When he returns to wipe between your thighs, he’s almost maddeningly gentle. You flinch at first—overstimulated, sore, still twitching—but he hushes you softly, kisses your temple, and takes his time.

Eventually, after an entire lifetime, you find your voice again. Cracked. Shaky. Thread-thin.

“Joon?”

“Mm?”

“I will kill you.”

He snorts. “Yeah. I’ll browse for coffins in a bit. Right after I hydrate you and carry your limp ass to the shower.”

You open one eye. Just barely. “You broke my legs.”

“You asked me to.”

You try to scowl. Fail. “I was delirious.”

Namjoon just grins, dimples flashing as he leans in to kiss your forehead, sweaty and salt-warm.

“You were beautiful,” he murmurs, mouth still pressed to your skin. “You still are.”

And somehow—somehow—you manage to smile. Even if you’re still lying there like a starfish. Even if your brain’s mush and your thighs ache and your lungs don't remember how to work.

Namjoon doesn’t rush you.

He could. He’s already done unspeakable things with his mouth, his hands, his cock—but now, he moves like he’s afraid the whole moment might shatter if he breathes wrong. Like he’s suddenly remembering you’re human. Fragile. Made of muscle and bone and too-soft fucked-out nerve endings.

You feel the warm weight of him between your legs again. One hand cups the back of your thigh, gently easing it to the side to clean you better.

You groan faintly, half-protest, half-exhausted praise. “You’re… thank you.”

Namjoon’s hand stills. Just for a moment.

Then it’s on your hip, firm and grounding, his thumb pressing lightly into your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

He leans in, voice lower now, rougher with something that sounds suspiciously close to adoration. “You’re welcome, baby.” He lets his breath go shaky through his nose. “You should’ve seen yourself.”

“I felt myself.” You mutter, cheek still mushed into the pillow. “I felt you too. Every inch. Repeatedly.”

A breath of laughter stirs your hair.

Then, quietly, “You scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

You hum. “I scared the shit out of me too this time.” Then you shift, painfully sore, just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m never arguing with you ever again. You’re right.”

“About what?”

“Whatever you like,” you mutter.

He huffs, soft and stunned, his expression somewhere between pride and disbelief (because he knows who he’s dating, afterall).

“Oh yeah?” He murmurs, brushing your hair back from your damp cheeks. “That’s all it took? A few orgasms and a psychological rewrite?”

“So many orgasms,” you groan. “I think II saw God.”

“Pretty sure it was me.”

“Shut up.”

You try to glare at him. You really do. But your face is too slack with afterglow and your body’s too wrung out to hold any expression. It melts halfway, leaves you grinning against your will, all content and defeated.

Namjoon watches you like he’s trying to soak you in. Memorizing you like this—pliant and undone but still cracking jokes, still sharp underneath all the softness. His thumb traces the line of your ribs, warm and slow.

“C’mon. Bath time.”

“No. I don’t have legs.”

Namjoon laughs—really laughs, breath hitching with the kind of post-sex giddiness that only comes when you’re both totally, utterly wrecked. “I’m well aware,” he says, tossing the towel somewhere vaguely behind him. “That was kind of the point.”

You grumble something unintelligible into the pillow, but he’s already sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back. And when he lifts you—limp, boneless, ruined—you let out a tiny, pathetic squeak.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “You’re just rubbing it in now.”

“You love it,” Namjoon says, smug as hell, voice all syrupy and fond as he cradles you against his chest.

“I hate it,” you whisper, face burrowed into his shoulder like you haven’t just been absolutely desecrated.

“Sure.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “That’s not what you were screaming twenty minutes ago.”

And he doesn't stop smiling, not even when your head lolls against his shoulder and you pretend to bite him. You don't have the energy to commit to it though, not really. He laughs anyway, smug and a little breathless.

You feel it in his chest, under your cheek. The way it rumbles. Warm and content.

You grumble something that might be fuck off, but it’s lost in the thick haze of goat weed and whatever catastrophic chemical cocktail he’s left wrecking your bloodstream.

He carries you with irritating ease, like you don’t weigh a thing. Like he didn’t just demolish you in every position except missionary, and maybe even invented a few new ones in the process.

Namjoon pushes open the bathroom door with his foot, flicks the light on with his elbow, and sets you down on the counter like some fragile, sacred thing. His eyes scan your face, still glazed and heavy-lidded, and then flick to your chest—rising a little steadier now. You can tell he's checking. Again. Like he’s memorizing your pulse just in case you decide to have a random cardiac arrest.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, but your voice is still slurred and cotton-soft. “You broke my back, not my heart.”

He gives you a look. Stern. Fond. “You sure?”

You nod, and then wince, because apparently nodding also uses a muscle group he absolutely obliterated earlier.

He swears under his breath—affectionate, worried—but still laughs at your pain. Because you deserve it. Because he knows you know you deserve it.

He gently cradles the back of your head with one hand, steadying you like you might just tip over from a particularly sharp exhale. “You're a menace,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your forehead, slow and deliberate. “A very sexy, very broken minx.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re the one who overdid it. I was just a passenger on this ride.”

Namjoon scoffs. “You brought us here.”

“Under the influence,” you mumble.

He huffs a laugh through his nose and turns on the faucet, letting the tub fill while adjusting the water temperature with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this for you before. His bare back moves with every reach, broad and golden under the soft bathroom lights, and you take a moment to shamelessly ogle him through your post-orgasm haze.

“I can feel you looking at me.”

“You’re pretty,” you say, unapologetic, cheek pressed against the mirror. “I missed you.”

Namjoon glances at you over his shoulder, hair tousled and lips still pink from everything he’s done to you. He narrows his eyes playfully. “You’re not allowed to be horny again.”

“I’m not,” you lie, blatantly. “I’m just admiring my choices.”

“Which ones? Overdosing on aphrodisiacs?”

You hum. “No. The one where I decided you’re taking them tomorrow. You’re a big boy—you can handle it without the risk of heart failure.”

He laughs and shakes his head as he walks back to you. “Don’t say shit like that unless you want round…whatever the fuck we’re on.”

Your lips tilt up. Your body is beyond wrecked, but your mushy brain? Already plotting the comeback as he steps between your knees again, hands settling on your thighs like he’s already forgotten about the bath.

“I’m just saying,” you murmur, feigning innocence “I need to bring some balance back in this relationship.”

“Are you saying you want to ruin me, baby?” he murmurs, dragging his palms up, thumbs tracing the bruises blooming on your hips.

You grin, teeth flashing. “No, I’m saying I will.”

“Dear god help me.”

It made you feel broken. Or worse—boring. Like your body was wired wrong. Like you’d missed the most basic feminine skill everyone else seemed to be born with.

Girls talked about cumming like it was breathing. Like they could do it in five minutes flat with one hand and a good imagination. You’d hear them talk about shaking through the sheets, arching off the bed, seeing stars—and you’d smile and nod and laugh along, pretending like you got it, like you knew what it was like to get wrecked by your own hand.

You’d never even come close.

You tried toys. You bought a vibrator and nearly cried when it did nothing but make your arms go numb. You tried grinding on pillows until the friction made you raw. You tried porn. You even tried watching yourself once in the mirror like some kind of twisted self-help therapy. Nothing worked.

You’d touch and touch and chase and beg for it in your head—please, just this once, just let me finish, please—and still end up breathless, sticky, empty.

You’d cry sometimes. Just a little. From the frustration of it. From the absolute humiliation of being so fucking horny and not being able to do anything about it.

You hated that about yourself. Hated the way your body seemed to enjoy the build and not the release. Hated the way your clit would throb for attention and then get overwhelmed the second you gave her any. Hated the need. The noise. The mess with no reward.

But the worst part—the actual worst part—was how much you still wanted it. How much you still tried. Like a dog chasing its own tail. Like some needy little loser who couldn’t leave it alone.

You were eighteen, for fuck’s sake. You were supposed to know your body by now. You were supposed to be able to make yourself cum. You were supposed to own your pleasure.

Instead, you were stuck with a pussy that got wet at the idea of being touched and then shut down the second you did.

It made you feel fucking insane.

So you gave up. Mostly. You still touched yourself when you needed to—when it built up too much and made your thighs ache. But it wasn’t about cumming anymore. It was maintenance. A reset button. A pressure valve. You did it in the dark, quietly, quickly, just to shut your body up.

You didn’t even think about pleasure anymore.

You didn’t dare.

-

Evie—Heejoo, but you only ever called her that when you wanted to piss her off—was your best friend in the world. Ride-or-die since ninth grade, bonded over a shared hatred of your chem teacher and the fact that neither of you fit into your school’s carefully manicured social circles.

Where you were sharp and quick with your mouth, she was soft-spoken and wide-eyed, just sweet enough to disarm anyone who got too close. You balanced each other out. She calmed your storm. You stirred hers.

You were over at her house so often it barely felt like visiting anymore. You knew the code to their garage door. You had your own toothbrush in her bathroom. Her mom kept your favorite cereal in the pantry like clockwork. You even had a drawer in her room, mostly old hoodies and stolen pajama shorts that smelled like her perfume.

It wasn’t unusual for you to spend the weekend there, or three nights in a row, or an entire spring break. Her parents didn’t mind. They liked knowing where you both were—liked having an extra body in the house, even if they never said it out loud.

And then there was Heeseung.

Her older brother. Four years up. Barely a presence.

When you were younger, he was just the older guy who sulked in his room and stole her chargers. Sometimes he’d give you a ride when Evie asked, sometimes he’d walk past you in the kitchen and grunt a greeting, but that was about it. He was there, and then he wasn’t—off to college, off to god knows where, vanishing from your life as quickly as he’d drifted through it.

You had a tiny crush on him once, freshman year. The kind that sparked quick and stupid, fed by his lazy smirk and the way he wore his backwards cap while fixing his car in the driveway. It died fast—suffocated by time and distance and his complete disinterest in acknowledging your existence beyond a nod or a side-eye.

By the time he moved back home post-grad, you barely noticed. He was older now, busier, always in his room with the door closed, voice low behind it, like he was on constant phone calls or late-night games or… something.

You didn’t think about him much. He was just Evie’s brother. Part of the background. White noise.

Your focus was always Evie.

She was the one who held your hair when you puked. The one who lent you a dress before every shitty date. The one who knocked on the bathroom door when you were taking too long and said, “You better not be edge-cumming again, bitch,” like it was the most normal sentence in the world.

She talked about sex like it was just part of the air. Blunt. Effortless. She could make herself cum in three minutes flat. She said it with confidence, like breathing.

You hated how easily it came to her. You loved her anyway.

You always felt safe in her house. Safe in her bed, tangled up under a shared blanket, legs overlapping like twins born too far apart. Her room smelled like vanilla and lip gloss and safety. It felt like yours.

-

The house settled around you like it always did—quiet, gentle, familiar in a way that made your muscles loosen and your brain drift. Even the silence felt padded here. The hum of the fridge downstairs, the occasional pop of cooling pipes, the subtle click of the thermostat shifting—background noise you’d grown so used to, it almost felt like home.

Evie was out cold beside you, one arm thrown carelessly across your stomach, her breath hot against your ribs. She always slept fast after wine. She always slept on you, too—like her body never quite understood boundaries even after all these years. You didn’t mind. It was comforting, the weight of her. Like a grounding wire for the anxious, electric static building low in your belly.

Sleep wasn’t coming for you, though.

You’d been lying there in the dark for the better part of an hour, phone dimmed to nearly unreadable brightness, eyes burning from the glow. Nothing on your feed caught your attention. You’d scrolled past the same content three times already, thumb swiping out of pure muscle memory.

Something restless twisted beneath your skin, persistent and irritating. Not quite horniness, not quite insomnia—just that same pulsing tension that had been sitting heavy between your legs all night. Like your body was trying to tell you something without using words. You shifted under the blanket, trying not to disturb Evie, thighs pressing tighter together to relieve the dull ache. It only made it worse.

The urge to do something about it had been growing for hours.

You’d thought about sneaking off to the bathroom. You’d done it before—quiet, quick, businesslike. Just enough friction to take the edge off before falling asleep, still unsatisfied but too tired to care. The idea barely tempted you anymore. You already knew how it would end: the usual mess of spit-slick fingers, your clit swollen and sore, pussy wet and pulsing and still refusing to give you anything real.

Just the thought of trying again made you clench your jaw.

It was pathetic, the way your body teased you. Wet for no reason. Needy without payout. Over and over again, like clockwork. Like punishment.

You turned your phone off with a quiet sigh and let the screen go black.

For a moment, all you could hear was the creak of the floorboards expanding under the weight of a settling house. A branch tapping against the window. The subtle drag of Evie’s breathing. You stared at the ceiling, tired but tense, willing yourself to shut down the frustration building behind your ribs.

A man’s voice, deep and casual, barely audible through the cracked bedroom doors. Not enough to make out words. Not yet. Just the soft cadence of speech, rising and falling like a secret being shared too close to the edge of the world.

Heeseung’s door was open. Or cracked. Just enough to let a sliver of sound spill out. You hadn’t even realized he was home tonight.

Your body stilled, like it always did when you felt watched—except this time, you were the one doing the watching. Listening, technically. Just barely.

There was a pause, then a laugh. Not his. Another voice. Someone else. Male. Maybe one of his friends from school, the ones who came and went without warning. You couldn’t place the sound, and you didn’t care.

Your focus sharpened the second Heeseung spoke again.

“It’s not that hard. Girls make it harder than it is."

“If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.”

The sentence dropped like a stone in the middle of your chest.

Not whispered. Not dirty. Just… stated. Like a law. Like fact.

Your fingers flexed unconsciously against the blanket. Heat flushed your neck and settled low in your belly, familiar and unwelcome. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

There was something about the way he said it. Not performative. Not like he was trying to sound cool. Just calm. Confident. Like the kind of guy who got women off without effort and never thought twice about why.

Every hair on your arm lifted. He didn’t stop there.

“And if she won’t listen…I’ll make her.”

No laughter followed that. No teasing. Just a quiet moment where it hung in the air, unchallenged.

You lay frozen in the dark, heart thudding, mouth slightly open. Your legs ached under the blanket, thighs tense and pressed together. You weren’t just turned on—you were caught. Cornered by something you weren’t supposed to hear and couldn’t let go of.

Something clicked. Not like a revelation, not some dramatic internal monologue, just… a shift. A tilt in the floor beneath your feet. A door opening in a room you didn’t realize you were trapped in.

You didn’t even know what you wanted in that moment.

But for the first time in your life, you wondered—really wondered—what your body would feel like under instructions that weren’t your own.

-

You tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. Swore you wouldn’t spiral.

You kept the overheard words tucked somewhere tight in your chest, smothered under fake laughter and half-listened stories while Evie walked you through her latest dating app disasters. You made it through brunch, through an entire Target run, through two face masks and one trashy Netflix documentary—and you almost convinced yourself you were over it.

But when the house quieted again that night—when Evie fell asleep curled up on the far side of the bed with her arm draped over a pillow instead of you—you gave in.

You waited a while. Just in case she wasn’t fully out. The kind of sleep that could crack open with the creak of floorboards.

And when her breathing evened out, soft and deep and oblivious, you slid out from under the blanket, grabbed your phone, and slipped into the hallway.

The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind you.

You didn’t turn the light on right away. Just stood there for a second in the dark, breathing.

The air was cooler here. The tiles cold against your feet. The smell of Evie’s shampoo still clung to the room—vanilla and something floral, sticky-sweet. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely visible in the silver sliver of hallway light. Your face looked flushed. Too open. Like something had already been peeled back.

You sat on the closed toilet lid, tugged your hoodie over your thighs, and pulled your phone into your lap.

No buildup. No browsing. You knew what you were looking for.

The video you always came back to. The closest thing you’d ever found to what worked. A deep voice. Slow instructions. Just audio—nothing to watch, nothing to focus on but sound.

It wasn’t him, but it didn’t have to be. Not yet.

Your underwear stuck to the heat between your thighs as you slid it down. Still wet from the tension that had been building since that morning. From the second you saw Heeseung in the kitchen and felt your legs press together automatically.

The wetness should’ve been a good sign.

But you already knew how this would go.

You played the video. Turned the volume down low. Closed your eyes.

Your fingers found your clit easily. Rubbed gentle circles, the way the voice said. You tried to breathe through it, tried to slow down, to listen.

There was too much pressure too soon. Your skin twitched with every touch. The angle was wrong. The rhythm never quite synced. Your body jerked between feeling almost there and feeling absolutely nothing.

You tried harder.

Tried picturing something—someone. His voice. His mouth. The way he looked at you this morning like you weren’t just Evie’s friend, like he saw something else.

That made your fingers move faster. Your hips twitch up from the seat, trying to find something—anything—that would tip you over.

But it never came.

Just heat. Just sweat. Just the same stinging tension in your thighs and the wave that built up, crested, and refused to break.

Your hand dropped. Your chest heaved with a breath that sounded too much like a sob.

You sat there for a full minute in silence, pussy swollen, twitching, soaking your hand—and still nothing. You hadn’t cum. Not even close.

Not even fucking close.

Your palm dragged across your inner thigh as you reached for toilet paper, the wet slick of your own arousal catching against your skin, obscene and bitter and useless. You wiped your hand clean, flushed, washed it under the tap in a daze.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wild eyes, bottom lip bitten raw.

This wasn’t working.

You couldn’t do this by yourself. Not anymore.

The shame didn’t even hit you until you opened the door, stepped back into the hall, and looked toward Heeseung’s room.

You didn’t remember walking from the bathroom to his door. Not really. Your body moved on instinct, fingers still damp with failure, breath shallow and uneven like you’d been running—not down a hallway, but in circles inside your own skin. Everything felt hot and wrong, like you were standing too close to something dangerous and still leaning closer.

The light from under his door was soft, pale blue. The kind of glow that came from a computer screen and sleepless hours. It made the hallway feel colder. Your skin felt clammy beneath your hoodie, thighs still tacky with your own arousal, pulse thudding hard behind your ears. You didn’t even try to calm yourself before raising your hand. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough anything left.

You knocked.

Soft, quick. Regretted it immediately.

Nothing.

The silence on the other side stretched just long enough to make you feel stupid. You should’ve gone back to Evie’s room. Should’ve locked the bathroom door and buried your face in your hands like you always did. Should’ve swallowed the shame and left it to rot where it always did: at the bottom of your throat.

Your hand was already dropping when the doorknob turned.

Heeseung opened the door halfway, leaning into the frame, and for a second you couldn’t speak. You weren’t expecting him to look like that—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, collar askew, hair a damp mess like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His sweatshorts hung low on his hips, legs bare, skin flushed warm like he’d just come out of the shower… or just come. You had no way of knowing which. And it made your brain short-circuit either way.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just confused.

His eyes dragged down your body with a slow kind of calculation, and you swore you saw the moment they caught on the way your thighs were pressed together, your bare legs twitching under the hem of your hoodie. The way your breath hitched in your throat. The way your fingers—still wet, still trembling—curled tighter at your side.

He blinked once, brows pulling in slightly.

“You good?”

The question was simple, quiet. But it hit like an echo in a room with no furniture. You were not good. Not even close.

Your voice came out before you could soften it. Flat, direct. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked again. Caught off guard this time.

“…What?”

“I just need to know,” you said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “Before I say anything. It matters.”

He stared at you for a beat, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should be amused or suspicious.

“No. I don’t.”

You exhaled like someone had untied a knot inside your chest.

“Fuck.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“If you said yes,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor, “I would’ve had an excuse not to ask you.”

That made him pause.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned into the doorframe like he was settling in. His voice was a little lower when he asked, “Ask me what?”

Your whole body burned. There was no easy way to say it. No casual phrasing. No safe distance between you and the truth anymore. You didn’t have the energy to dance around it.

“You said something last night,” you started, forcing yourself to look at him. “About girls who can’t finish. About how they’re not listening to their bodies.”

He watched you carefully. No expression, just the slow, measured study of a man waiting for the rest.

“I heard it,” you added. “By accident. But it’s been stuck in my head. And I thought—I don’t know, I thought maybe you were right.”

Still nothing. Just his gaze crawling over your face, down to your knees, like he was trying to see where this was going before letting himself speak.

You swallowed, the taste of failure still thick in your throat. “I tried again tonight. Bathroom. Just now. I’ve been trying for years, and it’s always the same. Nothing works. I can’t finish. I touch myself, and it just—goes nowhere.”

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why you were telling him all this. You barely knew the guy. The last time you’d had a real conversation was probably three birthdays ago when he offered you a ride and you said no because he smelled like weed and fuckboy cologne.

But here you were. Standing in front of him like some half-dressed, sweat-slick confession, spilling everything.

And he still hadn’t said a word.

Your next breath shook as it left you.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” you said, quieter now. “I just want to ask… if you’d tell me what to do.”

That got something out of him. A small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His eyes dropped—lower this time—to your legs again, to the edge of your hoodie, to the bare skin flushed and prickling under the hallway air.

He nodded once toward you, chin tilting. “Your hand’s still wet.”

You froze.

His voice was low, unreadable. “You tried that hard, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He stepped back.

Just a few inches. Just enough to open the door wider. The light from inside poured out around him, cool and soft and full of static.

He held your gaze.

 “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and just like that, the house disappears. Evie’s room, the hallway, your entire carefully contained world—it all drops away. There’s only the low glow of his monitor casting pale blue light across the carpet and the quiet hum of something electric in the corner, like the room itself is holding its breath.

You hover near the door for a second, not sure what to do with your hands, your legs, your shame.

Heeseung’s already sitting, legs wide in his desk chair, turned toward you like he was waiting the whole night for this. He shifts, pushes himself up slightly, and drags the chair forward—lazily, unbothered—until it sits right in front of the bed. Close enough that if you spread your legs, he’d have a front-row seat.

Then he flips the chair around, straddling it backwards like some cocky delinquent in detention, arms crossed over the backrest, chin resting casually on top. His expression doesn’t change. He just watches you.

“Go ahead,” he says, voice calm and low, like this is just another Tuesday night. “Sit.”

You make your way to the bed, legs tense, breath shallow, and perch at the edge like it might bite. Your thighs clench on instinct, hoodie pulled low, trying to shield what you already know he’s seen. You’re still warm from the bathroom. Still soaked. Still aching.

His eyes drift down. Slow. Lazy. No shame.

You fidget.

Heeseung doesn’t move. “Don’t get shy on me now. You came in here asking for a masturbation lesson, not a bedtime story.”

Your lips twitch. You almost laugh. Almost.

He lifts his chin. “Tell me what you usually do.”

The question lands harder than it should. Not because it’s dirty, but because it’s so simple.

You blink. “Like… where I touch?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitate. “I usually just go straight to my clit.”

“Figures.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “And then what? Rub the fuck out of it ‘til it gets sore and wonder why it doesn’t work?”

Your mouth falls open in a small gasp. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. “Don’t take it personal. That’s what most girls do. It’s not your fault you think the goal is speed over sense.”

You don’t respond, but your silence is answer enough.

He leans in a little, forearms resting on the chair back, gaze glued to your bare thighs. There’s no hunger in it—not yet. Just observation. Like he’s assessing you.

“If your pussy had a voice,” he says smoothly, “she’d be screaming at you to chill the fuck out.”

You’re quiet for a long second. Because the worst part is… he’s not wrong.

He watches you squirm, and something like amusement passes over his features. Not cruel, but smug.

“Take your time,” he says, gentler now. “You rush her, she locks up. Doesn’t matter how wet you are.”

“…She?” you murmur, lifting a brow.

Heeseung shrugs again, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. She.” His eyes flick to yours. “You don’t gotta name her or write poetry about her, but you should probably stop treating her like a vending machine.”

Your laugh breaks before you can stop it. Quick and sharp, nerves bleeding out of your throat. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he says with a smirk, eyes dark. “Go on. Show me how you start.”

Everything tightens. You feel the weight of his voice low in your belly.

You don’t move right away.

He raises a brow. “You said you didn’t want me to touch you. That’s cool. But I need to see what you’re doing wrong.”

Your breath hitches.

Your hand moves on instinct—slow, shaky—and dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, then under the band of your panties. You’re already wet. Embarrassingly wet. And when your fingers graze over your clit, you flinch. It’s too sensitive. Too much. Your hips jerk a little, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow the motion.

You rub. Once. Twice. It’s not bad. It’s what you always do.

But still—nothing clicks.

Heeseung tilts his head. “You’re too stiff.”

“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly.

“Don’t be.” His voice drops half an octave. “You look hot.”

The way he says it—it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Just a fact. Like he’s telling you what time it is. Like your soaked fingers and clenched thighs are something he’s been picturing all night.

“You’re thinking too much,” he adds. “Trying to force it instead of feel it.”

Your hand stills.

He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “Try this. Press your hand flat. Just hold her. No rubbing. No tapping. Just… feel her.”

You hesitate, then obey.

The flat of your hand settles between your legs, heat blooming up your arm from the contact. Your whole body clenches around it.

“Feel that?”

You nod. Barely.

“That’s what she likes,” he murmurs. “You’ve been poking at her like she’s a fucking keyboard. No wonder she’s not putting out.”

You let out a breathy laugh—half scandalized, half aroused. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re soaking through your panties,” he says, deadpan.

Your breath catches. Heeseung doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away.

He sits there like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he’s doing you a favor. Like he’s enjoying this. You’re not even sure he’s hard yet—but he will be. You can feel it building. Between you. In you.

He lets the moment hang.

Then: “Now—slow circles. Don’t speed up unless she tells you to.”

“She doesn’t talk,” you whisper, teasing without confidence.

His gaze is heavy. Steady.

“She does,” he says, voice like heat sliding under your skin. “You just haven’t been listening.”

The room feels hotter now.

Not just the air—your skin, your mouth, your thighs. Sweat clings to the backs of your knees, damp beneath the bunched-up hoodie, and your panties are so wet they’re practically glued to one thigh. Your hips keep twitching without your permission, rolling up slightly with every pass of your fingers. It’s not graceful. It’s not some porn fantasy. It’s messy and uneven and real, and Heeseung is watching every second of it like it’s the only thing worth watching.

You keep thinking you should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. You’re spread open on his bed, hand stuffed between your legs, whining softly every time you stroke a little too hard and have to ease back again—but you’re too far gone now to stop. Your cheeks are flushed, lashes wet, lips parted, and you can’t look away from him.

He hasn’t blinked once.

Heeseung is still straddling the backward chair, elbows resting on the top, chin on one hand like this is casual. Normal. Like you’re just some half-naked girl jerking off in front of him for practice and he’s your substitute teacher for the night.

The only thing that’s changed is his posture.

His knees are spread wider than before. His forearms are tense. One hand grips the edge of the chair a little tighter every time your body jerks, and you don’t miss the way his jaw flexes every time your breath stutters or your voice cracks.

You’re doing this to him.

But not enough.

Not enough to make it stop hurting. Not enough to make the ache go away. Not enough to finish.

You’re trying. God, you’re trying.

Your fingers rub in slow circles, not too fast now. You’re listening. You are. But your body keeps tensing at the edge, like it’s scared to fall off the cliff it’s been building for years. Your hand’s cramping. Your clit throbs. Your stomach clenches like you’re close—and then it dips, again and again.

It’s good. So good.

But it’s not enough.

You choke on a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your free hand fists the blanket beneath you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Heeseung speaks, finally, voice low and steady. “Still rushing her.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“You are. I can see it.”

You shake your head, breath stuttering. “I’m not trying to—I swear, I’m—” You gasp. “It’s just—it’s not—”

You stop. Words catch in your throat. Your hips are rocking now, involuntarily, chasing a sensation that keeps pulling away the second you get close. Your fingers are wet, your pussy’s pulsing, and it still feels like you’re just rubbing up against a wall.

“It’s not enough,” you breathe out, broken. “I—I can’t—fuck—she’s not listening.”

Heeseung leans forward slightly, something sharp flashing in his eyes.

“Oh, she’s listening,” he says. “You’re just not talking to her the right way.”

You whimper. “Then tell me what to say.”

That makes his mouth twitch—just barely. Like he’s been waiting for that.

“Tell me what she’s feeling first.”

“I—” Your voice cracks. “She’s tight. Warm. I feel her—pulsing. Like she wants something but—she’s not opening.”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze dark. “She wants to be filled.”

You nod.

“No,” he says. “Say it.”

Your chest heaves. Your hand hasn’t stopped moving, rubbing slow, desperate circles around your clit. “She wants to be filled.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“She wants to be fucking filled,” you whine. “She’s throbbing—she’s soaking—fuck, I can feel her squeezing nothing.”

Heeseung exhales slowly, eyes flicking down between your legs again.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Now she’s talking.”

Your fingers glide lower, catching more slick and sliding back up. Everything’s soaked. You’re dripping down onto the sheets, and your thighs are trembling from the strain of keeping your hips lifted just right.

“She needs more,” you pant. “She’s clenching—she’s starving—”

Heeseung’s hand flexes around the edge of the chair again. His voice drops, almost to a growl. “So feed her.”

You moan—high and breathy—and press harder, circling your clit faster now, the way your body wants. Your lips are wet, your fingers slipping, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is slick and hot and alive.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, eyes burning into you. “Look at your fucking fingers.”

You do. It’s obscene. Your hand shines in the light, your fingers coated in slick. You barely recognize your own body like this. Ruined. Responsive.

“She’s begging,” he says softly. “And you’re finally listening.”

You whine, eyes squeezing shut. Your free hand presses against your lower belly, trying to hold the heat in. Your pussy twitches at the pressure.

“She’s so fucking greedy,” you gasp. “She won’t stop pulling—I can’t—I can’t keep up—”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “She knows what she’s doing. Let her take it.”

You don’t even realize how loud you’ve gotten until you hear yourself moan again—shameless, cracked open, shaking from the inside out.

Your legs spread wider. You’re not trying to hide anymore. Not from him. Not from yourself.

You’re right there.

You’re going to break.

He’s just watching. Like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever seen.

You’re right on the edge, and this time it’s not teasing.

It’s sharp. Fast. Inevitable.

Your legs are trembling now, hips jerking with every motion, and your fingers are soaked—slipping against your clit, coating your inner thighs, dripping down the crease of your ass like your body’s trying to fuck itself open. Every stroke sends another wave of tension through you, and there’s no holding it anymore. Your body is begging. Your pussy’s leaking, twitching, clenching around nothing—and Heeseung watches like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t even realize you’re moaning until you hear it echo back at you in the small room. High-pitched. Desperate. Wet.

The sound of your pussy is louder now too. Sticky and obscene, each rub slicker than the last. You can hear it every time you roll your hips into your palm.

Heeseung doesn’t say a word for a second too long.

You lift your head, eyes glazed over, panting.

His eyes are darker now. Half-lidded. Focused on your pussy like he’s reading it better than your face.

He shifts in his chair. Spreads his knees wider. His hand dips into the front of his sweatshorts, slow and casual, like he can’t ignore it anymore. You catch a glimpse of his fingers wrapping around himself—and your breath catches so hard your vision blurs.

He’s so hard.

His voice comes out deeper. Filthy. Measured like it’s the only thing anchoring him in the room.

“Look at that messy little cunt.”

Your body jerks at the word. You’ve never heard it said like that. Never felt it hit like that.

Heeseung strokes himself once, slow and firm under the fabric.

“She’s drooling all over your fingers. So fucking hungry. Bet she’s never been this loud for you before.”

“She hasn’t,” you breathe. “She never—she never—”

“You’ve been starving her,” he says, still jerking himself lazily. “Touching her like she’s a problem instead of a fucking meal.”

Your hand speeds up, and he sees it. Hears the slap of slick. You’re humping into your fingers now, sloppy and desperate and so close you could scream.

Heeseung leans forward, one elbow braced against the back of the chair.

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod frantically, but it’s not enough.

“Use your words.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “Yes. Please—I wanna cum—I need it—”

“Need what?” he pushes.

“I need her to fucking break,” you sob. “She’s clenching—she’s begging—she needs to cum, she needs it—”

“Then let her,” he growls. “Don’t fucking hold it. Let her make a mess.”

You whimper, fingers frantic, back arching off the bed.

And that’s when he says it—low and hot and foul.

“Let her fuck your fingers, slut.”

You snap.

Your body locks up, then shatters. You cum so hard your legs shake, hips jerking forward, thighs squeezing around your own hand as your pussy gushes over your fingers in sticky, messy waves. The moan that rips from your throat is broken, cracked, half-wet from tears.

It doesn’t hit you right away.

At first, there’s just white. Blinding. A full-body seizure of pleasure as your cunt clenches around nothing, soaking your own fingers, mouth open in a moan that doesn’t even sound like you.

It crashes over you fast. Wet. Messy.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—harder than you thought was even possible—and your body just keeps going, hips jerking, slick dripping past your knuckles, your voice cracking on every gasp.

Heeseung is still there.

You know he is. You can feel his eyes on you, feel his breath in the space between your bodies, but you can’t look at him. Not right now. Not like this.

And then it fades.

That warm, bright static in your brain flickers out. Your thighs twitch. Your hand finally drops, fingers soaked, wrist aching, clit too sensitive to touch again.

What’s left is the sound of your breathing. The slick, wet mess beneath your hips. The embarrassment flooding in all at once like a second wave.

Reality slams back into you hard.

You’re laid out across his bed—sweaty, flushed, thighs spread wide and soaked all the way down to the crease of your ass. Your pussy’s still twitching, swollen and glistening, your panties bunched at one knee, hoodie halfway pushed up your stomach.

Your fingers shine in the low light. Still wet. Still shaking.

You sit up fast, panic sweeping over your skin like ice water. “Shit—fuck.”

Your hand fumbles to pull your hoodie down, yanking it over your thighs, shoving your panties back into place even though they’re absolutely soaked through. The fabric clings wetly to your pussy and only makes the mess feel worse.

Heeseung hasn’t moved.

Still in the chair. Still one hand inside his shorts. He looks completely unbothered. Calm. Like you didn’t just cum your entire soul out in front of him.

You can’t meet his eyes.

He watches you fuss with the hem of your hoodie, your hands still trembling slightly as you try to make yourself look decent.

“Didn’t say stop,” he says mildly.

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “I came. Pretty sure that’s the goal, right?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just surprised you’re acting all shy now. That pussy was practically talking thirty seconds ago.”

“Jesus—” you squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in your hands.

Heeseung grins. Not mean. Not mocking. Just amused.

“You do realize how loud you were, right?” he adds. “I thought the bed was gonna snap in half.”

“Please stop talking,” you groan, voice muffled.

“You were crying,” he says like it’s a compliment, hand still lazily palming himself under his shorts. “That shit was beautiful.”

You peek at him through your fingers. He’s still hard. Still watching you with that same steady calm, like this is fine. Like this is normal.

He doesn’t even seem fazed.

That somehow makes the ache between your legs flare again. Weak, overstimulated, but greedy.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t realize I—um. That I could… do that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Cum?”

You shoot him a look.

Heeseung laughs, finally letting go of himself. “You’ve been fighting her for years. All I did was give you directions.”

You tuck your knees up into your chest, arms wrapped around them. You feel like you just stripped naked in front of someone who stayed fully clothed—and now he’s just lounging there like you didn’t just show him the most private part of yourself.

You sit in that awkward silence for a few seconds longer.

Heeseung stretches, chair creaking slightly. “So,” he says, tone casual. “Lesson two tomorrow?”

You blink.

“…There’s a second lesson?”

He smiles slow, eyes dropping to your thighs again. “You think she’s done learning?”

Your pussy twitches beneath your soaked panties.

-

Your legs are still weak from the first night when you leave.

Just a few days back home. Just a quick visit. You didn’t think it would matter—but the second you cross the county line, your pussy starts aching like she knows she’s been abandoned. Like she misses his voice already.

You think about texting him before you even unpack your overnight bag.

 It starts that fast—barely through the front door, barely through dinner with your parents, barely through pretending to care about someone’s new side hustle or whatever cousin just had a baby, and already your mind is slipping. 

Already you’re restless. Already your body feels too awake. You can still feel the slick sticking to the inside of your thighs from last night, from the way he sat in that chair like he was doing you a favor while you touched yourself for the first time like it meant something. It hasn’t gone away. The ache stayed with you. 

That trembling throb between your legs that didn’t fade after one orgasm—or two—or three. And now, here you are. Sitting in your childhood bedroom like you didn’t just learn how to listen to your pussy in someone else’s bed with someone else’s voice in your ear.

You last all of twelve hours. Maybe thirteen if you count sleep, but that’s cheating. You keep checking your phone like a freak. Not even for a message—just to see his name.

 You scroll through the notifications like maybe he’ll magically show up. You open his contact. Stare at the little circle icon. You type a text. Delete it. 

Type again. Delete. Pace the room. Pull your hair up. Let it fall. Lie on the bed. Toss the blanket off. Roll onto your stomach, then your back, then sit up again because your body’s too hot and your thoughts won’t stop dragging back to the sound of his voice saying “Good girl. She’s listening now.”

You try to distract yourself. Put music on. Stare at the ceiling. Scroll through reels. But the tension is building and it’s not casual. It’s deep. It’s mean. 

Like your pussy’s crawling up your spine and whispering call him over and over again. And finally, like a fucking addict, you give in.

You don’t try to be subtle. Your fingers tremble as you type the message—“Can I call you?”—and hit send before you can regret it. Your breath catches in your throat. Heart pounding. Shame twisting in your gut like you’ve already crossed a line and he hasn’t even replied. But then your phone buzzes. Two texts in a row. You click without thinking.

No. I’ll call you.

Speaker on. Hands ready. Nothing else.

You don’t even get a second to prepare. The call comes in instantly, and you fumble to answer it, press speaker, toss the phone onto your pillow and sit back, legs shaking under your blanket. You’re wearing nothing but a big t-shirt—no bra, no panties. Like your body already knew what was coming.

His voice is in your ear the second the line connects.

Low. Thick. Wrecked.

“You waited all day just to fuck yourself to my voice, didn’t you?”

The sound alone makes your thighs clamp together. You can’t answer. You don’t know what to say. You feel called out, ruined, exposed, and he hasn’t even seen you.

“You’re pathetic,” he breathes, and it’s not cruel—it’s reverent. Like he’s turned on by the depth of your desperation. “You left for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already starving.”

Your breath comes out shaky. “She hasn’t shut up.”

“I bet. That little pussy’s been crying for attention, hasn’t she? Soaking your panties, throbbing for no reason. Did you even try to touch her?”

Your hand slides down your stomach. Shame floods your chest. “I tried last night.”

“And?”

Your fingers drift over your mound, soft and slow.

“…Didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because she’s not trained to your fingers. She’s trained to my voice.”

You nearly choke.

“Take the blanket off.”

You do.

“T-shirt stays. I want you messy under it. Like a filthy little secret.”

You obey, chest rising. The air hits your bare skin and your nipples pebble instantly under the thin cotton. You slide your hand under the hem and find yourself dripping already—your folds slippery and warm, your clit throbbing at the first brush.

“Fuck. You’re already wet.”

You don’t answer.

“Don’t ignore me. Say it.”

You whimper. “I’m wet.”

“Where?”

Your hand slides lower. “Everywhere.”

“Let me hear it.”

You drag your fingers through your folds, then lift them to the mic.

Squish. Slick. Wet.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “She’s fucking leaking for me.”

“She won’t stop,” you pant. “She’s been clenching—she’s needy. I can’t—I can’t even think straight.”

“She doesn’t need you to think. She needs you to listen.”

You nod like he can see you.

“You touching your clit yet?”

“No,” you whisper. “Just teasing.”

“Don’t tease her. Feed her.”

You obey. Your fingers find your clit and press slow, warm circles into the swollen skin. Your hips twitch immediately. Your body jolts with relief. Like it’s been waiting for this.

“Fuck. That’s it. Let her roll her hips. Let her grind on your fingers.”

You do.

And you moan. Loud. Wet. Pathetic.

“You sound like you’re crying.”

“I might be,” you choke out. “I’m—I’ve been on edge all day. She’s screaming—”

“Then shut her up.”

Your fingers move faster. Your breath turns ragged. The slick is everywhere now—coating your palm, sliding down your ass, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can hear it—slap, slap, slap—and you know he can too.

“God, listen to her,” he says. “She’s fucking talking again. Slapping wet, loud as hell, crying to be filled.”

Your thighs start to shake.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Heeseung—fuck, I’m close—”

“She wants to cum. So let her.”

You cum hard, back arching, legs tensed, voice cracking open around a sob as your pussy convulses around nothing—just your fingers, just your shame, just his voice dragging it out of you with nothing but command.

“Again,” he growls. “Don’t you dare take your hand off her. You begged for this. You waited all fucking day for it.”

You keep going. Because you can’t stop. Because this is his now.

-

You don’t get a break.

Heeseung doesn’t let you.

After that first call—the one where you came so hard you swore you saw stars—you thought maybe the tension would ease up. Maybe you’d get to breathe. But you don’t. Because the second you wake up the next morning, there’s already a text waiting for you.

Morning. She hungry?

Your pussy clenches on reflex.

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing under the covers.

Yes.

His reply is instant.

Good. edge yourself until you’re shaking. No cumming. No cheating. You’ll send me a pic of your fingers when you’re done.

That’s it. No teasing. No sweet talk. Just commands. Direct. Cruel. And of course—you obey.

You finger yourself that morning with shaking hands, grinding into your palm in the silence of your old bedroom with one hand over your mouth to muffle your cries. You stop just short of release three times. Your panties are soaked. The sheets beneath you are ruined.

You send the photo.

Two slick fingers, gleaming. One droplet hanging from your wrist like a taunt.

He doesn’t reply until hours later.

Beautiful. Don’t clean her up. Let her stick to your skin. I want her to haunt you all day.

That’s how it starts.

Sometimes it’s a call. Sometimes it’s just a photo prompt. Sometimes it’s voice notes—low, slow, whispered filth that you replay in the bathroom on full volume with your thighs clenched so tight you can barely breathe.

Another day: make a mess on your favorite pair of panties. Send proof. Don’t wash them. Fold them and put them in your drawer like a secret. Like she remembers.

When you can’t call—family dinners, company in the house, a wedding event—he doesn’t complain. He just adapts.

He sends you three voice notes in a row, each one filthier than the last.

“Are you wearing panties right now?”

“She’s wet just from this, isn’t she?”

“Put your phone between your legs. Let my voice buzz against her while you grind.”

You do. In the middle of the day. On the edge of your childhood bed. With the door locked and your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sound of you cumming on command.

Every time you text him, he knows what you need before you say it.

On your knees. Two fingers. Say my name when you finish. That’s all.

You cum like a trained animal.

By the end of the fourth day, you’re overstimulated and aching. Your cunt stays warm. Your clit stays swollen. You can’t think straight without hearing his voice. You can’t fall asleep without a pillow between your legs and your phone under your ear, replaying the way he said your name like it tasted good.

He doesn’t let you get comfortable.

I want her ruined by the time you get back. Wet stains on your thighs. Bruised from your own fingers. No excuses. You belong to me now, yeah?

-

You’re at the dinner table when the text comes in.

There’s a bowl of pasta in front of you. Your uncle’s talking about traffic. Your mom’s pouring more wine. And your phone buzzes in your lap—one tiny, harmless vibration you almost ignore until you see the name on your lockscreen.

Heeseung.

Your chest tightens immediately. A hot ripple runs down your spine. You unlock it under the table, heart already picking up speed, thighs pressed tight together like that’s gonna help anything.

You expect a voice note. Maybe an instruction. Instead, it’s just a single message.

Don’t open this here. I’m serious.

You excuse yourself. Bathroom. You try to walk casually, but your legs feel unstable, like your body knows what’s coming and is bracing for it. You shut the door. Lock it. Sit down on the closed toilet seat. And then you open the message.

It’s not a photo. Not a voice note. Just a block of text.

And it destroys you.

I want you dripping. Right now. I want your thighs sticky. I want your pussy hot and twitching and swollen like she’s just been edged for an hour and she’s still not allowed to cum. I want her pulsing around nothing. Squeezing air. Leaking like she misses my cock even though she’s never had it. That’s how good I want her trained. That she misses me even though I’ve never fucked her. I want you to slide your hand into your panties and feel her spit for me. Feel how filthy she’s gotten just from reading my words. Not even hearing my voice. Just letters on a screen and she’s frothing like a brainless little thing. I want her throbbing. Sore. Pink. Aching. I want you to pull your panties to the side and look at what I’ve done to you. How she opens for nothing. How she clenches for nothing. How she cries, fucking cries, when she doesn’t get touched. I want her messy. Slutty. Wet enough to embarrass you. Wet enough you can’t clean it up with one tissue. Wet enough that if someone walked into that bathroom right now, they’d smell her. No fingers. Not yet. Just pressure. Palm down. Let her hump. Let her grind. Let her get yourself dirty. She knows what to do. She doesn’t need permission anymore. You’re gonna leak down your leg just reading this, aren’t you? She’s already twitching. Already soaking. She knows what she is now. A thing that exists to be used. To be made wet. To be trained.

You stare at your screen. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

And you feel it—that slow, steady drip.

You slide your hand down between your legs and whimper when your fingers meet your panties—soaked through. Hot and sticky, your folds puffy and swollen, everything throbbing with need.

You spread your legs wider. There’s no stopping it. You have to.

You push your panties aside, just like he said, and when you look down, your cunt is shining. Slick lips parted, clit swollen and begging, a string of wet clinging between your folds when you breathe too hard.

You cup her with your whole palm and rock once.

You grind again. Harder. The heel of your hand pressing directly on your clit. Your hips move faster, panting now, forehead pressed against your bent knee as your pussy humps your own hand like she’s starved.

You’re fucking yourself with no fingers. Just pressure. Just filth. Just his words rotting your brain and your pussy loving it.

You don’t stop until your legs lock, jaw clenched tight to muffle the moan that rips through your throat. Your pussy convulses, grinding down hard, cumming in waves against your own palm until you’re crying silently, thighs soaked, panties a mess, body twitching from the force of it.

When it’s over, you’re wrecked. You sit there in silence. Breathing heavy. Panties still pulled to the side, hand drenched, cunt gaping and twitching like she’s still looking for him.

You snap a photo.

Not of your face. Just your hand. Soaked. Ruined. Slick covering your wrist, dripping down your knuckles.

You send it. No caption. A minute later, his reply lights up your screen.

That’s how she’s supposed to look. Every day until you get home.

-

You don’t even knock.

You could, but what’s the point? He told you to come over as soon as you got back. No texts. No warning. Just a short message yesterday night:

You better show up dripping.

And you are.

The shorts you wore are damp at the crotch, your hoodie clinging to the sweat on your lower back. Every shift of your thighs against the car seat on the drive over made you squirm. By the time you’re standing in front of his door, your cunt is throbbing. Empty. Trained. Starving.

He opens it like he already knew you were there.

Barefoot. Hoodie. Nothing underneath.

He stares at you for a second, quiet. His eyes drop to your legs, to the way you’re fidgeting, clenching, trying not to press your thighs together. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.

Just opens the door wider and lets you in.

You step past him. Silent. Heat prickling under your skin. His presence is loud, even without words. You can feel the pressure building already—your pussy knows. She’s aware. Aware of the air, of the scent of him, of how close he is now after five days of only hearing him through a speaker.

He closes the door behind you. And waits.

You turn to him, hands still curled into your sleeves. “I did everything.”

He lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod. Swallow hard. “Every day.”

Heeseung steps forward slowly. Stops in front of you. His eyes flick down, over your body, like he’s looking for confirmation.

“You leaking?”

Your breath catches. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. But you don’t hesitate.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and tug them down in one smooth motion. They hit the floor and you step out of them, bare underneath, thighs sticky and glistening. Your hoodie barely covers your hips now. One inch higher and he’d see everything.

He doesn’t touch you.

“Show me,” he says, voice low.

Your breath hitches again—but you drop to your knees. Not because he asked. Because your body knows what to do now.

You kneel between his feet on the hardwood floor, hands moving to part your thighs so he can see. You pull the hoodie up to your waist and slide two fingers between your folds—dripping. It spreads so easily. Glossy. Viscous. Your pussy folds open for your own touch like it’s nothing new. Like she’s been practicing all week.

You keep your eyes on him the whole time.

And when your fingers come back up, soaked and glistening, you hold them out. Heeseung watches you in silence.

Then leans forward, slow and deliberate. He takes your fingers into his mouth and sucks—deep, slow, tongue curling around them like it’s a reward.

Your hips jerk slightly. Your cunt clenches hard. He pulls off with a wet pop and stares down at you.

“She tastes trained.”

You nod.

“She beg yet?”

You exhale. “She never shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah?”

Then he grabs your jaw. Fingers firm but not rough, tilting your face up to his.

“You want her filled?”

You nod again. “Please.”

“Not yet,” he says. “She’s not ready.”

“I’m ready—she’s so ready, I’ve been—”

“I don’t care what you think. You’re not here to make decisions. You’re here to do what I say.” He lets go of your face. “You wanna get fed? Earn it. Lay down. Show me how she begs.”

You scramble onto the bed.

Flat on your back. Legs spread. Cunt on display. Dripping.

You’re already on your back, knees drawn up, thighs spread and trembling, cunt pulsing with heat that’s been building all week. You don’t try to hide it. You can’t. Your pussy’s wet. Loud. Lips glossy and parted, folds flushed and twitching like she knows the moment has finally come. She’s been teased. Trained. Denied. You’ve been filling her with fingers and pressure and your own voice, but never this. Never him. And now he’s standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s finally ready to eat.

But he doesn’t touch you first.

He picks your shorts up off the floor, turns them inside out—and finds your soaked panties tangled in the legs. He peels them out slowly, sticky with your slick, the thin fabric darkened and clinging to itself. You watch, breath caught, legs still open, burning with shame as he brings them up to his face.

And sniffs.

Deep.

He inhales like it’s a fucking ritual. Eyes half-lidded. Thumb pressing into the crotch to smear the wetness around before dragging it across his lip. His tongue flicks out—tastes it.

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s been marinating in this.”

Your body jolts. Your hands fist the sheets.

“She’s loud, too.” His voice drops lower. “I haven’t even touched her and she’s already talking. Look at her. Fucking twitching. Dripping. Spreading herself open like she knows who she belongs to.”

“Heeseung—” You whimper.

“Shut up.”

He tosses your panties to the side and climbs onto the bed, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving your cunt. He settles between your legs and just kneels there for a moment. Breathing her in. Hands on your thighs. Pushing them wider. Spreading you so open you can feel the air hit your slick.

You’re soaked. You know it. You can feel it, the slick sliding down into the dip of your ass, the way your folds part with every breath, your clit poking out, hot and swollen.

He just stares.

“You fucking trained her like this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You really did it. Came like a good little slut every night just to keep her hungry.”

“She’s starving,” you whisper, voice shaking.

“I can see that.”

His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, holding you open. His face lowers. Inches away. His breath hits your folds and your hips twitch violently.

He doesn’t lick you.

Not yet.

He just hovers. His nose skims your inner thigh. Then up. Right up the slick slit, dragging his breath across your folds until your body shudders. He breathes her in again—this time slower. Longer. Right at the source.

“God,” he mutters. “She fucking smells like obedience.”

You sob.

And then he spits.

Right on your pussy.

Hot. Heavy. Messy.

It splashes over your clit, drips between your folds, mixes with your slick and makes everything worse.

Your hips roll. You can’t stop it.

“Don’t you fucking move,” he growls. “She’s getting attention. She better stay still.”

And finally—finally—his tongue drags up your slit. A long, slow lick from hole to clit that ends with his mouth wrapped around it, sucking hard.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your spine arches off the bed.

But he pins you with one forearm across your stomach and doesn’t stop.

He eats you like a man starved. Like you’ve been feeding her for him. Keeping her ready. Keeping her needy. His mouth is everywhere—tongue licking up everything you’ve been saving, spit and slick and mess pooling under your ass while he moans into you.

“That’s it,” he groans against your clit. “Let me taste five fucking days of begging.”

You cry out, thighs clenching.

But he slaps your pussy with his hand—sharp, wet, punishing.

“Open.”

You go limp. You can’t fight it. You don’t want to.

He eats you like it’s personal. Tongue flat. Licking. Circling. Spitting again. Your clit’s too swollen, too sensitive, but he doesn’t care. He mumbles into you—filth you can barely understand because he’s too focused on devouring.

“She’s so fucking loud. She won’t shut up. You hear that?”

You do.

Your pussy makes noise with every lick—squelching, wet, obscene.

“I didn’t even fuck her yet,” he growls. “And she’s already creaming.”

You try to cum. You try.

But he pulls back just as your thighs start to shake, just as your stomach seizes.

“Nope. She’s not getting fed all the way until I’ve felt her on my cock.”

You nod frantically, fingers gripping the sheets, desperate.

Heeseung leans back, licking his lips, chin soaked, eyes wild.

“She’s ready,” he says. “She’s starving.”

He’s already got two fingers hooked inside you when he tells you to open your mouth.

Not to kiss him. Not to speak. Just to take it.

He shoves his fingers past your lips—soaked in your own slick, the same fingers he’s been curling deep inside your cunt, dragging against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. You gag around them, moaning as the taste floods your tongue—salty, sour, yours. He pushes them down onto your tongue, presses hard until your spit leaks out around them and drips down your chin.

“Swallow it,” he mutters, eyes locked on your face. “That’s what obedience tastes like.”

You do. Of course you do.

Because you’d do anything he says.

And he knows it.

He wipes the slick from your lips with his thumb, drags it down your throat, then shifts forward—kneeling between your trembling thighs, lining himself up with your soaked entrance like he’s been waiting years for this moment.

You stare down at his cock, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and your whole body tenses. You’re already open, already dripping, already fucked dumb—but none of it’s going to prepare you for this.

“Look at her,” he mutters under his breath, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, smearing pre-cum across your clit. “She’s fucking begging.”

“She wants it,” you pant, voice shaking. “Please—”

He doesn’t give you time to finish.

He presses in—slow, deep, cruel.

The stretch hits you all at once. Your back arches. Your breath leaves you in a choked gasp, and your pussy clenches hardaround him, sucking him in inch by inch like she never wants to let him go.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans. “She’s trained alright.”

You moan. Loud. Desperate. Writhing beneath him as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried all the way to the base.

She’s full.

Finally fucking full.

Your cunt grips him tight, fluttering around his cock like she’s been starving for it—and she has. Every inch of him hits something you didn’t know existed. Your body shakes under the pressure. You’re soaked. Stuffed. Used. And you want more.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she is.”

“She’s yours,” you gasp. “She’s a hole—your hole—she’s been waiting for this—”

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.

You scream.

“You’re goddamn right she’s mine,” he snarls. “You trained her just to take my cock.”

You nod frantically, crying now, pleasure too thick in your throat to hold back.

He starts to fuck you in earnest—hard, relentless, loud. Skin slapping skin. His cock slick from your wetness, dragging through every twitch and squeeze, pressing deep, deeper, forcing your body to stay open for him. You feel it in your stomach. Your spine. Your fucking brain.

Every thrust knocks your thoughts loose. And you want to thank him. You want to feel him. You want to taste him.

So you lift your head—try to kiss him.

You lean up, lips parting, mouth open and begging.

He pulls back.

His hand grabs your throat, presses you flat into the mattress. You gasp, eyes wide, blinking up at him in confusion. He smiles. Cruel. Mocking.

“No,” he says coldly. “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

Your breath shatters.

“Kisses are for good girls,” he spits. “You’re just a trained little hole.”

Your pussy clenches around him so violently he groans.

“That’s all you are now, isn’t it?” he sneers. “A stupid little cunt that opens on command. You get used, not kissed.”

Tears spill over your cheeks.

And you cum. Just like that.

From the words. From the shame. From the humiliation.

Your pussy spasms around his cock, soaking both of you as you scream into his hand still wrapped around your throat. Your hips jerk. Your vision goes white. But he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, hips pounding, cock punching into your oversensitive cunt like he’s trying to reprogram you from the inside out.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let her milk me. Let her show me how much she needed this.”

You’re sobbing. Gasping. Too wrecked to speak.

“Fucking knew it,” he groans. “You were never gonna be satisfied until you got split open.”

He leans down, mouth right by your ear.

“But don’t ever reach for a kiss again. Sluts like you don’t get kissed.”

You’re already limp when he flips you.

Your body gives out so easily—shoulders pressed into the mattress, arms numb, legs trembling, hips cocked up on instinct the second he yanks you onto your stomach. His hands drag you by the waist like a ragdoll. Like something boneless, brainless, ruined. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your cheek sticks to the fabric. You’re crying, still, but there’s no shame left. Just the raw ache of your cunt pulsing around nothing—because he pulled out.

You whine, pathetic and wordless, hips rolling back into the air, leaking down your thighs.

“Still hungry?” he mutters behind you.

You nod into the pillow.

“Say it.”

“She’s empty,” you whimper. “She’s twitching—she wants you back in—she’s not done—she’s never done—”

You gasp when the head of his cock slides back in. Just the tip.

He doesn’t give you the rest.

You wiggle. Cry. Press your ass back against him and moan when your folds stretch again, split open all over his length.

“You trained her to take it,” he says. “Now you’re gonna train her to keep it.”

He presses forward.

His cock buries to the hilt in one brutal thrust, and your whole body spasms. Your hands claw at the sheets. Your cunt clenches so violently it forces a sob out of your chest, high-pitched and broken. You’re still sensitive. Still throbbing from the last orgasm. But he doesn’t care.

He starts fucking you again like he owns you.

The slap of skin echoes in the room, wet and obscene, his cock pounding into your raw pussy like she’s just a hole to conquer. You don’t even try to move anymore. Your body takes it. Open, obedient, used.

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being my little fucktoy?”

“Yeah, you do. You’re trained now. A good little cocksleeve who comes when she’s told. Cries when she’s full. Cums from being humiliated.”

“I do,” you choke out. “I’m yours—I’m your toy—just your fucktoy—use me—use her—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s what she wanted, isn’t it? Not kindness. Not kisses. Just cock. Just someone to shove it in and remind her she’s nothing but a messy, wet little pussy.”

He thrusts harder. You scream into the sheets.

“She’s so loud,” he snarls. “So fucking wet. She’s gushing. Every time I pull out she cries.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice when you cum again.

It’s raw. Ugly. Loud.

You scream—clawing at the sheets, nails ripping fabric, your body wracked with spasms as you squirt all over his cock, wet exploding out of you in waves, soaking the bed, your stomach, your thighs. You can’t stop it. You don’t want to.

He fucks you through it—harder.

“Let her break,” he growls. “Let her fucking split.”

And when your body finally collapses, hips falling, spine trembling, Heeseung doesn’t even slow down.

He grabs your hips, hauls you up, and drives in deep one more time—and stays there. His cock pulses inside you. Thick. Hot. Flooding you.

You feel it. You feel his cum shoot deep, thick ropes filling your already ruined pussy until your belly aches with it.

He stays inside. Keeps you cockwarmed, plugged full, hands rubbing down your spine like this is the aftercare.

Not words. Not love. Just being kept full. Like you should be.

You barely breathe. Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth’s open. You feel him lean over you. Feel the slow drag of his lips against your ear.

“You’re not starved anymore,” he whispers. “She’s fed now. Finally.”

You nod. Barely. Weak. Fucked out. His cock twitches.

“She’s still twitching,” he murmurs. “She wants to sleep like this.”

-

You wake up to the burn in your thighs.

The stretch. The ache. That slick-dried, too-sensitive sting between your legs from being filled for hours without a break. Your skin’s flushed. Clammy. You shift slightly under the covers, still half-asleep, and you feel it—him.

Still there. Still inside you.

You blink. Breathe. Try to make sense of your body—but the pressure between your legs is still warm. Your cunt clenches instinctively, and his cock twitches in response.

A slow, deep ache spreads in your gut.

His arm is draped over your waist. His chest is pressed against your back. He’s asleep—soft breaths on your shoulder, jaw resting against the side of your head. And his cock is still buried to the base in your pussy. Warm. Heavy. Plugging you full like it belongs there.

But something else creeps in too.

You lie there for a moment. Silent. Still. Pussy fluttering, heartbeat slowing, and that awful little ache growing in your chest. The one that started the second he pulled away last night. The one that settled into your ribs when you reached for him and he said “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

You swallow. You whisper it before you even think about it.

“Are you really not gonna kiss me?”

It’s soft. Not needy. Just… there.

His breath shifts against your skin. His arm tightens slightly around your waist.

You almost regret asking.

Until he exhales through his nose and mutters, voice rough and low and real, “I’m still fucking inside you, you brat. You think I’m gonna spend the whole night cockwarming my favorite pussy and not kiss her in the morning?”

You twist under him, face flushed, and turn your head over your shoulder—and his mouth is already there.

No hesitation. He kisses you hard.

Mouth slanting over yours, tongue sliding in with no patience, lips full and hot and filthy with morning breath and spit. You moan into it, deep and broken, cunt clenching around his cock again like she’s reacting to the kiss like it’s touch.

His hand grips your jaw, thumb dragging over your cheek as he devours your mouth. He licks into you like he means it—like you’ve earned it—like he’s been wanting to do it since before he ever called you a slut.

You’re whimpering into his mouth when it happens.

Your lips slide against his, sticky with spit, your breath still uneven from how long you spent crying into the pillow, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. He hasn’t pulled out. He’s still inside you. Still twitching, half-hard again already, thick and warm, stretching your still-leaking pussy while your body curls back into him, needy and clingy and soft in a way you didn’t get to be last night.

His hand cups your jaw now. Gentle. Finally. His thumb drags along your lower lip, slow and possessive, like he’s re-learning your mouth after denying it. His tongue pushes into you with unhurried filth, and your hips shift just barely, like your cunt’s trying to pull more of him in. Like she doesn’t even know how to be empty anymore.

And then you hear it.

“Heeseung?”

It’s distant. Not loud. Sleepy. But your blood freezes.

“Hey—have you seen Y/N?”

Evie. She’s awake. The breath dies in your throat.

Your eyes fly open. Heeseung’s hand freezes on your jaw. Your whole body locks. His cock is still deep inside you, softening now, but still heavy. Still leaking. You can feel him dripping down your inner thighs as your brain flips inside out with panic.

“Shit,” you mouth, barely audible.

Heeseung exhales through his nose, calm, but his arm is already tightening around your waist like he’s trying to figure out his next move in real time.

“Y/N?” she calls again. “Where’d you go?”

You scramble out of the bed like you’ve been shot. Legs wobbly. Pussy sore. You trip over the blanket as you reach for your discarded clothes, yanking your hoodie on over your head, trying not to scream as your shorts catch on your ankle. You’re still soaked, your panties still twisted around your thigh from where he shoved them earlier, and you can feel his cum still inside you, wet and hot and fucking obvious.

Heeseung’s already sitting up, dragging his hoodie on, running a hand through his hair to make it look like he just woke up.

You’re panicking. “Do I go back to her room? What do I do—what if she’s in the hallway—?”

Heeseung stands up, grabs your shoulders, kisses your forehead once—quick, mocking, cocky—like this is funny to him.

“Bathroom. Now.”

You sprint for it. Just as he opens his door.

His voice is casual. Sleep-rough.

“Yo.”

“You seen Y/N? I woke up and she wasn’t in bed. Her stuff’s still there though.”

Heeseung stretches in the doorway, voice smooth as fucking silk.

“Nah, haven’t seen her. She probably went to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t text me.”

“She probably didn’t want to wake you.”

You’re crouched in the bathroom, hands over your mouth, hoodie soaked at the hem, thighs still trembling. You glance down and see a smear of his cum on your leg, glistening in the morning light like a neon sign of guilt.

“Whatever. Tell her I’m making pancakes.”

“Will do.”

Door shuts. Heeseung turns, leans into the bathroom, finds you crouched by the sink.

“You owe me.”

You punch his chest.

He grabs your wrist. Kisses it.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, voice low. “You’ll pay me back tonight."

-

It’s early.

Evie’s downstairs making coffee. You can hear the clinking of mugs, the stupid hum of whatever playlist she plays when she’s in a good mood.

You’re in Heeseung’s lap. Hoodie on. No underwear. His back’s against the headboard, his cock deep inside you, and you’re grinding slowly—hips circling, cunt fluttering, hands pressed to his chest to keep yourself upright.

You’re not allowed to bounce. Not allowed to moan.

Just slow, controlled rolls—like you’re milking him without giving yourself away.

“You sound like you want her to know,” he whispers against your throat.

You shake your head. Breathe through your nose. Keep moving.

“Then be quiet, baby. Or I’ll hold your mouth and your hips still, and you won’t cum at all.”

You almost cry. He grabs your ass. Tilts your hips just right.

“If she walks in, you better keep her name off your lips while I fill you up.”

You do. Barely.

You cum with your hand clamped over your mouth, twitching around his cock like you were made for it—and Heeseung cums seconds later, low and quiet, mouth on your collarbone.

Downstairs?

Evie sings along to the chorus.

-

It’s disgusting.

There’s no other word for it.

You’re on all fours, face buried in Heeseung’s mattress, drooling, moaning, thighs trembling with every wet squelch of his fingers plunging into you from behind. His mouth is glued to your cunt, spit running down his chin, tongue working your clit in slow, sloppy laps while one hand spreads you open—and the other, lower, slick with your cum, is rubbing tight circles around your asshole.

You’re whining his name. Filthy. Wordless. Brain-melted.

“Fuck, she’s drooling for it,” he mutters into your pussy. “She wants both. She’s ready. One in her ass, two in her cunt—you wanna be stretched like a proper little hole, huh?”

Your face is soaked. Your body’s trembling. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, slick squelching with every slow drag in and out. Your rim clenches, raw and wet from the friction. You try to answer, but all that comes out is a pathetic sob.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she wants.”

“I want it,” you gasp, voice cracking. “I want you to open my ass—wanna be full, wanna cum like a fucktoy—please—please—”

And then—

“Y/N?”

You hear your name like it’s being spoken through a tunnel.

You freeze.

Every muscle in your body locks.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

You can feel his tongue hovering right at your clit. His finger is still circling your asshole.

And then you both look up.

In the doorway. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

Evie.

Her face doesn’t go red. It goes white. Like her blood just dropped to her feet.

She stares at your body—at your back arched, knees wide, your ass open, Heeseung’s hand buried between your cheeks, your best friend’s brother with his mouth on you and your spit in his beard.

And then she gags. Audibly. Violently.

Her whole body jolts forward like she’s about to puke right there in the hallway.

“Oh my—fucking—god—” she chokes. “What the—what the FUCK—”

She turns. Presses her palm to the wall. Leans into it. Her other hand clamps over her mouth and you see her shoulders jerk. Once. Twice. A horrible, broken sound crawls out of her throat.

“No—no—no—no, no, no—”

She’s panicking.

Can’t breathe. Her body is shaking so hard you think she might collapse.

“Evie—” you start, voice already wet. “Evie, please—please just listen—”

“DON’T.”

The scream hits like a slap.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t—don’t even say my fucking name—”

You’re sobbing now. Reaching for the blanket. Falling off the bed. Barely able to pull your hoodie down over your sticky, twitching body.

Heeseung moves. Not fast enough. Still shirtless. Still hard. His fingers still glistening.

“Heejoo—”

“DON’T. CALL ME THAT.” Her voice is shrill, raw, wrecked. “You’re my fucking brother.”

She looks at you. Like she doesn’t even know you.

And then her expression cracks completely.

Her face contorts—pain, betrayal, disgust, hatred—all in one devastating collapse.

“You were inside her,” she whispers, and her voice breaks. “You had your—your—you were licking her while you were fingering her ass—”

“You’re both fucking insane.”

You crawl toward her. Not thinking. Just begging. Your knees burn. Your hands shake.

“Evie—please—please just let me explain—”

She flinches.

Flinches.

Like your voice touched her skin. Then she goes still. Her breathing slows. Her hands drop to her sides.

She looks empty.

“Don’t come near me.”

Her voice is flat now. Robotic.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even fucking breathe in my direction.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. She steps back.

Looks at Heeseung. Then at you.

“You’re both dead to me.”

-

​​You don’t remember the walk home.

You don’t remember grabbing your phone, or leaving the house, or what the weather was like. You don’t remember how long you cried, or how many people stared, or how fucking long it took for the heat between your legs to fade into something cold and ugly. You just remember sitting on your bedroom floor—hoodie still wet between your thighs, your underwear balled up in your pocket—and trying to breathe without choking on it.

Because it doesn’t stop. The image. Her face.

Evie, hand over her mouth. Evie, gagging. Evie, stepping back like you were something dirty.

She meant it. Every word.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t fucking breathe in my direction.”

She meant it.

You try to text her that night. You don’t even know what to say. There are three different messages in your drafts: one with just her name. One that says “I’m sorry.” One that says nothing at all.

They don’t send. You’ve been blocked.

He doesn’t text either. You don’t even know if he can.

The silence is so big it feels like a second death. You lie in bed every night with your phone face-up on your pillow, waiting for it to light up with anything. A call. A voice note. Just a name.

It never comes.

But you still feel him. In your body. In your bones.

Every time you try to sleep, your body curls like it’s expecting to be filled.

Some nights you wake up sweating—panting, pussy twitching—because you dreamed of his voice again.

You still miss him. Even after all of it. Even after how it ended.

Even after Evie’s face broke in half at the sight of you—wet, spread open, her brother’s finger sliding into your ass while you begged for more.

You still miss him. And that’s the part that makes you sick.

-

It’s been nearly two weeks since you watched Evie recoil in that doorway, hand clamped over her mouth like she was actually going to vomit.

You can’t erase the memory of her face—how disgust bled into betrayal, how her gaze slid right past you like you didn’t exist, then landed on Heeseung as if he were some twisted stranger in her own home. You tried to bury the image, tried to make it small and unimportant, but it lives in your chest now, swelling every time you breathe.

You haven’t talked to either of them since. Not one word to her, not a single text to him.

It’s as if the world paused on that moment: her voice ripping through the room, your body half-naked, his spit drying on your thighs, your stomach churning with guilt.

Now the doorbell rings, and somehow you already know who’s on the other side.

You open it slowly, hesitation weighing on every movement of your hand.

Heeseung stands there in a wrinkled hoodie, dark circles stamped beneath his eyes. He looks thinner—like the shape of him has caved in from the inside out. His hair is unstyled, his shoulders hunched, and the way he stares at you feels desperate.

Neither of you speak for a few seconds, the silence pressing into your lungs.

Then you break it, because you can’t handle him looking at you like that. “Why are you here?” Your voice comes out flat, echoing the numbness you’ve been living in.

Heeseung swallows, gaze skittering between your face and the ground.

“I had to see you.”

The words feel like they’re meant to fix something, but all they do is twist the knife. You give a hollow laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“You already saw enough.”

He exhales shakily, bringing a hand up to scrub at the back of his neck.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I know that’s not—there’s nothing I can—” He trails off, struggling, guilt carved into every line of his face. When he finally speaks again, his voice strains.

“You think we haven’t replayed it a hundred fucking times?” he asks. “The door. The blanket. You moaning. Me—God—we were still fucking with each other right there, even when she—”

“Stop.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t say it.”

“We saw her face,” his voice keeps going, low and fast and pained. “We saw it, and we still didn’t stop, like fucking animals. I see it every time I close my eyes. I hear her say my name like I was never hers, like you were never her friend.”

You speak,

“I can’t look at you without hearing her gag.”

The confession slashes the air, and his lips part like you’ve slapped him.

“I can’t hear your name without remembering what it felt like to be in her house, in her family, doing… that, while she thought I was asleep down the hall.”

For a moment, neither of you breathe. Then he forces himself to speak, voice cracking.

“I know. I fucking know, and I hate that we didn’t let go even when we heard her. I hate that she looked at us like we were monsters. I hate that part of me still wanted to stay inside you, and part of you still wanted me there, when we should’ve both stopped.”

You close your eyes, replaying Evie’s strangled gasp in your head, recalling the numb disbelief that followed when she told you not to speak, not to look, not to fucking breathe in her direction.

“I can’t talk to you,” you whisper, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I can’t even hear your name without feeling sick.”

He swallows and nods, like he’s been waiting for those exact words. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he’s about to shatter. “I won’t—if you never want to see me again, I understand.” He drags in a breath that rattles in his chest. “I just needed to know you were… alive.”

For a moment, you want to ask him if he’s okay too, if he’s been eating or sleeping, if he wakes up sweating like you do. But you lock it down, because you can’t afford to care right now.

“Well,” you say, and your voice is colder than you intend, “now you’ve seen me. Congratulations.”

A faint tremor passes through him, and he nods once. There’s nothing else. No lecture, no pleading. He just steps back, shoulders slumped, and turns away.

-

It happens in the grocery store, of all places. You’re pushing a half-empty cart down the cereal aisle, trying not to think about how much quieter life has been since you lost your best friend and the boy you broke her heart with. You’re scanning the shelves for something to distract you when you catch sight of a familiar figure at the other end of the row. 

Your heart lurches, your fingers tightening on the cart handle as your stomach flips. 

Because there, frowning at the boxes of cereal, is Evie—or Heejoo, or however she wants to be called now. You don’t have time to decide whether you should turn and run or force a hollow smile. She glances up, and your eyes meet. Neither of you moves.

 The aisle feels too narrow. Her cart sits between you, an invisible barrier.

She looks different—her hair is shorter or maybe just pulled back in a careless ponytail, dark smudges under her eyes, shoulders tense. She seems hollowed out in the same way you feel. 

Some part of you wants to say hey or I miss you or please talk to me, but the words dissolve in your throat. She’s the one who steps forward first, letting her cart roll behind her. Her heels click on the tile, echoing your every heartbeat.

“Having fun?” she asks, and it doesn’t sound like a question so much as a thinly-veiled jab.

You grip the handle of your cart, mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

“Evie—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, eyes flicking away like the name itself stings. “You don’t get to pretend we’re okay. You don’t get to act like we’re still friends.”

Her arms fold across her chest, nostrils flaring with each breath, and you feel your own pulse jump in your neck. “I—I’m sorry,” you manage, voice trembling. It’s not enough, you know that.

She scoffs, a breathy, humorless sound. “That’s it? You’re sorry? You think that magically fixes everything?” She gestures sharply, and you notice how tightly she’s clenching her fists. “You screwed around with my brother like it was nothing, and I walked in on—” Her voice breaks, face twisting as she fights off the memory. “I was just the idiot friend who never saw it coming, right?”

Shame flares in your cheeks. You hold your ground, though it hurts to meet her eyes. “I know I betrayed you,” you say. “We—God, I don’t even have the words for how messed up it was. We both knew better. We both let it happen.”

Her hand lifts to cut you off, shaking with the effort. “You think it’s just that you hurt me?” Her voice wobbles between anger and heartbreak. “You hurt him too, you realize that? He was my brother, you were my best friend, and you both blew yourselves up in front of me. Like you had no idea what it would cost.”

Your stomach knots in a way you haven’t felt before. She’s right. It wasn’t just her—it wasn’t just you. It was all three of you, tangling and twisting until it snapped. “I know,” you say more quietly. “And we’re all paying for it. He’s… he’s not okay. I’m not okay. And you’re definitely not okay. There’s no part of this that isn’t broken.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Do you think that helps? Hearing you say it’s broken doesn’t change the fact that I can’t even look at either of you without wanting to scream.”

You bow your head, voice almost inaudible. “I wish I could take it back.”

She swallows, and for a fraction of a second, the hostility in her eyes flickers with pain. “Well, you can’t.” Her grip tightens on the cart handle until her knuckles whiten, and she exhales shakily. 

“I want my brother back, you know. I want my friend back. But I don’t get either of those things, because you two decided to… to destroy what we had.”

Your throat closes up, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She stares for another few seconds, jaw clenched as she holds herself together. Then she moves around you, snatching her cart by the handle, the wheels squeaking in protest. 

“Enjoy the produce,” she mutters under her breath, voice dripping with bitterness as she passes.

-

It doesn’t happen overnight.

 There’s no single conversation that wipes the slate clean, no perfect gesture that makes Evie’s betrayal vanish, no magic wand that repairs the gaping wound in your chest. 

But over time—slow, grudging, step by hesitant step—you all begin to realize that staying in this darkness is killing you. Staying strangers, orbiting the same guilt without looking one another in the eye, is worse than facing the truth. And that truth is messy, fragile, and riddled with scars.

It begins with Evie texting you, late at night, a week after the grocery store encounter. 

Just three words: We need to talk.

You stare at the screen for a solid minute, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of your chest. 

Your hands shake as you reply, Yeah, okay. 

That’s all. No apology, no second-guessing, just acceptance. You wait for her to say when or where, but she doesn’t text back until the next afternoon, telling you to meet her at the park near her house. 

And then she clarifies: Just you.

You show up after sunset, nerves jangling in every limb, expecting hostility, or silence, or both. 

Instead, you find Evie sitting on a faded wooden bench under a flickering streetlight. She looks smaller than you remember, knees drawn up under her chin, arms hugging herself for warmth. As you approach, you open your mouth to say something—anything—but she holds up a hand, shaking her head.

“Don’t,” she says, voice tight. “Not yet.”

You stand there, awkward and guilty, waiting for her permission to speak.

She lowers her hand and sighs, staring at a patch of dead grass near her feet. “I asked you here because… this is killing me,” she mutters. “Being this angry all the time. Hating you. Hating him. I can’t keep up with it. It’s turning me into someone I don’t recognize.”

Her words break something inside your chest, and your throat goes thick. You sit down on the far edge of the bench, leaving a wide space between you, unsure if you’re allowed to be any closer. “I… I know,” you manage, voice unsteady. “I feel it too. It’s like I’m rotting on the inside.”

She nods once, gaze flicking to you before sliding away again. “I’m not saying I forgive you,” she warns, and you nod, heart pounding. “I’m just saying I don’t want this to be my life anymore. This—rage. It’s not me.”

She exhales, shoulders curling inward. “And I loved you. You were my best friend. And he… he’s my brother, and I loved him too. So how did we all end up here?”

Silence lingers. You fight back tears that threaten to spill. 

“We messed up,” you whisper, voice cracking. “We both did. Me and him. We used your house, your trust, your everything for our own messed-up… needs, and it was stupid and selfish and we ended up shattering everything.” You swallow a lump in your throat. “I know none of that fixes it. But I swear to you, we never wanted to hurt you.”

Evie laughs bitterly, a hollow sound. “Well, you did. And I can’t pretend you didn’t.” 

Her gaze shifts to the distance, to the halo of light under the streetlamp. “But I don’t know if I can keep hating you. Or him.” 

She hesitates, words coming out slow. “I saw him last week. He looked—God, I hardly recognized him. Like a ghost of himself.”

You nod, biting back the urge to defend him or to ask a dozen questions. “He’s… not doing great,” you say simply, remembering his hollow cheeks, the way his voice cracked when he said he couldn’t sleep.

She wraps her arms tighter around herself, rocking slightly. “Neither are we,” she points out. “None of us are okay. And I guess that’s what I’m realizing. That we’re all stuck in the same crater, staring at the same wreckage. Maybe we shouldn’t be trying to fix it on our own.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears. “What do you want to do?” you ask, feeling the weight of her words press into your chest.

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she looks directly at you, tears shimmering at the edges of her eyes. “I want us to talk,” she says. “All three of us. In one place. I want us to put it all on the table, no hiding, no running out. Because if there’s any chance of moving forward—together or apart—we have to face it."

“I’ll text him,” she says, voice ragged. “Don’t expect miracles. But I can’t do this alone.”

A teardrop escapes your lashes and slips down your cheek. “Neither can I,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t respond, just stands up and motions for you to follow. 

-

Evie’s living room is dimly lit, and the air feels thicker than it should—as if everything you’ve said to each other in the last hour is still hovering in the space between. Outside, it’s already dark, the muffled hum of passing cars bleeding in through the windows. You’re all drained—physically, emotionally—yet no one moves to leave. Not yet. It’s not finished.

Evie is perched on the armchair, knees drawn close to her chest. You’re on one end of the couch, Heeseung on the other, and there’s still a gulf of guilt and confusion separating you. But you can feel the conversation building toward something bigger than apologies or confessions of regret.

Evie tugs at the sleeves of her sweater. She glances between you and her brother, mouth pinched tight, but her voice is gentler than before.

“I’m not pretending this is easy,” she begins, clearing her throat. “We’ve all hurt each other. I just want to know what you… what you both actually feel.” Her gaze settles on you, question clear in her eyes. “Do you two even care about each other beyond… beyond whatever it was you were doing?”

You swallow, your mouth dry. This is the moment you’ve been pushing down for weeks, refusing to think about. The reason you woke up gasping sometimes, alone in your bed, missing a warmth you never should have craved in the first place. You take a shaky breath, feeling your pulse hammer in your temples.

“I—” you begin, then stop. Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to speak. “I’m in love with him.”

It comes out bare, unpolished, stripped of excuses. You feel the words echo in your chest, leaving you vulnerable. Across the room, Evie’s eyes widen for half a second, and you can see her guard tighten, just a bit.

Heeseung exhales sharply, his head snapping up. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead, you focus on the floor, heart pounding.

“I know,” you continue, voice trembling, “that he might not feel the same way. I know we started this all wrong, that I messed up your trust, that I hurt you”—you glance at Evie—“and maybe I don’t deserve a happy ending. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t love him just because I’m ashamed of how we got here.”

Evie inhales like she’s bracing for another blow, her arms tightening around her knees.

“You’re saying you love him, even if he doesn’t love you back?” she asks, carefully, like she’s afraid of the answer.

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been caged in your ribs for months.

“Yes. It’s not… it’s not his responsibility. If it’s one-sided, that’s on me.” You glance fleetingly at Heeseung, face flushing. “I don’t expect anything from him, or from you. I just—” Your voice cracks. “I needed to say it out loud.”

Silence envelops the room, charged with tension. Heeseung is staring at you, eyes wide and glossy, like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. Evie shifts, chewing on the inside of her lip.

Heeseung finally speaks, voice rough.

“You… love me?”

You manage a small, trembling nod. “I do,” you say, meeting his gaze at last. “And if you don’t love me back, that’s okay. I know how messed up this is. I’m ready to… to accept that.”

He looks startled, as if no part of him expected you to be okay with that possibility. His hands flex on his knees, knuckles blanching. Then he breathes out, shoulders sagging.

“God,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievably stupid.”

You flinch, heart jolting—though there’s no real malice in his tone, only a shaky awe and raw disbelief that seems to be tying him in knots. He forces himself to meet Evie’s eyes for a flicker of a second, as if silently asking for permission to go on.

“Don’t call her that,” Evie snaps, voice quivering at the edges. She fixes him with a sharp glare, arms folded tight across her chest. “I don’t care how you meant it—she’s not stupid, and you don’t get to insult her in front of me.”

“Shut the fuck up Evie, one second,” He turns to you, “Because you think I’m not in love with you? That I’d leave you hanging with all this guilt?”

Your heart stutters, the floor tilting under you. “Heeseung…”

“I’m in love with you too,” he says, and the words hang in the air with tangible weight. “I can’t believe you’d be ready to walk away, believing it was one-sided. That you’d… accept it. God, do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you in so much pain, thinking I don’t feel the same?”

A soft sound escapes your throat—some blend of relief and shock—and tears gather at the edges of your vision. Across the room, Evie exhales shakily, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. You can see the swirl of emotions crossing her features: anger, hurt, jealousy, and underneath it all, a lingering care for you both.

Heeseung scrubs a hand over his face, then looks to Evie, voice trembling.

“I love her. I know I messed up. We messed up. We never should’ve lied. But I can’t take back how I feel.”

Evie drags in a deep breath. She pushes herself up from the armchair, pacing a short line across the living room. Her head is down, hands in her hair. When she finally looks at you both, there’s pain in her eyes, but not the same raw fury as before.

“Jesus,” she mutters. “You two…” She chews the inside of her cheek. “I hate what you did. I hate how you did it. But if you love each other—really love each other—I can’t tell you not to.”

 Her shoulders slump. “I want to be angry forever, but… seeing you like this, I—” She presses her lips together, tears brimming, then sets her jaw. “I guess I just want us to find a way to exist without destroying each other.”

A thick silence fills the space. Your chest feels ready to burst from conflicting emotions—gratitude, guilt, longing, terror. You look at Evie and see the ghost of the best friend you once knew, who might be willing to stand beside you again one day, even if it won’t ever be the same.

You open your mouth.

“I know it won’t be easy,” you say softly. “I don’t expect you to forgive everything in one night. But maybe… maybe we can start moving forward?”

Evie dashes a tear off her cheek and gives a tiny nod.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe.”

Heeseung watches her, watches you, then rises from the couch. He hesitates, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you. You stand up, heart pounding, and drift closer. Neither of you quite meets in the middle, leaving a careful gap where all your remorse hangs. But it’s less than before.

Evie clears her throat, hugging herself.

“I can’t stay down here with you two being… whatever you are. I need time, okay?”

You nod quickly.

“Of course.”

Heeseung nods as well, voice soft.

“Anything you need.”

She steps back, wiping her eyes, and there’s a hint of a weary smile ghosting across her face, like she’s relieved but not sure how to show it.

“You two can talk, or… or go, or do whatever. I just…” Her breath catches. “I’m gonna go upstairs. That’s all I can handle right now.”

You don’t stop her.

Then you turn to him, tears slipping down your cheeks, a tremulous hope fluttering in your chest. He lifts a hand—tentative, like he’s scared to break you—and cups your cheek, thumb brushing your damp skin.

He exhales shakily.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words raw with emotion. “I’m sorry for everything.”

You nod, voice catching in your throat as you rest your hand over his.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “But I love you, and maybe… that’s something we can start with.”

His eyes close in something like relief, and he presses a soft, uncertain kiss to your temple. It isn’t a triumphant moment, not the kind of romantic victory you might’ve once imagined. It’s tender, laced with guilt and fear. But it’s also real—genuine and fragile, the only piece of warmth you’ve had in a long time.

-

Things shift slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. You and Heeseung start keeping your distance whenever Evie’s around—no subtle hand-holding, no lingering touches, certainly no sneaking off to lock yourselves behind the nearest door. 

It’s not that you’re ashamed of each other; it’s that you can’t stand the thought of rubbing your relationship in her face. You both know you’re lucky she’s even letting you in the same room without storming out.

So you dial it back. You let your bodies stop running the show. 

It’s harder than you expect—he still sets your nerves on fire by simply looking at you—but you remind yourself that Evie’s feelings matter, that you owe her more than just half-hearted consideration. You give her space, which means giving yourselves space too. 

No sex. No heavy make-out sessions. No pressed-up-against-a-wall confessions. Just… time and gentle contact.

Heeseung seems as restless as you. 

Sometimes, when it’s late and you’re on a phone call—whispering so Evie won’t hear through the walls—he sounds downright desperate. 

You can hear his breath catch when you say you miss him, can practically feel the tension radiating through the receiver. 

Yet both of you agree: this is how it has to be for now. If you want Evie to believe that what you have is more than just an addiction to each other’s bodies, you need to show her you can exist outside a bed.

So you go on dates. Real dates. Movie theaters, yes, but also bookstore trips, late-night drives to nowhere, strolling through a local fair when it rolls into town. 

You hold hands only if you’re well away from Evie’s neighborhood—fearful that any small sign of affection might break the thin thread of tolerance she’s extended. 

The first time you walk along the riverside in the evening, sipping cheap coffee from a convenience store, it hits you that you’ve never really done this part before: the tentative, day-to-day romance of building a real relationship. It’s both comforting and nerve-wracking. 

You can feel the charge sparking under your skin every time he smiles at you, like you’re seconds away from losing your careful resolve. 

But you don’t. Neither of you wants to risk undoing the fragile progress with Evie.

And that progress is slow, but present. 

She doesn’t cringe as much when you and Heeseung enter a room together. 

She no longer flinches if you happen to stand on the same side of the kitchen.

 Maybe sometimes she rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t snap. You see the tension in her shoulders when you’re all in the same space, though—like she’s bracing for some new betrayal. 

You can’t blame her. You still offer to leave the moment you sense her discomfort rising. Surprisingly, she’s started telling you to stay.

But the real sign that things might be healing comes one weekend night when Evie texts you, out of the blue:

Girls’ night?

She doesn’t dress it up with a cute emoji or an explanation; it’s bare bones, almost clinical. And you stare at your phone with your heart hammering, wondering if this is a test, or maybe a begrudging olive branch. 

You answer with a shaky yes, and spend the next few hours trying not to read too much into it. You tell Heeseung you’ll be hanging out with Evie, and he just smiles—wide and genuine, telling you to have fun, to text him if you need anything.

Evie’s room hasn’t changed much since the night you snuck out of it to see Heeseung. The layout is the same, the posters the same, the bedspread the same. It all feels loaded with history. 

She sits cross-legged on her bed, handing you a soda—no alcohol tonight, no false bravado. You sense she wants you both stone-cold sober for whatever might be said. 

There’s an awkward pause, and then she gestures for you to sit, too.

For a while, conversation comes in bursts: updates about random classmates, stories from her day at work, small talk about the show you both used to binge-watch together. It’s stiff, but not hostile. 

She picks at her blanket, and you notice how she won’t hold your gaze for too long. Yet each minute that passes without snapping or bitterness feels like a victory.

Eventually, she slides a bag of nail polish across the bed toward you. “You, um… you still like doing this, right? It’s been a while,” she mumbles, glancing at your nails. 

It’s such a small gesture, but it makes your throat tighten. You nod, and she exhales something that might be relief. 

For a solid hour, the two of you paint and chatter, as if practicing how to be friends again. Her shoulders are less rigid. You’re careful not to misstep. Neither of you mentions Heeseung.

At least not directly. But you feel his presence in the air, the unspoken pivot point around which your every interaction revolves. It’s only when Evie finally fixes you with a long, assessing look, half-concern and half-uncertainty, that the moment arrives.

“Are you two, like… okay?” she asks. Her voice is laced with discomfort, but there’s no hatred in it. “You said no more sneaking around. But are you—happy?”

You swallow hard, carefully blowing on your newly painted nails. “We’re… doing our best,” you say. “Trying to be good for each other. Not just physically.”

She nods, lips twisting like she’s turning over your words in her mind. “I guess… that’s what I wanted to know,” she admits softly. “It still weirds me out sometimes, but I’d rather it matter to you than be some… fling.”

A wave of gratitude surges in your chest, making it hard to speak. You nod. “It matters,” you whisper. “I swear.”

She blinks a few times, then sets her nail polish aside. The tension in her shoulders relaxes just enough that her spine curves against the headboard, more comfortable than you’ve seen her in weeks. “Good,” she murmurs, tone stilted but earnest. “Don’t… don’t make me regret trying to rebuild this, okay?”

Your own shoulders slump in relief. “I won’t,” you promise. Your voice shakes with the weight of it. “And if I ever do, you can—and should—kick my ass.”

That draws a small, genuine laugh from her—a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like ages. She nods, letting the humor fill the space that was once suffocating with tension. “Deal,” she says.

You stay up later than expected—talking about nonsense, painting your nails in mismatched colors, occasionally lapsing into awkward silences. 

But each time, one of you breaks it before the air can go stale. By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve settled into a strange new normal: not quite what you were before the betrayal, but not strangers anymore. Something between you is mending, fragile but real.

When you leave, she walks you to the front door. It’s still weird, stepping out into the hallway where so much damage happened. 

But Evie’s behind you, not in front, and you can’t help feeling that the dynamic has changed in a way that actually might last. You glance back at her, and though she still looks tired, she doesn’t look hostile or betrayed. Maybe just… cautious. It’s enough.

“Night,” she says, one hand resting on the doorknob.

“Night,” you reply, voice quiet. “Thanks, again.”

She nods and closes the door gently behind you—no slamming, no huffing. Just a simple, private goodbye.

 As you slip into the night, you realize you’re smiling, mind already whirring with what you’ll tell Heeseung when you see him next. You catch yourself wondering if you’ll meet up for another date soon. Or if you’ll just call him on the way home, excitedly spilling the details of your slow but tangible progress with Evie.

-

The new place is barely furnished. A couch that’s still covered in plastic. A mattress on the floor. Takeout containers littering the kitchen counter. The floorboards creak with every step. The windows are wide open, and there are no curtains yet. It’s not home—not really—but it’s his. 

And most importantly, it’s finally, blessedly, fucking private.

When he opens the door and lets you in, he doesn’t kiss you right away. He just watches you step inside like you’re something he’s trying to memorize. His hands stay in the pocket of his hoodie. His jaw’s tight. His eyes flicker to the bag in your hand, then to your shoes, then up your legs so slowly it makes you feel exposed even though you’re still fully dressed.

You don’t say anything at first. You set the wine down on the counter. You take in the space—empty and echoing—but your skin’s already buzzing. You hear the door close behind you with a soft click, and something shifts.

He clears his throat.

“I haven’t kissed you yet,” he says, voice low. “Not really.”

You turn to look at him. “No.”

There’s a beat.

“Can I?”

You nod.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

His hands are on your face before you can blink, warm and rough and needing. The kiss starts soft, but only for a breath. Then it turns—hungry, desperate, filthy. Your back hits the counter with a thud, his tongue already in your mouth, his body pressing into yours like he’s trying to crawl inside you through your lips.

You moan into him, and he groans, deep in his throat, like the sound broke whatever shred of self-control he was hanging onto.

“You have no idea,” he pants, mouth hot against your jaw, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you in peace.”

Your shirt’s pulled up before you can answer, his mouth already sucking marks down your neck. His hands are everywhere—gripping your tits through your bra, unbuttoning your jeans, fingers slipping into your waistband like he owns the place. Like he owns you.

You gasp as his hand slides between your legs, cupping you through your underwear, his breath catching when he feels the heat there.

“Already wet?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Fucking knew it.”

He yanks your jeans down to your ankles, then sinks to his knees on the kitchen tile without another word. His hands push your legs apart, pulling one up to rest over his shoulder. And when his mouth presses to the soaked fabric of your panties, you cry out—sharp, helpless, needy.

“You wore these knowing I’d take them off with my teeth, didn’t you?” he growls, dragging the fabric aside with his nose, his tongue already lapping through your folds like he’s been waiting for this for months.

You can barely breathe. One hand flies to the counter for balance, the other fists in his hair. He licks you with obscene, wet sounds, groaning into your pussy like the taste is sending him over the edge. You grind against his face shamelessly, whining when he flattens his tongue and drags it up through your slit, over and over again.

“Fuck, Heeseung—please—”

He pulls back just enough to spit directly on your clit. “What do you need, baby?” he pants, thumb spreading it around with tight, deliberate pressure. “You want me to make you cum with my mouth like a good little whore? Is that it?”

You nod frantically, hips rocking against his hand.

“I missed this pussy,” he mutters, diving back in. “Missed how fucking loud she is.”

And she is. Your pussy’s wet, sloppy, noisy, every flick of his tongue echoing off the bare walls. You cum hard, legs shaking around his shoulders, crying out his name as your vision blurs.

But he’s not done.

He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabs you by the waist and turns you around, bending you over the counter.

“No more pretending,” he growls in your ear. “No more quiet. You’re gonna scream for me this time.”

He pulls your panties down and spreads you open, groaning like a man unhinged.

“God, you’re dripping. You fucking missed this too, didn’t you?”

You try to answer, but he’s already stroking his cock against your folds, rubbing the head through the mess between your legs, smearing it everywhere.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Yes—yes, I missed it—fuck, Heeseung, I missed your cock—”

He sinks into you in one sharp, brutal thrust, and you wail.

No condom. No pause. Just the stretch of him filling you up in one smooth, devastating stroke.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “You’re fucking swallowing me.”

You’re moaning, writhing, drooling onto the counter. He doesn’t start slow. He doesn’t give you time. He fucks you—relentless, pounding, like he’s been waiting to do this since the moment you first touched him.

Your ass slaps against his thighs with every thrust. Your pussy is loud, the kind of wet, messy squelch that would embarrass you if you could think.

He slaps your ass hard, making you jolt forward. “Listen to her,” he growls. “She’s been crying for me.”

You don’t stop him. You beg for more.

He grabs your arms and pulls you back onto him, using your own body to fuck you harder.

“Keep taking it,” he snarls. “Be my good little cumrag, just like you used to be.”

You scream. You scream for him.

You cum again, sobbing into the crook of your arm, your entire body trembling.

He pulls out and flips you around, lifts you up onto the counter again, and kisses you like he’s devouring you from the inside out. Your legs are trembling so hard you can barely hold them up, but he spreads them open and spits straight onto your cunt, rubbing it in with two fingers, moaning when you jolt at the sensitivity.

“Wanna fuck you on the floor next,” he mutters against your lips. “Wanna fuck you on the mattress, on the couch, against every wall. Wanna ruin this apartment with the sound of your pussy screaming for me.”

You grab his face, breath ragged. “Then do it.”

He throws you over his shoulder and carries you to the mattress on the floor, where he fucks you in every position he’s ever imagined. He keeps you cockdrunk and leaking. When your voice gives out, he fucks you in silence. When your legs stop working, he props them up and keeps going. And when he finally cums—inside you, deep, claiming—he doesn’t pull out.

He just collapses on top of you, both of you drenched in sweat and slick and the aftermath of something feral.

You can’t move.

You don’t want to.

You just lie there, shaking, full, used, satisfied in a way that makes you dizzy.

Heeseung kisses your shoulder and whispers against your skin.

“I’m never being patient again.”

-

Seeing you standing in his kitchen donned in that pastel-colored blouse makes Jungkook stop in his tracks; you’re exactly who he needs to wake him up. 

It’s been weeks of vacation, which also means weeks without his usual routine. It’s striking how being absorbed in his work has altered him in that sense - he looks for the stress, for the long hours, for the isolation that’s demanded of his job. Perhaps there was just really nothing to look forward to, and work was an excuse for all those things because there wasn’t much else going for him. Ironic, considering everything he can do with what he has, yet nothing seems to be what he’s looking for, even if deep down, he knows what it is.

This is something that Hoseok and A-yeong made him realize during the trip as he watched them gush about the pretty streets and marvel at the fjords and immerse themselves in the view of the northern lights. 

His cousin, the President of the company who makes decisive decisions and conducts press conferences and signs off on billion won projects, is the same man who squealed during a husky ride in Finland, laughed his butt off when he slipped on a glacier, and muttered words of love to his wife as they all watched the bright evening sky over the lake in Norway. There was so much passion in him, something A-yeong mirrored, whether it was about work or his relationships or just about everything in life. Hoseok looked forward to that trip, to that time with his wife, to that break, to seeing the scenery and feeling peace. 

While Jungkook found himself constantly thinking about the Arts Center and upcoming projects and new design ideas… and the one person who connected him to all those - you. It felt like he was rushing towards something because the achievement was the goal, and while he stopped by the mountains and marveled at the water as he sat on the cliffs, his mind was racing, chasing something that he couldn’t even grasp. 

That’s how the past six years have been. Perhaps more, he thinks. Maybe 20. He’s never allowed himself to just be. Quite frankly, he doesn’t know who he is outside of what he does; he doesn’t know much of how he is outside of being an executive and heir, and so during the moments when he isn’t functioning as such, he’s a bit lost, just existing in a place he’s visiting, not knowing how to interact, how to breathe; not knowing how to connect or to be free.

You’re the bright spot amidst it all. With you around, he still seems to be wandering while stuck in a certain spot, but he’s not alone because you’re there. With you around, there’s a sense of calmness somehow, with your smile and your presence warming the coldest parts of him that he’s left untouched and unfeeling for years.

So when he walks towards you, his eyes fully opening now to see you better, he hums in satisfaction. 

“It’s nice to see you again,” he says, prompting you to turn around. “It feels like it’s been so long.”

“Really, Mr. Jeon? I thought the three weeks felt fast,” you giggle. “But it’s nice to see you, too. Were you able to rest out there?”

“Somehow,” he replies, taking the glass of water you give him.

“Is that why you passed on your morning workout to sleep in?” You raise an eyebrow, thinking that he’d slept in when you walked into his penthouse earlier without the usual sounds from the gym that you’d gotten used to.

“I was pretty jet lagged,” he groans. “Couldn’t sleep so I did it last night to tire myself out and then I finally fell asleep three hours ago. It’s a miracle I woke up after the tenth snooze of my alarm.”

“Ooh, that is not good, considering all the documents on your desks and messages on your inbox,” you shake your head. “What if I move the team meeting to tomorrow so you don’t push yourself too hard today? You could’ve taken the day off.”

“And have a worse day tomorrow? No thanks,” he chuckles. “I’m fine, but I agree with moving the meeting.”

“Just take it slow,” you advise. “I brought some pastries because I know your fridge and pantry are empty. I’ll get them ready shortly.”

“I’ll wash up then.”

You follow not long after, preparing his outfits for the second half of the week, then setting out the breakfast for both of you. He returns to the kitchen wearing the brown suit you chose for today, looking just as handsome as you remember. You fix his tie like you always do and meet his eyes like it’s reflex, the warmth bubbling within you when he returns your soft smile. You take your seat a chair away, taking your iPad after to start going through updates when he stops you.

“Not yet, please. My mind’s still half asleep.”

“Okay, sir,” you respond. “We can talk about your trip instead. How was it?”

Jungkook finds himself more engaged in telling you about it, not like how he was when his best friends met him for dinner last night and he was too tired to narrate how it went. But you ask with such excitement that he ends up sharing more than what he planned.

He talks about the Vikings museum and historical tours, the bike rides and coastal walks, the calm but lively cities and the breathtaking waterfalls. He even mentions the things he’d only kept to himself - like that one evening when the sky looked like one of Lee Jaemin’s paintings that had him staying at the balcony with a glass of wine while basking in its beauty, and when they were in Hans Christian Andersen’s hometown and he wondered what kind of fairytale character he would be, and that he learned he really enjoys hot springs during the winter. They’re random thoughts that he just ended up saying, somehow feeling natural and comfortable in sharing them with you. 

You indulge him, asking more and sharing your thoughts, too. You even throw in the occasional teasing remark and playful laughter. You ask about the scenery, expressing your yearning for the outdoors that you said you never really appreciated before, as the open space always overwhelmed you.

He passes you his iPad where he’s opened the folder of the photos that he took with his camera, a gift from Taehyung who’d said that Jungkook needed to go out more and “feel the sun.” He rarely used it but a Northern Europe trip seemed like the perfect excuse. He’s used to assessing interiors and marveling at structures from afar, but this time he got to appreciate what lies beyond his walls, beyond the little world he’s been burrowing himself in.

“These are stunning, Jungkook,” you gush, dropping the formalities as he shares something that feels so personal. “I didn’t know you had the talent for photography, too.”

“I wouldn’t call it a talent,” he shakes his head. “I took it as an elective during university and it helps with design ideas. I should at least take nice photos if I need inspiration or a basis. I don’t really do it much, though.” 

“Did it make you feel good, at least?” You ask, wondering what else gives him satisfaction.

“Somehow. It makes me feel good when I’m looking at the pictures. I’m transported to that day and that place again, like a holder of memories and desire for the good things.”

You go through the photos - dozens of them. He didn’t take too many, just one or two shots of every scenery. Beyond the majestic landscape, there are the everyday scenes - people talking at a cafe, strangers enjoying the park. There’s a couple holding hands, laughing at each other; from the silhouettes, you can tell they’re Hoseok and A-yeong, a moment that Jungkook probably thought too precious to not capture. 

Something in you stirs, as the photos elicit a mix of awe and yearning. You look at Jungkook and you think it’s what he felt, too. 

There’s a saying you heard about watching what people photograph to learn what they fear losing. With Jungkook, it seems as if these - freedom, tranquility, connection, intimacy - are things he wants; somehow they seem to be what he fears having. 

“It’s nice to have a keeper of good memories, isn’t it? Of that reminder that beautiful things exist and that they’re tangible, you know?” You say, returning his gadget. 

“It is,” he responds after a beat of silence, seemingly processing your words. “We forget sometimes. Or maybe, we just don’t know what that’s like. In that case it’s like an illusion. But it’s still good to have that, I guess. It’s still something.”

You don’t know what more could be said. It feels too personal or even intimate of a conversation to have with your boss on a Wednesday morning as you eat breakfast in his apartment. So you let it go, smiling as you say you’re glad he got to have some rest. 

He says that so does he and then asks about how your holiday was as you both head to the car. You talk about it during the ride, how you spent a week in Wando with your mother’s partner’s family and then drove to Jeonju, how the entirety of your break had you stuffing your face with food and bonding with them, and how they drove you back to Seoul last weekend, thankful that for those two weeks, they had you around.

You don’t tell Jungkook that some days, you’d think of him, wondering how he’s doing. You don’t tell him that you’d seen A-yeong’s posts and that he looked at peace in them, that there was a softness in his eyes that you’ve rarely seen on him. You don’t tell him that despite the vacation that you said you were looking forward to, you were also looking forward to this - having him back, sharing stories, and living in the silence alongside him.

You wonder, as you glance at him looking out the window, if this is what you meant about savoring the moment, enjoying what’s in front of you, and feeling less alone. Because right now, those are exactly what you feel. 

Jungkook wanted to wait to get to the office before proceeding to work matters, something that surprises you because he always gets down to business immediately, not unless he’s recovering from a hangover. But he blew you off even in the car, wanting instead to listen to your stories and then doodle on his leather notebook again for the rest of the ride. You end up meeting with him for an hour before he settles in, then he goes to lunch with his father, meets with your team, and then decides to visit the Arts Center mid-afternoon. 

Work is back in full-swing just like that, and you pull the energy from within you to manage the crazy week. There are start-of-the-year events to attend and organize, a board report and meeting to prepare for, new projects to initiate, and a major one to monitor. 

You’re glad that despite all that, Jungkook allows you to have a four-day off on the succeeding week so you can celebrate your birthday with a road trip down coastal towns with Jimin and Soomin. It’s a silly thing to do in the middle of winter, but they insist that warmth is most satisfying when it’s cold outside, and you don’t disagree. You’ll definitely be sighing in relief when you hold the steaming hot hotteok in between your hands, and it’ll be the best one you’ll have. 

It’s Thursday and you’ll be back in a week. You’ve just finished briefing Do-hyun, who’ll be covering for you while you’re away, and you get off your chair to grab tea in the pantry. Jungkook’s voice stops as you, as he stands by his door and asks if you’re already leaving.

“In an hour, Mr. Jeon,” you reply. “Is there anything I can help you with until then?”

“No, nothing,” he says. “I’m actually about to leave for dinner with Taehyung and Seokjin.”

“Oh, alright, sir,” you hum. “Goodbye, then. And I’ll see you next week. Just know that you’re the only one who can disturb me.”

He laughs in response. “Come on, I won’t be badgering you, especially on your birthday. It’s your one week away from me. You have to savor it.”

“So should you,” you counter. “But okay. I will.”

“Good,” he nods. “I’ll just fix up and go ahead then.”

He returns to his room and you’re just the tiniest bit disappointed that he didn’t properly greet you but you suppose that’s good for you. So you go to the pantry and end up chit-chatting with the team, finding yourself smiling when you look up and see Jungkook by the door, who tells everyone not to stay too late before he heads out. 

You arrive back at your desk, your heart beating fast at the sight of a small brown bag on your table. 

For your trip. Something to help remind you that beautiful things exist and they’re tangible, the note reads. Happy birthday. 

Your mind goes to a conversation you had not long ago, about how photos can elicit certain emotions and be a keeper of memories, especially of good ones. You know this is from Jungkook, and you also have an idea of what this might be, which is why you open the package right away.

Still, it catches you by surprise, especially when you find two disposable film cameras inside. They’ll definitely be enough for your upcoming trip and you know the photos will come out amazingly. You’re ecstatic. 

Perhaps this is why he wanted to leave before you did - you’d thank him and he’d be terrible at accepting it again, then you’ll call him out for it. Maybe it was good he hadn’t stuck around to see you act this way. At least he didn’t see you with that silly smile on your face.

But Yoongi does as you head down the elevator, smirking at you when he sees the bag you’re holding and the familiar handwriting on the card.

“I’m guessing you’re not fighting it anymore, huh?” He says, teasing yet somehow still comforting. 

“I’m trying not to, even if I know I’m being stupid,” you admit. “I can at least have these fleeting moments of joy after I walk away from this.”

“Retain the good memories. That’s one way to let things go,” Yoongi advises, as he exits the carriage on the parking lot floor.

The doors close on your smiling face, and he chuckles to himself at the irony of things. That’s how he learned to let you go, after all.

You return to work the following week with a spring in your step, with Jungkook noticing as you heat up the fried rice that you told him you’d be preparing for breakfast. You hum as you go about in the kitchen, feeling energized after the last few days you’ve had. 

It was freezing, but you, Soomin, and Jimin went a little crazy and ran down the beach whenever you drove by one, something you all did as kids living in Busan. The drives from town to town were slow but they had you all singing to your favorite songs, munching on chestnuts and bungeoppang, and stopping over viewing sites for fresh air and photos. 

You used Jungkook’s gift a lot, taking pictures of things that elicited strong emotions and good memories - purple and orange skies, snow melting on the pavement, the crashing ocean waves turning white at the tip, an empty playground in the park, Soomin’s infectious laughter, Jimin’s angelic smile. 

The cold was an excuse to seek your best friends’ warmth and they took advantage of it. It reminded you of those few years growing up with them before you returned to Daegu for college, something you and Jimin reminisced about, and something that you thanked him for after what seemed like ages. You recalled how he approached you first as the new girl who entered school in the middle of the school year, how he followed you around because you were always alone and was scared of loud noises, and how he’s never left your side since then. 

Every night during that trip, he hugged you as you tried to fall asleep, knowing you needed it for the cold you felt inside and out. He was next to you when you talked about Jungkook gifting you the cameras and admitted that it made you feel good, that it made you happy.

“I’m glad he’s showing you kindness,” Jimin had said. “But… just be careful, okay? Your heart is capable of a lot of good things. Pain is the last thing it deserves.”

“I don’t really know what my heart is capable of,” you replied. “My brain does the hurting but my heart… I don’t know what it does. I don’t know how it works.” 

It left him speechless then and somehow, you were glad that he just held you tighter, only because it was the only way you wanted to be comforted at that moment. But you also knew that whatever your heart ended up doing or experiencing, Jimin and Soomin would be there to help you make sense of it, to pick up the pieces should they need to.

“It seems as though your birthday rejuvenated you, ___,” Jungkook disrupts your thoughts. “You look much lighter and relaxed.”

“Only because I haven’t checked my emails nor taken new instructions from you,” you laugh as you serve the fried rice in bowls then head towards him. You fix his suit again and speak casually like you’ve gotten used to. “Once I open that iPad and see what I have to deal with, relaxed would be the last thing I’ll be.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckles. “Let me savor this then.”

His words catch you off guard and they prompt you to meet his eyes - soft yet piercing, then he turns shy and turns away from you. Perhaps he’s surprised at what he’d said, too.

“Work is stressful and your calmness rubs off on me most times,” he says nonchalantly. “We’ve got a busy few days ahead and I want that calmness to linger.”

“It will,” you assure him. “And yes, I feel rejuvenated, and that’ll probably last me for days so that will linger, even if I’m stressed, so don't worry. You’re gonna do well. I don’t doubt it one bit.”

Jungkook’s meeting the Culture Minister next week to present the Arts Center’s plans and activities leading to its opening to the public, which is why you think he needs that calmness as well. The team has been helping him with the preparations and while you felt bad that you didn’t get to contribute as much, he assured you that all the notes you left him have been instrumental. 

But still, his words affect you. Is this calm and relaxed version of you all he wants to savor? Does it mean anything more? 

The thoughts wander away as you have breakfast with him, and he asks if you wish to talk about work later on but you insist that you’re mentally ready for it all. He’s the one who gives you updates this time, and just like that, you’re back to your usual routine.

You glance at his plate, all clean right after because even this dish, he savors. And you realize that doing things for him, no matter how simple, makes you happy, too, especially when his lips turn up in a small smile and he nods in satisfaction.

“Good, huh?” You wiggle your eyebrows. 

“It’s infinitely better than mine,” he hums.

“So, it’s really, really, really good then?”

“You don’t even know how mine tastes like.”

“True. But Taehyung said once that yours was really delicious and I’ll take his word for it. Seokjin agreed and I believe them.”

“Wow, really? That’s a rare moment where they praise me,” Jungkook laughs. 

“You should savor that, too.”

“I should. Heavens know the last time that happened. And when it’ll happen again.”

“That’s kind of hard though, isn’t it?” You say, being a bit reflective as you go back to your daily routine after a trip that you wholly enjoyed. “Savoring things… capturing them, appreciating them. Like, you have to be in the moment, you have to be present, and that’s not easy to do.”

“It isn’t,” he responds after a while. “You have to care enough for something to be worth savoring, I guess.”

“Exactly. But how do you do that when everything is temporary - things, feelings… people. Not all of them are meant to stay,” you reply, meeting his eyes as they seem to be in deep thought.

“Maybe they will… if you ask them to,” he softly says.

“That depends.”

“On what?” He asks.

“If they have a reason to,” you shrug. 

Your faraway eyes tell him that you’re in deep thought, perhaps processing the exchange that even Jungkook can’t fully wrap his head around. But you turn to him not long after, smiling as you take the plates to clean up, as if you’d just snapped out of a trance, of a moment of honesty. 

He watches you from his seat. There’s an aura about you that truly feels more relaxed, yet there seems to be an added layer of pensiveness, of deep thinking that could easily be mistaken for savoring the moment when you might be questioning it, perhaps wondering if it’s real… or worth caring about in the first place.

Even until now, he doesn’t know what it is about you that has him hanging on to every word you say, like it’s some secret message or code to learning who you are and what your fears and pains and hopes and dreams might be. 

In the past months, his moments with you have allowed him a peek inside - there’s this yearning for something that you’re not ready for; there’s this knowledge of the fleeting nature of the world that you want to capture as memories because that’s the only way you can make them stay; there’s this desire for companionship that terrifies you more than anything.  

But then again, as he sees that soft courage in your eyes, maybe he knows why - he has the same fears as you, and perhaps that’s terrifying, too, as he realizes that much of what he’s scared of is tangible. 

He fears the emptiness left in your absence and the silence surrounding him when you’re gone. His trip over the holidays made him think so; this past week when you were away solidified it. There’s a lot of you to miss. He’s unsure how to deal with these thoughts and feelings; he doesn’t know how to move forward and be professional when you affect him this way. All he can hope for is that you’ll always find a reason to stay close to him, that you’ll always find a reason to want him around, and that every moment you share is something worth it enough for you to savor but that you both never have to let go.

You think about the conversation with Jungkook later that night on your way home. There’s something about the impermanence of the world that’s always scared you; things break and wither away all the time and you fear the loss in their absence. Perhaps it’s because you’ve experienced various types of losses throughout your years of living. 

You lost that childhood innocence the first time you saw your mother cry, then when her smile that finally returned was wiped off, and then when her hopeful eyes became filled with tears out of fear. You lost that comfort of a routine when you left Seoul at 10 years old, and then that stability when you said goodbye to your life in Busan. You lost that security when you decided to come back here with a dream tucked away, burdened with a debt and a past that you couldn’t escape. You lost that feeling of freedom when your favorite library closed, and then of safety during that night at the restaurant when you were hurt and exposed. 

It’s hard to savor things when you know you’ll lose them one day. But that’s also precisely why you should, as what these past months have been showing you, you think now. The absence reminds you that something good was in its place, and that at one point in time, it made you hope that you deserved it, that you were worthy of having it. 

But as you lay in bed that night and think of how much of Jungkook you thought about while you were away, you start to think that maybe things aren’t as temporary as you once believed. He was in the icy streets that you walked on and the warmth of the hot chocolate drink you had. He was in the drizzle on the playground that you wiped off and the touch of the leather notebook you saw at one of the shops. 

And perhaps that was the difference - you didn’t just stand by; somehow it felt like you connected with them - they were tangible, within your grasp, and that made them linger, that made them feel real. In your mind, that’s where they stayed.

The tail-end of winter marks the time when you’ve settled in the new year. All your backlog from the holidays and your short birthday break have been worked on. Operational plans and goals for the year have been finalized. The Board report and meeting are over and major events have been scheduled. Things are picking up now as the Arts Center is near its completion, with the consequent promotions and marketing on full speed. That last bit has been contracted to a subsidiary company but Jungkook is still on top of most things, which means that so are you. 

You accompany him to meetings with different departments regularly, and that’s on top of monitoring the other small projects that the VP office is working on, which is also on top of supporting Jungkook’s executive functions. In a blink of an eye, you’re back to the hustle and bustle nature of your job, and you’re reminded of why it’s been so hard to get out of it, and also why you can’t wait to do so. 

There’s just so much going on all at once, and given how you are, you give all of yourself to it because it’s the only way to get things done; it’s the only way to get through it without feeling like you’re taking for granted all that you’ve been given and achieved. But it also means you’ve lost the sense of meaning of most other things, and you wanna be able to do something that means something to you, something of good memories, of beautiful things that are tangible that you can touch and feel. 

You let go of the thoughts when Do-hyun and Yohan pop in your area to say goodbye. It’s another long night for everyone and you’re glad that they finally listened to you and decided to go home. You say that you still have a couple of things to work on when they insist that they walk you to the bus stop, telling them once more that you’ll be fine. 

“It’s forecasted to rain soon,” Do-hyun informs you. 

“I’ll get a cab, don’t worry,” you assure them. “Finance needs these files first thing tomorrow morning and we’ve got that ocular at 8. Thank you though.” 

“Fine, but let us know when you’re home, okay?” She says.

“I will. Get home safely, you two.”

You get back to work, and with the peace and quiet in the office with you being the last one here, you manage to finish what you need to in an hour and then finally call it a night. You head out and sigh to yourself once you see the lightning strike, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before the rain will begin to pour. You manage to bring out your umbrella by the time it does, then turn at the corner to look for a cab so you can avoid those who’ll be hailing from the main road. 

There are a few people who have the same idea as you, and it’s after some time before you spot one, with the driver slowing down once he sees you. But right as you start speed walking towards it, some man decides to get ahead, running past you and bumping you in the process, causing you to lose your balance. The wet pavement doesn’t help, as you slip on your foot and fall to the ground. You try to get up but jerk in pain when you do, realizing that you’d hurt your ankle, a foreign feeling that has you immediately worrying. 

After all the times you’d found yourself under the rain, this is the worst moment of all - you’re hurting, all alone, and completely worn out. You’ve had a really long day and you don’t have the energy for this; all you want is to go home and have some rest. But you know there’s no other way, so you shift on your bum, manage to get up and strain your arms in the process, then you limp to the nearest post you can find using your umbrella as a walking stick then stand on one foot.

The rain has weakened a little, so you’re at least not getting even more wet, but it’s still winter and you’ve started to freeze. There are no other cabs in sight and all ride-hailing apps have been such a pain to book. Knowing that it’ll be tough to get home in any way at this stage and that you won’t be able to manage on your own, you decide to call Mr. Ri. He’s always told you that if you need help for anything, he’s another person that you could call.

It’s half past 8 in the evening. You’re banking on him being on the way home after having dropped Jungkook off at his building after a dinner meeting at 5:30.

“Hey, ___. Is everything alright?” Mr. Ri asks, knowing you rarely call at this hour. 

“Not really,” you sigh, the shiver in your voice evident. “Have you dropped Jungkook off?”

“Not yet. But what do you mean, not really? What happened?”

“Are you driving?”

“No. I’m still waiting for him to finish. Tell me, are you in danger?” He presses, and you hear the worry in his voice. 

You told him about Chi-won some weeks after it happened, and Mr. Ri, having known you for many years, knows you’re not one to usually reach out. He’s made it a point to check on you regularly, and calls like this would definitely ring some alarm bells. 

“I’m not in danger but I hurt myself,” you say, quickly appeasing him that it’s probably just a sprained ankle and not that serious. “I just can’t get any ride and I can barely walk. I was hoping you were on the way home.”

“I’m not but I’ll go get you, okay? I’ll tell Jungkook and we’ll drive to you right away.”

“Mr. Ri, he’s in a meeting!” 

“That’s most likely over and now they’re just chatting over drinks,” he reasons. “I’ll get him. You know he’ll want me to.”

“You don’t know that,” you stammer.

“You weren’t there with him the days after what happened that night at the restaurant, ___,” he huffs. “I just knew it was really bad because of how worried he was, and he’s never been that way. So yes, I know he’ll want me to get his ass out of there and be on the way to you. Plus, I’m sure he’ll fire me if I don’t.”

“Fine,” you concede. “Just don’t make it sound so bad because it really isn’t.”

“You know I can’t control how that kid reacts,” he hums. “Just send me your location.”

Mr. Ri heads out of the driver’s lounge and rushes to the restaurant where he manages to send a message to Jungkook that you’re stranded somewhere with possibly a sprained ankle. He says it as it is, knowing that Jungkook won’t need much to decide on ending the meeting and go to you, which he does right away.

“What happened?” He asks the older man as they both walk towards the basement parking.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask any more questions,” Mr. Ri responds. “She’s somewhere near the office. We’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

“Try for 15,” Jungkook instructs.

He calls you right after and he immediately picks up on your chattering teeth.

“Hey, ___. How are you feeling?”

You’re a little surprised when Jungkook calls this soon, and with how you’re trying to move past whatever attraction you have towards the man, this really isn’t helping.

“Just… cold. My umbrella flew away,” you laugh. “The wind’s picked up and I think it’s gonna rain again.”

Just as you say so, it starts, and you pick up on the change in Jungkook’s voice. You’ve since learned that he’s not fond of it, always closing his eyes and trying to tune everything out with even just a drizzle. But he continues talking and asks what happened, trying to keep you company. You narrate the incident and attempt to play it off as something minor, although the longer you stay leaning against the post, the more pain you’re starting to feel. 

“We’re five minutes away. We’ll be there soon,” he assures you then drops the call.

Jungkook clenches his fist and closes his eyes as the rain continues to pour. With the sound of the thunder, he jerks in his seat like he always does, but he pushes forward, knowing you need his help. He takes deep breaths just as he’s learned to do, and not long after, Mr. Ri informs him that he sees you just meters away.

The car slows down and Jungkook looks outside the window. He can see you leaning against a pole on one foot, drenched and shivering, your eyes closed as you wait for them to arrive. He meets Mr. Ri’s eyes in the rear view mirror as they halt, and with the rain just barely stopping, the older man nods and exits the car.

Jungkook watches from inside as Mr. Ri runs to you. He sees the smile on your face despite the droplets on the window. The older man takes your bag then helps you walk, leading you to the car where Jungkook manages to push the door open. 

You slowly enter with as much energy you can muster, wincing in pain when you have to adjust your foot inside. You sigh in relief as you feel the warmth and dryness of the car, prompting you to apologize for getting it all wet.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jungkook shakes his head. “We’ll take you to the hospital, okay? And I won’t accept no for an answer.”

You nod in agreement, knowing that much as you’re causing him inconvenience right now, you’re too tired to argue. You lean your head by the window and try to catch your breath. 

“Have you had dinner? He asks.

“Not yet. I was supposed to grab it on the way home.”

“We’ll pass by somewhere after the hospital.”

“Okay,” you look at him and smile. 

Jungkook isn’t surprised when you don’t counter him. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion, as he sees it in how your smile isn’t as bright as what he’s used to, with it fading as you turn away. You’re still shivering though, despite the car heater being turned up. He doesn’t have a towel to dry you up, though, so he instead removes his coat and instructs you to lean forward so he can place it over your shoulders to warm your back. He takes his puffer jacket from the front seat and puts it over your lap right after, giving you warmth there, too. 

“Is that better?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you mouth. “Thank you.”

His scent wafts through your senses, allowing you to breathe and feel all of him at once. It’s the closest thing to tangible comfort you’ve gotten from him, and you hate how good it feels.

You’re just about to fall asleep when the car comes to a stop. The rain has subsided and perhaps that’s why soon after, you hear Jungkook open his door and then your door, too. He removes his coat over your back, placing it back inside, then he holds onto your forearms to help you climb out. He takes his jacket and instructs you to wear it, giggling at how you’re being swallowed in it.

“I look ridiculous,” you pout as you sit on the wheelchair that he’s asked the nurse to get.

“Just a little,” he teases.

He walks next to you as you’re wheeled inside the hospital, staying close by when you explain to the ER doctor what happened. She assesses your foot and lower leg, diagnosing you with a sprained ankle like you expected, and proceeds to wrap it in elastic bandage. 

She treats the minor scratches on your palms you got from the fall then writes you a prescription for painkillers. Jungkook takes it so he can buy them for you after, then he helps you settle the bill with your insurance. 

You’re quite uncomfortable - you’re still a little wet and the bandage feels foreign around your foot. But you’re also feeling a bit shy, now that Jungkook is the one pushing the wheelchair towards the pharmacy nearby. He parks you at the side while he buys the medicine, and as you look on, you can’t help the relief mixed with giddiness that you feel despite the pain that’s close to overtaking you.

He stands by the counter with his white dress shirt slightly untucked and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands are in his pockets while he waits for the pharmacist to return, and amidst everything that’s going on, you’re still able to admire how overwhelmingly handsome he looks, especially given what he’s doing right now for you. His side view is quite blinding, so you’re slightly embarrassed when he turns around and calls your name again after you missed it the first few times.

“Dazed and tired?” He asks as he walks back to you with a pack of medicines.

“Definitely,” you say, which isn’t a lie; it’s just not the whole truth. “I just want to eat and have a nice bath and then sleep.”

“And you’ll do all that soon,” he assures you. “We’ll pass by whatever’s open on the way to your place. Just make sure you don’t have the hot water on, okay? And then elevate your foot when you sleep.”

“Yes, I heard everything she said,” you playfully roll your eyes. 

“Including the full-on rest that’s required of you for the next few days?” He raises an eyebrow. “Because that’s what you’re gonna have. You’re on leave until you’re able to walk properly again, Ms. Cho.”

“So now you’re being formal,” you tease, flashing him a playful smile. “But yes, Mr. Jeon. The instructions are understood.”

“Good,” he laughs softly. “Glad you’re not being stubborn about it.”

“Oh, not with this one, not when I’m this tired and in this much pain.”

His look turns sullen at the admission of what you’re feeling and you wish he didn’t feel this bad. But you can’t deny the way it’s giving you butterflies, prompting you to scold yourself internally because learning how caring he is isn’t exactly what you need to get over a crush. This is definitely the worst part about being injured, you decide. 

You make it out of the hospital and he helps you again as you enter the car, sliding in next to you as he ensures that you’re warm. 

You pass by a noodle house on the way, and he buys you some more food for the next day despite your insistence that he didn’t have to. But you’re too tired to argue some more, and you doze off a little during the drive to your apartment, with your half-awake self mumbling your apology about taking up his time.

Jungkook playfully shakes his head. Knowing you’re probably shallow sleep-talking, he disregards your words. He just gets glimpses of you, comforted to know that you’re at least getting the most rest you can have, given your current state. The painkillers will kick in soon and that’ll help you sleep better, but right now, he wishes he could do more for you. 

In the deepest crevices of his heart, he wants to hold your still shivering hands and maybe hug your trembling body. He wants to stay with you until you’re warm and comfortable in your bed, perhaps assure you in whatever way that you’re not alone, that there’s help whenever you need it. He can’t imagine how it would’ve been like for you being under the rain, cold and hurt with no one around. 

On second thought, he can, and that’s the thing about it. Even if you get out of it with just a sprained ankle - considering how much worse it could’ve been - it’s still terrifying being alone and powerless, paralyzed on the spot and not knowing if anyone will show up. He wants nothing more than for you to get over that and be able to move past it because he knows how haunting it could be; he knows how restraining such memories are.

But he also knows that there’s not much he could do - not with the unnamed feelings he can’t express, and not with the line he still believes he shouldn’t cross.

So he settles for glances and soft smiles at your fluttering eyes and slightly parted mouth. You look tired but peaceful; he thinks it’s quite endearing. It also feels intrusive so he looks away, out into the streets that he’s able to somehow see now. He thinks about the timing of it all - your late night and his dinner out, your injury and the bad weather. He’s thankful that the rain subsided and that allowed him to help you as much as he was able to, and that he got to you in the first place.

You arrive at your apartment with you now fully awake, and Jungkook heads to your side right away. Pulling you out of the car requires more strength from him, and despite your terrible condition, the butterflies appear once more when he instructs you to hold onto him for support. You have to act unaffected when you feel his broad shoulders and taut arms, with your hands gingerly laying on them; you wonder if he feels anything, too, under the thin material of his dress shirt. 

His left hand only grazes your waist but his hold tightens after you grant him permission, perhaps knowing that it would be harder for you if he holds you that loose, he asked you to put your weight on him after all. Despite your agreement, you still hold in your breath, a silly attempt at slowing down your quickening heartbeat. He’s never been this close, and you’re unsure if you want him to be anywhere else.

You suspend your thoughts for the shortest of seconds until you both manage to get up the few steps to your door. Mr. Ri helps in unlocking it, and you settle on the dining chair that Jungkook pulls out for you after you both enter.

As you release a breath and watch him look around, it’s then you realize that your boss - the Jeon Corporation Vice President who lives in a penthouse in an exclusive district in Seoul - is in your tiny studio apartment that’s literally just the size of his bedroom. You’re not ashamed one bit but you are a little shy, so you jokingly welcome him to your “little mansion.”

“It’s nice,” he hums, looking around some more, which he doesn’t need to move to do. 

The small round dining table, the off-the-wall kitchen, and the three-seater couch are all in the open living space. There’s a half-wall that separates your sleeping area, with your double bed against it and the tiniest of balconies just off of it. 

You’re quite proud of what you’ve made of the place, with the plants in the corners, some chic art pieces on the walls, and photos with your friends and family on stick-on frames resting on the shelves. It’s cozy and comfortable for you, and you feel quite proud when Jungkook’s lips turn up when you respond that you’re happy here when he asks.

“It’s everything I need,” you hum. “And it’s in a safe part of town. My neighbors are older couples who are all kind.”

“That’s good,” he says, turning to you. “Will they be much help to you while you recover?”

“I’ll be okay,” you insist. “I have a crutch. I’ve got food to heat up, and my place is so small that I don’t have to move around to get things done. I don’t really need help, you know?”

He scrunches his eyebrows, seemingly unconvinced. 

“Watch,” you say, your shallow confidence pushing you to grab the crutch next to you then using it to walk towards him so you could prove that you’re capable enough to look after yourself. 

But your unfamiliarity with it leads you to mistime your step. Before you know it, you’re tripping on your foot and losing your balance, and as your life is about to flash before your eyes thinking that you’re gonna fall once again and make your injury worse, Jungkook’s reflex kicks in and he steps forward to catch you. You feel his grip on your waist gradually tighten as if to keep you steady, as if to make sure you’re alright. He’s so close, you can feel his breath as he pants, the worried look on his face something you’re familiar with by now. But he stays there, inches away, and so do you. 

He’s bending, so he stays leveled with you. You can see his long eyelashes resting on his honeyed skin and the endearing curve of his nose. He looks so soft like this, comfortable even, with his big round eyes looking like the most innocent ones you’ve ever seen.

The voice in your head suddenly becomes loud enough and you break his gaze, realizing then that you’re also clutching onto his shoulder for support. You give him a look of apology but he just laughs, something you’re thankful for because the last thing you want is for the tension to thicken.

“You’re stubborn, aren’t you? You think it’s that easy?” He shakes his head, his tone sounding like he’s both teasing and reprimanding you.

“It seemed like it,” you shrug, allowing him to help you back on the seat, disregarding the slightest bit of giddiness you feel as he has one hand on your free arm while the other ghosts over your waist in case you fall again.

“It’s not. And I know this because I’ve used this before,” he says. “So since you’ll be by yourself, we have to make sure you can at least use the crutch without falling, okay?”

“Fine,” you concede, listening to his instructions carefully then trying to do it on your own. 

It takes some getting used to, but after a few tries, you manage to at least walk without tripping. You plan on just staying in bed or on the couch tomorrow anyway so you’re not that worried. Even if Jungkook still seems to be.

“I’m okay,” you insist. “I’m gonna survive. But you should head home. It’s getting late and you have that ocular in the morning. I’ll just have to email Chin-sun about accompanying you and—”

“None of that,” he interjects. “I’ll be the one to tell her and I don’t want you worrying about work tomorrow, okay? You’re gonna take your medicine and just rest.”

“You’re demanding, aren’t you?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Only when I’m dealing with someone as stubborn as you,” he counters. 

You just laugh at him answering back, enjoying your banter more than you should, then he says that he’ll go ahead, for as long as you’re sure you can manage. It takes another five minutes until he makes it out the door. But before he disappears, you call his name, your heart skipping a beat when he turns around, as if he’s just hanging onto your every word.

“Thank you,” you say. “I know it was a long day and it was raining but… you still came for me.”

“Just recover quickly, okay? I’ll check on you in the morning.”

You nod and he leaves. And just like that, you’re once again on your own - damp, injured, and extremely tired. Jungkook’s presence remains in your apartment though, and there he is again, making you smile and making you feel things you shouldn’t.

You don’t mind being alone. In fact, you enjoy it. But during the times when you don’t want to be, he just happens to be there. And being the stubborn woman that you are, deep down, you like it that he is, that in your own little world with the walls up so high, he’s become a frequent visitor. You’re just not sure if you want him to stay just yet. 

You wake up the next morning feeling faint and sore, and it’s probably the painkillers having lost their effect. And there’s a reason why, seeing that it’s close to midday when you finally get out of bed. You manage to stand and walk to the kitchen with no issues, and you take your medication and heat up the food that Jungkook bought for you last night. It’s when you’re seated that he calls, bringing that smile to your otherwise uneventful day.

“Hello?”

“Hey, ___. How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Just fine. I took my medicines for the day and I’m about to eat lunch,” you reply. “And you? How was the ocular?”

“It was good. It has a lot of potential so I’ll run down the details with the teams and propose it. But speaking of sites, remember what I said about Hoseok and I thinking of a Scandinavian-inspired mid-rise in the mountains?”

“Yeah, the one you came up with during your trip. Are you gonna push through with it soon?”

“Perhaps. I’ve gotten emails of proposed sites for some other projects but I’ve seen a few that could work with this idea,” he shares. “There’s one in Gangwon that’s near the town center so it would be practical for many. There’s even— ah, why am I saying this to you now? You’re off the clock.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him. Jungkook doesn’t always show this much excitement with the projects he has to manage so when he does, you encourage him. It’s also an excuse to hear more of his voice. “My mind’s not prepared for being home today anyway so I’m a little disoriented. But that’s good. I can look into the sites and we can do an ocular whenever you prefer.”

“Alright, that’s something to schedule for next month. But uh, you sure you’re fine? Does your ankle still hurt? Did you get proper sleep?”

“Well, I slept like a baby,” you giggle. “And I at least remained in one position. It still hurts a bit but it should be okay in the next few days. I’m just gonna have to replace the bandage tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. Just make sure to ice it and keep it elevated.”

“Yes, boss,” you tease, earning you a groan. “But uh, thank you for checking up on me. I know you’ve got a busy day ahead.”

He’s silent, and you suppose it’s him again not knowing how to respond to gratitude, so you follow it up by saying that you’ll eat your meal now and reminding him of his meeting at 2PM.

“You better not be checking your emails and my calendar right now,” he warns.

“I’m not. I just memorize your schedule,” you defend.

“Okay then, I’ll go ahead.”

Jungkook drops the call and sinking in his seat, he sighs in relief. He managed to get through that conversation without sounding extremely worried, which is what he’s been since last night. His busy day today actually includes constantly worrying about how you’re doing, but he supposes it’s too much to let you know. Sure it’s just a sprained ankle, but knowing how you tend to move about, anything can happen. You were all alone for some time last night, too, just waiting for a way to get home. And that’s another thing he worries about - that fear latching onto you, that helplessness weighing you down.

He asks Mr. Ri if he’s heard from you, thinking that you’d probably be more honest with him, but the older man says you told him the same thing.

“Don’t you believe her?” Mr. Ri wonders.

“I do, but she’s quite stubborn though,” Jungkook laments. 

“Well, I’ve known her for a while and she tends to just deal with things on her own,” Mr. Ri says.

“But she shouldn’t. She’s injured.”

“I think it’s natural for people who’ve been alone for many years to be that way,” the older man shrugs. “I mean, you’re the same.”

Jungkook doesn’t disagree. And if you’re truly anything like him, then you’d just push through the pain and force it to stop hurting so you can go back to your normal busy life because doing so keeps you from thinking of how lonely it feels when you’re sick or hurt and there’s no one around. It’s how he’s always been, too, he admits to himself.

The thought disturbs him, which is why he messages you three more times during the day and then again the next morning, asking if he could drop by. He’s expecting you to insist that you’re fine and he doesn’t need to, so it surprises him when you say that he could. 

You’re pacing back and forth in your mind since you’re unable to physically do so, but the thought of Jungkook visiting you this Saturday morning is a lot for you to handle, even if you did say it was alright for him to come. The truth is, you wanted him to, only because selfishly, seeing someone be that worried about you gives you some form of comfort.

You called your family yesterday and told them about the injury, which they obviously panicked about. Your mom asked if you needed her to come to you but like always, you said she didn’t need to. You told Yoongi about it, too, and he was worried as well, in the classic way that he often is; he had food delivered to you for dinner last night so you didn’t have to think about it. You only told your best friends about it this morning and they were furious you waited so long to let them know; they were packing their stuff right as you were speaking to them two hours ago. 

You know you have people to depend on and would be at your doorstep anytime you ask. These are the same people who’ve done that for years and you fully accept their care and attention; it’s become a part of you and your healing process. But when someone like Jungkook who, for whatever reason he has, shows you the same, it feels different; he goes out of his way to show it to you, and he’s not even someone who normally does it. It’s a new kind of comfort, one that you find yourself seeking. So when he called earlier and asked if he could drop by, there was an internal sigh of relief. 

Over half an hour later, your doorbell rings, and you limp your way towards the door to open it. 

Other than being in suits, you’ve only ever seen Jungkook in his gym clothes - half naked as well - and in night out wear. You realize that this is the first time you’re seeing him in a casual outfit, and with a jacket over a sweatshirt and a brown beanie, he looks different - there’s that boyish charm that you’ve never seen; he looks softer, kinder, still reserved but a lot more comfortable.

You let him in after your greetings, then you turn to him and smile. 

“It’s really the suit, I know it now,” you tease. “It’s what makes you look intimidating.”

He looks at his attire then frowns at you. “So how do I look now?”

“Not intimidating.”

“Wow, what a surprise,” he playfully rolls his eyes. “Whereas you…” He eyes you in gray leggings and a blush jumper, looking soft and comfortable and even more like the bright spot he’s realized you are, but he’d never tell you that. “You look injured.”

“Gee, what a surprise. I feel injured, too,” you laugh. “But uhm, it’s nice of you to visit my humble mansion once again.”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re doing better,” he hums. “And bring some more food so you don’t have to worry about it.”

You eye the beef brisket with rice and say that you know what you’ll be having for lunch. He responds that he might just go back to the restaurant and meet his best friends there, too. You return to your seat on the couch, realizing there’s not much room for him to sit on, but he gets to you first, standing in front of you and eyeing the elastic bandage on the table.

“Aren’t you due for a redress?” He asks.

“Yes but uh, I can’t actually reach my foot,” you say with an embarrassed smile. “I’m not really flexible so I’ll just wait until Soomin and Jimin arrive.”

“I can do it,” he offers, thinking that the bandage isn’t serving its purpose if it remains loose. “I mean, I’ve dressed myself on my own before so I’m familiar with it.”

It’s probably the painkillers but something possesses you and you agree, your mind too out of it to take the words back. A part of you wishes you had, especially when your heart does a thing when he kneels on the floor and slowly takes your injured foot. You wiggle your toes in reflex, as if they’re shy, too, and Jungkook laughs at your silly antics, especially when you admit that you’re a little ticklish. 

But he softly looks at you right after and asks if he’s hurting you, and you shake your head, unable to say anything else and process that you really allowed this man - your boss and in-denial crush - to do this. 

You sit there, charmed by the way he looks determined to get this done. He removes the old bandage and wipes your ankle before wrapping it with a new one. His hands are large and quite rough but he’s very gentle, making sure to not lift your foot too high and that the bandage isn’t wrapped too tightly. Once he’s finished, he lays it on the table and looks up at you to ask if it feels okay.

“Yes,” you shyly smile. “Thank you. That was, uh, that was really nice of you.”

He nods and stands up to throw the trash in the bin, wanting to quickly hide his smile at how wholesome you looked in thanking him. 

He proceeds to look around, taking more of your home in. There’s something very calming about it, and it’s more than just the plants that you have and the right amount of sunlight coming from the balcony door and kitchen window. There’s also something familiar, as he looks through your shelf of photos, seeing your mom and her partner for the first time. She looks a lot like you. She has a nice smile like yours, and she sees that same joy on her face as he’d seen on you, as she hugs you tightly in one of the pictures. 

The familiarity is similar to when he first had a whiff of your scent - old rose like the one his mother used to wear, one he remembers as a child when he still clung to her. There are those memories that stick with him. Others he doesn’t have anymore but that’s good, he supposes. Seeing your shelf, he sees all the good and tangible things you hold dear. 

“The photo on the far right, the one with Soomin and Jimin. We took that during my birthday trip using your gift,” you tell him. “It came out really nicely.”

“It did. Did you finish the film? What else did you take photos of?”

“We used it all up,” you smile. “And just a lot of the scenery and the three of us. We all divided them so we could have copies and just remember how fun that week was.”

“Good, that’s what I hoped.”

Jungkook stands there, his jacket now off so his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his hands are in his pockets as he looks through your shelf. You wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s seeing, if any of this makes him curious. It’s as if he’s taking in all the small parts of who you are that he can see displayed before him. He turns to you and your eyes meet again, and for a moment, it feels like you’re really seeing him and he’s really seeing you, like there’s something only both of you share and understand and want and can give.

But the doorbell ringing disrupts it, with you wondering who it could be since your best friends won’t arrive until an hour from now. Jungkook walks to the door and opens it, surprised to see Yoongi who’s just as surprised to see his friend in your apartment.

“Hey, you’re back. And… here,” you smile, attempting to stand up but Yoongi tells you to stay put. 

“I flew home last night and thought I’d visit and get you some food, but it seems like I’m second in line,” he says, his smug face causing you to glare at him. 

“I just wanted to make sure she was okay,” Jungkook defends. “I won’t stay long.”

“Of course you do. And I won’t stay long either. I don’t wanna disturb anything.” 

He smirks at his friend, prompting Jungkook to glare at him as well. 

“Yah, chill, you two. I’m really just passing by,” Yoongi reiterates, making his way now to sit on the arm of your sofa. “Just wanted to check on ___ and make sure she’s well-fed.”

“I’m injured, not starving, okay?” You groan. “But thanks. What have you got there?”

“Noodles, custard buns, and some tarts. Wasn’t sure what you’re into when you’re incapacitated,” Yoongi shrugs. 

“I’m very much mobile,” you correct him. “Just… slow and limping.”

Jungkook pulls your dining chair and sits in front of you, and the three of you talk as if this isn’t weird at all. You’re all colleagues - you and Jungkook consider Yoongi as your friend, but you don’t know if you should consider your boss as such, and you don’t know if he considers you the same. You’ve definitely experienced a lot of things that could qualify what you have as friendship, but even then, there’s something more about it, something a little more intimate, different, terrifying.

You brave through this dynamic and learn that Yoongi likes to tell Jungkook off a lot. It’s the kind of bluntness you expect from Yoongi’s no-nonsense attitude but it’s refreshing to see him be more straightforward towards someone like Jungkook who you’re used to seeing as commanding and serious. Jungkook takes the hits, seemingly unbothered as they bicker, and it’s another side of him you enjoy seeing - the smiles and laughter are natural, and there’s this comfort about him that you suddenly want more of.

The time passes quickly, with the doorbell ringing again signaling that your friends have arrived. Yoongi gets up first to open the door, greeting them who do the same. You manage to stand up with Jungkook telling you to be careful, and when it dawns on them who else is in your apartment, Jimin’s face turns sour and Soomin’s goes from confused to amused. 

Jungkook looks taken aback by the cold welcome, but he manages to introduce himself to them.

“Oh, we know,” Jimin says dryly. “You’re the one who gives her so much work that she had to do overtime again and that’s why she got hurt.”

You feel the tension come like a strong wave and you try to lower the level a little bit. 

“He also brought me to the hospital and got me some food,” you tell Jimin, whose bitterness isn’t unfounded. He did listen to you complain about this very man all those months ago. “He’s just checking up on me, making sure I’m alright, the way you guys are.”

“As we should,” Jimin huffs. “At least we don’t cause you any injury or pain.”

“You don’t. But you do make things better so could you do that, please?” You say, opening your arms for a hug, something to appease him before it gets even more tense. 

Jimin has the sweetest smile but wouldn’t be afraid to burn anyone down with his looks if they deserve it. Jungkook did at one point, but you obviously feel very differently about that now. But still, you glance at the man, hoping this encounter isn’t putting him off too much, and with the slight tinge of guilt in his eyes, you suppose it hasn’t.

Jungkook turns away, partly because a reminder of how he’d treated you before makes him regret even more how you both started, and partly because seeing you affectionate with any man - even if it’s your best friend - makes him a tiny bit jealous, only because it’s something he can’t be with you. Seeing you that way with Hajoon months ago was different; Jungkook had been more shocked than anything. But this time, given that his attraction towards you seems to grow every second, and that he’s been wanting nothing more than to comfort you, there’s more of that feeling of loss, of hope that it could be him one day, even if that’s something that’ll probably never happen.

“I know you dislike him but tone it down for now, okay?” You whisper to Jimin. “My place is too small to contain all this tension.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Seeing him just reminds me of what you had to go through because of him,” he says before pulling away. “But he did help. And well, Soo and I are still upset that you didn’t tell us sooner. You know we would’ve driven here on Thursday night.”

“I know, and that’s exactly why. You both had something big going on and I could wait,” you reply, a reason you give them everytime. 

Wanting a short breather from all this, you excuse yourself and ask Soomin to help you with something in the bathroom, and she heads there right away.

“Can you make sure that those two don’t murder each other?” You whisper to Yoongi as you gesture towards Jimin and Jungkook.

“It would be entertaining if they did, but yes, I’ll try,” he chuckles.

You walk to where Soomin is and after closing the door, she looks at you with the same amusement that she’s had since she arrived.