A.non

He stops. The shift is sudden—your body still clenching around his dick, desperate for friction that’s no longer there. His hand fists in your hair and jerks you up hard, arching your spine until your back meets his chest. One arm locks around your waist, ribs pressed to his forearm. The other grips your jaw, fingers pressing into the hinge until your mouth falls open.

You can feel his pulse against your cheek.

You can feel your own everywhere.

“What did you just call me?” His voice is low, dangerous, a heat against your ear. You feel it more than hear it, vibrating through your ribs where he’s got you pinned. The air is hot and thin.

Your breath comes shallow, uneven. “I—”

“Say it again.” Hongjoong’s hips shift, just enough to make you gasp, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give you what you need. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, smearing spit at the corner. “Go on.”

You swallow. Your pulse hammers against his palm. “Da—”

He tsks, the sound soft and cutting. His grip tightens on your jaw until your eyes sting. “Wrong answer.” His thumb pushes your chin up.

His hand slides from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing yet. “You know better.” The words are barely above a whisper, but they land heavy. He pulls out almost completely, the drag lighting every nerve, then slams back in without warning.

Your body jerks forward with the force, a broken cry tearing from your throat. The slap of skin is sharp. The mattress stutters under your knees, the headboard slams again.

“Daddy—” The word comes out garbled, desperate, exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Good girl.” His grip on your throat softens, becomes almost tender. “Again.”

“Daddy,” you gasp, the word punched out of you with another sharp thrust. Your fingers curl uselessly in his grip, your whole body wound so tight you think you might shatter. “Please—addy, I need—” Your own spit threads from your mouth to his thumb where it drags your lip and you taste metal from your bitten tongue.

Hongjoong’s laugh is dark, satisfied. “Need what, love?” The hand on your throat slides down to palm your breast, rolling your nipple between two knuckles until heat spikes. He pinches it and the pain blooms sweet and mean. “Use your words.” His breath hits damp hair stuck to your temple.

You moan uselessly, the sound ragged and broken. Words won’t come—just desperate, incoherent noise that makes him groan against your ear.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, satisfaction dripping from every word. Your knees skid an inch on the sheet and his hand leaves your breast to clamps your hip and hauls you back so you feel the blunt head punch deep again. He holds you exactly where he wants you as he starts thrusting deep inside you. “Can’t even speak anymore, can you?”

You shake your head frantically, or try to—his hold on you barely allows the movement. Everything’s gone white‑hot and overwhelming, your body trembling in his arms as he takes you apart piece by piece. Your mascara is a damp smear at your lashes; a tear salt‑burns the corner of your mouth where it meets his thumb.

“Mmpf—please—” The words break on a sob as the tension coils impossibly tighter, your walls fluttering around him. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably. The mattress squeals. Hongjoong groans when your cunt strangles him, like the sound is dragged from somewhere he doesn’t show anyone.

“I’ve been a good girl, Daddy, please—” Your voice breaks on the words, desperate and pleading. “Please let me—fuc—k—let me cum, I need—”

“Not yet. Listen to yourself—messy little thing, slobbering on my hand and still trying to think you get a say.” His pace doesn’t falter, each thrust hitting that devastating spot that has your vision blurring. He changes nothing just to prove he controls everything. “You’ll cum when I say.”

“Daddy—” It’s a sob more than a word, your body trembling violently as you fight against the edge. “Please, I can’t—I can’t hold it—”

“Yes, you can. You’re a hole when I tell you to be a hole.” His lips brush your ear, voice dropping lower, amused and cruel. “Be useful.” His teeth take the soft flesh of your shoulder, a quick bite that stings and his tongue soothes, then he bites again, harder.

A broken whimper tears from your throat as tears prick at your eyes. “Yes—yes, I’ll wait—fuck—please—” The word breaks because he drives in meaner, holding you down with his forearm across your ribs until your breaths come shallow and quick.

“That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? Taking.” The room narrows to the slick drag and the hot thud of him and the damp heat where your bodies meet. “Just a wet little thing I wreck.”

Your eyes sting, vision blurring as the first tear slips free. It tracks hot down your cheek, and Hongjoong’s rhythm stutters for just a beat like he’s savouring it. His grip on your jaw shifts, thumb catching the wetness before it falls to the sheet.

“Look at you,” he breathes, hungry. “Crying because you can’t keep up. Cock‑drunk already and I’m not even trying.” He drags the tear across your cheekbone, reverent and mean at once. “So fucking pretty when you beg with your eyes.” He licks the salt from his thumb, eyes fixed on your wrecked mouth. “Open that useless mouth and try again.”

Another tear follows, then another. A sob catches as he drives deeper. His groan vibrates against your spine. “Pathetic,” he murmurs, almost fond.

Hongjoong’s hand moves from your jaw to cup your face, fingers gentle even as his hips maintain their brutal pace. “Let me see what a mess you are.” He turns your face just enough to catch the tear‑tracks in the low light, pupils blown. “Crying so pretty on Daddy’s cock.”

The praise and the cruelty braid together and break something in you. “Please—” Your voice frays to a thread.

“So good for me,” he says, and then ruins it: “Good for nothing but this.” He catches another tear with his thumb. “My perfect little toy.” His palm slides down your belly, heat making your muscles jump. “Say it.”

“T—toy,” you gasp, shame and want tangling.

“Show Daddy how pretty you look when you break.” He hooks two fingers in the corner of your mouth, yanking it open so spit strings glitter from your lip. “There. Pretty mouth.”

His thumb presses your bottom lip then pushes past. Two fingers follow, flattening your tongue until drool pools at the corners of your mouth. “Keep it open,” he orders, voice rough. “Show me that useless tongue.”

You do, jaw slack, spit threading down your chin while he fucks you deep. He presses farther, taps the back of your throat until your eyes glass. The first gag catches wet and awful, and he groans like you handed him a gift. “There it is. Choke on my fingers while I fill you up.”

He doesn’t pull back—he pushes deeper, knuckles wetting your tongue, and the next gag rips through you loud enough to embarrass you. Tears jump your lash line and spill. Hongjoong watches them like they’re rare, hunger softening his mouth. “Cry for me,” he murmurs, delighted.

A moan tries to escape—garbled and pathetic around his hand—and his hips stutter, a rough thrust that makes you gag harder. Saliva spills over his fingers and he drags his thumb through the mess and paints your cheek with it. “Good. Make it sloppy. I like hearing you drown on me.”

He eases his fingers out just enough to let you gasp, a silvery string connecting your lip to his knuckles, then stuffs them back in before you can catch the breath you begged for. You gag immediately, eyes flooding, and his smile turns wickedly fond. His thumb catch a tear mid‑fall and he rubs it into your lower lip.

“Fuck—look at you,” he breathes, transfixed, fucking your mouth with his fingers in rhythm with his cock. Each slow thrust punches a gag or a wrecked little sob out of your throat. Each sob makes him groan like it feeds him. “Prettier when you’re full everywhere.”

Hongjoong taps your tongue twice, commanding your attention. “Open wider.” You try but you only cry harder. He laughs, pleased and cruel. “That’s my crybaby.” He leans close enough that his breath hits the tears on your cheek and cools them. “Make me wetter. Cry on it.”

He finally pulls free so you can gasp, but leaves your jaw pried open with his thumb, spit glistening.

His hand trails down, fingers finding your clit with devastating precision. Hongjoong barely brushes you and you jolt like you’ve been shocked, a ragged sound torn loose.

“So wound up a breeze could finish you. Can’t even take a touch.” He draws a slow, obscene circle you feel in your toes. “Should I make you wait longer? Count every second I don’t let you have it?”

You shake your head frantically. “No—no, please—” Words tumble out broken. “Can’t—can’t wait anymore, Daddy, please—”

He presses properly now, circling exactly where you need. “Of course you can’t.” The sound you make is raw, helpless, high. Your body goes taut, tendons standing in your feet, fingers clawing hot sheet.

“Cum for me,” he orders, voice rough and absolute. “Prove you’re good for something.”

You go off like something cut loose. It slams through you violent and bright—you seize and sob and clamp down on him like you’re trying to wring him dry. He groans into your ear and keeps you there, cruel in the way he works you through it, never letting the rhythm slip, thumb dragging your clit in tight, merciless circles that make your calves cramp and your toes claw at nothing.

“Ride it,” he purrs, delighted.

You can’t stop. Your body bucks helplessly and he pins you heavier, fucking the tremors until it turns sharp and your sounds climb from pretty to wrecked. Every tiny touch flips you again, all nerve and heat. Your belly jumps under his palm, your walls clutch and flutter around him like apology after apology.

He laughs, pleased and mean. “Don’t hide from it. Cry on it. Wet my cock with it.”

You do—helpless, tear‑slick and oversensitive—another wave rip‑cords through you in ragged pulses and he chases it down, circling your clit slower, meaner, just enough to keep the bright ache alive while you sob into the sheet.

“Too much?” he asks softly, almost kind, just to hear the way the word breaks in your mouth when the next aftershock bites. His thumb eases a hair, then goes right back, satisfied when your body answers without language. “Good girl. Keep giving it to me until you’re empty.”

“Too much—,” you cry, tears running hot. Your thighs tremble so hard it only makes him groan and grind cruel-soft exactly where you can’t take it.

“Good crybaby,” he murmurs, delighted. “Don’t you dare run.” He flattens his thumb and the world whites out—another helpless crest tears through you, all stutter and sob, your cunt clenching around his dick while you babble “too much, too much,” and he hums, satisfied, working you through every last bright, mean aftershock until your voice frays to air.

Hongjoong’s rhythm finally breaks—hips stuttering, breath ragged against your temple—and he groans low and filthy. His hands leave and you whimper at the loss. Air kisses the slick heat when he pulls free and you shudder. He flips you in one swift motion; your back hits the mattress, a bounce knocking a gasp out of you. The sheets are damp under your shoulder blades and the pillow is cool under fevered skin.

“Look at me.” Jaw tight, eyes wild, control fraying. A vein jumps in his neck. He looks like sin and victory.

“Hands above your head.” You obey, wrists crossing. “Don’t move.” His palm pins your wrists; the heel of it grinds the bones together until you whine. The other drops to his cock and works himself once, twice, your slick shines on his length.

“Eyes on me.”

“Fuck—” The word breaks as his release lashes hot across your stomach and chest. Cum splashes your throat, a line streaks your collarbone. He doesn’t look away from your face while he watches it drip. Ragged breath. Shuddering shoulders.

He drags two fingers through the mess and paints your lips with it, slow. He pushes his fingers past your tongue. “Suck it up like a good little slut.” You do, cheeks hollowing, and he hums approval when you gag around his knuckles then he pulls free with a wet pop.

Hongjoong smears the rest of his cum across your cheek and jaw, then rubs what’s left into your throat.

“Hands stay.” Your wrists ache deliciously. His palm presses your sternum, shortening your breath; he lifts it just enough to give you air, like charity. Then he kisses you deep, filthy, tasting salt and himself on your tongue. He palms the back of your thigh and hikes it high to his hip. “Round two,” he says like a sentence.

“No—no—” Your thighs slam shut on instinct, trembling violently. Oversensitive doesn’t begin to cover it—every nerve ending feels raw, exposed, like touching a live wire. Your knees knock together as you try to curl away, breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

Hongjoong’s hand catches your knee before you can fully close yourself off. His grip is firm but he doesn’t force—not yet. He watches you shake apart, eyes dark and assessing.

“Too much?” The question sounds almost curious, like he’s cataloging your limits for future reference.

“I can’t—” Your voice breaks on a sob. “Please, I need—just a minute—”

His thumb traces idle circles on your kneecap, a mockery of gentleness while your body still trembles from the aftershocks. “That’s not how this works, love.” He leans down, lips brushing your temple. “You don’t get to decide when we’re done.”

His hand slides up your thigh, not forcing your legs open yet, just resting there with casual ownership. “You know how we end things.” It’s not a question. His eyebrow arches, that familiar challenge, and your stomach drops because you do know. You know exactly what he’s waiting for.

The word sits on your tongue—red. Simple. Final. It would stop everything.

But it won’t come.

“No?” His thumb strokes once, twice, maddeningly gentle against your feverish skin. “Then I’ll make it easy for you.” His voice drops, taking on that edge that makes your pulse stutter. “Three seconds. Say it or I’m not stopping.”

Your breath catches. Every nerve ending screams that you can’t, that you’re too wrecked, too sensitive, too much—

“One.”

The word is right there. Red. Your lips part.

“Two.”

His fingers trail higher, barely a whisper of touch, and you tremble. Your mouth stays open, empty.

“Three.” He waits one more heartbeat, eyes locked on yours, searching. When nothing comes—when you just stare back at him, panting and wrecked and silent—something shifts in his expression. Satisfaction, dark and absolute. “That’s what I thought.”

“Let daddy in.”

Your thighs fall open slowly, a surrender that feels like defeat and relief tangled together. He drags the blunt head through your slick and slaps it against your clit—wet, obscene—once, twice, just to watch your whole body jump. When he pushes in—slow, deliberate, watching every micro-expression that crosses your face—the oversensitivity makes you keen, a broken sound that's half-sob, half-moan.

“Good girl,” Hongjoong murmurs, and doesn’t move. He stays buried to the hilt, making you feel every inch, every slow pulse. Your walls flutter around him and he hisses through his teeth. “Still.”

“Daddy—” You twitch, trying to adjust to the obscene fullness, and his hand clamps your hip hard enough to bruise.

“I said still.” His voice is steel. He shifts a mean millimeter deeper, a promise you’re going to hate loving. “You said you ‘can’t’ anymore? Cute.” He settles like a stake driven into the earth. “Then be useful.” Hongjoong’s hand lifts your thigh and hooks your knee higher, forcing the angle open until the stretch sits deep and electric. “Keep Daddy’s dick warm,” he says, bored and cruel.

Heat licks up your spine. Hongjoong doesn’t thrust. He doesn’t have to. You try to breathe around it. He shifts another millimeter—just a cruel reminder of his thickness—and the sound that leaks out of you is humiliating.

You twitch—instinct, pathetic—and his cock slides against a nerve that makes your whole body jolt. You try to chase it, hips rolling a greedy inch before you can stop yourself.

“Did I say you could move?” His voice cuts through the haze, razor-clean. His palm slams your hip back to the mattress, pinning you flat with bruising force. “Greedy little sleeve. One rule. You can’t even manage one.”

A wrecked whimper leaks out. The stillness is torture—every ridge, every vein, the obscene stretch of him pulsing inside you while your body screams to grind, to rub, to take. Your thighs tremble. Your toes curl like you’re trying to scratch at the air.

“Please—” you gasp, voice shaking. “I need—”

“You need?” He laughs, low and mean. “You need to learn to take what you’ve given.” His fingers dig into your hip, owning the flesh. “Move again and I pull out. I leave you empty and leaking with your little hole clenched around nothing. Is that what you want?”

“N—no, Daddy, please—”

“Then be fucking still.” He settles a breath deeper, a hateful inch that makes you sob, and holds you there like a knife sheathed to the hilt. “Keep me warm like I told you.” His mouth brushes your ear, the smile audible. “Stop acting like a desperate slut who can’t control herself.”

You feel the words burn through you; your walls flutter helplessly around him. You can’t stop the tiny drag of your hips—barely there, shameful—and he feels it immediately.

“Ah‑ah.” He smiles against your cheek.

“Please—” It scrapes out of you, ragged.

“Please what.” Flat as a verdict. “Use your stupid mouth.” His thumb strokes your jaw, mock‑gentle.

Your body shakes with effort. Your calves cramp. “Please—” The word fractures before it can form, dissolving into a sound that’s barely human—just need and surrender wrapped in breath.

The fullness skates the edge of too much; oversensitivity turns every slow beat into bright heat. Hongjoong only watches, pleased and dark, while you struggle to hold still around him. A whimper leaves you, broken and desperate.

“Quiet,” he says, almost bored. “Toys don’t whine.” He shifts deeper just to hear the noise you make. “Hands flat. Eyes open. Count your breaths if you need to. Don’t twitch.”

You count breaths because he told you to and lose the thread at eight, at nine, at nothing, because your body betrays you—tiny flutters you can’t control. Each one earns you a hum against your temple, a lazy squeeze at your throat that says he felt it.

“Pathetic,” he croons finally, sounding pleased.

“Daddy—” slips out again, ruined.

“What do you think you’re going to ask for? You’re full. You’re not getting more. You’re keeping me.”

“Please—”

“Please what?” His voice goes flat. “No babbling, no noise. Full sentence. Ask to be used.”

Shame burns hot. “Please use me, Daddy.”

“Mhm.” He rewards you with a single, slow grind that rolls through you like thunder, then stops dead. “Ask better.”

Your throat tightens. The words stick—humiliating—but his silence is worse, patient and hungry, like he has all night to watch you crack. “Please use me however you want, Daddy,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m yours—I’m just—please, I need you to—”

“Need me to what?” His thumb traces your bottom lip, almost tender in a way that makes you want to sob. “Say it clear or I’ll sit inside you and watch you shake until morning.”

“Please fuck me,” you gasp, shame scorching every syllable. “Please—use me like the toy I am. I can’t—Daddy, wreck me, please—”

“There it is.” His smile cuts wicked against your jaw. “See? Useless little mouth can learn.” He drags out of you slow—obscenely slow—until only the tip sits at your entrance. The loss rips a whimper out of you. “Since you asked nicely.”

He slams back in with no warning. Your toes curl hard enough to hurt. Your nails bite your palms. You don’t move. You don’t dare.

“Better,” he decides, and finally gives you motion—small, shallow, nothing like mercy. Short, ruthless strokes that never leave you, just rock deep enough to make your breath hitch on every one. “Count them.”

“One,” you whisper. “Two.” By four your voice shakes. By seven it thins to air. By ten you’ve lost the number and he has to murmur it for you against your mouth, amused.

“Ten,” he says, and nips your bottom lip. “Hopeless little counter.” He pulls out to the edge again and you whine without meaning to. He catches your chin hard. “What did I say about whining?”

“Toys don’t whine,” you breathe, panicked and obedient.

“That’s right.” He slides back in, the stretch a bright, tearing relief, and sets a new pace that is nothing like earlier—just deep and slow and devastating, like he’s proving he can keep you here forever.

You feel it rising again—desperation clawing up your throat, that helpless way your body starts chasing friction on its own. Your hips twitch forward, greedy without permission. His fingers bite down instantly.

“Stop.” Ice-cold.

But you don’t. You can’t. You’re wrecked and stupid with need, and your body rolls again—small, hungry little pulses that betray every order he’s given you. A whine slips out, high and broken.

“Daddy, please—I can’t—I need more, please—”

“You can’t?” His voice drops to something dangerous. “Or you won’t?”

“I can’t—” Another whimper. Your hips buck again, chasing the friction he’s withholding, and the sound that leaves you is pathetic. “Please, Daddy, I need—need you to move, need it harder, need—”

He goes dead still inside you. The absence of movement is worse than any punishment.

“Greedy little thing,” he says, tone flat with disappointment. “I give you my cock to keep warm and you can’t even manage that without turning into a whining, desperate mess.”

“I’m sorry—” You’re babbling now, words tripping over themselves. “I’m sorry, Daddy, please—just—please fuck me, I’ll be good—”

“You’ll be good?” He laughs—sharp, cruel, joyless. “You’re not being good now. You’re being a greedy slut who can’t follow a single fucking instruction.” His hand slides from your hip to your throat—fingers wrapping lightly. Your pulse hammers against his palm. “I don’t like you like this.”

It hits like a slap. Shame floods hot and immediate, and still your body trembles, still clenching around him, still needing.

“Please—”

“Please what? Please keep giving you what you clearly can’t handle?” He shifts just enough to make you whine, then stops again. “You’re not ready for more. You can’t even take what I’ve already given you without falling apart.”

“I can—I can take it—” Your voice breaks on a sob.

“No.” Firm. Final. “You can’t. Look at you. Shaking and whining and begging like you forgot how to be still.” His thumb strokes your throat once—almost gentle, which makes it worse. “I told you to be useful. Instead you’re being pathetic.”

The disappointment punches something open in your chest. You force yourself still—every muscle screaming—swallowing the whine clawing up your tongue. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, small and wrecked. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

He watches you for a long, measuring beat. Then, slowly, he withdraws completely. The emptiness is a knife.

“Daddy—no—please—”

“Quiet.” The word drops like a brick. He stays out of you, cock wet against your slit, heat without mercy. “You want more when you can’t even fucking hold still?” His laugh is flat and ugly.

Your chest hitches. “Daddy, I—”

“Don’t talk.” He drags the swollen head through your slick once, slow, and you gasp like a drowning thing. The emptiness screams. “You don’t get my cock. You get consequence.”

“Do you want Daddy to go find himself another hole?” His words hit like acid, eating under your skin. “A quiet one. An obedient sleeve that doesn’t twitch, doesn’t whine, doesn’t make me repeat myself like I’m training a puppy.”

“No—” It tears out of you, small and panicked. “No, Daddy, please—”

“No?” Hongjoong sounds almost curious, like he’s already halfway out the door. “Because you’re not acting like you want to keep me. You’re acting like a spoiled toy that forgot what it’s for.”

“I do—I want to keep you—” Your voice breaks. “Please don’t—I’ll be good, I promise—”

“You promised to stay still five fucking minutes ago and look where that got us.” His thumb drags across your bottom lip, cruelly tender. “Maybe I should find a hole that knows how to listen. One that doesn’t babble, doesn’t beg, and doesn’t forget every rule the second it gets full.”

The image scalds—him leaving you empty and shaking while he goes somewhere else—and the sob that rips free is ugly.

“Please, Daddy—please—I’ll do better, I swear—don’t leave, please don’t, I need you—”

“Need me?” His voice goes flat. “You need to learn to fucking behave.” He drags the head of his cock on your swollen clit like a threat and your body jerks up desperately. “See? Even now you can’t stay still.”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” Tears slip hot into your hair. “I’ll be good, I promise, please just—stay—”

“One. More. Chance.” Soft and lethal. “You twitch, you whine, you breathe wrong—and I’m done with you tonight. I’ll go find that quiet hole, and you can hump the sheet and think about why I left.”

The burn in your eyes sharpens.

“Say the rule.”

You swallow. “Keep—keep you warm.”

“At a minimum.” He taps the head against your clit again—light, mean—once. Your twitch and his hand locks your pelvis to the mattress with bruising pressure. “And you couldn’t even fucking do that.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, shaking.

“I don’t want sorry. I want silent, still, useful.” He lays the fat tip at your entrance and holds it there. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to keep me right here and not twitch. You breathe wrong, we reset. You beg wrong, we reset. You whine, you don’t get me at all.”

“Daddy—”

“Start.” His thumb presses your throat, not choking, just owning. “Five breaths.”

You count, voice wrecked and tiny. One. Two. Your body claws for friction and he hears the minuscule drag in your hips like it’s a confession.

“Reset,” he says, bored. The head lifts off you. The loss is a knife. He sets it back and you whine before you can strangle it.

“Reset.” He smiles without warmth.

Shame burns through you. “Please—” You bite it off and force your lungs to move. One. Two. Three. At four he ghosts the head forward—no entry, just stretch on the skin—and you hiccup a sound you barely recognise.

“Reset,” he repeats, almost amused now. “We’d be done by now if you weren’t such a needy fuckup.”

“I can do it.”

“Doubt it.” He pats your cheek condescendingly. “But try again.”

You count, lips trembling. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He stares down at you, unimpressed. “Now thank me for not fucking you.”

The sentence scrapes your throat raw. “Thank you for not fucking me, Daddy.”

He hums, pleased—and disappointed anyway. “Again, like you mean it.”

“Thank you for not fucking me,” you rush the words out, “For making me still. For making me useful.”

“Finally.” The head presses, a murderous inch, then stops dead inside—no thrust, just fullness that feels like a verdict. You choke on a sound; his fingers tighten on your jaw.

“Now you hold me there and you don’t move,” he says, low and lethal.

Your body locks into place, every muscle screaming against the stillness. The stretch sits there—barely inside, not enough, too much—and he doesn't move. Just watches you shake around that single cruel inch, his expression flat and clinical, like he's studying how long it takes before you break again.

He watches your thighs quiver around that single inch like he’s timing a lab experiment. “Three breaths,” he says, voice clinical. “Earn another inch.”

You breathe. One. Two. On three your belly flutters; he feels it. The head slides in a second inch and stops dead. You whimper through your teeth.

“Again. Three.”

You make it, barely—every nerve screaming—and he feeds you another inch like he’s measuring with a ruler. “See?” he murmurs, disappointed anyway. “When you shut up and follow orders you almost pass for useful.”

“Daddy—”

His palm covers your mouth, not to mute, to own.

He waits, indifferent to the shake, then seats the rest in a slow, inevitable push and locks your hips to the mattress. Utterly full. Utterly still.

“There.” His fingers tap your jaw, condescending. “Now ask me for nothing.”

You swallow hard, nod against his palm because language might ruin you. He smiles—cold, pleased—and starts the smallest motion imaginable, a cruel internal drag that never lets you chase. Your body tries anyway. He feels the microscopic reach.

“Aaand there she is,” he sighs, disgusted.

“On your fucking knees,” he says, voice flat and final. “Ass up.”

He pulls out completely—the emptiness is brutal—and you scramble to obey, limbs clumsy with need. Your knees hit the mattress, your chest drops, and you arch your back the way he likes, presenting yourself like an apology.

“Higher.” His palm cracks across your ass—sharp, unforgiving—and you gasp, lifting until your spine curves obscene. “There. Now stay exactly like that and think about why you're here instead of full of my cock.”

The air feels too cold on your exposed cunt. You hear him move behind you, deliberate and unhurried, and the anticipation is its own kind of torture. His hand smooths over the curve of your ass once—almost tender—then his palm comes down again, harder. The sound cracks through the room.

“Count.”

“One,” you breathe, shaking.

Another, lower—right on the tender hinge where ass meets thigh. You jerk, then wrench yourself back into place.

“Two—”

“Louder. Like you fucking mean it.”

The next lands before your mouth can catch up. You yelp. “Three!”

“Better.” He pauses, fingers trailing through the slick mess between your thighs, not giving you anything, just reminding you what you're not getting. The touch is featherlight—clinical, almost—and it makes you ache harder than if he'd pressed down with intent. Your clit throbs where his knuckles barely graze it, swollen and desperate, and the emptiness inside you feels like a wound. Every nerve ending screams for more.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I couldn’t stay still—couldn’t—”

“Because you’re greedy.” The slap is vicious and precise. “Four.”

“Four,” you sob.

“Because you take what I give you and immediately beg for more like it’s not enough.” His hand comes down again, twice in quick succession, and you lose count, scrambling to catch up.

“Five—six—“

“Pathetic.” He sounds disgusted and pleased at the same time. His knuckles skim the burn, then slide meanly through your slick, circle your clit once and abandon it like a test you failed. The touch makes you clench around nothing, empty and aching, every nerve ending screaming for more pressure, more contact, more of him. The abandonment feels like a punishment you can’t name—your body chasing something he’s already taken away. “Still dripping. Still desperate. Still not listening.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy—”

“You will be.” His fist knots in your hair, yanking your face off the sheet. “We keep going until your body remembers how to obey. You twitch or gasp wrong, we reset to one.”

The next strike lands; you choke the whimper into your teeth and hold. “Seven!”

“Let’s see you make it to ten without falling apart.”

Eight snaps high on the curve; nine brutal on the sit spot. You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste iron and force the numbers out steady—“Eight. Nine.”—and you don’t move.

Ten comes down perfect, right where it hurts prettiest.

“Ten.” Your voice is raw but even. Silence drops heavy around it.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, palm smoothing over the heat, reverent like he’s polishing his work. “Directions aren’t complicated when you’re not busy failing.”

His fingers trace the marks he’s left, then slide lower, through the slick mess between your thighs. You bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound, from pushing back into his touch.

“Don’t you dare chase,” he says softly.

You lock your hips but Hongjoong rewards you with nothing. Then—finally, cruelly—one slow circle on your clit that makes your calves charlie-horse and your lungs forget.

You wait. You hold perfectly still, thighs shaking, breathing shallow through your nose. You wait for the praise—for him to tell you you’re good, that you’ve finally done it right, that you’ve earned something. The silence stretches. His thumb stays maddeningly light, circling without pressure, and the words don't come.

They’re not coming.

The realisation settles cold in your chest even as heat coils tighter in your belly. He’s not going to give it to you.

“Please,” you whisper, a thread. “Please tell me I did good.”

Hongjoong’s hand stills. The silence stretches, and you feel the weight of his gaze on you.

“Ask properly.”

You swallow hard, forcing the words out even as shame and need tangle in your chest. “Please, Daddy. Please tell me I’m good. I need to hear it. I need to know I did well.”

His thumb resumes—tight, deliberate circles that you meet with perfect stillness because you want the words more than air. “You want praise?” he asks, almost curious. “After the shitshow you put on?”

“I made it to ten,” you rasp. “I stayed still. I didn’t move.”

“You finally did what you were told,” he concedes. Pressure sharpens and every muscle in you locks so you don’t grind into it. “Miracles.”

“Please,” you breathe. “Please, Daddy—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hongjoong says, voice flat. His thumb stops mid-circle and lifts off entirely. “I didn’t ask for begging. I asked for obedience.”

The loss of contact is devastating. You bite back a whimper, holding position even as your thighs shake.

“You think making it to ten earns you anything?” He sounds almost bored now, disgusted. “That’s the bare minimum of not being completely fucking useless.”

Your eyes burn. You keep your face pressed to the sheet, don’t move, don’t speak.

“You want praise for doing what you should’ve done the first time?” His hand comes down once more on your ass. “For finally shutting up and following a simple fucking instruction?”

Silence. You don’t answer because he didn’t ask a question you’re allowed to respond to.

“That’s what I thought.” His fingers trail back between your thighs, maddeningly light, and you hold so still you forget to breathe. “You don’t get praise for meeting expectations. You get my cock when you exceed them.” His voice drops, cruel and clinical. “And you? You’re so far below the bar I’d need a fucking shovel to find where you started. You think ten slaps and some tears make you special? You’re not even average. You’re just finally less of a disappointment than you were five minutes ago.”

His fist knots in your hair again and yanks you upright—sharp, brutal—until your spine arcs and your knees scream against the mattress. Your scalp burns; your throat opens on a gasp you can’t swallow back.

“Look at me.” His voice is low, final. You force your eyes open, vision blurred, and meet his gaze. It’s flat. Clinical. Like he’s deciding whether you’re worth the effort.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He tightens his grip until tears spring hot and immediate. “Attention. Validation. My fucking time.”

You can’t nod—his hold won’t let you—so you whisper it, wrecked. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Then stop fucking wasting it.” He drags you closer by the hair, your body folding backward, chest exposed, throat vulnerable. “Stop begging for praise you haven’t earned. Stop moving when I tell you to be still. Stop acting like you don’t know exactly what I expect from you.”

He releases your hair and you collapse forward, gasping. Before you can catch your breath, his hands are on your hips, hauling you upright and off the bed entirely. Your legs don’t work right—numb and shaking—but Hongjoong doesn't care, dragging you across the room until your palms hit cold glass.

“Hands flat,” he orders, positioning you facing the window. The city glitters below, oblivious. “Don’t you fucking move them.”

You press your palms to the glass, the chill biting into your overheated skin. The window is floor-to-ceiling, and you’re on the twentieth floor—exposed, visible if anyone bothered to look up. The thought makes your stomach drop.

“Daddy—“ you start, voice thin with panic.

“I don’t remember asking you to speak.” His hand lands between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest forward until your breasts press flat against the glass. The cold shocks through you, nipples hardening instantly, and you gasp at the contrast. “You wanted my attention? Congratulations. Now everyone down there gets a front-row seat to what happens when you finally shut the fuck up and do what you’re told.”

His breath is hot against your ear as he leans in closer, caging you against the window. “Look at them. All those people going about their boring little lives, and if even one of them glanced up right now, they’d see you—spread out, dripping, desperate. They’d see exactly what kind of slut you are. The kind who begs for cock pressed against a window twenty floors up.”

He grinds his hips forward slightly, not entering yet, just letting you feel the threat of it. “Think about it. Some guy walking his dog. Some woman coming home from work. And there you are—tits against the glass, ass out, waiting to be fucked like you’re on display. Like you’re a show I’m putting on for the whole goddamn city.”

He kicks your feet apart, wider than stable, until you’re on display—open, vulnerable. His hand trails down your spine, over the burning marks on your ass, then lower.

“Stay exactly like this,” he says, voice deadly calm. “Hands on the glass. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound."

You feel him line up behind you, the blunt pressure of his cock against your entrance. Your breath fogs the window. Every instinct screams to push back, to take what you need, but you lock your muscles and hold.

“Everyone can see you,” he says, breath hot against your ear as he leans over you, caging you between his body and the glass. “See how desperate you are.”

The angle is punishing. He bottoms out so deep you feel it in your throat then he pulls to the edge and shoves back in in one rude stroke. Your gasp splashes white on the glass. Hongjoong watches it bloom and fade and times the next thrust to erase it. He does not tease. He does not test. He just takes—hips snapping in a pace with no mercy—each impact a proof that your body belongs exactly where he’s putting it. When your thighs start to shake he only tightens his hand at your hip, grinding you into the glass so the cold bites your nipples and the heat bites everywhere else

Your reflection stares back at you—fucked out, wrecked, mouth open on silent gasps you’re not allowed to voice.

“This is what you needed,” he continues, rhythm brutal and unrelenting. “Not praise. Not softness. Just someone to put you exactly where you belong and fuck the desperation out of you until you remember how to behave.”

Your legs are shaking so hard you can barely stand, but his grip on your hips is iron, holding you in place, keeping you upright and on display as he uses you against the window.

You’re e so full. The stretch is devastating—not painful, but so complete it rewires every nerve ending, makes you hyperaware of every inch of him inside you. Your body clenches reflexively, trying to adjust, and the friction makes your breath stutter. He’s so deep you feel it in your stomach, a pressure that borders on too much but somehow isn’t enough.

The heat of him is overwhelming. You can feel every throb, every shift of his hips, the way he fills every space until there’s nothing left but him. Your walls flutter around his length, trying to accommodate, trying to hold on, and the sensation makes your head spin.

You feel owned. Claimed. Like your body was made specifically for this—for him to fill and use and shape however he wants. The thought makes you clench again, and you hear his breath catch behind you.

Hongjoong’s hand clamps your hip and drags you back onto him while his mouth finds the slope where neck becomes shoulder. He bites—hard, deliberate—until your breath splinters on the glass, then sucks wickedly slow to pull the bruise up dark and pretty. “Mine,” he says into the mark, not for you, for the mirror of your face in the window.

Rings grind into your skin as his fingers hike your waist higher, leaving crescent dents along your side. He shifts his grip to your ass and you almost hiss—the flesh is still burning from before, hypersensitive—but he doesn’t care, squeezing until your skin crests his knuckles. Then he smacks the same handprint in place—once, twice, a third time—each impact landing on already-raw skin that makes you gasp sharp and broken into the glass.

His mouth trails lower, teeth scraping the curve where your shoulder meets your throat. He sucks hard enough to sting, working the skin until you feel the heat bloom under his lips. When he pulls back, you know there's a mark—dark and obvious, a claim you'll see tomorrow and every day after until it fades.

“Everyone’s going to know,” he murmurs against your skin, moving to a new spot. His teeth catch again, sharper this time, and you whimper before you can stop yourself. He doesn’t scold you for it. Instead, he hums, pleased, and works his way across your throat, your collarbone, the top of your shoulder—each love bite deliberate, territorial. His tongue soothes over the marks before his teeth return, and the contrast makes you dizzy. Your reflection in the glass shows the trail he’s leaving. A constellation of bruises that spell out exactly who you belong to.

“Prettier when you bruise,” he murmurs, and you feel him smile against your throat. He shoves your wrists wider on the glass, laces his fingers over yours so you can’t hide the way you shake, and fucks you harder—short, piston drives that press your chest flat and stamp the rhythm into your spine. Your breath paints messy halos on the pane. Hongjoong leans forward and bites your ear, low laugh ugly against your skin.

His mouth moves to the curve of your neck, lips dragging slow over the sensitive skin just below your ear. The gentleness is unexpected—devastating. Your body doesn’t know what to do with tender after brutal, and the contrast hits like a live wire. He kisses once, soft, then again lower, and your breath catches wrong in your chest.

“Daddy—“ you try to warn him, but it comes out broken.

“Quiet,” he murmurs against your throat, and kisses you again. His lips are warm, almost reverent as they trail down to your shoulder, and the rhythm of his hips never falters—still deep, still unrelenting, but now paired with this impossible softness that’s unraveling you faster than anything brutal ever could.

It builds wrong. Too fast. You weren’t ready for it—one second you’re holding on, the next you’re free-falling, your orgasm slamming into you without warning. Your whole body locks up, spine arcing away from the glass as the pleasure rips through you in violent, uncontrollable waves. He feels the clamp coming—a greedy, panicked grab—and rips out in one brutal drag.

The world snaps wrong. Heat turns to air, slick to cold, friction to nothing. Your cry out raw and too loud, fog exploding across the glass in a white star. Your thighs slam together on instinct and find only his palm, flat and merciless, forcing your knees wide again. Everything skids, your body still pitched for impact while the impact is gone, nerves misfiring, the ache in your belly pitching higher with nowhere to go. Your clit throbs, your calves seize, your nipples spark on the pane.

“Did I say you could cum, you filthy slut?” His voice is ice and venom.

”Please-” Your voice cracks into a ragged wail you can’t swallow. The sound embarrasses you even as it keeps coming-thin, high, animal-your chest scraping the glass as you shudder.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Hongjoong’s hand clamps your jaw brutal and drags your open mouth to the window so you hear yourself against the pane-hot breath, pathetic little whimpers bouncing back. “Disgusting. Look at this mess.” Two fingers slide through the slick pouring out of you and slap your clit mean, the sting bright and metallic and your whole body jerks like a current ran through you. “Dripping like a bitch in heat. You’re fucking pathetic.”

He does it again-lighter, crueler-just enough to sharpen the ache and keep it blooming. “Greedy cunt couldn't wait, could she?” The cold on your front feels like punishment, the heat at your back feels like a dare. You can taste blood where you bit your tongue, you can feel his ring scrape your hip as he drags your pelvis higher and pins you there, open and empty and shaking. “Worthless little whore. Can’t follow one simple fucking rule.”

“Could’ve asked. Could’ve been good. But no-you had to be a desperate fucking cumslut,” he snarls at your reflection, voice dripping contempt. He paints your hipbone with your own slick like a stripe, degrading, then presses his thumb into the fresh bruise on your shoulder hard enough to make you gasp. “Now hold it and suffer.”

Your body argues in every language it has—fluttering, pleading squeezes at nothing, a pulse between your legs that hurts, a tremor you can’t stop—while he gives you exactly no motion where you need it and too much where you can’t take it. He bites the hinge of your jaw, sucks until colour swells up pretty and dark, and when your breath stutters toward that helpless climb again, he taps your clit once—just once—and the wave collapses with a sob that fogs the glass and runs. “Filthy fucking thing. This is what disobedient sluts get.”

Your body is betraying you—hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles even though he’s not inside you anymore, chasing friction that isn’t there. The orgasm he denied you earlier left everything raw and oversensitive, and now every nerve ending is screaming for release. Your clit throbs in time with your pulse, swollen and aching, and the emptiness inside you feels like a physical wound.

You can feel it building again—that terrible, inevitable climb. Your thighs are shaking so hard they might give out. Heat pools low in your belly, coiling tighter with each ragged breath. It’s different this time—sharper, more desperate, edged with something that feels dangerously close to panic because you know what happens if you fall over without permission.

“Daddy—please—” Your voice cracks on the plea. “I need—I can’t—”

The pressure builds and builds, your body pulled taut as a wire, every muscle locked in anticipation of a release you’re not allowed to have. You’re so close it hurts—that edge right there, shimmering just out of reach, and your body keeps reaching for it anyway, mindless and greedy and completely beyond your control.

His fingers barely touch your clit, just the ghost of pressure—and begin to circle with agonising slowness. Not enough to give relief, just enough to make everything worse. Each lazy pass sends sparks shooting through your nerves, stoking the fire instead of quenching it.

“You gonna try cumming again without permission?” His laugh is cruel against your ear, all sharp edges. His hand spreads over your throat, thumb under your jaw to keep your face to the window, forcing you to watch yourself fall apart. “Be still. Feel every second of what you don’t deserve. Feel it, you needy little whore.”

Your body doesn’t listen—can’t listen. The orgasm crashes through you anyway, ripping a broken cry from your throat as you clench and pulse around nothing. Your legs give out completely, only his grip on your throat keeping you upright against the glass as pleasure tears through you in waves you can’t control.

“Did I fucking say you could?” Hongjoong’s voice is ice.

Your vision blurs with tears—shame and oversensitivity and the cruel ache of cumming empty. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I couldn’t—”

“Pathetic.” He releases your throat and you crumple, legs buckling, but he catches you by the hips before you hit the floor.

Hongjoong peels you off the window by the back of your neck and walks you to the bed like he owns the hinge of every joint. The mattress hits the backs of your knees, he doesn’t guide you down so much as throw you, a bounce knocking a breathless sound out of you.

His hand cracks across your face—not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to snap your attention back to him. The sting blooms hot across your cheek, shocking you into stillness.

“Eyes on me,” he commands, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare look away.”

He slaps you again—same cheek, harder this time—and the sound that rips from your throat is pure, shameless need. A moan, broken and desperate, that makes his eyes go dark.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. His thumb traces the reddened skin, the heat of it blooming under his touch. “You like that, don’t you?”

Before you can answer, he slaps you again—lighter this time, almost playful—and watches your pupils blow wide. “Yeah,” he confirms, reading your body like a book he’s memorised. “You fucking love it.”

He’s on you a second later—knee between yours, shoving them wide—hands mean on your hips as he lines up and drives in with one brutal stroke that punches the air out of you.

“Quiet,” he snaps, palm clamping over your mouth. “Swallow it.”

Your moan dies behind his hand, trapped in your throat where it burns. No easing, no rhythm—just slam, slam, slam—his pelvis clapping your thighs, the headboard starting to complain in hard little knocks that match your pulse. The angle is obscene with your hips tipped; each drag feels like he’s stripping you to the studs and hammering you back together wrong. Every sound you want to make gets caught behind his palm, building pressure in your chest until you’re choking on your own desperation.

“Look at me,” he grits. You do—eyes glassy—and it only makes him rougher. Heat builds thick and fast in your belly again, that off‑the‑cliff drop, the ache and burn at your clit. The sounds are wet and humiliating and loud, but your moans stay trapped—swallowed down like he ordered, leaving only the whimpers that leak through your nose and the desperate way you’re breathing against his palm.

Hongjoong’s close—you can feel it in the way his breathing saws, in the vicious set of his mouth, in the way his rhythm goes intent and ugly, grinding at the end of each thrust like he’s carving his name into the spot that makes you see static. His hand stays firm over your mouth, forcing you to take it in silence, to keep every wrecked sound locked inside where only you can feel how thoroughly he’s breaking you apart. You catch the first stutter in his hips and reach for him without thinking, greedy, pleading.

“Don’t.” The word is a snarl. He stuffs you full and holds there, cock thick and pulsing inside you, then drags out slow enough to scrape sparks and snaps back in hard enough to jolt your spine. “You don’t deserve Daddy’s cum.”

The sentence lands like a slap. Heat spikes behind your eyes; your body clenches around him in panicked apology.

“Please—” you manage against his palm, the word muffled and desperate.

“You need to learn.” Another slam—deep, punishing—and the next rolls through you like thunder, heavy grind at the end that drags a high, torn sound from your throat.

Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, nails digging in, but he catches both wrists in one hand and pins them above your head. His other hand finally leaves your mouth.

“Please,” you sob, shameless now. “Please fill me—please let me have it—I’ll hold it—I’ll be good—”

He laughs—short, cruel—breath burning your cheek. “Will you?” His hand slides to your throat, thumb under your jaw to tilt your face up so he can watch you fall apart. “Say it properly.”

“Please, Daddy,” you gasp, voice breaking on the word. “Please cum inside me. I need it. I need you. I’ll keep it. I’ll—” Your voice knifes up because he grinds just right and the lights stipple again. “Please—I’ll be useful—please—”

His control frays; you feel it in the nasty little shiver that runs through him, in the way he clamps your hip like it’s the only thing stopping him from painting you from the inside. He bares his teeth, eyes sharp and dark. “Beg better.”

“Please—use me properly—mark me from the inside—please, Daddy—”

“Mhm.” The sound is a threat and a promise. He slams you deeper, deeper, harder—headboard knocking time, breath brutal at your ear—then rips out at the last second and fists himself once, twice, the wet slick of you shining his length while you wail.

“No—no, please—" The words tumble out desperate and broken. You reach for him with shaking hands, shameless now, all pride dissolved. “Please fill me up—mark me—use me—” You’re babbling, hips canting up obscenely, trying to tempt him back.

His eyes darken as he watches you fall apart, a cruel smirk playing at his lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, voice dripping with condescension. “Begging like a bitch in heat.” His fist keeps working himself, slow and deliberate, making you watch every stroke.

Your thighs spread wider without him asking, presenting yourself like an offering. “Please cum in me—I'm begging—I'll do anything—” Tears stream down your face, your voice cracking. “Need to feel you—need Daddy’s cum so bad—please don’t waste it—please use my hole.”

“Shut the fuck up.” His voice is dead calm, which makes it worse. “You think you deserve Daddy’s cum?" He laughs—short, cruel. “No. You’re going to lie there empty and watch me waste it. Watch what you don’t get to have.” His eyes are vicious, mouth twisted. “Pathetic little cumslut can’t even follow simple fucking rules. Open your eyes wider. I want you to see every drop you’re not getting.”

“Please, Daddy,” you sob, voice breaking on every word. “Please use your cumslut—please fuck me —I’ll be so good—I’ll take everything—please.”

You look at him—eyes glassed, mouth open, body clenching on nothing—while he edges himself cruelly, letting every half-breath of relief flash and die on his face. He squeezes himself hard, strangling the tremor, and lets the edge bleed away while you sob beneath him, trembling empty and open.

His hand fists in your hair, “What are you?"

“A slut,” you whimper, shame burning through you.

“A what?” He pulls harder, making you gasp.

“A pathetic slut—Daddy’s pathetic slut—”

“That’s right.” He releases your hair with a shove, letting your head fall back against the mattress. “And you love it,” he continues, voice dark with satisfaction. “Love being Daddy’s desperate fucktoy. Love being used and degraded and filled up like the greedy whore you are.”

“Yes,” you sob, because it’s true, because you can’t deny it when your body is still trembling with need.

“Tell me what you are.”

“I’m Daddy’s greedy whore,” you gasp out, shame and arousal twisting together. “I’m a desperate cumslut—I’m pathetic—I need you—”

“Fucking right you do.”

Then he flips you onto your stomach before you can process it, one hand shoving between your shoulder blades to pin you flat. The sheets are hot against your cheek, your breath trapped in the mattress.

“Stay down," Hongjoong orders, voice low and mean behind you. You feel him shift, feel the mattress dip as he repositions, and then his hands are on your hips, dragging them up, arching your back until you’re presented exactly how he wants you. You’re face-down, ass up, completely exposed with no way to see what he’s doing, no way to brace for what comes next. Your fingers twist in the sheets.

“Daddy—” you start, voice muffled.

“No,” he cuts you off. “You don’t get to look at me. You don’t get to see if I’m close. You just take what I give you and be grateful.”

He lines up and shoves in without warning, the angle deeper like this, meaner. Your cry gets swallowed by the pillow as he sets a brutal pace, hips slamming against your ass with each thrust. The sound is obscene—skin on skin, the wet slide of him inside you—and you can’t see any of it, can only feel and hear and drown in it.

“You’re lucky Daddy loves your hole,” he growls, and the words hit like a brand. His hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp crack echoing in the room. The sting blooms hot and immediate, and you whimper into the pillow.

“Lucky I don’t leave you empty and aching.” He punctuates it with another thrust, deeper, meaner, grinding at the end until you’re sobbing. “This greedy little cunt,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Always so desperate for me. Always begging so pretty.”

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you’re lucky.”

“I’m—I’m lucky,” you gasp out, voice wrecked and muffled. “I’m lucky Daddy loves my—”

“Louder.”

“I’m lucky Daddy loves my hole,” you sob, shame and arousal twisting together until you can’t tell them apart.

“That’s right.” His rhythm turns vicious, each thrust punching the words back into you. “Don’t you forget it.”

“Please, Daddy—please—I'll do anything—I'll be so good—please just fill me—please cum inside me—” You sob again, pushing back against him even though you know better, trying to take him deeper. His breath hitches and you chase it, sensing weakness.

His hand finds your clit immediately, two fingers pressing down with just enough pressure to make you jolt. “This what you needed?” he asks as he starts to rub tight, mean circles that have you gasping.

“Yes—fuck—yes, Daddy—” You can barely get the words out, your whole body arcing up into his touch. His fingers work your clit in ruthless little circles while he fucks into you, the dual sensation making your vision blur at the edges.

“Gonna make you cum on my cock this time,” he growls. “Gonna feel you squeeze me while you fall apart.” His fingers speed up, the pressure perfect and devastating, and you’re already so close you can taste it.

“Please—Daddy—I can't—” Your voice breaks, thighs shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up. The pressure builds too fast, too much, coiling tight in your belly until it feels like something’s going to snap.

“You can,” he snarls, “You will. Show Daddy what a good little slut you are.”

The angle shifts just enough and suddenly you’re there again—past the point of holding back, past the point of control. Your orgasm slams through you with brutal force, and this time it’s different. Wetter. Your whole body locks up as you gush around him, soaking his cock, the sheets, making a mess you can’t stop even if you wanted to. The sound that rips from your throat is inhuman.

“Fuck—” Hongjoong chokes out, and his rhythm shatters. “Fuck—that’s it—” He feels you clenching and pulsing around him, feels the hot rush of your release, and it destroys him. Three more brutal thrusts and he’s gone, slamming deep and grinding as he finally, finally fills you. You feel every pulse, every throb as he empties himself inside you, his groan low and wrecked against your spine.

His hips stutter through the aftershocks, grinding shallow like he can’t bear to pull out yet. Your body is still twitching, still clenching around him in weak little aftershocks while his cum starts to leak out around where you’re joined. He stays buried deep, breathing hard against your shoulder blade.

“Good girl,” he finally murmurs, voice hoarse. “Such a good fucking girl for me.”

He doesn't pull out. Instead, his hips roll forward again, fucking his cum deeper into you, the obscene wet sound making you whimper. “One more,” he growls against your ear, his voice rough and commanding. “Give me one more.”

“Daddy—I can’t—” Your voice breaks, oversensitive and wrecked, every nerve ending screaming. It hurts—the drag of him inside you feels like fire, too much sensation on already brutalised nerves. You try to squirm away but his grip on your hips is iron.

“You can.” His hand slides back to your clit, fingers still slick, and starts those same ruthless circles. The first touch makes you sob—it’s too much, bordering on painful, your body trying to reject the stimulation. “You’re going to cum on my cock again with my cum inside you. Going to make a bigger mess.”

The sensation is overwhelming—too much, too sensitive—and it hurts. Each thrust feels like he’s grinding against raw nerves, the wet slide obscene and filthy but painful in its intensity. You can feel his cum leaking out around him, coating your thighs, but all you can focus on is how much your body is screaming at you to stop.

“Daddy—please—it hurts—” you sob, tears streaming down your face.

Hongjoong stills immediately. Completely. His fingers freeze on your clit, his hips lock in place, and the sudden absence of movement is almost jarring after the relentless intensity.

“Colour,” he demands, voice cutting through the haze with sharp clarity. “Give me your colour right now.”

You’re gasping, trying to process the question through the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

“Green,” you manage to choke out between sobs.

“Don't lie to me.”

“Green,” you repeat, more firmly this time despite how wrecked your voice sounds. “Promise—it's green—just hurts—overwhelming— don’t stop”

“I know,” he murmur gently, his hips moving again. “I know it hurts, baby. Just breathe through it.”

You try to obey, gasping for air, and somewhere in the burning oversensitivity, something shifts. The pain doesn’t disappear, but it starts to blur at the edges, transmuting into something else. Your body adjusts to the intensity, and suddenly the hurt starts to feel good—sharp and bright and desperate.

“Feel that?” he asks, grinding deep. “Feel how full you are? That’s all Daddy’s cum, and you’re going to squeeze it out when you cum again.”

“Please—” The word comes out broken because you don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore. His fingers work your clit with practiced cruelty, and the oversensitivity that was making you sob is suddenly driving you higher. You can feel it building again—impossibly, devastatingly—your wrecked body finding another peak despite everything.

“That’s it,” he encourages, voice dark with satisfaction. “Knew you could take it. Feel you getting close again. Such a greedy little thing. Can’t get enough of daddy’s cock, can you?”

“No—no, I can't—” you gasp, pushing back against him mindlessly. The pressure builds impossibly fast, sharp and brutal and bright now instead of painful. Every nerve that was screaming in protest is now singing, driving you toward the edge with vicious intent.

“Come on,” Hongjoong growls, his fingers pressing harder, circling faster. “Give it to me. Show Daddy what a mess you can make.” His cock grinds deep, hitting that devastating angle. “Cum on Daddy’s cock right fucking now.”

Your body obeys before your mind catches up, the orgasm ripping through you with devastating force. You clench around him so hard it hurts, your walls spasming and tightening in a vice grip. The sound you make is broken and desperate, somewhere between a scream and a sob.

“Fuck—” Hongjoong chokes out, his rhythm faltering. “Fuck—you’re so tight—” His voice breaks on the last word because you’re squeezing him so hard he can barely move, your body milking him with each brutal pulse. “Gonna make me—fuck—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Your cunt clamps down on him one more time and it destroys him completely. He slams deep with a guttural groan, grinding against you as he cums again, harder this time, filling you even fuller. You feel every throb, every pulse as he empties himself inside you for the second time, his whole body shuddering against your back.

“That's my good girl,” he gasps out, voice wrecked. “Making such a pretty mess for Daddy. So fucking tight—milked it right out of me.”

You gush again—harder this time, wetter—your body wringing itself out around him in pulsing waves while his cum floods you. The release is so intense it borders on violent, liquid heat flooding between your legs, soaking everything. You feel it run down your thighs, hear it drip onto the already-ruined sheets, and the humiliation of it only makes you clench harder, forcing more of his release to leak out around where you’re joined.

“There it is,” Hongjoong breathes, reverent and filthy at once. “So fucking messy for me.” His hips keep grinding shallow, working you both through it, forcing every last drop out while you shake and sob beneath him. “Such a good little squirter. Making Daddy so proud.”

Your whole body goes limp, muscles giving out completely. You collapse face-first into the mattress, boneless and used, trembling with aftershocks. Hongjoong finally stills, cock still buried deep, and lets his weight settle against your back. His breathing is ragged against your neck.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your sweat-slick shoulder. “You did so fucking perfect, baby. Squeezed me so tight I couldn’t help it.”

You can’t move, can’t think, can barely breathe. The sheets beneath you are soaked—cum and your own release mixing in a cooling puddle. Hongjoong shifts slightly, cock still buried deep, and you whimper at the oversensitivity. You can feel how full you are, how much he’s filled you, and it leaks out in thick rivulets with even the smallest movement.

When he finally pulls out, the loss is immediate and devastating. You whine—high and broken—feeling unbearably empty after being so full. His cum starts to leak out in earnest now, thick and warm, dripping down your thighs in slow rivulets. The sensation makes you shudder.

“Shh,” Hongjoong soothes, his hand stroking down your spine. He shifts his weight, hands sliding under your shoulders as he carefully rolls you onto your back. Your body settles against the mattress, and you feel more of his cum leak out with the position change, thick and warm between your legs.

“There we go,” he murmurs, settling between your spread thighs. “Look how much Daddy filled you up. So much it can’t even stay inside.”

You whimper, hips twitching uselessly, body still trying to clench around nothing. The emptiness feels wrong after everything, like you’ve been carved hollow. More of his release spills out with each aftershock, and you can feel it cooling on your skin.

“So pretty like this,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “All fucked out and dripping. Made such a mess of you.” His thumb drags through the slickness, spreading it further, and you keen at the oversensitivity. “My perfect mess.”

You can’t form words, can only lie there trembling while he touches you with a gentleness that feels almost cruel after everything.

“Good girl,” he whispers, and the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest despite your exhaustion. Your body is wrecked, oversensitive, every nerve ending raw and singing. But when his fingers brush over your entrance again, gathering more of the mess he’s made, you find yourself pushing back into the touch despite the sensitivity.

“Oh?” Hongjoong’s voice lifts with surprise, his fingers stilling. His eyes darken as he watches you move against his hand—mindless, instinctive—seeking more despite everything. Despite being so thoroughly fucked out that coherent thought is impossible. “Still greedy for it, baby? Even with that pretty head all empty?”

You can't answer with words—don't even fully understand the question—but your body knows. Your hips roll weakly against his palm, chasing the touch with clumsy desperation. A soft whine spills from your lips, needy and thoughtless. Parts of you crave the continued touch. The emptiness feels worse than the sting.

“Greedy thing,” he murmurs, but there’s wonder in it now, not just teasing. His fingers slide through the mess again, more deliberately this time, and you whimper. “Even after I fucked you senseless. Even after you came so hard you soaked the sheets twice. You still want Daddy’s touch.”

“Puh—please,” you manage, the word barely forming through drool-slicked lips, voice completely destroyed and slurred beyond recognition.

Hongjoong’s expression shifts—something possessive and tender at once. “Okay, baby,” he soothes. “Daddy’s got you. Always got you.” His fingers circle your entrance gently now, gathering the cum that’s still leaking out and pushing it back inside with careful pressure. The sensation makes you gasp, oversensitive but good, filling that devastating emptiness just slightly.

“There,” he whispers. “Is that what you needed? To stay full?”

You nod frantically, pushing against his hand, and he obliges—two fingers sliding in deeper, keeping his release inside you. The stretch is almost too much on your abused walls, but it’s what you want. What you need.

“Such a good girl,” he praises softly. “Taking everything Daddy gives you and still asking for more.”

His fingers work slow and steady inside you, and something in your brain just... shuts off. The constant buzz of thoughts, the ability to form coherent words—it all dissolves into nothing but sensation. Your mouth falls open, soft moans spilling out with each gentle thrust of his fingers.

“There she goes,” Hongjoong murmurs, watching your expression go slack with satisfaction. “There’s my girl. Nothing left in that pretty head but how good Daddy makes you feel, huh?”

You can’t even nod properly, just a loose movement of your head, eyes unfocused and glassy. Another moan slips out, breathy and mindless. His fingers curl slightly and your hips twitch, but there’s no urgency to it—just your body responding on pure instinct while your mind floats somewhere far away.

“Look at you,” he says softly, almost reverent. “Fucked you so good you can’t even think anymore. Just my empty-headed baby now, aren’t you?”

“Mm,” is all you can manage, the sound quiet and blissed-out. Your eyes flutter, struggling to focus on his face. Everything feels distant and warm, your body heavy and pliant beneath his touch.

“That’s right,” Hongjoong coos, his free hand stroking your cheek. “Don’t need to think. Just need to feel. Just need to let Daddy take care of you.” His fingers maintain that slow, gentle rhythm, keeping you full, keeping you floating. “Such pretty sounds you’re making. Can’t even form words anymore, can you?”

You shake your head—barely—another soft moan falling from your parted lips. The oversensitivity has melted into something dreamlike, each movement of his fingers sending lazy waves of pleasure through your wrung-out body. There’s no edge to chase anymore, no building tension—just the mindless contentment of being touched, being full, being his.

“Perfect,” he whispers. “Absolutely perfect like this.”

His hand slides up from your hip, palm warm against your ribs as it travels higher. When he cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, you keen—high and broken. The sensitivity is different here, less raw but somehow more direct, each touch shooting straight through you.

“So responsive,” Hongjoong murmurs, watching your face as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. Your back arches weakly, pushing into the touch despite your exhaustion. “Even here. Every part of you is so fucking sensitive for me.”

His fingers inside you curl slightly in time with the pinch of his other hand on your nipple, and the dual sensation makes your eyes roll back. Another mindless moan falls from your lips, your body responding without thought, without control.

“That’s it,” he coos, switching to your other breast, palm kneading gently before his fingers find that peaked bud. “Just feel it, baby. Don’t think. Just let Daddy play with you.” He tugs slightly and you whimper, hips twitching against the fingers still buried inside you. “So pretty when you make those sounds.”

His touch alternates between gentle and firm—thumbs circling your nipples, palms pressing against the soft weight of your breasts, fingers occasionally pinching just hard enough to make you gasp. Each touch keeps you floating in that mindless space, pleasure washing over you in slow, lazy waves.

“Could play with these all day,” he murmurs, dipping his head to press a kiss to the curve of your breast. “Watch you fall apart from just this.” His tongue flicks out, circling your nipple before his lips close around it, and you gasp—the wet heat of his mouth making everything sharper, more intense.

Hongjoong sucks gently, tongue working the sensitive bud while his fingers continue their slow rhythm inside you. Your hands find his hair, holding on weakly, not pulling—just needing something to anchor you. When he grazes his teeth across your nipple, your whole body jolts, a strangled sound escaping you.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your skin. “Taking everything so well. My perfect, empty-headed doll.”

Your thighs shake harder now, trembling under his attention, muscles twitching with aftershocks that won’t stop. Each suck of his mouth, each curl of his fingers inside you makes them quiver more violently, until you can’t keep them still even if you tried.

“Joong,” you whimper, his name barely coherent, your voice destroyed and small. His mouth releases your nipple with a wet pop, switching to the other side, and the attention makes your back arch off the mattress weakly. “Can’t—too much—”

“Shh, I know, baby,” he soothes, releasing your breast to press kisses along your sternum. His fingers slow inside you, gentling their rhythm as your thighs continue to tremble uncontrollably. “But you’re doing so well for me. Just a little more, okay? Let me take care of you.”

You nod weakly, unable to do anything but submit, your body no longer your own—just something for him to play with, to care for, to keep floating in this mindless space. Your thighs won’t stop shaking, trembling against his sides as he settles between them again, and you can feel more of his cum leaking out despite his fingers still working to keep it inside.

“One more, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “Give Daddy one more and then I’ll let you rest.”

You manage to look at him through heavy-lidded eyes, vision blurred and unfocused. It takes effort to keep them open, each blink longer than the last. His face swims above you, features soft and concerned, and you can barely make out the dark intensity of his gaze.

“There you are,” he murmurs, his free hand cupping your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Stay with me, baby. Just a little more. Can you do that for Daddy?”

You try to nod, but your head feels impossibly heavy, movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Another weak sound escapes you as his fingers curl inside you, and your eyes threaten to slip closed.

“Eyes on me,” Hongjoong coaxes gently, tapping your cheek to keep you present. “Want to see you when you fall apart one more time. Need to watch my baby come undone.”

It takes everything you have to keep your gaze on him, eyelids fluttering with the effort. His fingers work inside you with deliberate care, coaxing your body toward that edge one more time despite your exhaustion.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises softly. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.” His thumb finds your clit, circling with barely-there pressure, and your mouth falls open on a silent cry. “Almost there, baby.”

His hand moves from your face to slide two fingers past your parted lips. The touch is unexpected, gentle but insistent as they press against your tongue. Your eyes widen slightly, trying to focus on him through the haze.

“Suck,” Hongjoong commands softly, his voice dropping lower. “Show Daddy how good that mouth can be.”

You obey automatically, lips closing around his fingers, tongue working weakly against them. The taste is clean, just skin and the faint salt of sweat, and something about the act—the fullness in your mouth matching the fullness between your legs—makes you whimper around his fingers.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, watching your lips wrap around his digits with dark satisfaction. “Such a perfect mouth. Takes everything I give you so well.” His fingers inside you curl harder and you moan around the ones in your mouth, the sound muffled and desperate.

He pushes them deeper, making you gag slightly, and your eyes water as you struggle to accommodate them. “Shh, relax,” he soothes, easing back just enough. “Just like taking my cock. You can do it.” The comparison makes you clench around his other hand, and he groans. “Feel that? Your body knows what it wants.”

His thumb on your clit presses firmer now, circling with intent, and you keen around his fingers. Drool starts to leak from the corners of your mouth as you struggle to keep sucking, your jaw slack and uncoordinated. Everything is too much—the stretch in your mouth, the fullness between your legs, the relentless pressure on your clit.

“So messy,” Hongjoong says with satisfaction, watching the spit drip down your chin. “Can’t even keep it together anymore, can you? Just my brainless little toy.” He pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet sound, dragging the saliva down your neck, your chest, leaving a glistening trail. “Open.”

You obey without thought, mouth falling open, tongue out. He leans down and spits directly onto your tongue, the act filthy and possessive, and you moan at the degradation of it. “Swallow,” he commands, and you do, throat working visibly.

“Good fucking girl,” he praises darkly. His fingers push back into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, keeping your mouth open and exposed.

Your hand moves without thought, fingers wrapping weakly around his wrist. You pull it down, guiding it to your throat, settling his palm against the vulnerable column of your neck. The request is silent but unmistakable.

Hongjoong’s eyes darken immediately, understanding flickering across his face. “Yeah?” he asks, voice dropping lower. “Want Daddy’s hand around your throat while he makes you come?”

You nod as much as you can with his hand there, a desperate whimper escaping you. His fingers curl around your neck—not squeezing yet, just holding, the weight of his palm a promise.

“Please,” you manage, the word barely a whisper, and that’s all he needs.

His hand tightens around your throat, pressure building slowly, controlled. Not enough to cut off your air completely—just enough to make each breath something you have to work for, something you have to earn. The restriction sends your body into overdrive, every nerve ending lighting up as his fingers inside you curl relentlessly and his thumb grinds against your clit.

“That’s it,” Hongjoong growls, watching your face flush darker as the oxygen thins. “Give it to me. Come for Daddy one more time.” His grip shifts slightly, thumb pressing against your pulse point, and he can feel your heartbeat racing beneath his palm. “Feel how hard your heart’s pounding for me? Your body knows who it belongs to.”

Your vision starts to blur at the edges, stars dancing across your sight as the pleasure builds impossibly higher. His fingers don’t let up, working you with practiced precision, and you’re teetering right on that edge—desperate for release but unable to tip over without his permission.

“So fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe and desire. “Completely at my mercy. Taking everything I give you so perfectly.” His hand loosens slightly, letting oxygen rush back in, and the sudden clarity makes everything sharper. “You'’re doing so well, baby. So good for Daddy. Just let go—I’ve got you.”

The praise combined with the pressure returning to your throat is what breaks you. The orgasm hits different this time—slower, deeper, rolling through you like a wave pulling you under. Your mouth opens on a silent scream, no sound escaping with his hand locked around your throat, and the deprivation makes everything more intense.

“Perfect,” Hongjoong breathes, watching you fall apart beneath him. “That’s my perfect girl. Look at you—so beautiful when you come for me. Did so fucking well, baby.” His hand stays firm on your throat through every wave, controlling even this, drawing it out until you’re shaking uncontrollably.

When he finally releases your throat, you don’t even gasp for air. Your body just goes limp, every muscle surrendering at once. Your eyes slip closed despite trying to keep them on him, and the last thing you register is his voice—distant, concerned—calling your name.

“Baby? Hey—” Hongjoong’s hand immediately cups your face, patting your cheek gently. Your head lolls to the side, body completely unresponsive. You’re still breathing—he can see your chest rising and falling—but you’re utterly gone, consciousness slipping away into the exhaustion he’s wrung from you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, but there’s no panic in it. Just concern mixed with something like awe. He carefully withdraws his fingers from inside you, and you don’t even twitch at the loss. More cum leaks out onto the sheets, but you’re too far gone to notice or care.

He shifts immediately into caretaker mode, moving with practiced efficiency. His hand stays on your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone as he checks you over. Your pulse is steady under his fingers when he presses them to your throat—the same throat he was just restricting. Your breathing evens out into something deeper, more peaceful.

“Did so good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Too good. Gave me everything.” There’s pride in his voice, but also guilt—he pushed you right to your absolute limit and over it.

He stays close, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, making sure you’re really okay. After a moment, he tries again, voice soft but insistent. “Hey. Baby, come on.” His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheek. “Need you to wake up for me.”

You don’t respond, body still limp and unmoving. He sighs, shifting to sit beside you, one hand sliding to your shoulder to shake you gently. “Can’t let you sleep yet. We need to get you cleaned up first.”

Still nothing. Your breathing stays deep and even, completely out of it. Hongjoong’s expression softens, guilt flickering across his features again. He really wore you out this time.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way.” He slides one arm under your shoulders, the other beneath your knees, lifting you carefully against his chest. Your head lolls against his shoulder, body pliant and unresisting.

He carries you toward the bathroom, your weight comfortable in his arms. “You’re going to be so mad at me later if I let you sleep like this,” he says quietly, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot. “All sticky and messy. You’ll complain for days.”

He sets you down carefully on the edge of the tub, one hand staying on your shoulder to keep you upright while he reaches for the faucet. Your head tips forward, chin nearly touching your chest, and he has to catch you before you slump completely.

“Baby,” he tries again, patting your cheek a bit more firmly. “Come on. Just need you awake enough for a bath. I’ll do everything else.” The water starts running, warm steam beginning to fill the small space as he tests the temperature.

Your eyelids flutter—barely, but it’s something. A soft, incoherent sound escapes you, and Hongjoong takes it as a victory.

“There you are,” he encourages, both hands cupping your face now, lifting your head. “Let’s get you in, okay?” He helps you into the tub, supporting your weight as he eases you down into the warm water. The heat envelops you immediately, and you let out a small, contented sigh.

He kneels beside the tub, one hand still steadying you, about to reach for the washcloth when your fingers weakly grasp at his wrist.

“With you,” you mumble, eyes still closed, the words barely coherent but unmistakable.

Hongjoong’s expression softens immediately, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Yeah? Want me to get in with you?” He doesn’t wait for another response—just climbs into the tub behind you, pulling you back against his chest. His arms wrap around you, steadying you in the water, and you let out a small, satisfied hum as you melt into his warmth.

“Stay still,” he murmurs against your skin, voice soft and gentle—so different from how he sounded minutes ago. His lips press to your shoulder, kissing over the marks he left there. Some are already darkening into bruises, others are just faint impressions of his teeth. He maps each one with careful attention, like he’s cataloging the evidence of what he did to you.

You lean back into him, boneless and pliant, letting him support your weight completely. The warm water laps around you both as he reaches for the washcloth, soaping it up with one hand while the other stays wrapped around your waist.

“You’re going to be so sore tomorrow,” he says quietly, dragging the cloth along your arms with gentle strokes. His lips find the curve of your neck, pressing soft kisses to the red marks his hand left on your throat. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Don’t be,” you mumble, the words thick and drowsy. “Wanted it.”

He makes a soft sound—half laugh, half sigh—and kisses the bruise at the junction of your neck and shoulder, the one from his teeth. “I know you did. Doesn’t mean I can’t take care of you after.” The washcloth moves to your chest, your stomach, washing away the sweat and evidence of everything that happened.

His other hand comes up to tilt your head to the side, giving him better access to your neck. He kisses every mark there too, lips tender against the sensitive skin. “So pretty,” he whispers. “Even covered in bruises. Especially covered in bruises.”

You hum contentedly, eyes still closed, completely surrendered to his care. His hands are so gentle now—washing you clean, touching you like something precious. The contrast makes your chest ache in the best way.

“I love you,” you murmur, barely audible.

Hongjoong's hands still for just a moment before continuing their careful work. “I love you too,” he says against your shoulder, punctuating it with another kiss. “So much. Even when I’m mean to you.”

Especially when he’s mean to you, maybe—but that’s something you both understand without saying.

He brings the cloth to your inner thighs, cleaning away the evidence of your releases, his movements are especially gentle, aware of how sensitive you must be.

“Almost done,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. The washcloth moves down your legs, over your calves, taking his time to make sure he’s gotten everything. You feel yourself drifting again, lulled by the warmth of the water and his tender care.

When he’s finished, he sets the washcloth aside and just holds you for a moment, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, steady and reassuring.

Something stirs in your chest—gratitude, affection, love.

With effort, you turn your head slightly, just enough to press your lips to his cheek. It’s a soft kiss, lazy and uncoordinated, but full of feeling.

Hongjoong goes still, then lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer against him. “What was that for?” he asks quietly, though there’s a smile in his voice.

“Thank you.”

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, turning to press his own kiss to your temple. “Don’t thank me for taking care of you,” he says softly. “That’s my job. Especially after I’ve wrecked you like that.” But his voice is warm, fond, and you can hear how much your simple gesture affected him.

You shift in his arms, turning more fully despite the exhaustion weighing down your limbs. The movement sends water sloshing gently against the sides of the tub, but Hongjoong adjusts easily, his hands sliding to your waist to help stabilise you as you face him.

His eyes meet yours—dark and searching, still carrying traces of the intensity from before but softened now with concern and affection. You lift one hand, fingers trembling slightly as they trace the line of his jaw, then cup his cheek.

“Hey,” he whispers, his own hand coming up to cover yours against his face. “You okay?”

Instead of answering, you lean in and kiss him. It’s slow and deep, nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses from earlier. This one is grateful, reverent—a thank you and an I love you and an I trust you all wrapped into one. Your lips move against his with deliberate tenderness, and you feel him sigh into it, his body relaxing as he kisses you back with equal softness.

His arms wrap around you properly now, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head while the other stays secure at your waist. He angles his head to deepen the kiss just slightly, still gentle but more present, more him. When you finally pull back, it’s only enough to rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing the same air.

You catch the softness in his expression—the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious—and a small, teasing smile tugs at your lips despite your exhaustion. Your fingers trace lazy patterns on his chest.

“You know,” you murmur, voice still thick with exhaustion but laced with amusement, “for someone who just fucked me unconscious, you’re being awfully soft right now. What happened to the mean Joong from like ten minutes ago?”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow slightly, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you complaining?”

“No,” you say, still trailing your fingers down his chest lazily. “You’re just being so sweet.”

His eyes narrow slightly, though there’s amusement flickering in them. “You want him back? Because I can arrange that.”

“Mm, no,” you hum, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I like this version too. All gentle and worried about me.” Your smile turns a little wicked. “It’s cute.”

“Cute,” he repeats flatly, though you can see the way his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile.

“Very cute,” you confirm, your fingers walking up his chest to tap against his collarbone. “Taking care of me, kissing all the marks you left, being so—” You pause, pretending to search for the word. “—domestic.”

Hongjoong’s hand slides up to catch your wrist, his grip firm but not rough. “You’re lucky you can barely move right now,” he says, voice low, “or I’d remind you exactly how un-cute I can be.”

You laugh—soft and breathless—and let yourself collapse back against his chest. “See? Cute. You’re threatening me while holding me in a bubble bath.”

He groans, but his arms wrap around you again, pulling you close. “You’re impossible,” he mutters against your hair, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness, and maybe a little exasperation. His hand strokes down your back in slow, soothing motions. “Rest. You’ve earned the right to be a brat for a few minutes.”

“Only a few minutes?” you tease, already feeling yourself starting to drift again.

“We’ll see how long my patience lasts,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. But his tone is warm, and you know he’s not actually annoyed. If anything, he sounds relieved that you’re coherent enough to give him a hard time.

You shift again, the water rippling around you as you turn to face him fully. His hair is damp, some strands clinging to his forehead, others pushed back haphazardly. His eyes are dark and deep, watching you with that same careful attention he always has, like you’re the only thing that matters.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, close enough that your breaths mix. His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s checking you’re really here.

“Like what?” you ask while your fingers starts tracing idle circles on his chest.

His gaze narrows, suspicious. “Like you’re about to start something.”

You tilt your head, considering him with exaggerated seriousness. “Maybe I am.”

A quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out of him. “You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“And yet,” you say, letting your fingers trace his jaw again, feather-light, “you’re still watching me like you’re trying to figure out what I’m thinking.”

His hand closes around your wrist—not tight, not controlling. Just there. Grounding. Possessive in a way that doesn’t hurt.

“I don’t have to figure it out,” he says. “I know you.”

“Oh?” You lean in, just enough to brush your mouth against the corner of his—almost a kiss. Almost. You stop a heartbeat short, letting him feel the tease in the pause. “Then tell me.”

His eyes drop to your lips. “Don’t get cocky,” he warns, but the warning sounds thin, like it’s already losing.

You hum, pretending to think about it. “I’m not cocky.”

He gives you a look that says liar.

You meet it without flinching. “I’m just… curious.”

“About what?” he asks, voice low.

You press a soft kiss to his cheek, then his jaw, then the place under his ear where you know it makes him go quiet. You feel his breath hitch, and it makes you brave.

“About how long it takes,” you murmur against his skin, “before you stop being sweet and start being mean again.”

He exhales a laugh—one of those quiet ones that means he’s trying not to show how much you got to him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your pulse. “You’re teasing me,” he says.

You blink slowly, innocent on purpose. “Am I?”

He leans in, close enough that his nose brushes yours. “You should rest.”

You let your smile widen, just a little. “Make me.”

His gaze drops, then returns to your eyes, darker now. “Careful.”

You press a final kiss to his lips—soft, brief, unhurried—then pull back before he can deepen it.

“Or what?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long second, like he’s deciding how honest to be. Then he tucks you closer, forehead to yours, and his voice goes quieter.

“Or I’m going to stop pretending I’m patient.”

You sigh like you’re satisfied with that answer, and let your eyes fall closed, still smiling.

“Mm,” you hum. “There you are.”

His jaw ticks. You feel it more than see it—the subtle shift in his expression that says you’re walking a line.

“You’re pushing,” he says quietly.

“Am I?” you ask again, tone dripping with false innocence. Your fingers trail down his chest, nails dragging just lightly enough to make him inhale sharp. “I’m just sitting here. Being good.”

“You don’t know how to be good,” he mutters, but there’s heat creeping into his voice now, the kind that makes your pulse kick up.

You tilt your head, letting your smile turn sharper. “That’s not true. I was very good earlier. You said so yourself.”

His hand tightens on your waist—just enough to make you aware of it. “That was different.”

“How?” you challenge, leaning in until your lips brush his ear. “Because you were in charge?”

Hongjoong goes still. Dangerously still. The kind of stillness that means you’ve officially gotten under his skin.

“Baby,” he says, voice dropping into that low register that usually makes you shut up and listen. But right now, it just makes you bolder.

“What?” you ask sweetly, pulling back to look at him with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m just asking questions.”

His thumb presses into your hip—not hard, but deliberate. A warning. “You’re being a brat.”

“Me?” You press a hand to your chest in mock offence. “I would never.”

“Liar,” he says flatly.

You bite your lip to keep from grinning too wide. “Prove it.”

His eyes flash. “You really want to do this right now?”

“Do what?” you ask, all fake confusion as your fingers walk up his chest again, tracing the line of his collarbone. “I’m just sitting here in this nice bath you drew for me, being so grateful—”

“—being a pain in my ass,” he interrupts, but there’s a crack in his composure now. You can see it in the way his gaze drops to your mouth, then back up. In the way his grip on you shifts, like he’s deciding whether to pull you closer or push you away.

You lean in, close enough that your breath ghosts over his lips. “You love it,” you whisper.

He stares at you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he smiles—and it’s not the soft, fond smile. It’s the dangerous one. The one that means you’ve successfully woken up the version of him that doesn’t play nice.

“Okay,” he says simply. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You want to be a brat? Go ahead. But don’t complain when I remind you what happens to brats who push too far.”

Your stomach flips—half anticipation, half genuine thrill. You should probably back down now. You’re exhausted, barely recovered, and you know he’s serious.

But instead, you smile back at him, just as sharp. “Promises, promises.”

His eyes narrow. “Last chance.”

You press a quick, teasing kiss to his lips—there and gone. “Make me stop.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s physically restraining himself. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Maybe,” you say, trailing your fingers down his chest again, slower this time. “But that sounds like a future me problem.”

Hongjoong’s eyes sharpen. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you ask, innocent as a knife. “Use your words.”

His jaw ticks. For a second you can see the exact moment his patience runs out.

Then he moves.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, grip firm enough to make your breath catch. “You want me to use my words?” he says, voice dropping low and dangerous. “Fine. Stop teasing me before I forget I was trying to be gentle with you.”

You roll your eyes at him, the gesture slow and deliberate—practically daring him to do something about it.

His grip tightens fractionally. “Did you just—”

“What?” you interrupt, blinking up at him with exaggerated innocence. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You rolled your eyes at me.”

“Did I?” You tilt your head, playing dumb.

Hongjoong’s stare lingers, heavy and unimpressed, like he’s deciding how much patience you’re allowed to borrow before he takes it back with interest.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost thoughtful. “You did.”

Before you can respond, he shifts—slow, deliberate—until you’re pressed back against the edge of the tub, his body caging yours.

He kisses you then—deep and consuming, the kind that steals the air from your lungs and replaces it with heat. His hand tightens at the back of your neck, holding you, and you can’t do anything but take it. His mouth moves against yours like he’s proving a point, like he’s reminding you who’s in control here, and it works. God, it works.

When he finally pulls back, your eyes are half-closed, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. You feel dazed, unsteady, like the world tilted and forgot to right itself.

He’s watching you, and there’s that smirk—slow, satisfied, dangerous. “Is this what you wanted?” he asks, voice low and rough.

You nod, still catching your breath, unable to form words yet.

your head falls back, laughter bubbling up again, not realizing the tension between them. “nooo,” whining with your fingers slipping into wooyoung’s hair to play with it. “i think about you too... both of you like… always.”

then you’re kissing him, sloppy and eagerly, your chuckles breaking against his mouth as he swallows the sound. tongue pushes past your lips, greedy and oh so needy, as his hand slides under your skimpy shorts to press firmly against your heat. san shifts closer, unable to look away, the smoke making everything hazy. his hand lingers against your bare thigh, hesitant but aching to feel you.

you’re giggling again, hips rocking against wooyoung’s fingers through your panties, and he feels the dampness of how wet you are already. the couch creaks beneath the three of you. san’s breath catches when your hand blindly reaches back, finding his and tugging him closer, because you don’t want him watching only, you want him touching you too.

“feels so good...” you whine, words slurred with haze, it comes more out of a moan, and it's not that you haven't behaved like that with them before, but it was a whole lot different. two pairs of eyes are narrowing toward the empty plate on the table, and a shocked expression colors wooyoung’s face.

“oh, shit.”

san blinks. “what?”

“the cookies.”

silence stretches upon the realization. you’re rubbing your thighs together absentmindedly, skin warm, breath shallow. you are trembling, for one reason or another, making wooyoung look at san, and san looks at you, when it all starts to make sense.

“bro,” wooyoung mutters, voice strained. “we put aphrodisiac in those.”

“fuck." san winces, "we were high when we made them… i forgot.” and they didn’t tell you, not because they meant to hide it, but because they forgot about it.

that explains it. the way heat coils low in your stomach, blooming and spreading under your skin until you are flushed, feverish even. your body reacts faster than your thoughts can catch up — pulse loud in your ears, nerves wrecking, making you addicted. you barely have the time to think, maybe not because of the weed, or those yummy chocolate chip cookies you had, because what’s wrong with them? they were baked well. wooyoung always knows to add more chocolate because you like them more stuffed… you wish you were stuffed full instead, wouldn’t that be so nice?

“we made her extra horny now,” wooyoung says, and he is not even panicked; he is so chill about it that his dazed eyes are glued to the way you squirm. “shit... she’s hot though, but what the fuck do we do?”

“i dunno,” san shrugs, but he’s not really present, gaze locked on how you're trembling in his best friend’s arms. his hands are steady when his thumb brushes your waist. “she does feel… really warm.”

your bra digs into your skin, panties too tight, air against your neck making you shiver. the fabric suddenly feels unbearable; it’s getting so hot in here. even your own heartbeat feels intrusive and distracting as you whine softly, clutching at wooyoung’s shirt, as if it might save you from the sudden adrenaline rush.

you thought you learned your lesson, playing by the book, self-improvement, distancing from substances like that. all of it crumbles the second they look at you like this. holding you close just for tonight, wanting to last until morning light, and even in your dazed state, you know one thing, and that is — their affection is more addicting than any drug.

“so do you think i’m just desperate…” you ask, breathless and aroused, fingers twitching between keeping them to yourself or touching the one holding you. they choose for you, sliding up his chest, feeling his heart race under your palm. “or do you know that i’m obsessed with how it feels when we fu—”

he doesn’t let you finish when he kisses you hard, like he’s been holding it back for the last time he had you like this. mouth warm, insistent, teeth biting your lower lip until you melt into him. you arch, while his hands roam down your back, over your ass, squeezing like he’s memorizing, no matter that he knows every part of your body by heart.

then strong hands lift you, and your world spins, as the other black-haired man presses you against him, lips claiming yours next, slower but deeper, kissing you with his hands exploring already claimed territory, thumbs brushing over your nipples through lace until you’re whining into his mouth.

san sits you back down between them, and this time they don’t hesitate. wooyoung slips your bra off, throwing it somewhere, kisses a wet trail down your throat to your chest, tongue flicking until your back bows and toes curl. san’s fingers hook into your panties, dragging them down to your ankles until they hit the floor, spreading you open like he’s ready to enter heaven.

“we’re gonna take care of you,” his eyes searching yours, but they were closed from the pleasure. “okay?”

you nod frantically like a lovesick junkie begging for one more little puff of whatever this is.

they prepare you like an angel needing all the care and love, but your divine being seeks warmth from the devils instead. their fingers are slick, mouths everywhere, every touch feels magnetic, overwhelming in the best way, until you’re aching for more: who could blame you for that?

am i crazy for wanting us to be mutually obsessed? the thought barely forms before san settles between your legs, careful as he lifts them and puts them over his shoulders, adjusting until you’re comfortable. his kisses are hungry, and he can’t resist licking and biting your inner thighs. he got the urge to bite from his best friend, who just loved to mark and munch on your sweet skin.

everything is too much, and somehow, still not enough.

wooyoung’s breath is hot against your shoulder, his mouth following san’s example, biting where he knows you’ll feel it most. they’ve always had a thing for marks, bites, and hickeys: little reminders that are so hard to cover and linger for days. 

letting yourself want it all, when the man between your legs' mouth finally finds its place on your slick and wet folds, a breathy whimper slips out before you can stop it. the way his tongue pushes in, sucking as his hands tighten their hold on your hips, which twitch instinctively.

woo’s hand comes up from behind, as he toys with your nipples with his fingers, making your stomach twist, then wrapping them around your throat, squeezing gently, with you barely registering when they’re in your mouth.

“atta boy,” he murmurs, gazing down at his friend. “save some for me, alright?”

you can’t focus on anything else when san is completely gone. “sannie…” his name slips out softly from your lips, a muffled moan with wooyoung’s fingers still inside your mouth until he drags them out, so you can take a breather.

“baby, you’re so wet for me… look at you,” the beast down there glances up at you then, eyes filled with adoration, mouth curved like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and for some reason, you can’t look away. being extremely needy, and open in a way that feels overwhelming but pleasantly nice. god, his tongue. san doesn’t hold back. he licks, teases, and hums low against your cunt, as he whimpers, while his tongue plunges deeper. “so perfect, ah– so sweet too.” 

you’re trembling, thighs clamping around his head, your hand grips his hair, your hips bucking involuntarily, and he just keeps going, whispering filthy praises every second, accompanied by whimpers and groans. he is literally slurping, mouth and tongue impossible to stop because you are just so delicious, leaving no other way for him but to give in to the temptation to devour you all.

“that’s it, yeah? that’s my good girl… come on, let it all out for me,” his voice is low, and teasing all at once. then it happens. your breathing goes rigid, stomach twists, and your walls clench, pussy gushing over his tongue, spurting uncontrollably as your legs tremble, back arching, making wooyoung drag you back until you hit his chest.

“angel,” san groans, licking up every drop, chuckling against your skin, “look at you squirting for me… making such a mess.” he doesn’t stop moving his fingers and tongue, coaxing out every last drop, because he didn't expect you to squirt instead of just orgasm like normally… he is not complaining, not even a bit. you were already a hot mess, and san couldn’t pretend that you weren’t ready for him at this point.

maybe the cookies weren’t such a bad idea after all. or whatever they stirred in only made this inevitable heightened desire, the kind of want that makes them both cherish you and completely ruin you.

there’s a strange tug-of-war happening inside you. the weed wants you calm, to drift away, pulling you downward into something soft and floaty, like sitting on a cloud or melting inside a cotton candy. it hushes the noise in your head, tells you everything is fine, and you are fully relaxed.

the aphrodisiac does the opposite.

it lights you up from the inside, sparks racing under your skin and it's spreading fast. your body feels like it’s moving a second ahead of your thoughts, responding before you can decide anything. you’re aware of it, at some point, you think you are. it’s confusing and intoxicating, like being set on fire, but it doesn’t hurt at all, because you want to seek the warmth a little bit more.

and then there’s san. his presence alone makes you want to squirt again with the way he focuses on you, so devoted when every movement of his mouth makes you ache in places you can’t even name properly. thoughts scattering like puzzle pieces, and you can’t focus on anything, because it’s like you are hanging upside down, all the blood going directly to flush your face.

wooyoung is everywhere else. hands firm, teeth grazing, reminding you that everything is indeed real and not some wet dream or a figment of your imagination. his touch keeps you from floating away entirely, even as your head feels light and as if you have no thoughts behind those eyes, you know one thing for sure.

you love them — the realization is simple, stripped of overthinking. love in a way that feels consuming and addictive. you don’t know where the line is anymore, between friendship and this rather strange relationship: friends, best friends, maybe… soulmates, if you believed in something that big and unexplainable.

when they praise you, the obsession you pretend isn’t there, hits you straight to the core.

baby, one of them murmurs, doll, the other follows. angel, princess, pretty girl, dove, bunny, sweet thing. each petname is reserved only for you, sending little shocks to both your body and brain. it makes your chest ache, your eyes sting faintly, as you might cry just from being seen, loved and desired all at once.

feeling like you’re in outer space, glowing like the brightest star, as if nothing exists beyond their bodies and voices, that can either make you shine even more, or suck you like a supermassive black hole. and you don’t know what this makes you, just some girl with bad habits, or what it makes them; however, all you know is you never want it to stop.

your thoughts are still high in the endless vast sky when san finally pulls back. heavy breaths, lips still coated with the essence of you, as he settles beside you, shoulder brushing yours, staring up at the ceiling, needing a second to come back to himself. his hand doesn’t let go, though; it’s possessively gripping your thigh, thumb pressing at your still trembling body. the weed keeps whispering slow down, but your suddenly spiked up libido refuses to listen. 

you are needy, extremely needy, that you don't even know what to do, think, or say. should you cry or laugh? shaking all over, feeling the wetness under you on the soft cushion… did you make this mess?

for some reason, you wanted to cry — not because you disliked it, but because the feeling swelled up from somewhere deep inside, overwhelming you with nothing at all, and the show hasn’t even started yet.

wooyoung raises his eyebrow at you and how you’re suddenly zoning out with those pretty dilated eyes of yours, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. poor angel, he thinks, you're so sweet and beautiful that he can't wait to ruin you. he shifts closer, knowing exactly what he’s doing, by wasting time with this mindless toying, watching you squirm and whimper without meaning to.

“feeling needy?” he sweetly asks, as you nod, turning slightly to him to nuzzle your head in his shoulder. cheeks burning, because you need more than being toyed with, more than the slow build that’s driving you out of your mind.

“look at you,” twirling a lock of your hair between his fingers. “so pretty when you’re like this.” the way he says it makes something snap in you when your own hand goes to clutch at his shirt without thinking, “woo, please…”

he tilts his head instead, looking down at you with almost apologetic eyes when it was nothing but a mocking stare. “hmm?” humming at the sound of you and how desperate you are. “what was that, princess?”

shaking your head, embarrassed by how badly you want him to do something, anything but his wandering fingers. “woo… i–”

“no,” he cuts in, fingers tightly pulling the locks he just twirled, and it didn't hurt, but it made you hide your face entirely, “come on, say it, use that pretty mouth of yours.”

you swallow, heart is pounding so loud you’re sure they can hear it. “please…” the word comes out shaky like you are begging for mercy, but oh dear angel, the fun part hasn't started for you to beg like this.

wooyoung leans in closer, his lips brushing your temple, leaving a quick kiss. “please, what?”

“please…" he makes a quiet, pleased sound, dragging the moment out on purpose, letting you sit in the want until it’s only him you can think about. "i want you,” his hand never stops pulling your hair, gently of course, but he will get to the point of being the meanie he is, reminding you exactly how little control you have right now.

“again,” he murmurs. “tell me what you want, don’t be shy… we are here to make you feel good, alright?

"please," each repetition of the words please strips you down further. "please, woo, i need you, i-i just..." your voice gets softer and needier, just the truth spilling out of you. san is at your right, as you didn’t even notice when his hand went up, fingers playing with your clit, massaging and toying with it, and you can only feel even more ashamed that you were so open for them.

wooyoung is closer to your upper body, and you turn into him instinctively, face still tucked into his shoulder, as your hands move on their own, drifting downward his body, finding what you were looking for without having to search. 

“yeah,” his voice low and teasing, almost cooing, as you even turned to him with wide eyes as if you were feeling him for the first time, “of course i am hard, baby… how can i not be?”

he’s entertained by how obvious it all is. really how could he not be, when it’s you? when you’re like this — pretty, horny, exposed, pressed between them. his hand comes up to your back, fingers caressing your spine as you shiver slightly, keeping you right where he wants you.

“our pretty doll,” he adds, mockingly gentle. you don’t even realize when san’s touch changes when he starts pumping slowly with two of his fingers, it pulls a quiet moan from you, and you try to hide by biting your lips, embarrassed by how easily you react. your legs are shaking, you're even more aroused, and you don't just want their fingers and mouths. you want the real sweet pink lollipops.

wooyoung notices the way you shake, how tears start to slide down your cheeks, and his hand slides up, fingers tilting your chin so that he can murmur against your mouth. “listen to yourself,” he pecks your lips, “it sounds even sweeter when you don't know what to say or do. isn't that right, san, don't you agree?”

between them, there’s no sense of being used, because they don’t take from you… they share you.

some days it’ll be just san, leaving you glowing and aching for hours. other days it’ll be wooyoung, all teasing smiles, watching the way you wobble afterward. and sometimes, like tonight, it’ll be both of them: messy and too much into it.

they spoil you like a princess, and ruin you like a slut.

san is somewhere else entirely. all he can think about is being inside you too, so while you weren’t looking, being distracted by wooyoung, who loved teasing and edging you… he’d been stroking himself, fingers slipping between your thighs at the same time. he’s leaking, fully hard, pre-cum sliding down his tip as he whimpers, cheeks flushing red and warm, answering only with a breathless:

“hah– yeah… yeah, i uh– what was the question again?”

wooyoung chuckles, turning toward his friend just in time to catch him with his cock out, then his gaze drops to you, eyes fluttering shut at the way san’s fingers work you, lips parting as you unconsciously lick them. that’s when wooyoung decides he’s done waiting.

“san,” saying calmly to his best friend, “just fuck her.” it’s not advice or a suggestion, it’s an order. between the three of you, he’s the control freak, the ringleader if anyone had to be given a role. then his attention shifts back to you, fingers already pulling your hands away from his pants.

“as for you, my pretty girl,” he adds, smiling wickedly at you, “i’ll find a good use for that mouth. just don’t try to choke, yeah?”

the zipper comes down as you watch the black denim pools at his feet, leaving him in boxers darkened with damp stains. he catches you staring, clicks his tongue, tells you to behave “eyes up,” and your gaze meets his. he’s about to explain the position he wants when san beats him to it.

suddenly you’re on all fours on the couch. san is right behind you, his cock presses against your soaked entrance. you swallow hard, breath catching, only to lift your head and find wooyoung right there — his length waiting at your lips.

san is slowly fucking you from behind, hands settling firm on your waist, your back arches instinctively, offering him everything, and the sight of your ass: plush, plump, bouncing every time he draws back, has him biting his lip hard. he has always been an ass guy, and always will be. “fuck…” he breathes, voice wrecked already, thumbs digging in to leave marks.

he doesn’t push all the way in at once; rolling his hips forward carefully, stretching you slowly, letting you feel every part as you clench around him, when he finds a rhythm that makes your eyes roll.

“you’re doing so good, angel,” grunting and growling, letting his breathy deep voice come to life. “so pretty like this… taking me so well.” your answer is a broken moan, walls fluttering around him, and he can’t help the soft whimper that slips out when you squeeze him even thighter, the sound of skin slapping making you think about how it’s been too long. you can feel it in the way he tries to find a pace, because it’s been what… four months, maybe? long enough that this feels like a reunion.

and then there’s wooyoung. you look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, lips parted and glossy, and he groans quietly as his hand tightens around his flushed cock, pressing the heaviness of it against your mouth, smirking down at you like he already knows you’ll take it all.

“look at you,” he scoffs softly. “open wide, princess.”

and you do, because being stretched open is the thing you are phenomenal at, best of the best.

he slides in, just the tip at first, dragging it slowly across your tongue, letting you adjust to it. “that’s it,” he mutters, thumb brushing your cheek when you relax your jaw. “good girl. you’re really made for this, huh?”

pushing a little deeper, watching your throat work as you take him, wet sounds filling the room. “don’t get shy now. you’re so good at being used.” behind you, san groans your name, throwing his head back, hips slamming hard when he feels the way you squeeze him while reacting to wooyoung’s voice.

“she’s so… beautiful,” san whispers, fingers rubbing soothing circles into your skin even as he starts to thrust more firmly. “taking both of us like this… god, baby, you’re perfect.”

your moans turn muffled around wooyoung, drool slicking his cock as he guides your head, hand gripping your hair for better control of your movements, “yeah,” a low praiseful whisper, fingers dining into your hair, “just like that, don’t think about anything else.”

san’s cock hammers into you from behind, hips rolling harder, pulling you against him as his hands grip your waist tight. every curve of your ass makes him bite his lip, low groans rattling out, “fuck… so tight…” he’s praising as he slams into you deeper and faster, loving the way your gummy walls love him. every moan that spills from your lips has him whimpering with you.

at the same time, wooyoung’s cock stretches your mouth wide, tip pressing past your gag reflex, making you cough and choke slightly. drool and saliva slide down your chin, your palms dig into the soft couch cushions, knees braced, tears spilling freely down your cheeks as you try to catch a breath.

“don’t start with your crocodile tears, you’re not fooling anyone,” wooyoung snaps, tugging your hair with one hand, while the other has his thumb pressing against your chin to keep your mouth open. “i won’t slow down just because you can’t take it… like you’ve never sucked a dick before.”

you’re not faking it; your body genuinely can’t handle it. he doesn’t like hesitation, and that just makes him smirk cruelly, pushing deeper, head brushing the back of your throat. “doll, don’t pretend you don’t want it.” his tone is so devilish, “it’s not every day i feel generous enough to give it to you directly instead of teasing.”

eyes rolling at the overwhelming sensations, at the slick heat filling both your pussy and your mouth. san’s thrusts are needy and hard, pounding into you with heavy sounds of skin slapping. wooyoung’s words sting even as he praises you, and it’s too much, making every nerve scream. you want more, crave both of them at once, but your mouth is already full, and your body is shaking from overstimulation.

san groans your name, your back arching, thrusts growing desperate. “(name)… baby, i–” he chokes out just before spilling inside you in thick, hot waves. your mouth freezes mid-suck around wooyoung as you squeeze san, pussy clenching him deeper, milking him as he moans, whimpers, whines through the pleasure, slowly fucking his cum in you.

wooyoung doesn’t like that — doesn’t like when you slow down or stop. his grip on your hair is tightening, cock twitching violently. “hey, hey,” he hisses, “you’re not done with me, little whore. you don’t get to stop just because he came inside you. open up.”

he pushes forward, pressing even harder against your throat, making your gag reflex spike, and the room fills with your muffled whines, moans, and the wet slaps of two cocks at once.

everywhere you feel it: inside, dripping on your legs, and on your tongue. you’re overstimulated, crying, whining, clenching, and still craving both of them. being used exactly like this, at their complete mercy, it’s too much, but you can’t stop, and neither of them wants you to.

san doesn’t pull out, not even after you’ve milked him dry. his hands stay firm on your hips, cock still buried deep, because your pussy feels too good to leave just yet. “look at you,” he pants softly, can’t get enough of the sight. “squeezing me like that.”

your body follows him with another broken cry spilling out as you come with him. slick heat dripping down your thighs while he slowly fucks his cum into you, shuddering through whimpers, staying buried in you.

wooyoung doesn’t have that patience. he’s already close, the grip tightening in your hair as he starts fucking your mouth again, meaner now. you choke, cough around him, tears still spilling, and he laughs under his breath. “aren't you a pathetic little thing?”

his thrusts slow suddenly, until only the tip of his cock presses past your lips. you barely have time to register it before he groans, cumming straight into your mouth. it spills thick and warm, hitting your tongue, your lips, dripping down your chin and onto the couch. he watches proudly of the mess you make. you try to pull back, just a little, however, he doesn’t let you.

“don’t you dare…you don’t spit,” wooyoung growls, fingers pushing under your chin, cockhead nudging your lips. he stuffs it back into your mouth, making sure you swallow every bit. “good, that’s it. take it.”

you’re too fucked out to fight him and be a brat, overstimulated, tears still sliding as you swallow, and it feels humiliating and too much all at once.

he finally pulls out, stroking himself lazily while still slick with his release, smearing it over his hand, adding to the mess already ruined on the couch. you sob openly now, choking on broken sounds, body trembling. wooyoung’s hand shifts from your hair to gentle strokes, fingers combing through slowly, almost tender. san’s hands follow suit, rubbing soothing paths over your hips and spine. 

that’s when you choke out, his cum still dripping out from your lips as you wipe with your hand, “m-more… i want more, p-please, i–”

they look at each other, because you really want more? usually that’s it, they both cum, and so do you, cuddles and aftercare follow. san’s about to ask you if you could really handle more because look at you… you're like a wounded rabbit, you can't move, you just tremble. with two bullets, they killed you good.

when wooyoung’s phone buzzes on the table, face down, it breaks all three of you from the trance, finally taking a breather, when san asks, still gently caressing your body to calm you down. “who is it?”

wooyoung scoffs. “don’t fucking care. probably yeonjun or changbin wanting me to give ‘em weed.”

he ignores it, doesn't want anyone to ruin the mood, since your body is still clenching around san. wooyoung exhales slowly, as he looks back at you, then at his best friend. “sannie” casually asks, “you wanna be under her?”

the man blinks, ready to open his mouth and say okay, and the other just smirks. “i’ll take care of her, don’t worry. i’ll be gentle, but no promises~”

the three of you already know what it means. san has to pull out, and even as he does, he murmurs promises, telling you he’ll be back inside you before you can even miss him. wooyoung makes him guide you instead, watching closely, eyes never leaving you for a second.

san pauses, holding your hand as you sit at the edge of the couch, having already switched places with the other stoner. “do i really need to lie down?” he asks, glancing at the mess. “it’s all dirty…”

wooyoung pulls his sweatshirt over his head, as he shoots a look to his friend, “you’ve got a shirt on. what’s the problem?”

san exhales, flustered. “i– nevermind then…” then his voice softens, sweet again when he looks at you. “(name), princess… come here.” that gentle tone makes you always follow without thinking.

you do exactly that, letting him guide you as you line yourself up again, sinking slowly onto his thick cock, until you’re seated fully, then lying back, feeling his toned body on your back even through the fabric. “good,” san breathes, arms wrapping around you. “that’s it, baby. so good, mm?”

you nod against his shoulder, when one of his hands slips up to your chest, squeezing your tits briefly before both hands move to your thighs, opening you wider for wooyoung.

when you finally lift your eyes to him, really look, your gaze softens despite everything. he’s beautiful too — toned, veins standing out, tattoos stark against his skin: the rose on his forearm, the latin quote along his ribs, the others you know by memory, tho you can’t see the matching one he has with san. his abs, his v-line, it makes you wet all over again.

“angel,” wooyoung says softly for once, “want you focused.”

dropping to his knees, the couch dipping under his weight as he lines himself up. you maintain eye contact, even when he hisses under his breath, cursing quietly because san’s girth already fills you so much there’s barely any room left.

but it’s fine. you’ve done this before, more than once. third time now, right? they say the third time is the charm.

your pussy is swollen, sensitive, still warm from before, but you stay open, and obedient. they’ll be gentle, at least… one promised so, you are worried about the other.

wooyoung finally slides inside you, and you scream at the stretch of it: too full with two cocks inside you at once. your body trembles, breath breaking as they start to rock into you together, slow at first, letting you adjust. your hands try to hold your legs open, but give up quickly.

the man above is already gripping one of your legs high up, holding you open as san mirrors him, his left hand spreading your other thigh while his right slides down your waist, fingers finding your clit. the touch pulls a sharp moan from you, blessing their ears, eyes and souls.

“woo… san– fuck, ah–” you chant their names, the only other words you know besided more and please. you are surely under some kind of spell, but the truth is, you are under some substances that you will definitely try out again.

san watches over your shoulder, breath hitching at the sight of him and his best friend inside you, making your body give out even as you take it. “such a good girl,” he murmurs, because you always take it, even if you think you can’t.

wooyoung tightens his grip, opening you wider, forcing you to take them deeper. you hiss at the burn, eyes squeezing shut; however, the pleasure crashes over it immediately, and it’s so overwhelming. “yeah,” a breathy grunt coming from him, “that’s it, pretty. keep saying our names like that.”

and you do, again and again, orgasm after orgasm, all night long. maybe you are a greedy little whore — because you let two men fuck you at the same damn time and you keep asking for more. wooyoung stays gentle only for so long before his thrusts grow rougher, more demanding, while san stays slower beneath you, forced to match what your body can take.

the sounds take over with the skin slapping, balls hitting, wet and obscene, when your moans mix with soft whines. then again, the phone couldn't stop ringing, but he ignored it, not now, he thinks to whoever decided to call him. san grunts and whimpers under you, fingers never leaving your clit, while wooyoung just groans low and deep, hips snapping harder. both of them praise you, voices overlapping, each trying to outdo the other, both in words and in how deep they push.

“i need to… woo, s-san please... ngh–” they both know what you need.

you’re already right there, their cocks leaking, heads pushing deeper as they pick up the pace just enough. then it hits you, hard and sudden, a blissful wave tearing through you, soaking their lengths as your body clenches uncontrollably.

wooyoung comes first, much to everyone’s surprise, cursing under his breath as he spills inside you. san follows moments later, fingers still working your clit until he finally grabs your waist, holding you down as he empties himself too.

you’re wrecked and completely full.

wooyoung doesn’t soften completely after, but the praise doesn’t stop. “that’s it, baby,” a little rough even as his hands steady you. his thumb presses lightly into your thigh as san continues, “easy now… we're so proud of you.”

they stay inside you until there’s nothing left to give, both of them shuddering through the last of it before slowly pulling out. san lifts you carefully as he helps you sit up. you hiss from the impact, lungs struggling to pull in air, body ruined in the most beautiful way, eyes are glossy from crying, and you don’t even know where you are anymore.

it’s warm, their release spills out of you in slow, obscene trails, dripping down your thighs. it’s so much that it almost makes you dizzy. they’ve never cummed like that before, never ever you have seen so much cum in your life or felt it in you.

and then they’re there again next to your sides, hands brushing hair off your forehead, thumbs wiping tears from your cheeks. kisses pressed softly to your shoulders, collarbone, and your face. san murmurs about a bath, clean clothes, and being tucked in bed. all the care and tenderness you’ve earned.

they’ll take care of you because their pretty doll always knows how to offer her heart, body and soul.

you don’t hear them talking over you, because you’re already halfway asleep.

“i’ll go prepare the shower,” san says, standing and stretching, and then it hits you that you are all butt-naked. “you get towels from her room.”

you sway slightly where you sit, exhausted beyond thought. wooyoung stays close, arm slipping around your shoulders, pulling you into him. water starting moments later, and you hear the sound, it’s a little calming actually. you’re exhausted, and for half a second, you smile and wonder about shower sex.

wooyoung reads your thoughts because he knows what that sleepy smile of yours is about. “angel,” he says, pulling you gently against his side, arm around your shoulders. “as much as i want to… no more sex tonight.” 

you hum instead of answering, eyes sliding shut, listening to the water run. “sorry for being mean,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another. “but i know you like it.”

after that, everything is warm water and gentle hands. you’re clean, wrapped in a fluffy towel, skin smelling like coconut and orchids. wooyoung dries your hair carefully, fingers gentle even as the dryer hums, while san prepares your bed by straightening sheets, making space for your plushies where you like them when you sleep.

they dress you in fresh panties and an oversized shirt, guiding you until you’re tucked in, plushie hugged to your chest. they kiss you goodnight, eyes, nose, lips as you murmur, “i love you,” and they say it back without hesitation. "we love you too, doll."

then your best friends leave you to rest and return to the living room that still smells like sex. the couch can wait to be cleaned; towels are thrown over it for now. they’ve showered too, changed clothes, and are playing something quietly on the tv not disturb you.

because monsters or not when they fuck you, aftercare is a must.

already sitting side by side, the half-lit joint from earlier rests between wooyoung’s fingers. he finally takes a drag and offers it to san, who hesitates before accepting, smoke curling lazily between them. only then does wooyoung finally check his phone.

“shit.”

“oh,” san frowns at his own screen. “looks like i’ve been spammed too.”

your phone lies abandoned on the table, and they pick it up, curiosity getting the better of them. when they unlock it, the screen floods with notifications and missed calls, far worse than theirs. they exchange a glance, the same thought settling between them without a word.

how the hell are they supposed to explain to your boyfriend, yunho, that some addictions you just can't quit?

happy valentine's day ♡

taglist ( open )﹢ @strhwa @lillys-bakery @les4heeseung @yeehaw-odyssey @livonianmaia @estrnrea @chanscappuccino @lateez @cyberpxnks @zerowantstobattle @raicecakes-and-buldak @finewinesixtynine @jensdior  @hwavon @hwa2tiny @woosansbb @haleria @lol-imtrash2000 @haohaoshoe @iamagnesrrr @phesodain @chuuyaobsessed @niyareloadedd @enhacolor @atetheluck @eviemae5864 @booposaurusrex @belongjoong @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @urfavleobiscuit @way2jellyous @cultofsin @hearts4itoshi

UNDER COVERS (M) • kim hongjoong

synopsis: with the rise of street racing in the city, hongjoong’s been assigned by his unit to crack down on the drivers. when he meets you, he realizes there might actually be more to the street racing scene than meets the eye—not that he’ll ever mention to you that he’s a cop … right?

word count: 9.1k words

HANDS ON (M) • park seonghwa

synopsis: when the pretty little rich boy pulls into the street racing scene, you’re not buying it. he thinks he can get under your skin, get you to fall for him just like everyone else. you would never … or so you think.

word count: 8.1k words

NICE GUY (M) • jeong yunho

synopsis: after college, you finally move back into the city and rekindle old relationships—including one of your best friends, yunho. even though he’s grown up, you’re still not sure you’re really into the nice guy type. yunho doesn’t seem to take lightly to your rejection and is determined to prove he’s anything but.

word count: 6.9k words

CHERRY BLOSSOM (M) • kang yeosang

synopsis: when wooyoung comes in for an addition to his sleeve, he brings along a very handsome friend who says he’s got a thing for cars. in a poor attempt to stay in touch with him, you suddenly become the victim of so many car troubles. needless to say, yeosang isn’t exactly the best on picking up hints …

word count: 7.8k words

HARD DRIVE (M) • choi san

synopsis: the street racing circuit is starting to get really competitive—too competitive if you’re not able to up your game. when you enlist a certain computer science major to help you with some major tech upgrades on your car, you’ll need to find a way to pay him back.

word count: 6.8k words

PINK SLIP (M) • song mingi

synopsis: mingi says he’s the best driver in the city; you’d strongly disagree. after weeks of post-race banter and spending a little too much time with another guy at the meet, mingi won’t admit he’s jealous—and you won’t admit you like it …

word count: 6.8k words

SPEED DIAL (M) • jung wooyoung

synopsis: it’s been months since you and wooyoung broke up. after messy hookups and refusing to stay away from each other, you promise yourself it was the last time and you haven’t looked back since. when your friend drags you to a car meet ‘for old time’s sake’, you run into the last person you needed to … and your car decides this was the perfect time to break down.

word count: 7.2k words

GEAR SHIFT (M) • choi jongho

synopsis: every fiber of your being hated jongho. he was such a know-it-all and loved to add his two cents every time he caught you under the hood, behind the wheel, or at the garage. if you were the last two people on earth, you’d rather find a way to die than be stuck with him. now, what happens when you’re locked in with him?

He's been living off a different piece of information. Single Y/n meant he still had a chance, even if he would never act on it out of respect for his and Hongjoong's friendship.

The con to that though was that... well he couldn't really do anything about how he felt. He had recognized the feeling almost immediately, cursing himself and hiding in his room for days over a simple smile you sent him.

You two met when they were still in early debut days, you and your eldest brother going to visit Hongjoong backstage before a performance. You had just graduated, only a year younger and entering college.

When he came into the dressing room to see you laughing at something Hongjoong said he thought he was sick at first.

It felt like every muscle in his body forgot how to work as he stood in the doorway frozen. You had that same air that Hongjoong had to him, that silent confidence that rung out no matter what you were doing. That aura that made people want to watch and listen.

Then you looked at him.

Bells rang in his ears, his inner voice screaming at him to move. Your eyes sparkled in the terrible lighting, smile so vibrant it was blinding. Your face from then will always be framed in his mind.

When his body remembered how to move he could barely manage a smile, coming up to your little trio.

"Well hello," he forced out, bowing to your older brother before turning to you. "I knew you had a brother but a sister too?" the way he smiled at you had an immediate affect. You felt your knees weaken, wishing you could move his hair out of his face so you could see the whole thing in its glory.

God he was pretty.

It got worse when you both got older.

Now, years later, you pushed the feeling down as hard as you could.

Seonghwa was amazing in every way, whether to you as a friend or just someone older than you to get advice from. It was worse that he was, fortunately or unfortunately you couldn’t decide, exactly your type. You couldn’t cross that line though. It was going too far even for you.

Seonghwa on the other hand wished that line would burn in hell. Recently especially it felt like torture to even sit in the same room as you let alone talk to you. Just your presence was enough to drive him insane.

All of that to say, you both should have seen today coming.

It really was only a matter of time.

You had blown Hongjoong off a dozen times, knowing you couldn't avoid it forever but trying anyways. Finally he showed up at your apartment himself, dragging you practically by your ear to his dorm where the rest of the group was waiting.

Including the very reason himself for your constant denying on your brother, who was now sitting right next you while everyone else was passed out.

The movies credit were rolling and everyone was passed out along the long couch or on the floor. You and Seonghwa were the only ones awake, seated by yourselves on the love seat.

You were laughing quietly at your brother, his face somehow ending up buried in a pillow when Mingi fell asleep and fell on top of him. The picture of all seven of them half piled on top of one another and dead asleep was something you couldn't pass on. You grabbed your phone, slowly standing on the cushion you were sitting on and opening your camera.

You wobbled slightly as you positioned it, snapping a couple of pictures before you felt it.

A hand slowly trailed up from your ankle, settling behind your thighs. You looked down to see Seonghwa staring up at you, hand behind your leg keeping you steady.

You took in a breath, wobbling again and feeling his hand press into your legs. Seonghwa's gaze never left yours, only a small smile breaking out on his lips.

"I'm not gunna fall," you mutter at him quietly, an action not needed as everyone asleep was now snoring like they would never wake up again. Seonghwa laughed a little.

"You always say that when you do something like this. And every time you do, you always end up--" as if on cue your leg shook and your foot slipped on the fabric of the cushion. You took in a sharp gasp, swinging your arms out to balance yourself before tipping sideways.

You felt two arms around you before you hit the ground, peaking through squeezing you eyes shut already knowing what you’d see.

You were met with Seonghwa's smug knowing smile as he held you.

"Falling."

The music over the credits filled the room as you stared at him wide eyed, that easy smile staying on his face. You could feel his heart thudding against your hand.

You would've laughed if you weren't trying to get your own heart rate to calm down. You swallowed thickly, not willing to be the first to break eye contact.

Seonghwa thought his heart might give out at any moment. You were staring at him with those doe eyes he never could say no too, the look of surprise on your face so adorable it made his head dizzy.

He took a sharp breath before putting you down, walking off to the kitchen before you could say anything. You stood there, staring at where he disappeared into the kitchen.

Seonghwa knew you would follow him but had hoped you wouldn't. He drug a hand down his face, already feeling how warm he was. He knew he was bright red, a smile fighting his lips as he slipped through the doorway. He grabbed a glass and filled it with water, hoping it would cool him down in anyway before he had to look at you again.

It wasn't enough.

You came around the counter to see him guzzling the glass, face still bright red. You smiled, laughing a little before covering your mouth with your hand.

He glared at you.

"It's not polite to laugh at you elders," he grumbled, only causing your to laugh harder.

"You're only a year older," you smiled, moving to be right next to him as he set the cup down. "I'd like to see you not laugh if I was this red," you tapped his cheek before moving back, hopping up to sit on the counter.

"You're red right now," he commented, turning and leaning back on the counter across from you.

"Well of course I am, I'm the one that fell!" you crossed your arms and huffed as if that was a good reason behind your flush. He rolled his eyes, obviously not believing your bluff.

You two were remarkably good at this. You both were painfully aware of whatever there was between you two, and both were too good at ignoring it.

But he really could deny he liked when you looked at him. Loved when he had your full attention. Loved when he could pretend he wanted ignoring it, the look in your eyes so heavy it made it heard to pretend it wasn’t there.

There was a sense of pride that you liked him too, even if you wouldn’t admit it.

Seonghwa watched you as you checked your watch, raising your brows when you saw the time.

"Jesus, I need to head home soon. We should wake the others up and--" Seonghwa was even surprised when he cut you off.

You shut your mouth in an instant when you felt his touch. He had moved off the counter, fingers gently pushing on your chin until you looked at him.

He was closer than he planned to be. He wasn't planning on even moving to be fair so anything was a surprise but he was barley an inch from your face now.

He just wanted to have your eyes on him again. He loved it when you watched him and hated it when you looked away.

He just wanted to push your head up again to look at him.

He accomplished his goal at least.

You were watching him with wide eyes, mouth clamped shut and time forgotten. He was practically standing between your legs, one arm leaning on the counter beside you caging you in. The other kept your head up and gaze set to him.

"Hwa?" your voice was barely a whisper, an emotion charged in his name that he knew all too well. It was what he felt every time you stepped in the room. Every time you stole all the air from his lungs. Every time you took every thought in his head.

He found himself leaning closer.

"You have to push me away," his voice was quieter than yours, you almost couldn't hear him. "You have to push me away if I'm reading this wrong," his breath fanned your face, his voice dripping with something you couldn't put into words.

You held your breath, watching as he leaned closer until his lips are just barely out of touch.

"Please..." he sounded desperate. "Please push me away."

You knew he was right. You knew you should've pushed him away.

Hongjoong would murder both of you if he found out even this much was happening in his own kitchen.

And yet...

"I can't," those two words were all it took.

His hand slipped from tipping your chin to sliding against your cheek, combing back into your hair. You don't know when you grabbed him but your hands were gripping the button line to his jacket and you pulled him in. His lips crashed against yours and god... it was everything you wished for.

Stars erupted behind Seonghwas eyes, the feeling of you on his lips better than anything he would ever have imagined.

You felt like a drug, sending his head into a spinning mess in seconds as your lips melted to his. He moved both hands to your face, cupping your jaw as he deepened the kiss.

You let out the smallest whine and he felt his mind go completely blank. Every worry about who you were, every concern about the others just a room over, every wonder about how exactly you felt, all of it went out the window.

He swallowed you whole, not giving you a moment to breath as he pressed into you. You legs loosely wrapped around his waist as your arms looped his neck. His hands traveled down your sides, running light touchs up and down your spine before pulling you forward and up off the counter.

You let out a pitched noise that was promptly swallowed by him. He barely backed up, lips still on yours as he spoke.

"Shh, I don't think I would be able to stop even if the others woke up," his voice was thick with need as he warned you, diving back in before he was even done talking. You smiled against his lips.

He didn't let you breath again until you were desperately smacking his shoulder, every time you tried to back up a bit he was chasing after you. Finally he set you back down on the counter, letting you gasp as you tried to catch your breath.

His nose brushed yours as your chest heaved, brows furrowed as he tried to kiss you again.

You put a hand up, blocking his lips. He whined, grabbing your hand and turning it, kissing around your palm to your wrist. You let out a breathless laugh.

He moved your hand to put a hot kiss to your cheek. He kept his lips on you, moved around your face before coming back to the corner of your mouth. You moved back before he properly kissed you again.

He let out a whine.

"Please," he begged, giving you a puppy dog stare you had seen on camera a million times. It didn't do it justice.

"Hwa, the others are literally in the next room," you felt your face get impossibly warmer. "If any of them wake up I think I would die from embarrassment."

Seonghwa relished in the flush of your cheeks. This was what he had been desperate for for weeks, no... years. This is what he's been wanting to do since nearly the moment he met you.

And the sight of you, face bright red as the flush moved its way down your neck to your collarbone. God he was on cloud 9.

He pulled you off the counter again, letting your feet hit the floor before grabbing your hand and dragging your out of the kitchen. Your quiet questioning went on deaf ears as he grabbed his keys and slipped on his shoes.

"Where are you going?" you whisper yelled at him, tip toeing around the sleeping boys.

"Where are your shoes?" he asked, knowing the others wouldn't wake up to just his voice.

"I- I don't kn--" You were cut off by his arm wrapping around your wrist, pulling you too close. You thought he was about to kiss you again when you hoisted you over his shoulder.

"Seong--" you yelped, clamping a hand over your mouth as he opened the door. You only spoke again after he locked it and started across the hall. "Park Seonghwa what are you doing?!"

"Finishing what I started," his voice was steady but filled with impatience as he unlocked his door.

The moment it was closed with you two inside he put you down and pressed your back to the door, lips on you again.

"I told you I don't think I can stop," his words were muffled against your lips but you didn't care anymore, thoughts turning to mush the moment his hands were on you again.

You let him move you wherever he wanted, every concern about what the others would think disappearing with every touch.

The only thing that stayed in your mind was one word.

More.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

Joonie: Where are you? Your shoes are still here

You barely gave your brothers text a glance before slipping your phone back under the pillow. Seonghwa's grip tightened on your waist, his face tucked into the back of your neck as he sighed.

"Do you have to leave?" he asked quietly, breath hot on your skin. You smiled and laughed.

"No, just have to come up with a good reason why I'm over here and not over there," you hummed, stretching out in his bed. His grip didn't loosen on you, instead pulling you closer as you twisted.

You felt him kiss your shoulder, up your neck, stopping at your cheek.

"Just never answer and stay in here forever, I won't mind," his voice was thick with sleep as he tucked back into you. You laughed quietly, running a light hand down his arm.

"That would be avoidance my dear," you sighed, feeling his slow smile on your shoulder.

"My dear?"

"Shut it."

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡ ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ °‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

I fear every time I write one of these my style changes again

if you'd like to be added to the tag list please comment:)

-Kay

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡ taglist: °‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

Seonghwa knows the moment you heard him.

He sees it in the way the air changes.

You don’t slam doors. You don’t cry. You don’t confront him like people who still believe they deserve answers.

You simply… withdraw.

At breakfast, you sit straight-backed, eyes fixed on your plate. You thank the staff politely. You don’t look up when he enters.

That terrifies him.

Because silence like that isn’t anger.

It’s resignation.

He dismisses the guards early that night. Cancels meetings. Locks the east wing himself. 

By the time the mansion settles into uneasy quiet, he’s already made a decision that would get him killed if anyone knew.

He’s going to tell you the truth.

No euphemisms.

No protection-through-distance. No lies disguised as strategy.

Even if it costs him everything.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You don’t open the door when he knocks.

He doesn’t blame you.

“Please,” he says softly, forehead resting against the wood. “Just listen. You don’t have to forgive me.”

Silence.

Then—slow footsteps.

The door opens just enough for you to look at him. Your face is blank in a way he’s never seen before.

“What?” you ask.

He swallows. “I lied to you.”

A pause.

“That’s not new.”

The words hurt more than any bullet ever has.

“I said what I said because men were listening,” he continues hoarsely. “Men who would have put a gun to your head if they believed you mattered to me.”

“And you chose them,” you reply.

“No,” he says immediately. “I chose to make myself the villain so you could live.”

You laugh quietly. It’s worse than shouting. “You don’t get credit for that.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m not asking for it.”

He steps inside, careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

“I’ve been protecting you in ways you never saw,” he says. “Contingency plans. False vulnerabilities. Entire operations redirected so no one would suspect.”

You look away. “So I’m a secret.”

“Yes,” he admits. “And that’s what I’m done with.”

That finally gets your attention.

He reaches into his jacket and places a phone on the table between you.

“Unlocked,” he says. “Everything I’ve done for you is in there. If you show it to the wrong person, I lose my head.”

You stare at it like it might explode.

“You’d risk your family?” you whisper.

He meets your eyes. “I already did. I just did it unknowingly.”

Your chest tightens.

“I won’t erase you anymore,” he says. “If they come for you again, they’ll know exactly why.”

“That will make it worse,” you say.

“Yes,” he agrees. “But at least I won’t be lying to you while it happens.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The first consequence comes faster than even he expects.

At a formal dinner three nights later, a rival lieutenant smiles too long at you.

“You seem lonely,” the man says lightly. “Your husband keeps you at quite the distance.”

The room watches.

Seonghwa feels the shift—the moment where silence becomes a test.

He stands. Walks over.

Places his hand around your waist.

Possessive. Unmistakable.

“She’s not lonely,” he says evenly. “She’s protected.”

The lieutenant laughs. “By pretending she doesn’t exist?”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer.

He draws his gun and shoots the man through the leg.

The sound is deafening. Blood splatters on the marble.

You gasp.

Seonghwa doesn’t even look down.

“Anyone else unclear,” he says calmly, “about where my priorities lie?”

No one speaks.

That night, in the quiet aftermath, his hands shake for the first time.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say.

“Yes,” he replies. “I did.”

And somewhere in the city, someone decides you’re worth bleeding for again.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The city doesn’t punish Seonghwa immediately.

It watches.

That’s always worse.

The dinner incident becomes a story that mutates by the hour—details twisted, intentions debated, loyalties weighed. 

Some say Park Seonghwa lost control. Others say he finally showed his hand.

No one says the most dangerous truth out loud: He chose his wife in public.

You feel the shift before you understand it.

The guards outside your door double. Routes change without explanation. Even the air in the mansion feels tighter, like everyone is holding their breath.

Seonghwa starts coming home later.

Not avoiding you, but visibly carrying the weight of decisions that don’t leave bruises where people can see them.

One night, you find him in the kitchen at three in the morning, sleeves rolled up, hands red in the sink.

Blood.

Your stomach drops. “Seonghwa.”

He looks up instantly. “It’s not mine.”

“That’s not comforting.”

He exhales and turns the tap off. Water drips slowly, loudly, into the basin.

“They tested me,” he says. “To see if the dinner was a performance.”

“And?”

“They won’t test me again.”

You sit across from him at the table. The distance between you feels fragile—like one wrong word could shatter it.

“Did you kill someone?” you ask.

“Yes.”

The honesty knocks the air from your lungs.

“For me?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “For the future where no one thinks they can touch you and survive.”

You don’t know how to hold on to that.

So you don’t try.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The retaliation doesn’t come from outside.

It never does.

It comes from inside the family—men Seonghwa has known since childhood, men who taught him how to shoot, how to bleed, how not to cry.

They don’t come for him. They come for you.

It’s subtle at first.

A driver who takes a different route.

A guard who doesn’t meet your eyes.

A delay in response time that lasts half a second too long.

Seonghwa notices everything.

He calls a meeting.

You’re not supposed to be there.

He brings you anyway.

The room is full of men who look at you like an equation they’re solving.

“This stops now,” Seonghwa says calmly. “Anyone who believes my wife is leverage is mistaken.”

A murmur ripples through the room.

One of the older men smiles thinly. “You’re letting emotion cloud judgment.”

Seonghwa tilts his head. “I’m letting clarity sharpen it.”

“You’re destabilizing decades of structure,” another snaps. “For one woman.”

Seonghwa’s gaze flicks to you.

Then back.

“Yes,” he says. “I am.”

Silence.

Then the first man chuckles. “You’ll regret that.”

Seonghwa nods. “You’re free to try and make me.”

The meeting ends.

The war begins.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You’re taken two nights later.

Not violently. Not loudly.

Efficiently.

A needle. Darkness. Cold concrete when you wake.

But something is different this time.

They don’t gloat. They look nervous.

Because Seonghwa didn’t scramble.

He didn’t beg. He didn’t negotiate.

He arrived.

Alone.

Hands visible. Gun holstered. Eyes empty of mercy.

“You shouldn’t have touched her,” he says calmly.

They laugh.

Until he shoots the first man through the throat.

Everything erupts.

Gunfire. Screaming. Chaos.

They drag you behind cover, trying to use you like a shield—but Seonghwa moves like he’s already dead.

He takes a bullet to the shoulder and doesn’t slow.

Another grazes his side.

He reaches you, cuts the restraints with shaking hands, and presses his forehead to yours for half a second.

“I’m here,” he breathes. “I’ve got you.”

Someone raises a gun behind him.

You scream his name.

Seonghwa turns and fires without looking.

The body drops.

Blood pools at his feet.

He pulls you up, shields you with his body, and walks out through smoke and sirens like the devil himself has come to collect.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

He collapses in the car.

Blood soaking through his shirt. Skin clammy. Breath shallow.

You hold his face with trembling hands. “Stay with me. Please.”

He smiles weakly. “You’re safe. That’s enough.”

“No,” you say fiercely. “You don’t get to leave now.”

He opens his eyes fully, pain sharpening them. “You stayed.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “So you’re staying too.”

The surgery lasts six hours.

You don’t leave the waiting room.

When the doctor finally comes out, exhausted but steady, you stand before he can speak.

“He’s alive,” the doctor says.

Your knees give out.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

When Seonghwa wakes, you’re there.

Not asleep. Not pretending distance.

There.

“You should have run,” he says hoarsely.

You take his hand. It’s warm. Solid. Real.

“I told you,” you reply. “I’m done being erased.”

Tears gather in his eyes. He doesn’t hide them.

“I bled,” he whispers. “Not because I had to. Because I wanted them to understand.”

“They do,” you say. “Everyone does.”

He squeezes your hand weakly. “Then let them come.”

And they will.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Seonghwa recovers too fast for a man who nearly died.

The doctor calls it stubbornness. The men call it necessity.

You know the truth.

He’s afraid that if he stops moving, the world will catch up—and take you from him again.

He returns to the mansion with stitches still pulling at his skin, a sling he ignores, and eyes that never fully rest. The staff watches him differently now. Not with reverence.

With unease.

Because kings who bleed publicly remind people that thrones are built on bodies.

And bodies can fall.

The betrayal finally surfaces on a rainy night, the kind that blurs the city into streaks of gray and red.

You’re half-asleep when the alarms scream.

Not external.

Internal.

Seonghwa is already moving before the first echo dies—gun in hand, jaw clenched, fury sharp enough to taste.

“Stay here,” he orders.

You grab his wrist.

“No.”

He looks at you, and for a heartbeat you see the old instinct—to lock you away, to protect you by exclusion.

Then he nods.

“Behind me,” he says.

You don’t argue.

The east wing is in chaos. 

Smoke. Shouting. Men you recognize turning their guns inward.

One of them—someone Seonghwa once trusted—steps forward, weapon raised.

“This ends tonight,” the man sneers. “You’ve gone soft.”

Seonghwa laughs.

It’s empty. Terrible.

“I became honest,” he replies. “You mistook that for weakness.”

The man gestures toward you. “She’s the problem.”

Seonghwa fires.

No warning. No speech. No mercy.

The man hits the floor hard.

You don’t flinch.

Neither does he.

Afterward, when the smoke clears and the traitors are dead or gone, Seonghwa leans heavily against the wall, blood seeping through his bandages where he tore something open.

You rush to him.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

He exhales, shaky. “I know.”

You press your forehead to his chest, feeling the uneven thud of his heart.

“I’m not leaving,” you whisper. “No matter what they say. No matter what this costs.”

He closes his eyes.

“Don’t promise that lightly,” he murmurs. “This world eats people alive.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Then stop trying to survive it alone.”

Something in him gives.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The council convenes within forty-eight hours.

You’re not invited.

You go anyway.

The room is cavernous and cold, filled with men who look at Seonghwa like they’re measuring a coffin.

“You’ve destabilized everything,” one says flatly. “Your wife has become a liability we cannot afford.”

You step forward before Seonghwa can speak.

“I’m right here,” you say. “You don’t need to talk about me like I’m already dead.”

Gasps ripple through the room.

Seonghwa turns, startled. “You shouldn’t—”

“I should,” you say quietly. “I’ve been silent long enough.”

A man scoffs. “This is exactly the problem.”

Seonghwa straightens.

“No,” he says. “This is the solution.”

He reaches for your hand.

Public. Unapologetic.

“She stays,” he continues. “And if that means I lose this seat—so be it.”

Threats follow. Consequences laid bare.

Exile. War. Death.

Seonghwa listens without interrupting.

Then he does something no one expects.

He removes his ring.

Places it on the table.

“This marriage started as a weapon,” he says. “If you think ending it will save you—try.”

Your breath catches.

“But understand this,” he adds, voice iron. “I am choosing her whether or not you acknowledge it. If you move against her, you move against me.”

Silence crashes down.

Finally, one man laughs bitterly. “You’d burn everything.”

Seonghwa nods once.

“Yes.”

That night, back at the mansion, the weight finally hits him.

He sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, breathing uneven.

“I might have just signed my own death warrant,” he says quietly.

You sit beside him.

“Do you regret it?”

He shakes his head immediately. “No. I regret every day before I stopped lying.”

You take his hands. They’re scarred. Rough. Still shaking.

“I don’t need you to be a king,” you say. “I need you alive.”

He looks at you like that’s harder.

“I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You’ll learn,” you say. “Or we’ll learn together.”

For the first time, he lets himself cry.

Just once.

Just enough.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The assassination attempt comes disguised as peace.

That’s how you know it’s real.

A ceasefire is announced—temporary, conditional, wrapped in polite language and false assurances. 

The council invites Seonghwa to finalize terms at an old estate outside the city. Neutral ground, they say. Symbolic.

Seonghwa doesn’t believe in symbols.

But he goes anyway.

Because running would prove them right.

Because staying away wouldn’t keep you safe—only visible.

You argue with him the entire drive.

“It’s a trap,” you say. “You know it.”

“I know,” he replies calmly.

“Then why are you going?”

He glances at you, eyes dark, steady. “Because they won’t stop until they see me bleed enough to believe.”

Your chest tightens. “You already did.”

“Not to them,” he says. “This is the last language they understand.”

The estate is old money and rot—cracked marble, dead fountains, guards posted too neatly. The air hums with the promise of violence.

Seonghwa squeezes your hand once before stepping out of the car.

“If it goes wrong,” he murmurs, “you run.”

You meet his gaze. “No.”

He exhales, something like acceptance crossing his face. “Then stay behind me.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The meeting lasts eleven minutes.

That’s all it takes.

The first shot comes from the balcony.

The second shatters a column inches from Seonghwa’s head.

Chaos erupts.

Men scatter. Guns come out. Someone screams your name.

Seonghwa turns just in time to take the bullet meant for you.

It hits him square in the chest.

He goes down hard.

Your scream rips out of you before you can stop it.

“SEONGHWA—”

You’re on the ground beside him instantly, hands slick with blood, pressing uselessly against the wound. His eyes flutter, unfocused.

“No,” you choke. “No, no, no—stay with me. Please.”

He smiles faintly.

Still trying to comfort you.

“They… won’t touch you again,” he whispers. “I made sure.”

Rage detonates inside you.

You grab his gun.

Stand.

And for the first time, they don’t see you as leverage.

They see you as a threat.

You fire.

Not wildly. Not blindly.

Purposefully.

The men responsible fall one by one. Guards hesitate—then lower their weapons when they realize the balance has shifted.

Sirens wail in the distance.

You drop to your knees beside Seonghwa again, shaking.

“Don’t you dare die,” you whisper. “You promised.”

His breath is shallow. His hand finds yours.

“I’m… trying,” he murmurs.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The doctors later say he shouldn’t have survived.

Too much blood loss. Too close to the heart.

But Seonghwa has always been stubborn.

He wakes up three days later to your fingers threaded through his hair, your head resting on the edge of the bed.

“You look terrible,” he rasps.

You laugh through tears. “You got shot.”

“Worth it,” he says weakly.

You straighten, eyes blazing. “Don’t ever say that again.”

His gaze softens. “I didn’t mean the pain,” he says. “I meant the truth.”

The fallout is immediate.

The council fractures. The traitors are exposed—dead or disgraced. The estate becomes a crime scene, then a grave marker.

The throne doesn’t fall in flames.

It rots from the inside and collapses quietly.

Seonghwa is offered what remains.

He refuses.

“I won’t rebuild this,” he says. “Not like it was.”

They threaten chaos.

He shrugs. “Then let something new grow.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You leave the city before it can decide what to do with you.

A smaller house. Fewer guards. Silence that feels earned, not dangerous.

Some nights Seonghwa wakes up gasping, hand clutching his chest where the scar lives.

You’re always there.

Some days you still remember the man who told the world you were nothing.

He remembers too. He never forgets.

That’s part of his penance.

One evening, months later, he kneels in front of you—not with a ring, not with power, not with an audience.

Just honesty.

“I ruined you with my fear,” he says. “And I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

You touch his face, thumbs brushing the scars.

“But you bled for the truth,” you reply. “And you stayed.”

He swallows hard. “I will spend my life proving it—if you let me.”

You pull him up.

Kiss him.

Slow. Real. Chosen.

Love isn’t a weakness.

It’s the only thing that survived the fire.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

© lcvejjoong, 2026

You are married with a gun pressed to the back of your spine.

It isn’t literal—no cold metal digging into flesh—but you feel it anyway. Every step down the aisle feels guided by invisible hands, every breath measured by men who decide who lives and who doesn’t with a nod.

The chapel smells like incense and old stone. It’s too quiet for a wedding. 

No music. No guests who smile.

Only men in black suits with weapons hidden beneath their jackets.

And him.

Park Seonghwa stands at the altar like he’s attending an execution—straight-backed, immaculate, eyes sharp and unreadable.

He doesn’t smile when he sees you. Doesn’t soften. Doesn’t even blink.

You think, distantly, that he looks like someone who has already buried the part of himself that could love.

When you reach his side, he doesn’t look at you right away.

The priest begins speaking.

You hear none of it.

All you can hear is your heartbeat and the echo of your father’s voice from earlier that morning.

This is how we survive.

Seonghwa finally turns his head.

Your eyes meet for the first time.

There is no curiosity in his gaze. No warmth. Just a calm, resigned assessment—like you’re another responsibility added to a list he never wanted.

You almost wish he hated you.

Hatred would mean you mattered enough to feel something.

When he slides the ring onto your finger, his touch is brief, professional. His skin is warm. Steady. You hate that detail because it sticks.

You say I do like you’re confessing to a crime.

So does he.

The sound echoes like a gunshot.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The drive to the mansion is silent.

You sit beside him in the back of a bulletproof car, hands folded in your lap, staring straight ahead. Seonghwa stares out the window, jaw tight, one arm resting casually along the seat behind you—but not touching.

Never touching.

It feels deliberate.

When you finally glance at him, you catch the faint scar along his knuckle. Another near his collarbone. Evidence of violence worn like punctuation marks in his life.

You wonder how many people he’s killed.

You wonder if he’ll ever look at you like anything other than a deal he couldn’t refuse.

The car stops.

“This is your home now,” he says when the door opens.

Not ours.

Yours.

The mansion looms like a monument to everything you’ve lost.

Your bedroom is enormous. Cold. Carefully curated.

There are no personal touches. No photos. No warmth. It looks like no one ever intended to sleep here—just to impress.

Seonghwa stops at the doorway again.

“If you need anything,” he says, “ask the staff.”

“And you?” you ask softly.

His eyes flicker.

“I’ll be… busy.”

Of course he will be.

He turns to leave.

“Seonghwa,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He pauses.

“You don’t have to be cruel,” you whisper. “I know this wasn’t your choice either.”

For a moment, something cracks.

His shoulders tense. His fingers curl.

But when he turns back, the wall is already rebuilt.

“I’m not cruel,” he says flatly. “I’m careful.”

Then he leaves you alone in a marriage that feels like solitary confinement.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The nights are the worst.

You learn the mansion’s sounds—the shift changes, the distant murmurs of meetings, the clink of ice in Seonghwa’s glass somewhere down the hall.

Sometimes you hear laughter.

It never belongs to him.

You wonder if he laughs at all.

You wonder if he’s relieved you don’t try to crawl into his bed. If he’d flinch if you did.

On the fourth night, you hear raised voices.

A crash.

You sit up, heart pounding, and before you can think, you open the door.

Seonghwa is in the hallway, gun drawn, eyes sharp with lethal focus. He freezes when he sees you.

“What are you doing out of your room?” he snaps.

“I heard—”

“Go back.”

“I was scared.”

That makes him falter.

Just slightly.

He lowers the gun. “That’s why you stay in your room.”

You swallow. “Is that all I am to you? Something to lock away?”

His gaze hardens.

“You’re alive,” he says. “That’s what you are.”

It feels like a verdict.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Weeks pass.

Months.

You become a ghost haunting the edges of his life.

You attend dinners you don’t speak at. Smile when expected. Learn which topics are dangerous. Which men to avoid.

You learn that Seonghwa never drinks when you’re in danger.

You learn he has cameras installed outside your room—but not inside.

You learn he sleeps maybe four hours a night.

You learn these things without him ever telling you.

And somehow, that hurts more.

The first time he touches you, it’s accidental.

A near miss.

A bullet shattering glass during an ambush you were never supposed to be near.

Seonghwa grabs you and pulls you against his chest, shielding you as chaos erupts. His arms are iron around you, breath sharp against your hair.

“Don’t move,” he growls.

Your hands clutch his jacket.

For one terrifying second, you feel safe.

Then it’s over.

He pulls away immediately, like he’s been burned.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice clinical.

“No,” you whisper.

He nods. Then he turns away.

And you realize with sick clarity, the most dangerous thing about this marriage isn’t the enemies.

It’s that you’re falling in love with a man who believes loving you will kill you.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

After the gunfire, Seonghwa changes.

Not in obvious ways. He doesn’t become kinder. He doesn’t soften. 

If anything, the distance grows sharper, more deliberate—like he’s correcting a mistake.

He assigns you more guards. Limits where you can go. Cancels the rare dinners you used to share in tense silence.

You stop seeing him except in passing.

And when you do, he never looks at you for longer than a second.

It’s like he’s afraid proximity might undo him.

You wake one night from a nightmare you can’t remember, heart racing, sheets twisted around your legs. The mansion is quiet in that heavy, oppressive way that makes your chest feel too tight.

You don’t mean to leave your room.

You just… don’t want to be alone.

Seonghwa’s office light is on.

You hesitate outside the door, listening to the low murmur of voices inside—men speaking in clipped tones, danger woven into every word.

“…weak point,” someone says. “She was nearly killed last time.”

“And she won’t be again,” Seonghwa replies.

There’s steel in his voice now. Finality.

“That depends,” another man scoffs. “If it comes down to it—your wife or the alliance—what do you choose?”

Your breath catches.

Silence stretches.

Long enough to hurt.

“…the family,” Seonghwa says at last.

The word hits harder than any bullet.

You step back before anyone can see you. Before your knees give out. Before the sound you’re making turns into something broken and humiliating.

The family.

Not you.

You return to your room and lock the door, pressing your forehead against the wood like it might hold you together.

You tell yourself it shouldn’t hurt.

This marriage was never about love.

So why does it feel like betrayal?

The next morning, Seonghwa barely acknowledges you.

He sits at the head of the table, scrolling through his phone, coffee untouched. When you sit down, he doesn’t look up.

You want to scream.

Instead, you ask, very quietly, “Am I a liability to you?”

His fingers still.

He exhales slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours. There’s a warning there now. A line you’re not supposed to cross.

“Why would you ask that?”

“Answer me.”

He studies you for a moment, calculating. Then he does something cruel.

He lies.

“You’re safe as long as you do what you’re told,” he says evenly. “That’s all you need to know.”

Something inside you fractures.

You nod. Push your chair back. Leave without another word.

You don’t see him follow you with his eyes.

You don’t see the way his jaw tightens like he’s bracing for impact.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The staff starts treating you differently.

More distant. More cautious.

You realize with slow horror that Seonghwa has made a decision—to keep you uninformed. 

Controlled. Separate.

Protected by ignorance.

You feel like a hostage in your own marriage.

When you finally snap, it’s over something small.

A denied request to leave the mansion.

“I just want to go outside,” you say, voice trembling. “I need air.”

Seonghwa doesn’t look at you. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“You don’t get to lock me away like this.”

His gaze sharpens. “I do if it keeps you alive.”

You laugh, brittle. “Is that all I’m good for? Breathing?”

He steps closer, towering over you now. “You’re good for surviving,” he snaps. “Stop making this harder than it needs to be.”

You shove him.

It barely moves him—but it shocks you both.

“Harder?” you whisper. “You married me, stripped me of my life, and you won’t even look at me. What do you want from me, Seonghwa?”

For a split second, the truth nearly escapes him.

His hand lifts—then drops.

“I want you alive,” he says. “And if you hate me for that, so be it.”

He turns his back.

You crumble where you stand.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The attempt on your life comes three days later.

It’s supposed to be a routine drive. Short. Controlled. Safe.

It isn’t.

The explosion rocks the car, throwing you forward as glass rains down. You scream as pain blooms across your shoulder.

Gunfire erupts.

You barely register Seonghwa dragging you out, blood on his hands—yours, you think distantly—as he shoves you behind another vehicle.

He’s shouting orders. Killing without hesitation.

You watch him pull the trigger.

You watch a man fall.

And for the first time, you see what Seonghwa really is.

A weapon.

When it’s over, he kneels in front of you, hands shaking as he cups your face.

“Talk to me,” he demands. “Look at me. Are you hurt?”

Your vision swims.

“I heard you,” you whisper.

He stills.

“In your office,” you continue. “You said you’d choose the family.”

His face drains of color.

You laugh weakly. “Guess you don’t have to worry anymore. I already know where I stand.”

He swears under his breath. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“But I did.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and bloody.

“You’d let me die,” you say. Not a question.

Seonghwa’s voice cracks for the first time.

“I would let myself die first.”

“But not for me.”

He looks at you like you’ve stabbed him.

“I don’t get to love you,” he says hoarsely. “Do you understand that? The moment I do, you become dead.”

Tears spill down your cheeks. “Then what am I to you?”

His grip loosens.

“…my punishment.”

That night, you pack a bag.

You don’t plan to get far.

You just can’t stay.

You make it to the gate before Seonghwa finds you.

He stands there in the dark, rain soaking his suit, eyes wild with something dangerously close to fear.

“Get back inside,” he orders.

“No.”

“If you leave, they will kill you.”

You lift your chin. “Then let them.”

That breaks him.

He grabs your wrist—not hard, but desperate. “Don’t do this.”

“You already chose,” you whisper. “Now I’m choosing too.”

His voice is barely sound. “I chose you every time I pulled a trigger so you wouldn’t have to.”

You shake your head. “You chose the version of me that survives. Not the one that feels.”

Silence.

He lets you go.

The gate opens.

And you walk away from the only man who ever tried to save you by destroying himself.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You don’t make it far.

You should have known better. There is no such thing as escape when your name is stitched into a war.

The night air is cold, biting through your thin coat as the road stretches empty ahead of you. Your heart is still pounding, lungs burning, hands shaking—not from fear of death, but from the hollow ache of leaving.

You don’t hear the car until it’s too late.

Headlights blind you.

Someone grabs you from behind, rough hands clamping over your mouth as you’re dragged backward. You fight—kick, scream—but it’s useless. A sharp sting pierces your neck.

The world tilts.

The last thing you think before everything goes dark is Seonghwa’s face in the rain—fractured, helpless, watching you walk away.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You wake up tied to a chair.

The room is dim, concrete walls sweating with moisture. A single bulb flickers overhead. Your wrists burn where the rope bites into your skin, your head throbbing like it’s splitting in two.

Across from you sits a man you recognize.

Not by face—but by reputation.

A rival family. Ruthless. Smiling like this is an entertainment.

“So,” he drawls, circling you slowly. “You’re Park Seonghwa’s wife.”

You lift your chin, refusing to cry. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

He laughs. “Kill you? No, no. You’re far too valuable alive.”

Your stomach sinks.

“You see,” he continues, leaning down until you can smell his cologne, “men like Seonghwa—men who pretend they don’t feel—are the easiest to break.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Seonghwa feels it the moment you’re taken.

The silence.

The way the cameras go dark one by one. The way his chest tightens like something vital has been ripped out.

His hands tremble as he grips the sill.

He knows.

God, he knows.

By morning, the call comes.

A location. A time.

An audience.

They don’t want money.

They want a spectacle.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

They drag you out in front of them.

You barely recognize yourself—hair tangled, lip split, clothes dirty. But you stand anyway. You refuse to kneel.

Seonghwa is already there.

On his knees.

Guns trained on him from every angle.

Your heart stops.

“Seonghwa—”

He looks up.

The sound he makes when he sees you is not human.

It’s raw. Broken. Terrified.

“Please,” he says immediately, voice cracking as he crawls toward you. “Don’t touch her. I’ll give you anything.”

The man laughs. “Anything?”

Seonghwa nods frantically. “Territory. Weapons. My life.”

Your chest caves in.

“No,” you choke. “Seonghwa, don’t—”

A gun presses to your temple.

Silence falls.

“Here’s the deal,” the man says lightly. “You tell us, in front of everyone, that your wife means nothing to you. That she’s expendable. That you would sacrifice her for your family.”

Your blood turns to ice.

“And if I don’t?” Seonghwa asks.

The gun digs harder into your skin.

“She dies.”

Your eyes meet his.

You shake your head desperately.

Don’t do this. Don’t become this.

Seonghwa looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff.

You see it—the war inside him. Duty. Power. Survival.

Love.

He swallows.

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely.

Your heart leaps.

The man sighs. “Such a shame.”

The gun cocks.

“Wait!” Seonghwa shouts.

Everything stops.

Slowly, he stands.

His face is stone now. Empty. Dead.

He turns—not to you—but to them.

“She’s… she’s nothing,” he says.

The words hit harder than the blow that follows.

“Seonghwa—” you whisper.

“She was a transaction,” he continues, voice steady, eyes refusing to meet yours. “The means to an alliance. I’d let her die if it protected my family.”

Your ears ring. Your vision blurs.

Every breath hurts.

“See?” the man grins. “Was that so hard?”

Seonghwa doesn’t move.

Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t save you with his eyes.

The gun lowers.

They untie you and shove you forward like discarded cargo.

You collapse to the ground, shaking.

Alive.

Because he chose to kill you inside instead.

They release you an hour later.

Alive—but ruined.

No one touches you on the ride back. No one speaks. The car feels colder than the cell ever did.

Seonghwa doesn’t come near you.

Not once.

When you reach the mansion, he disappears into his office.

You don’t follow. You don’t scream. You don’t cry.

You go to your room and sit on the bed, staring at your hands until the sun rises.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Days pass.

Then weeks.

You and Seonghwa become strangers again—but this time, there is something poisonous between you.

He avoids you completely.

You hear him at night sometimes—glass shattering, furniture breaking, a muffled sound that might be a sob.

You feel nothing.

Or maybe you feel too much.

The first time you speak to him again is accidental.

You turn a corner and collide with his chest.

He freezes.

“I’m sorry,” you say automatically.

He flinches like you struck him.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

You look up at him.

His eyes are haunted. Hollow. Bruised purple from lack of sleep.

“You did what you had to,” you say quietly.

His breath stutters.

“But I need you to understand something,” you continue. “Whatever you loved in me died that day.”

He reaches for you…

And stops.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking. “That’s the part I live with.”

That night, Seonghwa stands outside your door.

He doesn’t knock.

He just stands there, forehead pressed to the wood, whispering words you will never hear.

And you lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how something that never truly began managed to end so catastrophically.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You don’t leave the mansion.

Everyone expects you to.

The staff whispers about it in the halls—how long before Park Seonghwa’s wife disappears, how long before another “accident” is arranged, how long before the alliance needs replacing.

But you stay.

Not because you forgive him. Not because you hope.

You stay because leaving would require feeling something you no longer have the energy to touch.

You move through the days like a shadow—polite, quiet, untouched. You eat when food is placed in front of you. You sleep when your body gives up and shuts down.

You don’t dream anymore.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Seonghwa notices everything.

That’s the cruelty of it—now, when it’s too late, he notices.

The way you no longer flinch when guns are cleaned nearby.

The way your eyes never follow him when he enters a room.

The way your voice has gone flat, emptied of warmth and fear alike.

You are alive.

But you are no longer his.

That realization sits in his chest like a loaded gun he can’t put down.

He tries to apologize.

Not with flowers or gifts—he knows better than to insult you like that.

It happens late one night when he finally corners you in the hallway.

“You shouldn’t be awake,” he says softly.

You look at him, then past him. “Neither should you.”

Silence stretches.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

“You already did,” you reply flatly.

Something fractures in his expression. “I said words. I didn’t say the truth.”

“You said enough.”

He steps closer, desperation bleeding through the cracks. “I meant it when I said I’d die first.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You still let me believe you wouldn’t choose me,” you say. “That’s what matters.”

“I was protecting you.”

“No,” you correct gently. “You were protecting the world you knew how to survive in.”

He looks like he’s about to fall to his knees.

“I love you,” he whispers.

The words come too late.

You feel nothing when he says them.

“I know,” you say. “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it?”

After that, he stops trying to touch you.

He starts doing worse things instead.

He dismantles the empire piece by piece.

Territories sold. Alliances severed. Enemies silenced not with deals—but with blood.

The men around him whisper that their boss has gone reckless. That Park Seonghwa no longer cares if he survives.

They don’t know the truth.

He’s already dead.

He just keeps breathing out of habit.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The night everything finally ends is quiet.

No gunfire.

No shouting.

No warnings.

You find him in the garden just before dawn, sitting on the cold stone steps, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

He looks… tired.

Older.

“You’re leaving,” he says without looking up.

It’s not a question.

You nod. “My father’s people have arranged safe passage.”

“Safe,” he repeats softly. “I never was.”

You sit beside him—not close enough to touch.

“I don’t hate you,” you tell him.

That’s when he breaks.

His breath stutters. His shoulders shake once, violently, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I wish you did,” he says. “Hate would mean I mattered.”

“You mattered,” you say. “Just not in the way I needed.”

He finally looks at you.

“I would burn the world for you,” he says.

You smile sadly. “I know. But you couldn’t choose me in it.”

The sky begins to lighten.

Time is running out.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Please.”

“Say what?”

“My name,” he says. “The way you used to.”

You hesitate.

Then, softly, “Seonghwa.”

It sounds like a goodbye.

You leave at sunrise.

He doesn’t follow.

He stands at the gate, hands in his pockets, watching your car disappear down the road that once swallowed you whole.

This time, it lets you go.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Years later, people will speak of Park Seonghwa like a myth.

A king who dismantled his own throne.

A man who never remarried.

A leader who slept in an empty mansion and kept one room untouched.

They don’t talk about you. They don’t know your name.

But sometimes, late at night, Seonghwa will sit alone and press his ring into his palm until it hurts—until pain is the only thing that reminds him he once loved someone enough to destroy them.

And you. You will live.

Not happily. Not easily.

But free.

And that will be the one thing he could never give you when it mattered most.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

extra: (kidnapping hostage scene in seonghwa’s pov)

He has killed men for less than this silence.

The ground is cold beneath his knees. Gravel bites through expensive fabric, pressing into skin he no longer registers as his own. 

Guns surround him—too many, too close—but none of them feel as dangerous as the sound of her breathing.

She’s alive.

Barely.

That is the only thought keeping him upright.

Her name burns behind his teeth. He doesn’t say it. He can’t. 

The moment he does, they’ll hear it. The moment they hear it, she becomes a leverage again.

So he looks anywhere but at her.

Anywhere but the blood at her lip.

Anywhere but the way her hands shake even while she stands tall.

Anywhere but her eyes—wide, betrayed, still stupidly trusting him.

God.

He crawls forward before he realizes he’s moving.

“Please,” he says, the word ripping out of him, ugly and undignified. “Don’t touch her. I’ll give you anything.”

He means it.

Territory. Power. His body. His life.

Anything except her.

He looks up then. He shouldn’t. He knows better. But he does.

Their eyes meet.

And he almost breaks.

She’s shaking her head at him. Telling him no. 

Protecting him even now, even after everything he’s done to keep her at arm’s length.

She doesn’t understand. 

He turns his face away before they can see what’s written all over it.

“Anything?” the man asks, amused.

The gun presses harder to her temple.

Seonghwa’s heart stops.

This is it.

This is the moment every lesson, every sin, every sacrifice has been leading to.

If he loves her out loud, she will not leave this place alive.

If he kills her with his words, she might.

His mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

Say it, he tells himself viciously.

Say it or watch her die.

“Wait,” he croaks.

He forces himself to stand.

His legs tremble, but he locks his knees. He has to look unafraid. He has to look cruel. He has to look like the man they believe him to be.

Not the man who memorized the sound of her footsteps.

Not the man who checked her door every night.

Not the man who would have let the world burn if it meant she stayed warm.

He turns toward them.

“She’s… she’snothing,” he says.

The words slice through him first.

“She was a transaction,” he continues, voice dead, empty, perfect. “The means to secure an alliance.”

His chest tightens. He can’t breathe.

“She doesn’t matter to me.”

He hears it then.

The sound she makes.

It’s small. Choked. Like something inside her has collapsed in on itself.

He keeps going because stopping would kill her.

“I would let her die,” he says evenly, each word a bullet fired directly into his own ribs, “if it meant protecting my family.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

The gun lowers.

Laughter breaks out.

It’s over. She’s alive.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at her.

If he looks at her, he will undo everything.

If he looks at her, they will see the truth—that every word was a lie carved out of love so violent it had to be disguised as indifference.

When they shove her forward, alive and breathing and shattered, his hands curl into fists so tight his nails draw blood.

He doesn’t reach for her. He doesn’t speak.

Because the moment already took everything he had.

Later—much later—when he is alone, when the adrenaline has drained and the echoes finally catch up to him, he will collapse somewhere dark and press his fist into his mouth to keep from screaming her name.

But here. Here, he stands perfectly still.

The man who chose the family.

The man who let his wife live by killing her himself.

And that is the moment Seonghwa understands something with horrifying clarity.

Saving her was the easy part.

Living with what he did to her will be the thing that finally destroys him.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

© lcvejjoong, 2026

It has been an hour since you both had a childish argument. Neither of you remembered the reasons though. San was still mad anyway. Once, he was the type to apologize first, his lips forming a pout as he whispered sweet nothings like, "I'm sorry~", doing everything in his power to win back your forgiveness. But this time, he remained silent. 

Instead, he sprawled on the sofa, scrolling his phone, not sparing you a single glance. But how could you endure this torture while you two biascally clinging to each other every few minutes? 

Ugh. It felt as though you were suffering from a skin ailment, and only his touch could ease the discomfort. You tried to call out his name gently, but he merely responded with "What?" devoid of any of the warmth he once showed. 

"Sannie~? Don't ignore me~" You climbed onto the sofa, resting your head next to him. 

San rolled his eyes and set his phone down on his thighs. He looked over at you, crossing his arms over his chest. He was not in the mood for your games. 

"Well maybe you should have thought about it before the argument." 

"Hm~Don't be mad." You tilted your head like a puppy, aware that San always adored your cute antics. But San merely shot you a look, not smiling like the fool he usually was. Okay. If it is not gonna work, then let's use plan B. 

Your hand found their way to your back, hooking the clip of the bra and giving it a small tug, leaving the underband hanging on either side. Pulling up the T-shirt, you turned around to show your bare back. "Sannie~ Can you help me to clasp the bra?" 

He let out a sigh, fully aware of your effort, yet he still took hold of the strap and secured it at the back for you.  After completing the task, he withdrew his hand, lifted the phone from his lap, and resumed scrolling through it.

…The hell? Only this? Nothing more?? 

You blinked, stunned, as San's thumb swiped idly across his screen like he'd just handed you a glass of water instead of touching your bare skin. Your pulse fluttered—not just from the tease, but from the indifference. It was like watching a monk resist temptation, and damn it, you weren't used to being resisted. Especially not by him.

You sat up slowly, the fabric of your T-shirt falling back into place, and studied him. It was impossible for him to stay calm and act nothing when he touched your bare skin. He must be covering up the desire with his expressionless face. 

A dangerous spark lit behind your ribs—half frustration, half thrill. Fine. If he wanted to play this game, you'd raise the stakes.

With deliberate slowness, you stretched, arching your back like a cat, then reached for the hem of your shirt again. This time, you tugged it over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you in nothing but the re-clasped bra and soft cotton shorts. The room was warm, but you shivered on purpose, glancing at him through your lashes.

San didn't even flinch.

His eyes stayed glued to his phone, jaw set, thumb flicking past stories with mechanical precision. But you knew him better than that. The muscle twitching in his temple, the way his fingers tightened around the device—oh, he was not as unaffected as he pretended.

You shifted closer, your knee brushing his thigh as you folded yourself against the armrest, deliberately in his line of sight. "Hmm… Maybe I should just take this off too if it's bothering me so much." Your fingers trailed over the bra strap, tracing the edge with exaggerated contemplation.

San exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening on his phone.

Got you.

"You know…" You leaned in, voice a whisper, lips dangerously close to his earlobe. "I might've overreacted earlier."

His breath hitched—so slight you'd have missed it if you weren't pressed close. But still, he resisted.

"Might've?" he muttered, side-eyeing you with feigned disinterest.

You hummed in agreement, letting your hand rest on his knee, fingers drawing absent circles. "Yeah… But now I'm so cold." A blatant lie—the flush creeping up his neck betrayed how warm the room really was. "And you're being so mean to me, Sannie." You pouted, shifting just enough for the fabric of your shorts to ride up.

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. Your grin turned feline. Victory was so close you could taste it.

Then, without warning, San locked his phone, dropped it onto the couch, and in one fluid motion, hauled you into his lap. 

"You think that's funny?"

The sudden shift—from icy indifference to scorching possession—sent a jolt of triumph straight to your core. But you weren't done teasing. Feigning innocence, you batted your lashes. "What? I'm just trying to fix my clothes—"

His grip tightened. "Bullshit." The word was a growl, rough with restraint. "You've been playing with me for twenty minutes."

"And you let me." 

San's nostrils flared. For a heartbeat, you swore he'd toss you off the couch just to prove a point. But then his hands slid up your bare back, fingers deftly unhooking the bra you'd so dramatically struggled with earlier. The fabric loosened, straps slipping down your shoulders.

"Ah—" Your breath hitched as his palms splayed over your spine, warm and demanding.

"Cold, huh?" he taunted, voice dripping with sarcasm. His thumbs brushed the sides of your ribs, agonizingly slow. "Funny. You feel fucking burning."

You squirmed, but he held you firm, lips ghosting over your collarbone. "Thought you weren't in the mood for my games, Sannie~"

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Changed my mind." In one swift move, he flipped you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head. His knee nudged your thighs apart, the friction deliberate. "Now you," he murmured, leaning down until his lips hovered over yours, "apologize properly."

"Make me." 

"Gladly."

His mouth crashed onto yours, swallowing your gasp. It wasn't the sweet, forgiving kisses he usually gave—it was heat and teeth and retaliation. His free hand slid under your hips, lifting you against him until the thin fabric of your shorts did nothing to hide how affected he was.

San devoured you like he'd been starving, like every second of silence, every ignored plea, had been banked into this single, incendiary moment. His teeth caught your lower lip, just shy of pain, and you arched up into him, a moan trapped between your mouths. The weight of his body pressed you deep into the cushions, his thigh a hot brand between your legs, and you could feel the raw tension in his arms—the way he held back even now, even as he broke every rule he'd set for himself.

"You started this," he growled against your mouth, breaking away only to trail his lips down your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder. "You think I don't know what you were doing? Walking around half-naked, rubbing against me like I'm just supposed to sit here and—" He bit down lightly on your collarbone, and you gasped, writhing beneath him. "---like I'm made of stone?"

"Maybe I wanted to find out," you purred, tilting your head to give him better access, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. "Maybe I wanted to see how long it would take before you cracked."

He lifted his head, meeting your gaze with his dark one. "You little menace," he murmured, but there was no real anger in it–only heat, only hunger. "Seems I gotta remind you who's in charge here." 

All of sudden, he slapped his clothed hips against your core, colliding his rock hard cock right on the dent of your panties. The impact jolted through you like an electric current—sharp, unexpected, deliciously crude. Your breath punched out in a startled gasp, hips arching instinctively into his, chasing the friction even as your brain scrambled to process what had just happened. 

He slightly pulled away—the fabric of his pants straining against his arousal. You could see the outline of every hard ridge, the way the tip peeked above the waistband. He was clearly more than ready for you, but he was not giving in just yet. 

"S-Sannie—" you stammered, voice trembling, pupils blown wide with shock and arousal.

He didn't let you finish. One hand still held both your wrists captive above your head, the other now gripped your thigh hard enough to bruise, hiking your leg higher over his hip, spreading you open to the full press of his body. His breath was ragged against your neck, hot and uneven, and when he spoke, it was low, dark, vibrating with a growl from deep in his chest.

"You wanted to see how long I'd last?" He rolled his hips forward again, slow this time—torturously slow—letting every inch of rigid length drag along the swollen, sensitive seam of you. "You wanted to test me?" Another roll, deeper, harder. Your back bowed off the sofa. "Well, baby, you're fucking finding out."

"M-Maybe I did," you managed, voice breaking as he ground down again, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously over your core. "Maybe I knew… you'd break first."

His eyes flashed.

"You broke first," he corrected, lowering his mouth to your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. "Every time you touched yourself, every time you leaned into me—you were begging. And don't pretend you weren't." He shifted, one hand releasing your wrist just long enough to drag his fingers down your stomach, under the waistband of your shorts, past the lace of your panties—until he found you, slick and throbbing. "This is what you wanted. You wanted me to lose control. Well, guess what?"

"—I let you win."

You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging in. "You—you bastard!"

"You know me well." 

Instead of thrusting in his fingers, he tugged the waistband of the panties to make the fabric press firmly on your clit, slipping inside the fold. A ragged cry tore from your throat as the sudden, direct pressure on your clit sent a shockwave of pure, undiluted pleasure through you. Your hips bucked wildly, but he held you down, his body an immovable weight. 

"You're so wet for me," he rasped, his voice gravelly with a mix of awe and savage satisfaction. He shifted the fabric minutely, a tiny, circular rub that made you see stars. "And I guess that tastes good, hm?" His lips went downwards, pecking every inch of your skin before licking a slow stripe up your center, sealing his lips around that throbbing little bud. 

"Fuck—San—" When you whimpered? He only sucked harder. 

"It tastes even sweeter than I imagined," He rasped between the ruthless flicks of his tongue. "Time to have a meal, isn't it?" Clenching his fingers around the fabric, he yanked them back to give himself enough space to bury his head between your thighs. Dragging his hot, wet tongue up your slit in one long, filthy lick before swirling it around your clit—slow and teasing at first, then faster as he felt you writhed beneath him. His hands pinned your hips down when you tried to buck against his mouth. 

"None of that," he growled, "You'll take what I give you and say thank you when you're totally ruined." Then he sealed his lips over that swollen nub and sucked hard—just the way he knew would make you scream. 

His right hand, which had been pinning your hip, slid upward, rough calluses scraping deliciously against the soft skin of your stomach. He didn't stop until his palm was cupping your breast, his thumb finding your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra. He pinched, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers, and the dual assault—his mouth on your clit, his hand on your breast—threatened to shatter you completely.

But that was not enough. He loosened your soaking wet panties, which had lost their elasticity, then traced the outline of your reddened slit with his thumb, pressed it against your gaping, dripping hole, and finally split your fold in half by thrusting in his fingers. A guttural, broken sound was torn from your throat, half-scream, half-sob, as San pushed his tongue deep into your pussy, sliding it in and out like a small cock. 

It was his very first time to fuck you with his tongue. And oh god. It felt so good, so perfect. Your fingers intertwined the locks of his hair, pulling him closer and deeper to urge him to hit your G spot.  

But of course, he won't give you what you want easily. Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, when the coil of pleasure in your belly tightened to a near-painful degree, he would pull back, blowing a cool stream of air across your soaked, oversensitive flesh, only to dive back in with renewed fervor.

"S-San… please…" you begged, the words a shattered mess. You didn't even know what you were begging for—more, less, for him to never stop, for him to end the sweet torment. 

"Please huh? You'll have to be specific." He returned back to your inner thigh, giving it a soft bite to see you squirm. "Or I stop."

"Please more…fuck me harder…please…"

"Since you ask so nicely…" He smiled, before diving back in, faster now, tongue circling your clit in tight, maddening spirals before plunging deep inside you. You screamed, back arching, fingers clawing at the cushions. He didn't stop, not even when you sobbed his name, not even when your legs trembled around his head.

With one final, brutal suck that sent a blinding white flash behind your eyelids, he pulled away. You whimpered at the loss, your body convulsing with the sudden absence of his mouth, your eyes flying open. 

"Don't—don't stop—"

He rose above you, his face glistening with your arousal, his eyes black pools of pure lust. "I didn't say you could come yet."

"No…please…San…!"

His grin was pure wickedness as he dragged his fingers out from your cunt at the last possible second—leaving you clenching around nothing, your body teetering on the edge of release. He brought those glistening digits to his lips, eagerly lapped them up. "Mmm…delicious…but you know what's even sweeter?"

His hands moved to the waistband of his jeans, fingers deftly undoing the button, then the zipper, the sound obscenely loud in the charged silence between your ragged breaths. You watched, hypnotized, as he shoved the denim down just enough to free himself—thick, flushed, and already glistening at the tip from the way he'd been grinding against you earlier.

"You," he growled, aligning himself with your entrance in one slow stroke. The thick length of him sprung against your stomach, hot and heavy as he dragged the tip through the slickness between your thighs. The broad head of his cock caught on your swollen, dripping folds, teasing for just a heartbeat before he pressed forward—just enough to make you gasp, to make your nails dig into his shoulders.

"But I guess you gotta say sorry first". "Or—" Thrust. "—I." Thrust. "Will—" Thrust. "Make—" Thrust. "You." Thrust.

You could only cling to him, your own hips meeting him with equal fervor, "San…!"

Grinding the thickest part of him inside you as he licked the column of your throat. "Be a good girl and don't push me, doll." Another sharp thrust punctuated the taut, "You haven't even seen what I can do yet." His hand slid between you both, thumb swiped through the wetness before pressing hard against your clit, circling in rough strokes as his thrusts turned erratic. 

"Fuck—San, just—"

"Just what?" His voice was rough, taunting, even as his hips jerked forward another inch, stretching you impossibly wider. "You want me to stop?" Again, he withdrew his cock, leaving your hole empty, drawing a soft whimper from your lips.  He grabbed the base of himself roughly, giving a few fast strokes just to watch how you clench around nothing. 

"Fuck.." he scoffed, "Look at that greedy cunt…already missing me." 

"San…fuck me….please." 

"Then say it." He stilled completely, his fingers tightening on your hips. "Apologise properly or I fuck the brat out of you." 

"Sorry…I'm sorry—"

"Tch…good girl." Slamming back into you in one brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, perfectly hitting the sweet spot that made you scream. "Should make you beg for it like this every time. Now be my good girl and apologise one more time." 

"I'm—ah!—I'm sorry!" you gasped, body tightening around him. He pulled back, then thrust again—hard, fast, perfect. You cried out, nails scraping down his back, and he did it again, setting a brutal pace that left you breathless, mindless, his. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"You should do it earlier, babe. It's not that hard, right?" He chuckled, "But now that you're finally playing nice..." His voice was a dark rasp, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he tilted you just enough to sink even deeper. The angle was merciless—every thrust dragged his cock against that perfect, aching spot inside you, his pelvis grinding against your clit with each movement.

You sobbed, arching helplessly against him, your body strung tight between pleasure and punishment. "Feel that? That's what happens when you behave." He suddenly straightened himself, hooking one of your legs on his shoulder to allow him fuck you deeper. One hand locked around your throat while the other pulled your wrist down to where his cock was splitting you open. 

"That's how deep I'll put it when I fill this greedy cunt up." His teeth found your calves as he swayed his hips in a steady, rough pace. "Gonna pump so much cum in here it leaks out for days…to remind you I own your cunt. Mark my word." 

Everything was unraveling fast, the coil of pleasure in your abdomen tightening to a breaking point. Your nails scraped down his back, earning a sharp, approving groan from him. The room was filled with the sounds of your coupling: skin slapping against skin, his ragged grunts, your breathy, pleading moans.

You were close again, trembling on the edge, but he knew. Of course he fucking knew. With a rough chuckle, he slowed, dragging his cock almost all the way out before sinking back in, torturously slow, drawing a broken whimper tore from your lips. 

"Ah-ah," he tutted, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your calves. "Not yet." 

You clenched around him, your body desperate for release, but he just smirked, adjusting his angle so the next thrust was shallow, teasing, just the tip pressing against that swollen, sensitive spot inside you.

"San—!"

"You wanna come?" He nipped at your inner thigh, "Then fucking beg for it." 

Of course you did. Because how could you not, when he had you like this—pinned, owned, unraveling beneath him. And then his hand was between your legs, thumb pressing hard against your clit as he finally, finally gave you what you needed—one deep, punishing thrust and the coiled tension inside you snapped.

Feeling you clench around him was his undoing. He roared—his entire body tensing like a bowstring as he slammed into you one last, punishing time. Hot stripes of cum painted your walls in thick, possessive spurts—each pulse timed with a guttural groan against your throat. His hand stayed clamped on yours between your bodies, forcing you to feel every single drop as it spilled inside where it belonged. 

"My god…" San panted harshly against sweat-damp skin when he finally stilled deep within you—his cock twitching weakly through the aftershocks while his grip on you remained ironclad: "Fuck—fuck, you're milking me so damn good….milk every last drop out of my cock." His hips gave another slow grind forward just because watching how tight you still felt around swollen dick was too good not to indulge one more time. 

"Damn…you cum too much…"

"Oh?Now you complain?" He leaned down to peck your lips. "We're not done yet, darling."

—----

"Agh—!" The sharp crack of his palm against your already sore ass made you jolt forward—only for the belt around your wrists to yank you back against him with a growl. "Hold still, darling. I'm reading the documents." 

Now you were sitting on his cock, your upper body was lying face down on the table, both wrists were tied behind your back, holding the folder while San was reading carefully, his cock twitching inside you each time he adjusted the position. The hot, white sperm oozed from where your cunt wrapped around his cock, soaking the expensive carpet underneath. 

"Tsk…Tsk…darling. You've dirtied the carpet again~ Seems I gotta teach your cunt how to swallow all my cum." Another slap landed—the sound echoing off the walls while his free hand slid between your legs to rub a rough circle over where he'd just struck, a beautiful moaning left your mouth. "Count'em for me, baby girl. How many times do I have to spank you before my slut remembers who owns her?" 

A sharp slap combined with a thrust made you scream the number out. "One...!!" 

"Two," San corrected with a chuckle. "And don't forget to say please…" His palm came down again—harder this time—forcing a ragged gasp from you before murmuring: "That's the consequence you piss me off. Remember, don't do it next time, love." 

Hmm…you don't know if you should do it one more time now. 

the door to san’s apartment creaks open thanks to the spare key he’d made for you a month ago. the scent of vanilla and cedarwood greets you from the burning candle, the only source of light in the living room aside from san’s computer setup. his silhouette is turned away from you as he focuses on the lines of coding that cover his monitors and the small lamp beside him.

“brought your favorite,” you call out, shaking the paper bag of fast food that held his usual order of a burger and fries. only then does he turn, his narrow eyes widening in delight as he saunters over to you.

“i think i’ve only had a cup of coffee and a baby carrot for today,” he admits, happily taking the food from you and setting it up on his kitchen island. you shake your head, but it’s nothing you’re not used to. ever since college, san was the type to hyper-fixate until he got the job done. it was a habit of his you highly criticized, but it fell on deaf ears.

"i guess i’m a lifesaver then,” you scoff, stealing one of his fries. “what are you working on?”

“capstone,” he answers simply.

the mention of his master’s program makes you wince at the thought of grueling coding and software analysis. you’d gotten out early with your bachelor’s, opting to stay away from any more school and focusing on working with your hands as soon as possible. it fed into your love of cars and the gritty, grimy nature of street racing and car meets. getting to work under the hood and operate on the body of a car interested you far more than sitting behind a desk to work on its innards.

san was the complete opposite, but it worked in your advantage to have someone in your corner that was more versed in all of the tech know-how.

speaking of …

“so, what do you need from me?” san asks, interrupting your thoughts with a sip of his drink. you blink, glancing behind him at his monitors.

“why do you think i only come to see you if i need something?” you scold, smacking his strong shoulder. even through the oversized hoodie, you can feel his well-defined arm and shake the thought from your mind. “can’t i come see you just to say hi?”

“not really in your track record,” he chuckles and nudges his glasses slightly up the bridge of his nose. “i mean it, though. everything all right?”

“well …” you pause and trail off, earning another soft laugh from san as his suspicions are confirmed.

san meets you bright and early at yeosang’s garage the next morning. he comes prepared, two to-go cups of iced coffee in hand and his laptop. you warned him that you weren’t keen on dragging yourself out of bed so early on a saturday morning for him to look under your hood, but he insisted. after you told him about the fact that rival drivers in the car meets were starting to work on illegal software mods to win races, you needed him to help you up the ante of your acura integra before someone ran you off the road.

“you realize it’s dangerous to mess with the software side of mods,” he warns, arms folded over his broad chest.

“yeah, but that’s why i came to the most intelligent coder i know,” you swoon. hunched over the kitchen island, you blink up at him in mock admiration. he pushes you away by the crown of your head, tousling your hair in the process.

“you know i’m weak for a good compliment,” he protests, though the smile that stretches across his face proves otherwise.

“so, it’s a yes?”

“it’s the computer nerd!” yeosang hollers from his own end of the garage bay, waving a wrench. you curse at him, scolding him to be nice as san takes the teasing in good spirits. he raises a hand in greeting, setting down his stuff on your workbench.

“hey, yeosang,” he laughs, eyes flickering to the older man’s car. “how’s the supra doing?”

“she’s running so smoothly,” he replies, patting the side panel of his chrome car affectionately. he cranes his neck and looks at your acura, letting out a slow sigh. “as for some other people …”

“i’m working on it,” you grumble, patting the hood of your black integra as though she’d be offended by yeosang’s criticism. “or well, we’re working on it.”

“ahh, so that’s why the computer nerd is here.”

“and i know you’ll be asking for my help when your supra needs an upgrade,” san teases back, earning yeosang’s raised hands in surrender before he returns to working on his car. he turns to you and waits for you to pop the hood so that he can run diagnostics on your engine.

seated in your rolling chair, you observe quietly as san gets to work. it always amazes you the way he shifts into a different person when he’s focused, muttering to himself with laser eyes behind the lens of his glasses. he purses his lips, making notes on a piece of scrap paper he’d brought along. your iced coffee is nearly gone by the time he’s finished.

“what kind of mods did you say people were doing?” he asks over his shoulder.

“we were guessing they messed with the timing of their nitrous injectors and possibly their traction control,” you suspect, referencing some of the more common illegal mods you’d heard about. they weren’t hard to equip, but they made drifting all the more dangerous. you look to yeosang for confirmation and he nods with a frown.

“your engine’s closer to factory settings than it is to anything they could have equipped,” san concludes, taking off his glasses so he could rub at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “i know most of your mods have been manual. do you want to take her for a spin so i can see how her system runs now?”

your face splits into a grin as you glance out at the isolated backroads that surround yeosang’s garage.

san settles into your passenger seat, laptop on his thighs as your engine roars beneath you. a hand curls around the gear shift, the other gripping the leather of your wheel as you shoot out onto the backroads. your mind shifts from san as you slip into your own domain, twisting and turning through the hills while the adrenaline courses through your veins. your window is slightly down, letting the wind whip your hair around your face.

shifting gears juts you into your typical racing speed, your acura growling as she drags you closer back to yeosang’s garage. san remains focused on his screen, glancing every so often at your dashboard. dust follows you as you pull back into your engine bay.

“i’ve got a few ideas,” san offers, leaning against your workbench. “at least, ideas that won’t get you killed or arrested.”

“well, that’s no fun,” you huff and san glares at you. rolling your eyes, you brush him off with a wave of your hand and look at his notes. “i’m kidding. what did you have in mind?”

the pair of you spend the afternoon toiling in the garage, san instructing you through complex lines of coding and software repairs to your engine control unit. he tries to explain adjustments to your cold air intake and how he can modify your monitoring systems. the thought of all-new upgrades to your car makes your mouth practically water.

on the other hand, you remain under the hood and focus on maintaining your existing hardware—tightening bolts, swapping outdated wiring for yeosang’s newest deliveries. you don’t even notice the way san looks to you every so often from behind your windshield, or the way his gaze lingers on you for just a second too long when you straighten to run a hand through your hair.

yeosang comes over when you’re both nearly finished, the afternoon sun hanging low and painting the sky outside with streaks of deep pink and orange. the overhead leds had switched on, giving him a better look at the mods you’d made with san. his wide eyes move like darts across your engine bay as he hums to himself. he rounds the car to where san is and you can hear the two men reviewing the upgrades to your system software.

“transmission lockout?” you hear yeosang exclaim louder than you’d ever heard from him. “oh, she’s gonna love that.” excitement pricks at your skin as you approach them and narrow your eyes at yeosang’s giddy grin. he wipes at his brow and gestures to your dashboard. “san hooked you up. you have to test this out tonight.”

“i removed the factory limits on when you can shift gears,” san explains matter-of-factly, still in his work mode. “which means you can drift to high hell if you wanted to.”

“are you serious?” you ask, mouth agape as a disbelieving laugh slips out of you. “oh, we’re racing tonight.” san beams up at you, clearly pleased with himself. you love the way his eyes disappear when he smiles and the way he seemed so eager to help.

“will you come out?” yeosang nods in encouragement. “you should see her in action after all the work you put in today.”

“sure!” san affirms.

yeosang insisted you pregame at the garage. you welcomed the change of scenery from your apartment, especially after crowding your bathroom mirror panicking over what to wear for the night. the classic leather skirt and boots combo would have to do. wooyoung joins soon after with a roar of his civic, bottles of vodka and henny in hand and a loud cry of excitement when he sees san.

“no fucking way you got san to come out,” he exclaims and slings an arm around san’s shoulders. “dude, i have not seen you in forever. you’re gonna have a blast. the girls that come out are fine.”

you try to ignore the jolt in your stomach at wooyoung’s comment, just as much as you try to ignore the way san’s eyes flicker to you when he says it. san adjusts the neck of his oversized hoodie, not bothering to dress up for the meet. it wasn’t like he needed to, anyway.

the trio of you—supra, civic and integra—roll out as the sun dips behind the hills in the distance. san leaves his audi behind and rides shotgun with you, his scent engulfing you as you blast the ac for a distraction. anything to not glance out of the corner of your eye at him.

“so, how does it feel?” san asks, his voice low as he runs a hand through his hair.

“huh? great,” you reply awkwardly, shifting your gear for emphasis as you round the corner to the industrial complex. “can’t wait to try her out.”

“i’ll be disappointed if you don’t win,” he teases, hands tapping on his thighs.

“oh, i will.”

“confident, are we?”

“shouldn’t i be?” you retort, lowering your windows as the faint scent of gasoline and asphalt creep closer. san arches an eyebrow at you in amusement as he sees the excitement spread across your face. “world’s greatest tech guy in my corner, over here.”

“just glad to be of service.”

you feel the familiar buzz of adrenaline coupled with alcohol seep into your system, coaxing you out of your car and into the night air. it engulfs you—the leds, the engines roaring. yeosang and wooyoung pull in behind you and flank you on either side in their usual spots. san’s eyes widen at the crowd, a half-smile hanging off of his lips as he steps out.

“this is sick,” he comments and leans against your hood with an approving nod. he’s a great addition to your acura, if you do say so, yourself. you round your car to stand beside him and reach for the solo cup wooyoung offers filled with your usual.

“one step closer to getting you to race with us,” you sing. san chuckles and nudges his shoulder against yours with a shake of his head.

“maybe someday.” he glances around at the cars and you know exactly what he’s doing. mentally checking under the hoods and behind the wheels, wondering what software was running each and every one of the cars in the lot. you don’t even realize you’ve been staring at him when mingi calls out your name.

“are we taking a fucking shot or what?” he hollers, taking the bottle from wooyoung as a girl you don’t recognize follows behind him. she smiles at each of the guys individually with a hasty tight-lipped smile in your direction.

she remains silent as mingi pours you a double, conveniently finding a spot to squeeze in beside san. ever the gentleman, he gestures for her to join the circle with that soft smile of his. her eyes trail over him from head to toe, lingering just a second too long before she turns to you.

“so, who’d you come with?” she asks, her voice like honey as you arch an eyebrow at her.

“uh, no one,” you reply with a sheepish smile of your own, gesturing to your raven acura behind you. “that one’s mine.”

“oh … you race?” she asks, as if she were in disbelief.

fuck is her problem?

“she sure does,” san interjects, oblivious to the awkward tension rising between the two of you. he squeezes your arm affectionately and glances down at the girl, encouraging her to peer up at him through her lashes. “do you come here often?”

oh, brother.

san was many things, but able to take a hint was not one of them. he was always so kind and so warm, even if he couldn’t tell that the girl beside him wanted to jump his bones right that second.

well, that makes two of you.

no, stop it!

that’s one of your best friends. it’s san. sweet, helpful san. there’s no reason for you to imagine what it would feel like for him to have you on your knees, under his desk while he’s hard at work and your hands are wrapped around his c—

“can i have another shot?” you burst out, not waiting for mingi to answer when you snatch the bottle from him. the warm sting of liquor slides down your throat, a much needed distraction from the filthy thoughts that plagued your mind. san blinks at you curiously and you avert his gaze, turning to wooyoung instead.

“are we racing or what?”

wooyoung’s face is plastered with a wicked grin from his driver’s seat as he revs the engine of his civic beside your acura at the starting line. your pulse thrums as alcohol, adrenaline and what you won’t admit is jealousy fuels you. a laugh cuts through the sound of the engines and you look to the sidelines. san is there, caught between focusing on the start of the race and the same girl clutching his bicep with a hand over her mouth. you scoff when san smile back at you unknowingly.

what the fuck got into you?

mingi steps forward beside the flag girl, bottle raised above his head as she unfastens her lacy black bra. the fabric drifts in the breeze that carries through the garage bay, your eyes locked on it and waiting for it to drop.

“three, two—”

wooyoung cackles beside you and you can hear him shift his car into gear.

“one!”

tires scream as you both shoot out of the garage. your acura launches past wooyoung, keeping his civic hot on your tail as you follow along the usual route racers took around the abandoned industrial complex. with your window down, the howling wind whips through your hair and the interior of your car. glancing at your gear shift for a split second, you remember the instructions san gave you.

“alright, show me.” you bound into your car, eager to get behind the wheel to learn about what san did to your transmission. he laughs to himself and slides in with far less enthusiasm after you. he clears his throat and motions to the gear shift, which you reach for obediently.

“you can override the built-in settings now,” he explains. “if you shift like this—” san rests his hand over yours, his palm soft to the touch. his grip tightens over you, guiding your hand so that your engine is thrown into a new gear. “you’ll hit the next gear without the ecu triggering.”

“uh huh.” you swallow, barely registering his explanation. the warmth of his hand, the scent of his cologne, the way he holds your gaze. it clouds any rational thought in your head to focus on his instructions. san arches an eyebrow at you, amused by the way he had you flustered but not seeming like he planned to act on it. you clear your throat and tug your hand away from under his.

“let’s test her out, then.”

the sound of wooyoung’s civic drawing closer pulls you from the memory as you grip the gear shift with a huff. throwing it into a new gear, you hear an unfamiliar growl that pulls your car across the asphalt and builds the distance between you and wooyoung. you laugh manically from the thrill, operating like clockwork as you twisted and turned through the complex with the garage bay back in view.

the screech of your tires reels you in, dust flying as you come to a stop just seconds before wooyoung. the crowd erupts into a round of excited roars that you join in as you step out of your car and back into the night air.

“i almost had it!” wooyoung laments after he’s parked beside you. with a laugh, you throw your hands above your head and welcome the shot that mingi presents you. “might need san to hook me up next.”

san.

the thrill of the win slowly subsides as your eyes scan across the garage for san. he’s right where you left him, leaned against yeosang’s supra with a clear view of the starting line. the other girl is still beside him, twirling a strand of her long, dark hair and muttering something to san before he offers her a small wave and jogs over to you. it takes a great deal out of you not to flash her a petty smile when san wraps his arms around your waist and twirls you excitedly.

“that was sick!” he exclaims as he lowers you, his hands still lingering at your waist. you laugh, breathless when you meet his gaze. the crowd around you seems distant as his eyes trail from yours to where his hands hovered. color flushes his cheeks before he steps back, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “glad the, uh, mods worked out well.”

“they sure did,” wooyoung comments bitterly from beside the pair of you, earning a roll of your eyes as you shove him aside with a soft scoff.

“anyway.” you glance back up at san with a tilt of your head. “you want to hang around a bit more or head out?”

“actually, can you drop me back off at my car, if that’s okay?” san smiles down at you apologetically. “i just have a ton to work on tomorrow, so might need an early start.”

disappointment picks at you for a split second before you nod, gesturing for the keys from yeosang. “that’s totally fine! i can come back after, don’t worry.”

you can’t quite put your finger on the tension that hangs heavy in the car during the ride back to the garage. were you crazy for thinking san might also … no, no you’re crazy. he didn’t look at you in any specific way. he wasn’t flirting with you, he’s always so nice to you. 

the purr of your engine slowing to a stop shakes you from your thoughts, headlights washing over the metal of the yeosang’s garage doors as you pull into the spot beside san’s audi. you don’t turn the car off right away and neither of you speak just yet. the silence stretches, still heavy as you keep your eyes locked forward.

finally, you speak first. “hey,” you mutter, fingers still curled around the steering wheel as your heart begins to hammer in your chest.

“hm?” san turns to you, not seeming to be in a rush to leave your car, either.

“i just wanted to say thanks for the help.”

“you don’t have to keep thanking me,” he scolds, his lips curved into that smile of his. “i enjoyed it.”

“i know,” you confirm uneasily, hesitating before you glance at him. “i just … i want to make it up to you somehow.”

“and how do you plan on doing that?” san asks jokingly, his expression still unfazed when he meets your eyes. he stills, finally recognizing the darkness that dilates your pupils. his hand that hovered over the door handle drops back onto his thigh. the smile on his face falter slightly when he realizes you’re not messing with him.

“well …” you trail off, mentally cursing yourself at the way you fully reverted into a blushing, mumbling mess of yourself. this was so unlike you. you don’t quite recognize the emotion that washes over san’s face. rather, you don’t give yourself the time to as you turn to face the window. san scoffs, instinctively reaching for your chin so that you’re forced to hold his gaze. the touch of his fingers on your skin sends a jolt down your spine that you struggle to ignore.

“before you answer,” he continues, “are you saying this because you want to … or because you feel like you owe me?”

ever the gentleman.

“of course i want to,” you answer more quickly than you expected, heat creeping along your skin. “i’ve … wanted to. for a while now.”

“really?” san asks, beside himself for a moment before something flickers in his expression. the timid, gentle san you know is put on the back burner as he pulls away from you, settling into his seat with his hands behind his head. “and what exactly have you wanted to do?”

you take his shift as permission, leaning in just a bit further so that you can feel the heat radiating off of him. with narrowed eyes, you shake your head at him and tap at your bottom lip.

“why don’t i just show you?”

“no, actually.” his rejection takes you aback, but the way that he still stares at you leaves you confused. his eyes trail over you like they did earlier, only this time much more slowly and suggestively. “i want you to tell me exactly what you’ve wanted.”

“you—” you blink, a disbelieving smile threatening to stretch across your face. san mirrors your expression, enjoying himself as he awaits your answer. “you’re a freak, you know that?”

“well, maybe it’ll make two of us if you care to share.” san offers a hand out to you, motioning for you to continue.

“san,” you lilt, the sound of his name slipping from your lips earning a twitch in his jeans. “i want you to fuck me.”

“mm,” he hums as if you told him about the weather. with his tongue pressed to his cheek, he nods once. “what else?” he raises an eyebrow with a knowing smirk.

“i want you to have your hands around my throat while you tell me that i take it like such a good girl.” it was a wild jump to make, you were well aware. but the fact that san’s eyes darkened, his lips parted as his breathing grew ragged gave you no warning to stop. if anything, it coaxed you to lean in, your lips ghosting over his just barely.

“what else?” he asks again, his voice strained.

“let me show you,” you insist in a hushed voice, fighting the urge to fully plead with him. san swallows, clearing his throat before he reaches around you to shut off the engine. you blink at him, confused and even more so when he does step out and rounds the car to open your door.

“let’s go, then.” the sound of san’s audi unlocking behind him catches your attention. “i’m not fucking you in your car.”

ever the fucking gentleman.

the tension that surrounds the pair of you grows heavier and hotter by the second. massaging him through his jeans in the driver’s seat was cut short when he nearly staggered into a cop car at a red light. the elevator felt all too small on the way up when an older couple stepped in and made small talk the entire ride up to his floor. never were you so grateful to hear the faint beep of his key scanning you into his apartment.

san barely has enough time to turn on a light or shut the door behind him when he has you pinned against it, his lips pressed to yours with a desperate groan. you melt into his touch, his familiar scent engulfing you as he cages you against the door with his arms. he snakes his hands over every inch of you, from your waist to the back of your thighs. he hoists you up against him, tongue slipping into your mouth as he carries you to the bedroom. you thread your hands thread through his hair, as though it would help ground you in the moment that this was really fucking happening.

“you have no idea—how long—i’ve wanted to—” san struggles to speak between kisses, his tongue gliding against yours before he finally dips his head into the crook of your neck and trails his tongue along your skin. the sensation draws a shudder out of you, coaxing you to tilt your head back with a soft moan.

“shut the fuck up,” you mutter, your eyes fluttering shut. san scoffs against your skin, his teeth sinking into the soft tissue just beneath your ear. the sensation earns another whimper from you, more languid and feverish than the last as your nails dig into the fabric that covers his back.

san hums in approval, lowering you onto the bed against his soft linen sheets. they smell just like him, sandalwood and vanilla. you can barely summon a deep breath when you hear san unzip your leather skirt, his fingers trailing along the hem as he tugs it off of you. the cool air of his apartment kisses your skin and you can’t help but shudder.

he recaptures your lips with a muffled groan that you match, relishing in the way he grinds against you in such a needy rhythm. san’s hands are desperate to massage every inch of you, trailing along the cusp of your breasts to the dip between your thighs. the way his fingertips ghost over your clit earns a sharp moan from you and you arch your back off of the sheets in response.

“mm, you like that?” san asks against your earlobe, feigning surprise as he presses the heel of his palm against your clit at a slow, languid pace. the feeling of him pressed against you coupled with his teeth nipping at your earlobe nearly sends you into a frenzy.

“ngh,” you reply in a strangled moan, your chest pressed firmly against his as he falls into a steady rhythm massaging your clit. of course you’d been with other guys, but there was something about the way san moved and the way he read your body that sent you into a spiral. something about the way that you’d considered what it’d be like for so long that you couldn’t believe that it was actually happening.

san pauses for just a moment to slip his hoodie over his head, about to pull your lace panties to the side when you press a palm to his chest. he’s solid under your touch, warm and strong. his lips are parted still as he looks down at you through hooded eyes, trying to steady his breath.

“am i not supposed to be repaying you?” you ask, arching off of the sheets and guiding him to switch positions with you. a soft noise slips out of san in protest before you undo the belt looped through his jeans and expertly slip it around his wrists in a bind. “keep your hands to yourself.”

“seriously?” he asks, strained as he tugs his hands against the tight leather. you hum approvingly at the sight of him at your disposal and scratch your fingernails against his skin in a long, painfully slow trail to his waist. he writhes under your touch, biting down on his lower lip to stifle his moan.

with your eyes locked on his, you free him from the restraint of his boxers and trace your fingertip along the head of his cock, already slick. he shudders and lifts his hips from the sheets in anticipation. without warning, you swallow his length whole, bottoming out with him hitting the back of your throat almost instantly.

“fuck,” he hisses, fighting against the belt around his wrist in an attempt to hold the back of your head. you hum against his skin, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure through him. he lets out a string of curses under his breath at his restraints and tosses his head back as you get to work.

you move your lips along him slowly, carefully as your tongue glides around every inch of him. he’s as big as you anticipated, if not bigger as the tip of his cock repeatedly hits the back of your throat. you hollow out your cheeks and tighten around him, your hand matching the rhythm of your mouth around his length. you can feel the way he twitches and hardens from the way you’re sucking him off and moan against him from the satisfaction.

“how’s it feel?” you ask, your hand still pumping around him as you glide your tongue across your bottom lip. san furrows his eyebrows with a pathetic moan, his broad chest rising and falling at an erratic pace.

“better than—” he gasps mid-sentence as you fully engulf him for the second time. “—fuck—better than i could have expected.”

“mm,” you hum against him, picking up the pace. you’re fully focused, locked in on coaxing every drop out of him when you feel his hand thread through your hair and pull you off of him. you gasp in a combination of surprise at his escape and the feeling of him forcing you to meet his gaze by his grip on your hair.

“not like this,” he warns, not wanting to cum just yet. you don’t bother questioning how the fuck he got out of the belt as he flips you, your back hitting the sheets for the second time that night. “let me take my time with you.”

“doesn’t that defeat the purpose of me paying you back?” you ask, tilting your head in question as his hands separate your thighs to make room for him.

“trust me,” he scoffs, a filthy smile hanging off of his face, “this is more than enough.”

san loops his fingers around the lace fabric to pull it aside, exposing the way you’re already a soaking mess for him. even in the dark, you can see the way his pupils blow wide before he glides his fingertips along your folds, an approving sound slipping out of him as you coat his fingers. his free hand wraps around your throat as the other plunges into you, moving in and out at a dangerous pace.

a drawn-out moan escapes you as you ball the sheets around you into tight fists, writhing under san’s touch as he curls and slides his fingers across all the right spots inside of you. not even a second of you squeezing your eyes shut passes when you feel san’s grip around your throat tighten.

“look at me,” he commands gently, his thumb brushing along your jaw as his pace quickens. you oblige, your mouth hanging open as you try to steady your breathing. it’s increasingly difficult with the way his thumb massages against your clit, his other fingers curling relentlessly inside of you. the familiar tightening in your stomach pulls a groan out of you, clenching around his fingers in anticipation.

one final pump of his fingers has you undone, arching off of the sheets with staggered whimpers as you ride out your high. san slows, slipping his fingers out and lowering himself so that he can lap up every last drop of you. he runs his tongue through your folds, stopping to suck on your already swollen clit with a low, breathy moan. the overstimulation twists and turns in your stomach as you buck your hips against his face with a cry of his name. he laughs to himself, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip before lifting himself back up to capture your lips in another kiss.

“let me fuck you,” san begs against your lips in a whisper, “please.”

you scoff, relishing in his neediness as you reach for the waistband of his jeans to shove them off. in no time, every article of clothing is strewn across the bedroom floor as he positions himself at your entrance, his strong arms caging you in on either side of your head. you watch the way his expression shifts with every inch of him sliding into you, the way his brows furrow and his lips part with a soft shudder.

san falls into a steady rhythm once he’s bottomed out, holding your gaze with a desperate plea in his eyes. every breath that comes out of him is ragged as your nails dig into the skin between his shoulder blades. his body molds against your perfectly and you let out a string of whimpers at the way he hits just the right spot with every thrust. he finally tears his gaze away from you only to bury his face in your neck.

“fuck,” he groans against your skin, his hips snapping against yours relentlessly. you can feel his pace falter for just a second and glides your hands down to his waist, your nails pressing into his skin more intently as you guide him into a deeper rhythm. when you drape a leg around him to pull him in closer, he obliges and nips at your earlobe with a strangled moan.

you throw your head back, leaving skin exposed for san to devour as his name slips past your lips in another whimper. he growls and presses his forehead against yours, slick with sweat as he whispers to you how good you feel and how good you were for taking him so deeply. 

“s-san,” you stutter, your breath mingling with his, “i’m gonna—”

you’re unable to finish your sentence when san picks up the pace, the sound of skin on skin filling the room as every inch of you is rocked with pleasure. a groan through gritted teeth comes out of you instead when he presses a hand to the back of your thigh to lift your ankle onto his shoulder. he fits even deeper into you, thrusting you into the sheets with a stifled whimper of his own,

“san,” you whimper again, nearly begging this time as your stomach tightens from the new angle. the fucking grin that spreads across his face as he pounds into you sends you over the edge, waves of pleasure rolling over you as you twitch and jolt beneath him from the high. you clench around him to suck him in and he gasps, hips bucking before he slips out so that he’s able to finish himself off. a few pumps of his hand later and he cums all over your stomach, streaks of white across your skin as he heaves to steady his breathing.

“you’re a mess now,” he scolds, immediately reverting back into his gentle persona as he lifts himself off the sheets and heads into the bathroom for a towel. you sit up, your muscles sore as you blink the haze from your vision and stare into the darkness that engulfs his apartment. his silhouette returns carrying a towel and one of his oversized hoodies, a black twin to his gray from earlier that night.

“i got it,” you assure him, taking the towels and wiping yourself off as san reaches gingerly for the hair that’s fallen over your face. you still for a split second, noticing the way your heart still skips a beat even after the post-nut clarity. slipping into his hoodie and your underwear, you reach for the glass of water perched on his bedside table and take a long, much-needed sip.

san sits across from you on the sheets, cross-legged as he fiddles with his fingers awkwardly. he’s wearing sweats now, a pair he must have grabbed when he left to fetch you a towel. you stare at him in silence, his lips swollen and red and his hair disheveled.

“i’d say we’re even now.” you finally cut through the silence, earning a quiet laugh from san as he runs a hand through his hair.

“you might have overpaid, actually,” he admits, leaning back on his palms as his eyes trail over you. already you can feel the heat reignite inside of you and silently scold yourself. “that was …”

“was …?” you urge, leaning forward so that your lips nearly touch his. san chuckles and cups your face, brushing aside a strand of hair with his thumb.

“really good.”

“might need to ask you to help me out more often, then.”

“you just might.” he presses a swift kiss to your lips, gesturing to the empty bed behind you. “it’s late. you should probably crash here and i can take you back to the garage for your car in the morning, if that’s okay?” you nod, about to head to the couch when he captures your wrist. “no, no! you should take my bed. i’ll sleep on the couch.”

“you really don’t have to—”

“i insist.”

“i mean …” you trail off, scanning his face as he looks at you expectantly. as much as you appreciated his gentlemanly tendencies, a much larger, much more insatiable part of you wanted him to stay wrapped around your finger for just a little while longer. “your bed’s big enough for the both of us, is it not?”

san’s face flickers with understanding as he shakes his head, trailing his hand from your wrist to your waist so that you fall back onto the sheets beneath him.

“i’d say it is,” he confirms and nudges your thighs apart with his knee. “sounds like it’ll be a long night.”

“don’t worry,” you scoff, draping your arms over his shoulders so that he’s pressed against you, “i’ll make sure you’re up on time.”

“and if i start falling asleep while i’m working at my desk tomorrow?” san asks, feigning concern. “what then?”

“oh, i’m sure you won’t be.”

“is that so?”

*

“are you okay with setting up another meeting for this friday, san?” his mentor asks over zoom the next morning, the scent of coffee filling the living room from a freshly brewed pot.

“mhm,” san replies, clipped with a firm nod as he grips the edge of his desk. his knuckles are white, fingertips digging into the cool metal as his mentor goes on about research protocol and an assignment he needed to turn in.

“do you think you could take a look at the coding we were putting together for the presentation next week?”

“ye—yeah! yeah, i can,” he answers hurriedly, the man on the other end of the call arching an eyebrow in confusion. you stifle the laugh that threatens to escape you, careful not to bump your head as you take every inch of san into your mouth. you can feel how tense his thighs are when you press your palms against them to steady yourself. san rambles about something he was working on and you considered it the perfect time to flick your tongue against the head of his cock. you swivel your hand around his shaft, enjoying the way his voice lilts at the sensation.

“h-hey, uh, i’ll text you,” he interjects, slamming his laptop shut with a huff and leaning back into his desk chair with a frustrated groan. you smile to yourself, slipping out from under the desk and settling onto his lap with a hum.

“you’re gonna pay for that,” san scolds, snaking his arms around you and shifting his weight. you could feel that he was still hard, moving your own hips so that he could feel the friction. a devilish smile graces your features as you grind against him, his head falling back against the chair with a small whimper.

"Mama, Papa! It's time to get up!" The sound of your little girl's voice, followed by a sudden weight on Wooyoung's body, woke you and your husband from your slumber. Blinking wearily, you turn your head to find your daughter's beaming smile, her dark hair tousled all about on her head, and her eyes, which were just like Wooyoung's, crinkled in the corners as she noticed that you were awake.

"Ahh, it's too early, let's go back to sleep," Wooyoung whined as he turned to grab his child in his arms, pulling her into the space between your bodies. The sounds of her giggles echoed off the walls as you and Wooyoung all but smothered her in kisses.

"Stop that, it tickles!" Gahye squealed when Wooyoung started tickling her, and you watched in adoration. Seeing them together like this made your heart swell with happiness. Then you were remembering your conversation with your husband a few weeks ago.

He had mentioned something about wanting to try for another kid in the near future, but you weren't sure. It wasn't like you didn't want to have another baby with Wooyoung, but you were worried and scared. Worried that Gahye would start to feel neglected when the baby came. Scared that Wooyoung wouldn't look at you the same. You had been so busy with Gahye that you hadn't been able to keep up with your appearance, and you started to feel self-conscious.

"Come on, Santa came with presents!" Gahye exclaimed, finally wiggling out of her dad's grasp, sitting up on her knees to look at both of you.

"Alright, alright, we'll be right there." You told her, brushing some of the hair out of her face as she smiled brightly at you.

"Yay!" She cheered before clambering off the bed, almost giving you and Wooyoung a mini heart attack when she slipped, but she quickly got up with an 'I'm fine' and ran out of your bedroom.

You and Wooyoung laughed softly before you let out a small yelp when his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to his body. You laid your hand flat on his chest as you looked up at him, heart racing in your chest as he leaned down, pressing his lips gently against yours. You melted into the kiss, eyes fluttering closed, and his hand tightened around your waist.

"Merry Christmas, baby," He murmurs against your lips, barely pulling away, and you smile as his warm breath fanned over your face.

"Merry Christmas, my love," You leaned forward, pecking his lips, but your body jolted as you heard a crash from downstairs.

You and Wooyoung quickly sat up, panic flooding through your veins, and you quickly started throwing your tangled blankets off your body.

"I'm okay!" You heard your five-year-old shout, and relief slowly eased over the initial panic, and you let out a short laugh, looking over at your husband, who was looking at you with a lopsided smile.

"We'd better get out there before she starts making a mess." He laughs, throwing the blankets off his legs and grabbing his glasses that sat on the bedside table.

You bit back your smile as he put them on, the frames sitting perfectly on his nose. You always loved it when he wore his glasses, something about them making him so much more domestic.

Walking into the living room, you found Gahye sitting on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, her hands wrapped around the now-empty mug of milk that had been left out for Santa. You stood in the threshold as Wooyoung bounds up to his daughter, a mixture of worry and panic written all over his face.

"Gahye, did you drink the rest of that?" Wooyoung asked, softly took the empty mug out of her tiny hands, and she looked up at him with a wide smile, a layer of milk coating her upper lip, and you bit back a laugh.

"Yeah! Mama says not to ever waste milk, and Santa didn't drink all of it." She told her father with bright eyes and Wooyoung felt his heart clench, he couldn't ever be upset at his little girl, especially when she was this cute.

"Okay," He laughed, moving to set the mug down on the coffee table next to the plate of half-eaten cookies. "Well, are you ready to open your presents?"

"Yes!" Gahye exclaimed loudly, clapping her hands and crawling towards the tree to grab a present.

Wooyoung walked over to the couch as you walked into the room with two mugs of coffee, handing one to your husband as you sat down beside him. He thanks you before wrapping his arm around your waist as you both watch Gahye open her presents.

You felt content as you watched her get so excited over some of the simplest gifts, but when she was able to give Wooyoung one of his gifts, she was absolutely elated. She raised it above her head like it was a trophy and ran towards where the two of you were sitting. Gahye clambered up onto Wooyoung's lap, telling him to open it with expectant eyes, her little body practically vibrating.

"A gift for me? What is it bug?" Wooyoung asked, slipping his arm from your waist to hold the gift in front of him and Gahye.

"Open, open, open it, Daddy!" She wiggled around, giggling behind her hands, and you watched them fondly as Wooyoung started opening the gift slowly, teasing the little girl.

When he finally pulled the wrapping paper away from the box and opened the lid, his eyes widened, a smile spreading across his lips. Inside, he found a mug, an assortment of all sorts of doodles and scribbled words that decorated the outside. His eyes flickered over to you, showing you the mug, and you smiled as you brought your own mug to your lips to sip your coffee.

"Did you make this?" Wooyoung asked Gahye as he looked back down at her, and she nodded her head like crazy.

"Mama helped." She told the dark-haired male, then pointed to each doodle and scribble to explain what they all meant.

"Thank you, babygirl," He pressed a kiss to her temple, and Gahye smiled brightly before turning to press a kiss to his cheek.

Then she was scrambling off Wooyoung's lap and bounding towards the tree to grab another gift. By the time all of the gifts were opened, the living room floor was buried under a layer of wrapping paper, and Gahye was so immersed in her toys that you had to carry her to the dining table so she could eat breakfast.

However, after she was done eating, she went right back to the new toys that she got. You and Wooyoung sat at the table talking among yourselves when Gahye came running into the room with her new baby doll in her arms. She pads over to you and holds the baby up, her little head tilting in curiosity as she looks up at you.

"Mama, can I have a real baby sister next time?" She asked, and you nearly choked on your coffee while Wooyoung burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the walls. Gahye looked up at you with puppy eyes, her bottom lip jutting out into a pout, "Please, Mama."

"Oh, um…" You stumbled over your words, face burning hot as you tried to find a way to answer your daughter. Hearing your husband laughing, you glared over at the fox-eyed male before looking back at Gahye, "Maybe next time, sweetheart."

Upon hearing your answer, the little girl cheered loudly before running back into the living room, shouting that she was going to have a sibling soon. You blinked a few times before covering your face with a groan, face burning in embarrassment and from being caught off guard.

"So next time, hmm?" Wooyoung teased, his hands resting on the back of your chair, and you jumped, having not noticed that he moved. You lifted your head to stare at him in shock, words dying on your tongue as he leaned down, lips brushing your skin. "Have you finally decided to let me put another baby in you?"

"W-Wooyoung…" You breathed out, body heating up at the thought, and he gave you a knowing smirk. Hearing Gahye's loud laugh, you snapped out of your haze, and you turned your head, trying to will your heart to stop racing. "After your mom picks Gahye up," you told him, completely missing the excitement that flashed in your husband's eyes.

"I can't wait, baby," He whispered in your ear, pressing a gentle kiss on your head before walking around your chair to go check on your daughter.

You sat there trying to ease your ragged breathing, shaky hands grabbing your coffee to calm your nerves. However, the lingering embarrassment and Wooyoung's actions had you almost melting like putty. No matter how many years pass, that man still has the same effect on your mind and body alike.

Inhaling deeply, you stood from your seat, telling yourself that you'd just worry about it later. But for now, you would go and enjoy the morning with your family before Wooyoung's parents arrived to take Gahye to lunch and ice skating later on.

—

"We'll have her home later this evening," Wooyoung's mother told both of you as his father tickled Gahye, causing her to burst out into a fit of giggles.

"No worries, mom," Wooyoung smiled at his mother, his arm wrapped snugly around your waist, holding you close to his body. You offered them a smile, arms wrapped around yourself as your nerves started to come back.

"You two enjoy yourselves," His father said with a smile as he opened the front door, allowing his wife to walk out before following after her with Gahye in his arms.

Once the door was latched shut, Wooyoung was turning you so you were standing in front of him, his hands snaking around your waist. Your eyes fluttered as he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss on your awaiting lips.

"Now…" He breathed out, hands slipping under your shirt to feel your bare skin against his, "Why don't we work on my last Christmas wish?"

Before you could even get a word out, he was picking you up, hands hooking under your thighs as you gasped. Your hand finds his shoulders to stabilize yourself, legs wrapping around his waist. Wooyoung smirks at your flushed face, and you scold him, but he just chuckles before making his way towards your shared bedroom.

A small yelp fell from your lips when he all but threw you onto the mattress, a wolfish grin on his lips. Wooyoung slotted his body over yours, grabbing the back of your neck, sealing his lips over yours in a heated kiss. Your fingers grasped his shirt, need gradually enveloping your body as he pressed his hips firm against yours.

"W-Woo." You whined when he nipped at your jaw, hands creeping under your shirt and resting right under your breasts. The dark-haired male groaned, feeling that you weren't wearing a bra.

He pulls away, sitting you up before going to reach for the hem of your shirt, but you quickly grab his wrist, gaze downcast. Noticing that something was wrong, he stops moving, eyes studying your face with concern.

"What's wrong, love?" He asked, hands falling to your hips, squeezing the plush fat reassuringly.

"C-Can you turn the light off?" You asked, voice barely above a whisper, and Wooyoung's eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. However, it quickly faded into realization when you grabbed the hem of your shirt, pulling it down as if to hide yourself more.

"Baby," He tried to coax you to look at him, but you kept your eyes averted, causing him to sigh, "y/n, look at me." The stern tone he used with your name caused your breath to catch, and your misty eyes finally flickered over to meet his.

His deep chocolate-brown eyes bore into yours behind his glasses, displeasure painted on his face. Tears involuntarily filled your eyes as your brain started to work overtime on telling you the worst possible things. However, those thoughts were cut short when Wooyoung reached out, cupping your face in his hands.

"Babygirl, listen to me, you are so fucking beautiful." He told you sternly, thumb brushing away some of the tears that slipped down your cheekbone. "The most beautiful woman I have ever met in my life, and your body is just phenomenal."

Your breath hitched when his hands slowly crept down to tug at your shirt, and you let him pull it over your head. He bit back a groan, seeing that you weren't wearing a bra, his eyes glued to your chest. As you started to feel self-conscious about his gaze, you began to cover yourself, but Wooyoung was quicker, grabbing your wrists and holding them at your sides.

"Your curves always drive me insane, the way your skin always turns red when you're embarrassed or aroused," He kissed down your jaw to your neck, leaving a few marks behind along your jugular, "your boobs that fed our little girl until she was a year old," His lips trailed down to your breasts, cupping them gently after releasing your wrists. He pressed a firm kiss over your perk nipple before wrapping his lips around it, sucking gently, eliciting a soft moan of his name from your lips.

Once the skin on your breast was slick with his saliva and covered in his marks, he moved down the valley of your breasts. His lips traveled down your tummy, pressing a gentle kiss on each stretch mark he passed, and you watched him with teary eyes. Your heart swelled as he whispered praises against your skin, telling you how much he loved you.

"Your body that allowed our baby girl to grow," He murmurs, fingers wrapping around the waistband of your sweatpants and underwear, pulling them down your legs and dropping them on the ground. You gasped when he parted your legs, resting them over his shoulders so he could see your glistening cunt.

Wooyoung starts to press gentle kisses along the inside of your thighs, and you could feel yourself growing wetter by the second. Your eyes stayed locked on him as he neared your warm center, then he pressed a kiss against your clit, causing your whole body to tremble.

"Then your sweet cunt that brought our baby into this world," He groans against you, your taste already making him lose his mind. His hands wrap around your thighs to keep them in place as you start to squirm. A sharp whine falls from your lips, head falling back when he licked up your slit, "Every single part of you is beautiful, baby."

Then his lips were wrapping around your aching clit, sucking harshly, causing you to moan loudly, hand flying down to tangle in his hair. A deep groan reverberates from the back of his throat when you tug, and another moan escapes your lips, back arching off the bed and pushing your hips further into his face.

"F-Fuck, Woo." You cried out when he easily slips two fingers into your wet walls, curling them right against your sweet spot. The sounds of your whimpers and whines only cause the man to grin against you.

"You even taste amazing, babydoll, so fucking sweet on my tongue." He groans, lapping at your cunt and slowly fucking his fingers into you. Your fingers tugged on his dark locks as he buried his face in your cunt, groaning against you, eliciting a series of pants and moans.

It wasn't long before you would feel that coil in the pit of your stomach tighten, threatening to snap at any given moment. Your whines grew in pitch, and your walls started to clench like crazy around Wooyoung's fingers, and the male pulled away from your clit with a lewd 'pop'.

"Cum for me, babydoll, make a mess." He presses his fingers against your sweet spot again, and you look down at him, your walls tightening around his digits at the sight of his fogged glasses, some of your arousal coating the frame. The sight was the nail in the coffin, and you were whining as your orgasm came crashing over you.

"W-Wooyo—" You choked out a gasp, head falling back as he worked you through your orgasm and kissed his way back up your body. He swallowed all of your cute little whines as he kissed you deeply, tongue brushing against the back of your teeth. Your brain nearly short-circuited at the taste of yourself on his tongue, your hands falling to his shoulders.

When your high ebbs away, he's easing his fingers out of your fluttering walls, detaching his lips from yours. He nudges his nose against yours, coaxing your eyes open, and you look up at him, blinking away some of the tears.

"Are you okay, baby?" He asks softly, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your hipbone, and you nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. You seal your lips over his, body begging for more—to feel him in you.

"Need you, Woo, please." You begged, kissing the corner of his lips, and he chuckled softly. He watched as you lie back before leaning down to kiss your forehead and moving back from your body.

Your eyes stayed locked on his body as he pulled his sweater off, tossing it to join your scattered clothes. Then he was pulling his sweats and boxers off, letting his hard, aching cock spring free. Wrapping his fingers around his dick, he strokes himself, biting back a whine at the sensitivity, and moves closer to you. He grabs your leg, right behind your knee, and folds your body, teasing his tip against your leaking entrance.

"You ready, love?" He asks, tapping his cock head against your puffy clit, relishing in the way your hips jerk. One of your hands wraps around his wrist while the other tangles in the bedsheets, and you look up at your husband with pleading eyes.

"P-Please, baby, I need you so bad." You cried, bottom lip trembling as tears seeped from your eyes, and Wooyoung swore he could cum from that sight alone.

"Fuck babydoll," He groans, lining his cock up with your entrance before he slowly eases into your tight walls. Leaning down, he practically bends your body in half before he captures your parted lips in a heated and messy kiss, swallowing your moans, and your arms wrap around his neck. "Gonna fill you with my seed."

He gives you time to adjust, peppering your neck and jaw with kisses, his hands tightly gripping your knees. Your body starts to become overwhelmed with the feeling of him just sitting inside of your walls, hips starting to roll, and a loud moan slips from your lips when he brushes over your sweet spot.

"F-Fuck, Woo— nghh, move please." You beg, fingers digging into his shoulders, and flurries of pleas fall from your spit-covered lips. “Shit!” You cursed, hands finding his neck as he started to snap his hips into yours at a rough pace, nearly leaving you lying there completely breathless. Your eyes rolled when the head of his cock found your sweet spot.

"You're taking me so well, babygirl, body made just for me." Wooyoung groaned into your neck, biting at the skin, causing you to gasp before flattening his tongue over the now-red skin. Tears were streaming down the sides of your face as you tried your best to keep up with his pace, fingers curled into the sheets. A broken mixture of curses and his name rolled off your tongue, eyes rolling back as you become overtaken with pleasure.

"I'm gonna get you pregnant, pretty girl. Make you a mommy again." He cooed in your ear, and you whined, back arching off the bed and pushing your bare chest against his. Incoherent babbles fell from your lips as he fucked you stupid, nails digging into the skin of his neck.

"Woo." You whined loudly, head falling back as he folded your body more, pressing your thighs into your chest and angling your hips to allow him to hit deeper. Stars danced across your vision as he seemed to pick up the pace, his thrust growing harsher.

"You're gonna look so damn beautiful pregnant again, baby," He groans, nipping at your jaw before finding your lips, soaking in all of your pants and whimpers.

That familiar coil formed in the pit of your stomach again, and white spots started to cloud your vision as Wooyoung fucked you closer to your high. He gasped against your lips when your walls clenched around him, threatening to push him over the edge.

"Fuck baby, you're gonna milk me dry." He growls, fingers digging into your skin, and you are sure there will be bruises in the morning. You nearly sobbed as you nodded your head like a bobble-head; tears flowed down your flushed cheeks.

"W-Woo, I'm close." You whined, pulling his face back down to yours and sealing your lips over his in a sloppy kiss. He nips at your bottom lip, relishing in your cute sounds as he looks down at you with hooded eyes.

"Go ahead, babygirl, cum for me, and I'll fill you with my seed." He smirked, kissing the corner of your lips as you gasped out. With a few more harsh thrusts, you were toppling over the edge, your back arching off the bed as a loud moan tore through your throat.

Wooyoung continued to fuck you through your high before his pace started to get sloppy. You clung to his body as he chased his own high, and he whispered sweet nothings in your ear before he felt you clench around him again. A mixture of a groan and a whine fell from his lips as he came, shooting ropes of thick, hot cum into your womb.

"S-Shit." He gasped out when your walls fluttered around him, milking him for all he was worth. His face falls to your neck, peppering your skin with soft kisses as you both come down from your highs.

Then he was immediately resting your legs over his shoulders, and you blinked away the tears that clouded your vision to look at him. He leans forward and presses his lips against yours, unintentionally pushing deeper into your walls.

"W-Woo." You whined against his lips, and he shushes you, pecking your lips before pulling away to look down at your fucked out state.

"We still have a few hours before my parents bring Gahye back," He whispers, rolling his hips gently, causing you to gasp, "just enough time for me to fill you with a few more loads."

Then he was pulling his semi-hard cock out of your dripping heat before snapping his hips back into your, eliciting a choked moan from your parted lips. Your nails dug into his shoulder as your head fell back, knowing that you had activated a beast and he wouldn't stop until he was sure that you were with child again.

© 𝐬𝐭𝐱𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠

It started right after the Halloween party you went to with your friends. You dressed as a witch, and your boyfriend went to the classic ghost face & all black clothes. Okay. It was supposed to be just that—just costumes and a nice party—but the thing is… You liked seeing him in those clothes and a mask a little too much.

You liked it enough to want him to wreck you while wearing those; he looked too hot, you couldn’t help yourself…

Yes, a bit freaky, but he knew you.

Naturally, he thought you were joking when you told him. Then he realised you weren’t. Thanks to him, a new kink was discovered—and of course, he was more than supportive, as always. He’d always been curious about roleplay too, and there’d never been the right moment… until now.

So yeah. You told him, he liked the idea, and you started wondering when it was going to happen. You had sex with him after that talk a few times; he was pretty addicted to you, and you to him. But he never brought it up again. Never mentioned it… You started to think maybe he’d forgotten about your little fantasy…

But that wasn’t like him. He didn’t usually forget things.

You didn’t know that he was just waiting for the perfect chance, just waiting to surprise you. 

So on Friday night, when you finally came home from work, all tired and wanting to have dinner and some cuddling, you found it a little weird that all the lights were off when you got inside the apartment. Was your boyfriend out? He didn’t say anything. 

But then you felt your phone buzzing in your purse, and when you checked the screen before answering, it was him. 

“Hi, babe. Where are you? I just got here, I thought—”

“Your safe word is “mountain”. Do you understand?”

His voice was… threatening. A bit lower than the usual.

Oh… so it was that.

Was it finally going to happen? Fuck, your legs went weak right away.

“Yes.”

“So repeat. What is your safe word?”

“Mountain.”

“Good girl.”

And then he hung up.

You felt your body hair standing up, like you were in danger, even though you knew that wasn’t the case, but the rush…

Everything was dark, and now you knew you weren’t alone there. 

You tried to take a deep breath, dropping your things on the kitchen counter. Keys, cellphone, purse. Like you usually do after getting home, just acting normal and pretending you weren’t already pulsing between your legs.

You didn’t turn the lights on, not until you reached the bedroom. Then you switched on both lamps, just enough to give the room a faint, warm glow.

You started to undress, first removing your boots and socks, then your blouse, unbuttoning it slowly, because somehow you knew he was close. You knew he was watching you; You could sense those eyes on you from somewhere in the dark.

Piece by piece, your clothes came off until you were standing there in just your bra and skirt.

You looked so unbothered that San couldn’t tell if you were aware of his presence or not, but behind that mask, he was already losing his mind watching you. It was time. 

You imagined he would be hidden in the dark corner next to the window, behind the curtains, maybe, so you kept your back turned toward that spot so he could make his move. You didn’t know why, but your hands were shaking.

Suddenly, you felt him behind you.

It was like you could feel the heat coming from his body, even if he wasn’t touching you yet. You just knew he was there.

You were just thinking about how he’d start the game, but then you felt his hand wrapping around your neck, and very slowly, his body pressing against yours. Hard chest against your back, and you froze under his touch.

“Shhh…” He squeezed a little tighter, just enough to make you whimper. You didn’t fight. “Be a good girl and behave… so you’ll have a nice time.”

You nodded weakly, already lightheaded from the lack of air.

“Gonna do as I say?”

You just saw that he was holding a knife in his other hand. Fuckin God. Your breath caught in your throat, your pulse spiked, and you couldn’t move.

“I didn’t hear you,” he murmured, brushing the blade across your stomach slowly, making sure you could feel it was fake. “Gonna do as I say… or am I gonna have to hurt you?”

“No, please… don’t hurt me .” You gasped, your voice barely coming out. “I’ll do whatever you want.” 

He hummed in approval, loosening his grip on your neck and letting you breathe again. His hand slid down slowly, fingers brushing your skin as he tugged the straps of your bra off your shoulders. He didn’t have to say a word; you understood. You unclasped it yourself, letting the fabric fall to the floor at your feet. Your nipples hardened instantly when he traced the flat side of the knife up your stomach, dragging it higher until it reached your ribs, making you shiver.

You wanted him to touch your nipples, they were so sensitive, so hard you could cry from how good it would feel if he touched you there. But he didn’t. 

“On your knees.”

It took you a few seconds to obey his command; you felt dizzy, almost high from how turned on you were. It was insane how your body reacted to him like that. But since you didn’t kneel right away, he grabbed your hair and kicked your feet apart, forcing you into the position he wanted. 

You just sank down, sitting on your heels, and only when he stepped in front of you could you finally see him properly. The mask, the knife, the clothes. He’d chosen a leather jacket this time, and you could see the tight black tank top underneath, clinging to his body and showing off every muscle.

Fuck. He was hot. Too hot. 

He lifted your chin with the tip of the knife, and even though it was fake, it was still sharp enough to hurt. You could feel the sting against your skin as you looked up, following his movements.

“Good. Now put your hands behind your back.”

“But—”

He tilted the knife a little higher, pressing the point harder against your chin, just enough to make you flinch. And your body betrayed you again, turning that small bite of pain into pure arousal.

“I don’t remember saying you could talk.” You could feel how serious he was sounding, his voice was a little muffled but still cold. “Hands. Behind. Your. Back. I won’t ask again.”

Oh God, he was so fuckin hot dominating you like that… You just did as he said. Your hands went behind your back, and you stared at him, at the mask. You didn’t know what was going to happen. 

San grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back and dragging your face right against his crotch, forcing you to feel how hard he was under his pants. You tried to pull away a little, just by instinct, but you couldn’t. Not with that knife at your neck.

“I’m hard just thinking about that mouth of yours,” he growled, grinding himself against your cheek. “Gonna make you cry while choking on my cock.”

He kept rubbing his clothed dick on your face, the friction making your cheeks burn, but you didn’t dare speak. He wouldn’t let you.

“Is that what you want?” He finally paused, bringing the knife-hand down to his zipper, undoing his pants and letting them fall. “Answer me. Tell me you want me to fuck your face.”

“I want it. Please. Do whatever you want to me, just please… don’t hurt me.”

You were playing your role so perfectly that San almost slipped out of his. Almost. But he was enjoying this too much, enjoying how obedient you were for him.

He shrugged off his jacket, leaving only the boxers, the mask, and that tight black tank top stretched over his chest. His biceps looked huge, veiny, unreal… and for a second you almost misbehaved on purpose, just so he’d pin you in a headlock and—God. What were you thinking?

“Lick it.” 

He yanked your hair again, dragging your face to his thick outline, rubbing it right over your mouth. You stuck your tongue out, licking the damp fabric, tasting the precum soaking through as he guided your head to the tip.

He growled, watching you make a mess of yourself, and his underwear was already drenched. You were drooling everywhere, spit dripping down your chin and pooling on your thighs.

“Messy girl. Now open that mouth.”

You barely had time to breathe. He shoved his boxers down, and his cock slapped heavily against his stomach. So thick, veiny, painfully hard. Your mouth watered. From your angle, it looked even bigger. You knew he was going to ruin you.

You opened your mouth… and closed your eyes.

Big mistake.

The slap against your cheek came sharp and fast, making your heart jump—but he didn’t hit you too hard. It was just enough to shock you.

“Eyes on me.”

You nodded, mouth open again, gaze locked on the black void of his mask. He teased you first, tapping your lips with his cock, smearing precum across your mouth and chin, stroking himself against your face.

Suddenly, he pushed in, hitting the back of your throat in one brutal thrust, and it was just half in. You gagged, you choked instantly, trying to hold the tears that started to fall from your eyes cause he didn’t stop. He held your head, pushing deeper and deeper, and you breathed through your nose, your hands still behind your back, and drool dripping from your mouth onto the floor.

The noises you were making were just obscene. That wet gagging sounds, the muffled moans, the tears, the spit… it was a mess. And he barely started. 

“Fuck, such a good girl for me.” He finally pulled out, letting you gasp, and a string of spit hung between your lips and his cock. “Suck it. Just the tip.”

You wrapped your lips around him, sucking gently, tongue circling the sensitive head, tasting how much he was leaking for you. You swallowed everything he gave you. You didn’t stop until he grabbed your head again, using your mouth exactly the way he wanted.

“Just like that.” He groaned, his thighs tensing while he thrusted into your face. “I bet you’re dripping right now, huh?”

You moaned against his cock, choking on him again, and he pulled you out roughly, making you stare up at his masked face. You could hear his soft laugh. He was enjoying this, enjoying ruining you.

“You look so pretty all fucked-up like that.” He stroked himself slowly, watching you, that mask making it impossible to tell where he was looking. “Get up.”

For a second, you thought he’d let you move on your own. But no. San yanked your hair again, forcing you up onto your feet, the cold blade returning to your neck as he pulled you close. 

“Take the skirt off.”

You were pressed against the wall, his body close, the knife resting at your neck. His breathing under the mask was heavy, impatient; loud enough to let you know how eager he was. You slowly unzipped your skirt, your eyes dropping to the bulge straining inside his underwear, your throat still sore from the way he had used you earlier.

As soon as the fabric fell to your feet, he dragged the blade along your body, following every curve, moving painfully slow until it reached your panties. You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You had no idea what he was planning, but the excitement pooling between your legs made it impossible to hide how badly you wanted to know.

“You’re fucking soaked.” He turned the knife, using the flat of it to press against your clit, making you gasp and squirm against the wall. “Slut. You’re really loving this.”

Fuck, you clenched hard enough to feel your arousal dripping. You were desperate, you tried to move your hip, but you didn’t even notice. You wanted more friction; you needed more.

“Don’t even think about it.” His free hand wrapped around your neck, holding you firmly in place. “Don’t move. I’m playing.”

You nodded, doing everything you could to stay still while he toyed with your swollen clit using the knife, teasing, watching every reaction, every pathetic attempt to swallow your moans, every tremble in your legs. And San knew you too well not to use that against you.

“Fuck… you’re soaking the knife.” His voice faltered for a split second, the role almost slipping. “Needy whore.”

You gasped as his fingers tightened slightly around your throat, your body betraying you again, turning every word and every touch into pure arousal. He kept teasing you, barely touching you the way you needed, reducing you to nothing but a toy for his amusement. You wanted more. You bit your lip hard, trying not to beg, trying not to break the role and ask him to fuck you already.

But you wouldn’t do that, you couldn’t.

He suddenly stopped. For a moment, he put the knife away just to pull his tank top over his head, and it was one of the hottest things you had ever seen. Just underwear. That mask. Bare skin, you were absolutely crazy about his honey skin, especially when he was all sweaty on top of you. You were shamelessly staring, probably drooling, and you didn’t care. You wanted to touch him so badly it almost hurt.

“Like what you see?” He picked the knife back up, tracing its tip along your body again. “Turn around.”

Oh no, that was cruel. Was he going to take that sight away? That was even meaner than slapping your face.

But you already knew what would happen if you didn’t obey him, so you turned around, placing your hands against the wall, arching your back just slightly.

“What a good girl.” He dragged the blade along you again, then suddenly ripped your panties away, forcing your legs apart just enough to expose you. “Yeah… show me how much you want to take cock.”

You couldn’t help yourself. You rolled your hips back, grinding against the knife, spreading your slick everywhere. But he didn’t let you enjoy it for long. He pulled the blade away and told you to open your mouth.

You did; legs shaking, pussy clenching, thighs sticky with your own arousal. You were a mess. And you loved it.

“Yeah, lick it.”

You cleaned the knife with your tongue, tasting yourself, making him groan at the filthy sight. He loved it just as much as you did.

“You’re behaving so well…” He finally set the knife aside, his hands roaming over you and over himself. “I think you deserve a treat.”

“P-please…” You arched your back a bit more, spreading your legs in a way that he could easily angle himself behind you. “I…”

“You… huh?” He pushed his underwear down, freeing his cock, stroking it slowly before slapping it against your ass. “You want it?”

“Yes.”

“Shit. You’re really a slut.” He aligned himself, dragging the tip through your slick before pressing it against your hole. “So take it.”

He pushed in hard, burying himself inside you in one rough thrust.

 Fuck.

You had to bite your lip to hold back a scream, because yes, it hurt. But it was different. It was… so fucking hot. So good. You felt so full your legs nearly dissolved, and he had to grip your waist to keep you from collapsing. The burning stretch inside you, his heavy breath against your neck, his groans... Everything was overwhelming, stimulating every nerve at once. It was too much. And you couldn’t even moan. He was fucking you hard, relentlessly, thrusting into you and pinning you to the wall until breathing became a struggle. Fuck, he was rougher than ever. Your eyes rolled back as pleasure flooded you, that familiar pressure already building deep in your stomach. All the teasing beforehand had left you desperate and oversensitive.

“Fuuuuck… you’re clenching so hard.” He kept slamming against you. “Gonna cum? Yeah?”

He shoved your face against the wall, the sting only making it better as he kept fucking you without mercy. Perfect. That was all you could think about. Just ask him to wear the mask, to be rough, and he was everything; he really understood his assignment.

Your orgasm hit you so hard you cried, you screamed, you drooled, you couldn’t even think, your mind went blank. He fucked you dumb, and you couldn’t care less. 

He didn’t stop, though. He kept talking about how hot and tight you were feeling, how much you were creaming his cock. You just whimpered, feeling dizzy as he kept overestimulating you, so much that you almost came again, but you couldn’t cause your legs gave up. 

He stopped you from falling, holding you by the waist, pulling out right away and trying to talk to you, but your ears were all weird, his voice was so far away that moment… You couldn’t even answer him when he spoke to you again, so of course, he got really worried.

“Baby, you’re alright?”

You nodded because it was all you could handle doing, and you were still very much high on pleasure, feeling the way you were contracting your walls around nothing.

“Fuck, you’re so hot. Come on, let’s finish this in bed.”

He carried you to the bed, laying you down carefully, and only then did your body start to function again. Your legs were already spreading on their own, like your body knew exactly what to do, but San took his time, sitting there, waiting until your breathing slowed, until you could breathe like a normal person again.

“You’re really fucked out…” His hand brushed over your thigh, making you shiver. “Want me to keep the mask on?”

“Take it off. I wanna see you.”

When San tossed the mask aside, you couldn’t stop staring at his face. He was sweaty, his hair a complete mess, and being able to see his expression, the hunger in his eyes, the way he kept looking at you made everything feel even more intense. Too good. Way too good.

“Did you like it? I mean… I can tell you did, but—”

“Fuck, baby. You killed me. Now come here…” You slid your hand between your legs, spreading your pussy lips for him. “I want you to fill me up.”

“God. I love how much of a cockslut you are.” He leaned in to kiss you, fitting himself between your legs, his dick rubbing slowly through your folds until he aligned with your entrance and pushed inside. “Still clenching for me…”

You wrapped your legs around him, the angle making your mind go completely blank again. He felt too big, too full, hitting everywhere you needed him. Fuck. If he kept moving like that, you were going to lose it all over again.

“Wanna cum again…” Your nails dug into his back, dragging against his skin. “Please, fuck me harder, San.”

He groaned against the skin of your neck, grabbing your thighs and thrusting harder against you, the sounds of skin against skin echoing through the room along with your desperate moans and broken pleas. 

“Cum with me, baby. Cream my cock, milk me. Come on.”

The slight friction against your clit was enough to make you melt again. This one wasn’t as intense, but it still made you cry out, whimpering loudly, enough to drive him crazy. You felt his thrusts grow sloppy, heard his needy moans just a second before he filled you up.

God, you were leaking.

He kept fucking it into you, dragging it out until it was almost too much.

“Oh fuuuuuck, yes! Milk me, just like that… Wanna see you drip my cum until tomorrow.”

Your legs slowly loosened around him, falling back onto the bed as you struggled to catch your breath. San rolled onto his side, pulling you with him until you were curled against his chest, your head resting on his warm, sweaty skin.

God, you love this man. He is absolutely perfect. 

“So…” you murmured, tracing lazy patterns over his abs. “How was that for you? You’re way too hot, I have to say.”

“It was fun. I was holding back at first, but when I saw how much you were enjoying it…”

“I was. I loved it. Just like I love you. Thanks for doing that.”

“I love you too, baby.” He kissed the top of your head, making a silly smile escape from your lips. “And I really liked it. Feels like we opened a whole new world of options, huh?”

The afternoon had settled into a kind of deep, familiar domesticity. You and Seonghwa were sprawled on your respective ends of the couch, a terrible rom-com playing silently on the screen. The quiet wasn’t awkward; it was the comfortable silence built over years of shared space and unspoken understanding. You, however, were anything but comfortable. The persistent, low thrumming of your ovulation period was a silent, insistent distraction. You shifted subtly, rubbing your inner thighs together beneath the blanket, hoping the small friction would distract the heat. You were certain he hadn’t noticed; Seonghwa was meticulously arranging a pile of throw pillows.

He paused in his task, his gaze drifting over to you. He studied your face—the slight tension around your jaw, the glazed-over look in your eyes—and a slow confusion mixed with something primal crossed his features. His brow furrowed in concentration, and he looked away quickly, focusing hard on the pillow he was fluffing.

Then, the silence shattered.

His voice, normally so clear and melodic, was a low, startled murmur that cut through the room.

“Have you tried fingering before?”

The sound hung between you, heavy and impossible.

Your body froze, the rubbing instantly stopping. Your eyes snapped to his, wide with shock and humiliation. He dropped the pillow, his own eyes widening as the sound of his own accidental question fully registered. His face drained of color, realizing he had vocalized a thought meant purely for the confines of his own mind. He stared at you, that long-established boundary between best friends collapsing in a single, catastrophic instant. The shame lasted only a heartbeat before the predatory, sudden realization took over. He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his voice dropping to a low, commanding register.

“You heard me,” he stated, his voice now steady and firm. “Don’t move. Put your hand under the blanket, angel.”

The shock was still too potent for resistance. You obeyed, your hand trembling as it slid under the fleece.

“Good. Now, I saw you twitching. You’re wet,” he instructed, his eyes intense and unwavering. “I want you to touch yourself. Not quickly. Slowly. I want to see your fingers.”

He watched, guiding you with nothing but his gaze and sharp, specific commands. You were trapped—caught between the intimacy of your history and the sudden, overwhelming authority of his tone. You found your own desire responding instantly to his dominance. He forced you to pull your hand out from under the cover just enough so he could see the slow, circular motion of your fingers against your pulsing wetness.

“That’s right, good girl. Faster, now. Look me in the eye. Don’t look away,” he commanded, his voice growing deeper, rougher with his own mounting arousal. “You are so beautiful when you obey.”

The intensity was unbearable. You broke, a sharp cry escaping your lips as the pleasure shattered through you. Your hips bucked slightly, and a sudden, warm flood of white, sweet arousal soaked your fingers and the blanket.

He wasn’t done.

“No, don’t stop,” he grated out, his eyes gleaming. “You’re still twitching. Keep going, baby.”

He moved like lightning, kneeling on the couch and leaning over you. He grabbed both of your wrists, pinning them easily above your head against the cushion. His mouth crashed down onto yours—a deep, ravenous kiss that swallowed your shocked gasp. While his tongue dominated your mouth, his other hand moved swiftly. He untugged the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them down along with his boxers. You felt a massive, hot length of him press hard against your thigh, demanding to be noticed.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, breathing raggedly. “I want to finish this in the bedroom,” he announced, his voice thick with a promise that brooked no argument.

He didn’t wait for your reply. He lifted you easily into his arms, your arms and legs tangling instinctively around his torso. He strode through the apartment, knowing the exact layout, navigating the short hallway toward your room without a stumble.

Once there, he didn’t immediately put you down. He placed you gently against the wall beside the bed, still holding your trapped wrists above your head. He brought your right hand down, still slick and gleaming with your own white, sweet arousal. He looked down at your fingers, his eyes intense. Then, with a possessive groan, he brought your fingers to his mouth, sucking the thick, potent proof of your climax from them—a final, absolute boundary destroyed, a shared secret consumed.

He released your wrists only to lift you, finally settling you onto the soft bed. He was above you now, a best friend no longer, but a hungry, dominant presence, his breath ragged against your neck. He hovered over you, his breathing ragged, his weight pressing the mattress down. He had consumed your arousal from your fingers, a final, definitive declaration of his intent. His eyes, dark and heavy, bored into yours, demanding the truth you could no longer hide.

“Were you rubbing your thighs with the thought of me, love? Did you?” He demanded, his voice a low, rough rasp that vibrated in your chest.

The shock and adrenaline had reached a peak. You couldn’t lie; you couldn’t even think straight. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

“Yes,” you confessed, the word a breathless whisper of surrender. “Always. I just... I needed you.”

That single word was all the confirmation he needed. His face softened momentarily with a mix of triumph and tenderness before his expression hardened with focused passion. He kissed you again, deeply, silencing the shock and replacing it entirely with sensation.

He shifted, kneeling between your thighs, the heat of his erection pressing against your core.

“You need to ask for it, angel,” he commanded, his voice barely above a growl as he guided your hands to grip the sheets on either side of your head. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“Please, Seonghwa,” you pleaded, eyes wide, “I need you inside me now. I can’t—”

He slid into you in one smooth, powerful motion, a gasp escaping both your lips at the sudden, breathtaking fullness. The fit was immediate and perfect, the shock replaced by an overwhelming sense of belonging. He paused, resting his forehead against yours, drinking in your immediate reaction.

“You are so tight, good girl. Did you know you wanted this?”

“I knew,” you admitted, breathless, tears stinging your eyes from the sheer intensity of the moment. “I always knew. Don’t stop.”

He moved then, slowly at first, his eyes locked on yours, making sure he was receiving every fraction of your pleasure.

“Tell me what you wanted when you were touching yourself, my love. Tell me it was my name you were thinking.”

“It’s you,” you gasped, clutching the sheets tightly. “Just you. Harder, please! I wanted you to take me.”

He obliged instantly, the pace becoming faster, more aggressive, matching the unspoken intensity of years of buried desire. The bed springs groaned beneath you, the sound a chaotic counterpoint to your cries and his deep, rhythmic breaths.

“I’m here, I’m here now,” he repeated, his words a desperate, possessive mantra against your mouth. “You’re mine. You were always mine.”

He pushed you over the edge, the climax a powerful, searing wave that consumed you entirely. You screamed his name, your body arching up to meet his final, desperate thrusts. He collapsed onto you, his body a heavy, glorious weight, his breathing ragged against your neck. The silence returned, but this time it was a deep, sated stillness, the silence of a truth finally revealed and a boundary beautifully, violently destroyed. He lifted his head just enough to look at you, his eyes still dark with passion but now laced with a possessive tenderness.

“My love,” he whispered, “I think we just broke something. And I don’t care.”

You groaned. “The fuck did you break this time, Hwa?”

He blushed a little “Hey, why are you calling me Hwa right after I made you cum just a few seconds ago?”

You were still panting, your voice raspy from the release. You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze—the intense passion already softening into familiar, bewildered affection.

“Because the Hwa I know is the one who helps me pay rent and knows exactly how much ice I like in my soda,” you retorted, your voice heavy with exhaustion.

You pinched his cheek lightly, a defiant, familiar gesture. “The Seonghwa who just ruined my ability to concentrate for the next week is still under probation, love.”

He chuckled, the deep, rumbling sound vibrating pleasantly against your skin. He didn't move an inch, his heavy weight a blissful press against you.

“Under probation, huh?” He challenged, his blush deepening as he moved his hips just enough to subtly remind you of the intimacy they still shared.

“You seem pretty satisfied with the service from the probation officer, good girl.”

You sighed, a deep, contented sound, and wrapped your arms around his back, pulling him closer. The teasing was necessary—it was the only way to process the fact that your entire friendship had just imploded into the most profound, passionate honesty you’d ever known.

“Satisfied,” you admitted, the word a soft whisper against his ear. “But now you need to move. You’re heavy, my love.”

you hadn't thought much, wearing a certain dress out to a friends dinner. it wasn't that much of a revealing dress either, a simple backless dress with a chain hanging, it was gorgeous. simple yet sexy, perfect for a nice dressy dinner. unfortunately your thoughts were wrong as seonghwa thought otherwise. he however, was never one to control what you wore so he forcefully bit his tongue, giving a tight smile as he led you both out the door with one hand, the other readjusting his pants for the semi hard-on he was now sporting.

he never verbally vetted his frustration, not when he caught the eyes of other men eyeing you down hungrily, nor when you made a show of flaunting your outfit to his friends. he waited patiently until you both returned home, wasting no time manhandling you into the position you are now; on your back, dress hiked up past your hips, with him slotted perfectly between your thighs.

"fuck, this dress drives me crazy, you drive me crazy." he said between each roll of his hips. the feeling had you clenching around nothing, all the while your arousal was seeping through your panties. his clothed cock pressed against you with a heaviness that had your mind and body reeling, your thighs closing and crossing in front of seonghwa on instinct.

the action had seonghwa pausing for just a moment, his dark gaze seeming almost offended at the action. with a tsk his hands move, digging into the backs of your thighs as he pushed them up and away from one another. he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours, effectively using his body weight to hold you still.

"stay." he commanded, and that's exactly what you did.

his tone had rendered you still, a new feeling blooming in your stomach as he resumed his ministrations against your now sopping cunt, pulsing and begging to be filled. you could feel yourself growing closer and closer to your climax at an alarming rate, and he could see it too, if your hips twitching against him were anything to go by.

"you're not gonna cum from me just rubbing on your pussy, are you?" he taunts, and it only serves to heighten your arousal by tenfold, moaning out when he seemingly rubs directly against your already sensitive clit intentionally, and repeatedly.

god you were so close, only a bit more and—

nothing.

your eyes fly open to stare incredulously at seonghwa, only to find him staring back, an unamused look on his face.

"what? you didn't think you were gonna cum when you wanted?" his eyebrow was raised in a question. he didn't wait for you to reply, he didn't expect you to. he simply watched in mean satisfaction as your lagged brain finally caught up to the moment, frustration and mortification twisting into a deep frown on your face.

fuck, this was going to be a long night.

and ultimately, it was. seonghwa took his sweet time using you for his pleasure, all the while denying you over and over again, finally showing mercy once the tears started flowing. he cooed as he then made it his mission to make you cum your brains out, again and again, each to make up for every time he had denied you.

a/n: hayyy.... how we feeling 😅 sorry this is so short, i just honestly needed something quick and easy to ease myself back into writing more (hopefully). i hope you've all been well and happy holidays to those who celebrate. 🤍

𝐄𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲

Although the sun never shone in their world, class was never dull.

The sky above the Umbra Dome was a permanent haze of bruised violet and iron-grey clouds. The light filtered through was cold, scattered-unnatural. Buildings towered like obsidian spires, stitched together by veins of glowing blue energy. It was a world built not for comfort, but for purpose.

And within its pulse, they all sat in eight different classrooms—separated by walls, distance and design—but bound by the same hum in their chests. The sound of fingers tapping and pens clicking echoed across space in perfect unison.

Tap, click. Tap, click.

In this place, emotion was a variable—measured, observed and restrained. Professors drifted through lectures in sterile monotones, their voices laced with logic and data. But none of it seemed to matter anymore.

Not since the dreams began. Each one of them flashes of a world with skies that change colour. With music and treasures that weren’t coded but born from breath. With people who laughed without reason–and one person, always the same, always unknown:

You.

It was during assembly not long after the principle quietened the crowd for your introduction. The hall was packed with over two thousand students, but the weight of their eyes didn’t seem to faze you. Instead, you stood tall, grace curling around your figure like a cloak. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, speaking of your otherworldly beauty, of locs that slightly cascaded past your shoulders like silk spun from stardust.

They sat high on the back podium above–watching. Hands tense in their laps, fingers curled tightly against the fabric of the cotton slacks, struggling.

They didn’t know your name. Not yet. But they felt it, like a word at the tip of the tongue. Like gravity—pulling them forward.

“y/n,” you said softly, your voice steady yet warm. As though your beauty weren’t enough, your voice alone bore more gold than the pillars of ancient Greece.

“You’re being reassigned, " the principal announced flatly. That was their version of welcome. No explanation. No appeal. Just…arrival.

Within a week, the sterile walls of Eden crumbled into ash, and their world reshaped itself into something entirely new. Something warm. Too unpredictable. Too..human.

𝐄𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲- 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐲

Now, the sky held color.

Even when the grey clouds loomed, it was alive. And the people? They were loud, messy, hopeful, selfish–real.

It has been a year since your arrival. At Eden, everything revolved around choice–classes, clubs, career paths. A world of options, entirely different from what you had once known. But there was one thing no one could choose, not here. It had to come.

“Your soulmate is revealed the moment before graduation.”

That was what Anessa Venus told you in your first week. She’d become the closest thing to sister you’d ever had From the moment she found you fumbling through locker numbers in the hallway, her big doe-like eyes and warm, chunky hands were there to guide you.

Since then, you’d been inseparable.

Now the two of you sat together at the fountain in the centre of campus, the gentle splash of water murmuring behind you.

“Grad’s coming up soon. Any luck with your soulmate?” she asked, chewing thoughtfully on a chocolate wafer stick.

You didn't look up from your book– City Of Darkness: Life in Kowloon Walled City by Greg Girard, page 28. The question stirred something uncomfortable.

You remembered her words from just the other day when you admitted you couldn't live a life you didn’t understand. One name. One fate. One truth. The idea haunted you.

You gave her a look, and she sighed with exaggerated drama.

“I know, I know,” she muttered. “What if there’s more than one soulmate? Yeah , I get it.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “So you remembered.”

She blinked in mock offense, twirling her chocolate stick in front of your page. “No shit! Three whole words from you today. Have the Gods finally answered my prayers?”

A snort escaped you–completely unintentional–and louder than you expected. Across the courtyard, it caught the attention of them.

Wooyoung stood leaning against the bench, cigarette dangling from his lips, uniform pressed and perfect. His shoulder-length hair shimmered under the pale daylight.

“Wonder what’s funny,” he muttered, exhaling smoke through barely parted lips.

Beside him, Yunho stood tall and elegant—dressed like a professor. His quiet eyes, calm and unreadable, lingered on your laughing form.

Hongjoong sat cross-legged on the bench edge, hair dyed orange like a flame against the grey sky. He shrugged. “Probably the book she’s reading.”

“Nope,” came Seonghwa’s immediate reply. His polaroid camera lowered from his face.

“Anessa probably said something funny.”

Heads turned toward him.

“Quite the observer, aren’t you?” Wooyoung quipped, casting a narrow-eyed glance in his direction.

Seonghwa ignored him. He shook the polaroid gently, then tucked it into the pages of his art journal, scribbling a small note only he could decipher. He knew he was being watched.

Yeosang always noticed.

From his quiet place beneath the trees, he studied a STEM textbook while secretly writing love notes to you between formulas. Notes he would never send.

Jongho sat cross-legged on the grass beside Mingi—the former chewing thoughtfully on a salami sandwich while the latter poured his thoughts into an amateur poem written in a hand-stitched leather journal.

“I asked a question,” Wooyoung pressed, tapping Seonghwa’s shoulder.

“And I chose not to answer,” Seonghwa snapped back coolly.

This was their usual. The undercurrent of rivalry. The thinly veiled bickering Wooyoung always seemed to provoke. Their conflicting rituals were the only unchanging law in a world built on freedom—or so they wished. For the eight of them, the past year had been a silent torment.

Once constructs of purpose, now students of fate. Burned by a law they never asked for.

They were drawn to you. Every one of them.

And none of them knew why.

Perhaps it was selfish. Perhaps it was something deeper. But they all felt it—the shift in the air when you laughed. The way time bent when you entered a room. The tremble in their hands when you dared to speak to them, even for a moment.

“They’re all staring again,” Anessa whispered, breathing hot against your ear.

It sent a soft shiver down your neck.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. You already knew.

And subtly so, they did too. You simply breathed out, sighing as you struggled to turn your unfinished page. The bell interrupting your thoughts—and the words you wanted to say but couldn't quite figure out.

“I guess we’ll see each other later. You got history?” Anesssa asked, squinting at the light that pierced across her eyelids like a bald of silver. Your hum was vague, noncommittal. Her eyes narrowed, ever perceptive. So you added softly, "I'll wait for you in the foyer. History, then STEM…i think.”

A smile curved her lips, satisfied with the sound of your voice—even if it was only a few syllables.

Campus always felt a little too open for your liking.

Stone pathways snaked through neat lawns, flanked by ancient trees whose roots cracked the cobbles like old scars. Eden was too alive, too sprawling—a contrast to the precision of your own world. And yet, something about it compelled you to keep looking, they somehow kept you looking.

Every step between classes was a quiet study in chaos. Red brick buildings stood tall against the ever-grey sky, vines curling up their sides like forgotten promises. And your favorite was the anomalous willow tree that stood in the distance.

Bulletin boards were littered with flyers—clubs with names that made no sense like, "disco astronomy” or “cake for chemistry.” Students rushed by in the little clusters, laughter echoing behind you like ghost trails.

You passed the literature tower, where a few students sat smoking on the marble steps. Your fingers brushed the edge of a rusted railing as you walked up the slope toward Ms. Maddox’s history class. The soft click of your shoes seemed to echo louder here.

The wind picked up just before the entrance, curling your locks into your cheek—pulling the pages of your book slightly ajar. You passed a palm to keep it shut, head bowed slightly against the breeze.

And that's when you felt it.

A tremor–not in the earth, but in the air. A shift. You didn’t look back, again you didn't have to, for one of them was watching again.

────────◷────────◶────────

“I’ve got Dance next,” Yunho said, adjusting the strap of his creme suede satchel. “What about you guys?”

They all stood at the edge of the upper courtyard, where the statue of Eden;s founder watched eternally over the student body. Yunho’s voice was casual, but the twitch in his fingers gave him away.

“Literature,” Mingi mumbled through the last bit of apple.

“Art,” Seonghwa replied quietly, slipping a new roll of film in his camera.

“Economics,” said San, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Jongho didn’t speak at first. He was staring, eyes sharpened at a distance. Yeosang followed his line of sight instinctively.

There you were.

Walking past the bell arch, hair catching the silver rays like it was painted just for you. The leather strap of your bag slung across your shoulder. Your eyes slightly downcast, but your presence–undeniably felt.

Yeosang’s breath caught just for a second . The corner of his textbook bent beneath his grip. And then he noticed Jongho…watching him. Their eyes met. No words were exchanged.

Tension settled like fog between them. Just then, wooyung’s voice cut through the silence like a firecracker. Clearly irritated at the tow gawking at you, but proud at the fact that you shared the same class next.

“History,” he said, clicking his tongue and flashing that unmistakable grin, “That’s where she’s headed, right?”

San raised a brow. “So?”

“So…” wooyung straightened his collar, a devilish glint in his eyes. “That’s my class. She sits a few seats in front of me, remember?” He let the words hang. “Guess fate’s got taste.”

But wooyoung wasn’t done. His cocky smile twisted with something a little darker–somehting between challenge and declaration.

“She looked at me last class,” he added, voice lower now. “Properly looked. Maybe she’s finally catching on.”

Yeosang turned his face slightly away, jaw flexing.

Seonghwa paused fidgeting with his camera. The film roll scrunching in his hands that held more tightly than ever. His hair threatened to turn white from jealousy.

And Hongjoong…simply stood there. Still.

His orange hair rustled in the breeze, but he didn’t move. His fingers–clenched just so at his side–gave away what the others didn't see in his expression. Something between anxiety and fire. Like he was preparing for war, but not the kind fought with weapons. The kind with hope. And loss.

A moment of stunned silence followed Woooyung's last remark. Then, like the snap of a matchstick, San scoffed.

Loudly.

“Please,” he muttered, shaking his head. “With that level of confidence, you might as well sit right next to her.”

The words hung there–like a dare. Maybe not intended, but absolutely heard. Wooyoung didn’t flinch. Instead, he straightened, then gave a breathless, mocking laugh.

“Oh?” he relied, his smile spreading like oil on water. “You know what? Maybe I will.”

That earned a few side-glances.

Mingi leaned back a little, eyes narrowing. Jongho tensed where he stood, chewing the inside of his cheek. Even Yunho's usual calm slipped slightly as he shifted his weight.

But no one said a word. Not yet.

Wooyoung reached into his blazer, slipping the half-smoked pack of sigs into the inside pocket with practiced ease. He flicked one last drag from his fingertips, let the ember fall and fizzle on the stone, then stepped off the overlook’s edge.

“You all have fun with your lectures,” he tossed over his shoulder, the wind catching his voice. “Me? I’ve got Miss Maddox's class. And a date with destiny”

He didn’t wait for a reaction. His shoes tapped confidently towards the stairs, movements fluid like he was born for this spotlight.

The others watched, each motion of his exit igniting a different kind of flame in them.

Mingi clicked his tongue, annoyance bubbling beneath the surface.

San folded his arms, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. His mind flooded as he tread to his next lesson.

Yunho exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes trailing after wooyoung before casting a quiet look at yeosang. Jongho left the scene straight after, his mind a silent calculation like that of a sergeant.

Yeosang–who hadn't moved since the moment he sat–watched the way wooyoung tread the path you’d just taken. His fingers resting gently on the spine of his textbook.

Seonghwa–expression unreadable,but the stroke of his nails snapping onto the fabric of his trenchcoat. He fiddles with the thread on the button. He didn't speak, but his gaze on wooyoung was one that looked older than time itself.

And hongjoong…

Still silent. He looked down briefly at the scuffed edge of his boots, then out toward the path ahead–where history class awaited, and where you were already seated in the far right corner of the room, unknowingly becoming the gravitational centre of something that could never be undone.

The history wing always smelled faintly of sandalwood and chalk.

Miss Maddox’s classroom–room3B–was tucked at the far end of the east, where ivy trailed the windows and the floor creaked in places no matter how careful your steps were. The light was softer, filtered through pale linen curtains that swayed like ghosts whenever the windows were cracked open. You always chose the same seat. Third row from the front, right-hand side. The place where the light never quite touched the floor–but where, somehow, the window still reached you.

It was comforting. Quiet. Safe.

Miss Maddox hadn’t arrived yet. The room was half-filled with students, students trickling in with the lazy pace of post lunch fatigue. Others seated with the ones they declared as their soulmates, a phenomenon they called “the early spark.” A few whispered conversations, the occasional laugh, the tap of a pencil here and here.

You opened your book slowly. Page 28. You’d never got to finish reading the page, but there was something soothing in restarting. In repetition. In silence.

The door opened, and the air changed. Just like earlier.

Footsteps–a certain rhythm, unbothered, almost a little theatrical. Like every room was a stage and he never entered without an audience. Like a prince.

Wooyoung.

He strolled in with the same energy as always had–untouched by the weight of the day. Shirt collar slightly loosened. Blazer slum lazily off one shoulder, and that signature smirk–like he was in on a joke no one else had heard yet.

Except this time, he didn’t take his usual seat at the back. He paused. Scanned the rows. And then he saw you. His gaze landed like a pinpoint of heat against your skin. You didn’t flinch, but your fingers hesitated just slightly against the edge of the page.

Then…

Shoes against tile.

You turned your head only halfway when the char beside you scraped lightly backward. Wooyung dropped into the seat. Right next you.

“Hope this isn’t taken,” he said, voice low–warm, edged with amusement.

It wasn’t a question.

Your eyes flicked sideways. He was already looking at you, head resting lightly in his hand, elbow popped up on the desk. Like he’d done this a thousand times before.

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you returned to your book. Then, after a few seconds, calmly,

“...it’s open.”

Somewhere across the room, someone coughed. The girl in the front whispering something to her friend. You could feel their eyes, feel the traction. Not too loud. But it thickened the air like perfume.

From your peripheral, you could see Wooyoung shift. He was trying to act casual, but something in the way he tapped his foot, the way his fingers fiddled with the edge of his sleeve, told you he was burning to say more.

Miss Maddox entered moments later with a stack of papers and a tight bun on her head, her heels clacking sharply against the wood. But it didn’t ground the room. It didn’t shift the mood back.

The seat beside you wasn’t filled, it was claimed. And you weren’t sure what that meant yet. But you felt the change.

Deep.

Unmistakable.

Unraveling like red thread pulled loose from the hem of something sacred.

The papers were set on her desk with a thud and clasped her hands behind her back, pacing slowly across the front of the classroom like a general surveying a battlefield.

“Today,” she announced sharply, “we dive into one of my favourite contradictions–Ancient Egypt.”

A few groans rippled through the room. One student in the forefront muttered, “again?” under their breath. Others perked up, either out of curiosity or sheer boredom.

Miss Maddox didn’t miss a beat.

“Before you sigh too loudly,” she warned, eyes narrowing, “we’re not talking pyramids or mummies today. We’re talking power. Symbolism. The way truth is shaped–not by what is real–but by what people choose to believe.”

A pause. Then she turned toward the whiteboard, scribbling a name in sharp, looping letters:

Akhenaten.

“The heretic king,” she said, underlining it with a fierce stroke. “Some called him revolutionary. Others, delusional. Akhenaten was the pharaoh who tried to erase the Gods. All of them. He replaced Egypt’s rich pantheon with a single deity–the Aten, the sun disc.”

Her voice rang across the room, rich with academic pride.

“He changed the art. Religion. The laws. Even the way he was painted. History’s still unsure whether he was divinely touched–or just deeply mad.”

Wooyung leaned sideways toward you, chin resting in his palm again. His voice lowered, playful.

“Sounds a bit dramatic. Don’t you think?”

You kept your eyes forward. “It's history.”

He chuckled. “Sure. But it’s also kinda romantic. One guy rewriting religion…al for what he believed in.”

You glanced at him, suddenly caught in his words.

“And what exactly do you believe in, Jung?”

He blinked, then grinned wider. “Books. Mostly.”

You raised a brow. “You read?”

His smirk faltered. He recoiled just slightly, mock offended.

“Wow. That’s cold,” he muttered. “You think I’m illiterate or something?”

“Didn’t say that,” you answered calmly, turning back to your book.

He leaned in again, whispering, “Fine. You’re judging. But you ever read The Shadow Parade by Tenza Marlowe?”

You paused. It wasn’t a common title.

“I have it in my dorm,” he continued, pride creeping back into his voice. “It’s about this kid who’s born without a shadow, right? So no one believes he exists. Whole world forgets him unless he keeps moving. Kinda wild, but… I like it.”

You looked at him, expression softening just a little.

But before you could respond—

“Mr. Jung,” Miss Maddox’s voice cut through the whispering haze, sharp as obsidian. “Perhaps you’d like to share your commentary with the rest of us?”

He straightened instantly. “Just talking about ancient Egyptian architecture, ma’am.”

“Really?” Her eyes narrowed. “Then why don’t we have Mr. Jung here demonstrate for us.”

A few students snickered. Someone hissed, “Oof.”

Wooyoung’s smugness slipped into a grin that said he didn’t mind at all. Not really.

“Sure thing,” he said, rising slowly, pushing the chair back with that same easy confidence he always carried. But as he walked to the front, he glanced over his shoulder—right at you.

A spark in his eye.

“You never answered my question,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “You find your soulmate yet?”

You didn’t reply. But your silence said enough. Because the truth was...

You weren’t sure what scared you more—not knowing who it was… or the idea that maybe, just maybe, he already did.

Wooyoung made his way to the front with the slow swagger of someone who knew all eyes were on him—and knew exactly how to hold them there.

Miss Maddox gave him a cool nod, stepping aside and folding her arms.

“Let’s see if you can articulate something coherent, Mr. Jung.”

He took the marker from her outstretched hand, uncapped it with his teeth, and scrawled AKHENATEN across the board with bold, jagged strokes.

Then he turned.

“Okay,” he began, tossing the cap into the air and catching it without looking. “So... Akhenaten. The guy who erased the gods, yeah?”

Some students murmured in response. Wooyoung pointed to the name.

“Here’s a guy born into legacy. Power. Tradition. He had everything, right? Palaces, temples, armies, pyramids. And he said, ‘Screw all that. I see something else.’ One god. One truth.”

He started pacing slowly.

“You know how insane that must’ve sounded back then? A dude just waking up one day like, ‘Nah, this isn’t it. We’ve all been wrong.’ That’s either bold as hell—or completely unhinged.”

More laughter this time, but Miss Maddox didn’t stop him.

“And maybe it wasn’t about god at all,” he continued, voice dropping just slightly. “Maybe it was about focus. About clarity. Like when everything else fades, and there’s just one thing—or one person—you can’t stop thinking about.”

He paused. Just long enough to feel it.

The tension. The air.

Your breath caught without meaning to.

He glanced at you—so briefly most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But you did.

“I think Akhenaten wasn’t trying to convince the world of his god,” he said. “I think he was trying to convince himself. That what he saw was real. That he wasn’t crazy. And yeah, maybe he lost everything because of it. But at least he believed in something.”

Silence followed his words.

Then came a scattered applause—half-mocking, half-genuine. A few students whistled. Someone muttered, “Damn, Jung.”

Miss Maddox tilted her head.

“Well,” she said, clearly unimpressed—but unable to deny the room’s reaction. “That was... dramatic. But not entirely incorrect. Points for creative application.”

Wooyoung gave a short bow, smirk intact.

As he walked back to his seat, a few students reached out to slap his arm or whisper something about his ‘performance.’ But his eyes weren’t on them.

They were on you.

Again.

He slid back into the chair beside you, leaned slightly over your desk, and whispered just loud enough for you to hear:

“Still think I don’t read?”

You didn’t answer.

But your fingers paused mid-page.

And that was enough for him.

From the back of the classroom, just beyond your peripheral, Yeosang’s pencil snapped. Seonghwa’s jaw clenched so tightly the vein at his temple twitched. And Hongjoong… he just sat there, eyes shadowed, finger tapping silently against the corner of his desk—one beat behind the ticking of the classroom clock.

Tick.Tick.Tick.

And yet, time had never felt more like it was about to break.

The bell rang, loud, final and mildly chaotic. Desks screeched as students stood, bags unzipped, conversations erupting into messy trails toward the door. Miss Maddox, ever composed, waved her hand once without raising her voice.

“Dismissed.”

You closed your book quietly, the crisp thunk of the cover oddly satisfying. Just as you stood, you glanced toward the front. Miss Maddox was rearranging her desk—then paused, looking up.

Your gaze fell on Wooyoung.

And for a second—just a second—you smiled.

A small one, sure, but warm. Painted with the kind of amused admiration reserved for those who surprised you. It held no mockery, no sarcasm. Just… genuine appreciation.

Catching his slow-blinking, stunned face as you gave a single nod, then turned to the door to leave. Wooyoung looked like he might combust on the spot. And yet, somehow, he held it together—at least on the surface.

You left the room with the rest of the class, lips tugging into something unplaceable. But behind you, the story was only just beginning to twist.

Hongjoong tapped his pen against his clipboard as he leaned beside the doorway of his next lecture. Yeosang stood nearby, textbook hugged against his chest like a shield, eyes staring through the corridor like they could pierce the future.

Then came the footsteps.

Rhythmic. Light. Cocky.

Wooyoung rounded the corner with a strut that could’ve rivaled a runway model during fashion week. His blazer swung over his shoulder with one finger, and his grin? Blazing. Like he’d swallowed the sun.

Hongjoong and Yeosang saw him at the same time.

And Wooyoung saw that they saw him.

He didn’t say a word.

Just gave them a smug, full-bodied smile—and then, without sound, mouthed:

"She smiled at me."

Yeosang blinked slowly, expression unreadable except for the slightest tension in his jaw. His grip on his textbook didn’t budge, but his fingers flexed—once.

Hongjoong let his pen still in his hand. He tilted his head and said nothing. But behind his eyes, something shifted. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something older. Something colder.

A warning.

Wooyoung breezed past like it was nothing, humming under his breath.

The silence left in his wake was worse than any insult.

Yeosang didn’t look away for a long time. He stared straight ahead until the corridor had emptied again—until the echo of Wooyoung’s steps vanished down the stairs.

Then he spoke, voice low.

“He’s too loud for someone who doesn’t understand what this means.”

Hongjoong pushed off the wall, eyes sharp.

“Let him play. The louder he laughs,” he said, walking toward the classroom, “the quicker the silence will hurt.”

Yeosang followed.

And behind them, a thousand thoughts swirled in both their heads.

Because this wasn’t just about your smile.This was about the beginning of something irreversible.

────────◷────────◶────────

“Alright, get into groups of three for an assessment,” Roberto's voice echoed through the mirrored dance studio, smooth yet stern as always.

Everyone moved. Students scattered like petals swept by wind, the polished floors humming under slippered feet.

The dance studio smelled faintly of resin and chalk, warm from the light spilling through tall windows. The light clung to the edges of bodies clad in beginner ballet attire—soft pastels, form-fitting silhouettes, skin peeking through thin mesh and ivory tights.

And then there was you.

Dressed no differently, yet no one wore it the same. There was something about the way the fabric hugged your frame, the way your presence shifted the temperature in the room without effort. Every movement—no matter how small—seemed deliberate. Dreamlike.

Yunho couldn’t look away.

He stood across the room as you adjusted the ribbon of your slippers, something about the way your fingers moved with care–it tugged at something in him.

In the filtered fluorescent light, you looked ethereal. Like a bride.

Not his–not yet. But perhaps. Possibly. Hopefully.

There was grace in your stillness, something sacred in the air around you that made his throat tighten. When your eyes flicked up, even briefly, and met his, Yunho's chest lifted without warning. Like gravity had let go.

He didn’t move until you did.

Almost instinctively, a warm pair of chunky hands wrapped around yours—Anessa, of course—always grounding, always soft with her touch, like a promise of safety even amidst the chaos.

But the one who stood beside you next made your heart skip.

Tall, composed, his presence quietly magnetic—Yunho, his gaze steady and eyes warmer than most spring mornings. He didn’t ask with words. Instead, he simply looked at you, the silent tilt of his head, the slight curve at the corner of his lips saying all there was to say:

"Can I be in your group?" Not the other way around. Not a demand. A request.

You gave the slightest nod, barely perceptible—but enough.

But not everyone was breathing easy. Across the room, San had stopped mid-step. He wasn’t even sure if he was still breathing.

His eyes had found you the second you stepped into the studio, just like they always did. But this time, the sight of you in ballet attire—hair tied back, collarbones catching the light, posture composed—felt like a wound opening up slow and deliberate.

Because to San, you didn’t look like a bride. You didn’t look like something that could be held, promised, or given away.

You looked like a star.

Distant. Celestial. Unreachable.

And yet, something in him begged to reach anyway. He hated how natural it felt to ache for something so far beyond him. He had taken a step forward when the instructor had called for groups. Just one. But it had been too late.

Yunho had already crossed the space between you. You had already nodded. And now… now San stood beside a girl whose name he barely remembered. She smiled up at him, eyes full of silent hopes and easy affection.

San smiled back—he always did—but his jaw tightened as he glanced past her shoulder.

Toward you. Toward Anessa. Toward Yunho.

And no matter how much he tried to focus on the upcoming choreography, the only rhythm San could hear was the one inside his chest. And it was off-beat.

It started with a gentle waltz–slow, unselfish, gliding steps over the polished floor, a measured breath between each pivot. Then came the pirouetted sequence, Robertos’ voice fading into the background as muscle memory and instinct took over.

Yunho stood at the centre of the formation, solid and graceful, shoulders square as he held the rhythm with elegant poise. On either side of him, like mirrored wings, were you and Anessa.

Three bodies moving as one.

It was unspoken, unrehearsed, yet seamlessly aligned. The curves of your arms matched his reach. Your spin flowed into his turn like you had rehearsed together a thousand times. And when he held your hand to turn you beneath him, there was a quiet awe in his eyes that nearly broke the performance.

Across the room, San saw it all.

From the corner of his eye, while moving in time with a partner whose name he had already forgotten, his gaze locked on you. Watching you fall so effortlessly into place at Yunho’s side felt like swallowing glass.

It was like watching ice melt into water—natural, smooth, inevitable.

The kind of perfection that made your absence beside him all the more jagged. His arm was around another’s waist. But his heart was somewhere else entirely. The girl giggled softly as he spun her. She had soft eyes, a soft smile, and soft words that she whispered every time their feet landed in sync—

“It’s fate.”

“We’re meant to be.”

“I can feel it, can’t you?”

San didn’t answer. Didn’t even nod.

He simply kept moving, steps sharp, the ache behind his eyes growing sharper.

Because no matter how perfectly he danced this piece, no matter how closely his partner clung to him,his rhythm was off. You were the missing note in a song he wasn’t allowed to finish.

And yunho? He had the final melody in his arms.

“Last sequence!” Roberto clapped his hands twice, his voice cutting through the swell of piano. “Prepare for the final pose—elevated centre and hold!”

The studio buzzed with rustling limbs and quickened heartbeats.

Yunho adjusted his footing ever so slightly, his hand finding the small of your back as Anessa took her position opposite you, forming the closing triangle. The aire was this with anticipation, sweet, and something far more complicated–hope. Fear. Longing.

As the music slowed to its final crescendo, you stepped lightly forward, curling into Yunho’s lead. His arm supported you with instinctive care, his other hand extending toward Anessa to complete the frame.

You looked up—your eyes catching something closest to the sun that peeked through the high studio windows.

The light hit your face.

And for a second, the room felt like a still painting. A masterpiece hanging in some timeless gallery. Yunho’s breathing slowed. Every student in the room faded into the background, their poses held in uneven effort, while you—the centre of his universe—breathed quietly beside him.

Across the room, San almost missed his cue.

The girl beside him stumbled slightly in confusion as San’s eyes fixated on the way your fingers gently rested on Yunho’s shoulder. How his hand remained steady at your waist. He saw your chest rise. Your lips part slightly. The way your smile, though small, wasn’t forced.

It wrecked him.

He steadied his partner quickly, masking the sting behind a crooked grin—but his jaw remained tight. The final hold felt more like a restraint than a pose.

“Good,” Roberto finally announced, the piano stopping mid-key. “Hold for three... two... and—release.”

Bodies exhaled. Arms fell. Shoes scuffed faintly against the studio floor. The room buzzed with tired laughter, claps, and light chatter.

You stepped back, breath a little short but light-hearted, and gave Yunho the briefest smile of thanks.

He returned it, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks.

And in the corner?

San was still holding the hand of the nameless girl—though he hadn't noticed. Not until she tugged lightly, bringing him back.

Outside the studio, Hongjoong leaned against the wall, his water bottle untouched at his side. He hadn’t seen the dance, but he’d seen the way Wooyoung left history class. How he had practically glowed.

And now he was seeing Yunho exit the studio with that same lightness in his step.

Beside him stood Yeosang, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes flicked between you and Yunho with an unreadable calculation.

“They’re falling like dominos,” Hongjoong muttered, almost amused—but the tension in his throat said otherwise.

Yeosang didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes narrowed when you laughed again—free, gentle, unbothered.It made everything hurt worse.

Because one smile from you, and they all crumbled.

And not one of them knew how to win you—without tearing the others apart.

────────◷────────◶────────

Eden had turned to night by the time everyone scattered into their dorms. The air outside was crisp and cold, echoing through the open windows with the scent of dew-kissed ivy and the rustle of campus trees. But inside, the shared dorm was aglow–warm lamplight casting soft halos across floral bedspreads, scattered books, and laundry half-hung on the back of chairs.

Anessa flopped backward onto the nearest bed with a thud, arms splayed, her hair fanned out like a lion’s mane.

“Remind me to never do double pirouettes after lunch again,” she groaned.

You chuckled, unzipping your hoodie as you stepped over someone's slipper. Around you, four or five other girls from your floor were already changed, dressed in various mismatched pajama sets—fluffy socks, oversized shirts, a couple in worn school sweaters. Everyone looked relaxed, even radiant, in the post-evening haze of girlish comfort.

The air was filled with faint perfume, giggles, and the rustle of cotton as conversations began to bloom.

“Okay,” said a girl with a cloud of curls and caramel skin, twisting a band around her wrist. “Spill. Someone had a soulmate moment today. I felt it.”

Another girl hummed from the corner. “Yeah, Cherrie said she saw Julianna trip into Ken’s lap during econ. Full K-drama moment.”

The group gasped and cooed accordingly.

“She’s been praying for a plot twist,” Anessa laughed, reaching for her satin bonnet. “That’s her third ‘accidental brush of fate’ this semester.”

The talk bounced around like popcorn—stories of almost-touching hands in the library stacks, a shared umbrella during the downpour last week, or a boy looking just a second too long across the canteen. Everyone had a moment to share.

Everyone but you.

You were halfway pulling off your tights behind your bed curtain when Anessa’s voice chimed, teasing and smooth.

“So,” she called over the rustle of fabric, “what about you, mystery girl? Anything soulmate-worthy today?”

The air paused briefly, waiting.

You stepped out, now bare chested and drawstring pants on, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek. Before you could even speak, a faint flash of light flickered at the window. Quick. Distant. Almost insignificant.

No one noticed. Or at least, no one important.

Except for a girl sitting silently at her desk by the corner window, chin in her palm, half-focused on the discussion. Her eyes flicked toward the glass, narrowing—but she looked away again. Maybe just someone outside. Maybe nothing.

“Me?” you finally said, smoothing the hem of your fluffy sweater. “Not really.”

“Oh come on,” someone teased, “you’ve been on everyone’s radar since orientation day. There’s no way no one’s said anything.”

Anessa tilted her head. “She’s too elegant to notice. Like a painter doesn’t notice their beauty ‘cause they’re staring at the canvas.”

The room broke into soft laughter.

You gave a faint smile, noncommittal, but your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve. You had felt something today. You weren’t ready to name it. Not with all their eyes glowing, waiting for you to tell them that you too had felt the click, the pull, the unseen string that tied one soul to another.

You hadn't. Not just one, anyway.

But across the courtyard, in the shifting light of every classroom—you had felt too many.

And one of them had seen you undress tonight.

Or thought they had.

The grand hall was alive with the buzz of conversation and the clicking of cutlery against porcelain. Tall, arched ceilings soared overhead, the stone engraved with gold-veined patterns of old civilisations–an ode to Eden university’s obsession with time, history and hidden truths.

Long tables stretched across the room like rivers of shared fate. Candles floated midair, bobbing slightly with every breath of the crowd. Platters of roasted vegetables, honey-glazed meats, herb-flecked rice, and fresh bread filled the air with the perfume of salt, spice, and earth.

You entered alongside Anessa and the others, all of you slightly late after laughing too long in the dorms. The chatter softened—just a little—as the heavy wooden doors closed behind you. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe not.

You moved toward the third table from the front, where you always sat. Anessa was already waving to a few girls from the ballet class. Your steps were slow, unrushed, as your eyes scanned the crowd unconsciously.

From the second table to the left, someone stilled his fork mid-air.

Yeosang had been sipping water. But it didn't reach his lips. His gaze cut cleanly across the hall, pinning to you the moment you stepped into view. His posture straightened, shoulders tensing beneath his soft sweater vest. A quiet ache stirred low in his chest.

At his side, Hongjoong tapped his knuckles against the table to distract himself, teeth pressed hard into the inside of his cheek. You looked… soft tonight. Ordinary but untouchably luminous. He couldn't decide if he wanted to write you a poem or run far enough to forget your face.

But it was Wooyoung, sitting one row behind them, who grinned like the devil had whispered a joke into his ear.

“She smiled at me earlier,” he mouthed again, for the third time. "Right after class."

Hongjoong’s head turned so slowly it was almost comedic. “And you’re still alive?”

Wooyoung chuckled, cocky and untouchable. “Flourishing, hyung.”

“Dying,” Yeosang muttered.

“Same thing,” Seonghwa added quietly, though he didn’t look up from his untouched food. His mind was too loud tonight, eyes slightly glancing at his camera. Every scene of you smiling—at him, at Wooyoung, at anyone—played like a skipping record. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. And it always would.

Meanwhile, San had already seen you. You hadn’t even passed his side of the table, but he knew your walk. He could recognize your silhouette from behind closed eyes. His fork scraped against the plate, hand clenched tight.

Beside him, Jongho said nothing—but his eyes flicked up once. Just once. Then back to his tray.

Yunho, seated at the far end beside Mingil, caught sight of your ponytail swaying gently with each step. His heart lifted slightly without reason. He didn’t smile. But his eyes did.

As you slid onto the bench beside Anessa, your tray warm and untouched, you felt it again—that static in the air, like the universe holding its breath. You didn’t know who was watching you.

But you felt all eight of them.

Wooyoung hadn’t touched his food much—not really. The buttered rolls had gone cold, the roasted squash forgotten at the edge of his plate. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, back straight like he had something to prove, eyes sharp like he was waiting for a cue.

Across from him, Mingi was unusually quiet.

Fork in hand, elbow on the table, Mingi pushed around a grilled peach half like it had personally offended him. He hadn’t spoken since they sat. Not even when Wooyoung had cracked a joke about Jongho’s “soulmate list” theory being longer than the actual census.

It was weird.

Too weird.

“Alright, what’s with you?” Wooyoung asked, tone casual, but the edge was unmistakable. “You look like someone buried your guitar.”

Mingi didn’t even flinch. He blinked slowly and muttered, “Just tired.”

“Since when do you get tired?” Wooyoung pressed, leaning in a little. “You always say sleep’s for mortals and heartbreak.”

Hongjoong glanced up. Sharp, perceptive. But he said nothing. It wasn’t his place to speak for Mingi, and he knew better than to interfere—at least not yet.

Instead, it was Seonghwa who answered.

“Leave him alone.” His voice was calm. Clipped. Final.

Wooyoung turned his head slowly toward him, a sharp eyebrow raised. “I wasn’t asking you.”

“You didn’t have to,” Seonghwa replied without pause, eyes still fixed on the plate in front of him. He hadn’t lifted his gaze once.

The silence that followed cracked like glass.

Wooyoung stilled. His fingers tapped once against the side of his tray before they curled slowly into his palm. He glanced at Seonghwa. Then, at the camera hanging beside him, always looped across his shoulder, resting like it was part of his anatomy. Like it held things he didn’t say out loud.

A crooked smirk ghosted across Wooyoung’s lips. Dangerous. Knowing. He inhaled through his nose like he was about to say something that could incinerate the whole table.

But before the words could leave his mouth—

Ding.

The intercom buzzed sharply, followed by the voice of the Principal, flat and cold like always.

“Attention, students. The temperature is projected to drop drastically beginning tonight. Please ensure you remain indoors after curfew. And… a reminder to all graduating students: Twelve days remain until the Ceremony. You are advised to finalize any open preparations by then. That is all.”

The sound cut off.

The grand hall buzzed with murmurs, forks paused mid-bite. Even the candles dimmed a little, flickering as if stirred by something greater than air.

Wooyoung leaned back in his seat, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. The smirk returned, softer this time, tinged with something thoughtful.

Twelve days.

He looked toward the end of the room—where you sat. Laughing softly at something Anessa said. Backlit by golden candlelight.

He glanced at Seonghwa one last time. Then whispered under his breath:

“Hope your camera’s got a fast shutter, hyung. Time’s running out.”

The candlelight flickered against the silver of his plate, casting a warp of shadows that danced across the woodgrain like ghosts he never invited.

Seonghwa flattened his gaze on wooyung. He just sat there, still, silent, as if the tension hadn’t carved its claws into his spine.

He swallowed slowly, fingers tightening around his fork. Wooyoung wasn’t wrong. The camera had seen more than it should have. Little glances. Tilted smiles. The curve of your spine when you got dressed for the day.

It was his curse and his sanctuary–to observe.

To record what he could never touch.

He knew everyone was drawn to you.

But none of them watched like he did. None of them remembered the way he did.

Yet that didn’t make him worthy.

“Do you think it’ll snow before grad day?” Julianna asked, her dessert spoon rhythmically tapping against the edge of a spider-glass bowl, its delicate webbed pattern catching the glow from the room’s soft lamps.

The question drifted into the air like smoke, curling through the warm, slightly sleepy atmosphere of the shared dorm room.

Honestly, no one knew.

“No clue,” Anessa answered, leaning back into her bean bag with a yawn, her curls wrapped in a silk bonnet. Her voice was casual, but the weight of the question wasn’t lost on anyone.

You sat cross-legged on your bed, brushing the pad of your thumb over your bottom lip in thought. The hum of the heater filled the spaces between conversations, and your gaze drifted to the frosted window where condensation blurred the moonlight.

For a moment, you felt something strange—an ache wrapped in a question.

“What does the snow mean?” you asked softly, your voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind outside. It came out like a child asking for a bedtime story, the kind with magic and mystery, the kind you weren’t sure you’d believe in—but hoped might still be true.

There was a pause. Even Julianna, who never stopped talking, went quiet.

Eyes turned to you. Some wide with surprise, others crinkled in kind-hearted amusement, as if they were witnessing a tender innocence unfold.

“The snow’s like a clock,” Anessa said finally, her voice dipping into a softer register. “Usually, it falls on graduation day. Sometimes the day after. Either way, it marks the end—and the beginning.”

She licked the spoon clean and added, “It’s how the realm chooses to reveal your soulmate. When the first snowflake lands, your heart knows. And then… the remnant is sealed.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Remnant?”

Anessa nodded. “The last piece of who you are. The part that’s been searching.”

It sounded beautiful and terrifying.

“And if it snows before?” you asked, almost afraid of the answer.

This time it wasn’t Anessa who responded, but one of the quieter girls in the room, Sara, who was curling her braids into silk pins by the mirror.

“It hasn’t happened before,” she said, not looking up. “At least, not in any record we know of.”

The words hung there, suspended, a bit like snow before it falls.

A chill ghosted down your spine—not from fear, but from the unknown. You weren't sure what scared you more: the snow not coming at all… or coming too soon.

────────◷────────◶────────

The wind howled faintly against the high dorm windows, like an omen trying to speak but failing to form words. The air had grown colder by the hour–sharp, glassy, almost metallic in how it stung the skin. Yet despite its bite, not a single snowflake had fallen.

The annual soulmates day was yet to come.

And the world felt…suspeneded.

Inside the boys dormitory, silence reigned. A silence so unnatural it made the room feel smaller, heavier. Usually, mornings like this would be full of banter–Wooyoung teasing Mingi about misplacing his socks, Jongho wrestling with his teddy bear, San throwing half folded shits at yeosnag, and yunho humming something off-tune.

But today, not a word was spoken.

Each of their beds held the same solemn offering; a perfectly pressed graduation gown, dark as obsidian, lying flat beside its matching cap. The onyx fabric shimmered faintly against the dull morning light, an eerie contrast to the weight each garment carried. The finality of it. The promise of answers or heartbreak…eternal.

Seonghwa sat at the edge of his bed, buttoning his cufflinks with practiced precision, though his thoughts were a thousand miles away. His camera, for once, sat untouched on his desk. Still. Silent. He hadn’t taken a photo in days.

Across from him, Hongjoong adjusted his collar in the mirror, his jaw set tighter than usual. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His eyes—those sharp, storm-lit eyes—reflected what all of them felt: restlessness. Dread. A quiet desperation they didn’t want to name.

“Where is she?” Wooyoung muttered suddenly, voice breaking through like a scratch on glass. He wasn’t asking anymore directly. But everyone knew who he meant.

You.

“She’s probably not thinking about any of this,” Jongho said, half-laughing without humor as he tightened the laces of his boots. “She never looked bothered.”

“That’s what kills me,” San said sharply from the window, arms crossed as he stared out at the campus below. “We’re here burning alive, and she’s just… floating.”

Yunho spoke next, quietly but not without weight. “Maybe she already knows. Maybe that’s why she isn’t scared.”

Yeosang, who hadn’t looked up from his desk where he was absentmindedly flipping the same page of his textbook over and over again, finally spoke—but this time, his voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“Is she the only thing we’re ever going to talk about now?” he snapped, eyes sharp as he turned to face the others. “Is she really going to be the reason we stop speaking to each other like we used to?”

The room froze.

None of them replied right away. They hadn’t heard Yeosang raise his voice in months—not like this. Not with that edge.

His hands clenched slightly around the textbook as he stood, the calm mask he usually wore now cracked with something closer to frustration. Exhaustion. Maybe fear.

“It’s like we forgot who we were before she showed up,” he muttered, eyes sweeping over each of them. “Before the dreams. Before the soulmate theories. Now we just sit around waiting for her to pick one of us like it’s the only thing that matters.”

Yeosang didn’t move from the window, voice lower now—but laced with venom.

“And you,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at Wooyoung, “you make your jabs like you’re better than everyone here. You provoke Seonghwa every chance you get like it’s a game. Like all of this is some twisted competition.”

Wooyoung blinked once, his jaw tensing. “Please. Don’t act like you’re the only one seeing clearly now. You want to talk games?” He stood, brushing invisible dust from his pants. “Fine. Let’s talk truth. Let’s talk about what Seonghwa actually takes pictures of.”

All heads turned—some sharply, some slowly—as Seonghwa visibly stiffened across the room, his hand pausing mid-motion as he zipped up his jacket.

“Wooyoung, don’t—” Yunho started.

“No, let him,” Seonghwa said coolly, though his fingers gripped the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles went white.

Wooyoung didn’t flinch. “You all think he’s just journaling and sketching campus life? Half those polaroids? They’re of her. In class. In the library. Reading under the willow tree. Eating lunch. Hell—he even took one the day she cried in the art studio. One when she was in her dorm room changing. You think that’s normal?”

Seonghwa’s jaw tightened, his silence screaming louder than any words.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Jongho bit out suddenly. “You literally switch electives just to be in the same room as her.”

“Don’t talk like you’re innocent,” Wooyoung snapped back. “You sit behind her in lit class just to hear her read aloud. You only speak when she’s around.”

“And what about you, San?” Yeosang said darkly, turning from the window. “You switched economics, just because you couldn’t stand the thought of her being around yunho. You-You think we don’t notice how you follow her gaze like a puppy?”

San’s eyes flared. “At least I don’t treat her like a research project,” he hissed, eyes cutting to Yeosang. “I saw that spreadsheet you made. Every interaction. Every wished conversation planned out. Every time she wore that necklace. What the hell even is that?”

This was not supposed to be happening at all. It's as though the crazy 8 had forgotten who they were. The threads of time slowly unravelled as they quarrelled, hearts filled with a quiet annoyance, and a diluted sense of hatred that only seemed to scrape the surface.

“Oh, and we’re ignoring hongjoong now?” Mingi added coldly from the corner, arms crossed. “The guy who rewrote his entire final project because she mentioned liking architecture. Who stops speaking when she enters the room, hoping she’ll notice how ‘mysterious’ he is?”

Hongjoong turned sharply, eyes flashing with something wounded. “And you’re any better, mingi? You edit the school radio playlist to match whatever she’s been listening to on the lawn.

“Shut up,” Mingi growled. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“I think we all do,” Seonghwa finally said, his voice calm before a storm. “We’ve turned into versions of ourselves none of us recognize. All over one girl. And none of us even know if she’ll choose any of us.”

Silence fell—thick and ringing.

“I’m not apologizing,” Wooyoung muttered finally, turning to the mirror to fix his collar. “I meant every word. If you think any of you are less obsessed, you’re lying.”

“No,” Yunho said softly, bitterly. “We’re just all too scared to admit we’re the same.”

And still, the snow refused to fall.

Immediately stepping toward the door, suit crisp and grey with irritation, Yeosang halts—just for a moment. His hand lingers on the handle, shoulders squared like he has one more thing to say. But the words—whatever truth or venom they carried—collapse in his throat.

He swallows them whole, jaw tight, and turns away without looking back.

The door clicks shut behind him, and with it, something heavy settles into the room.

No one moves.

Hongjoong exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, the tension curling at the back of his neck. Mingi finally sits, legs bouncing with nerves. Seonghwa returns to packing up his camera wordlessly, though his grip is iron. San leans back against the dresser, arms crossed like a barrier. Yunho watches the door Yeosang walked through, as if he still might come back.

And Wooyoung just stands there, not smug, not victorious—just still. For once, no words.

Only silence.

Meanwhile,

You stood quietly in the old greenhouse at the edge of campus.

A place most had forgotten.

The glass was fogged from the cold outside, breath misting as you traced a finger along the condensation, watching it break into droplets. Faint greenery still clung to the walls, winter’s reach not enough to kill it completely.

You found yourself here more often these days.

Not out of hiding, but for silence.

The kind that didn't ask questions. The kind that let you just be.

You clutched your book loosely in your lap, half-read with words you couldn’t understand–faces, fragments of dreams, eight indistinct shapes from phrases that somehow felt familiar even when you tried not to think about them. And between them all: a clock. Always ticking. Always just out of reach.

You leaned back on the stone bench, letting your eyes trail up to the dome overhead. No snow yet.

Just sky–grey and indecisive.

“Still holding out on me?” you murmured, speaking to no one but everything.

Your fingers moved unconsciously over a torn scrap of paper you’d tucked between the pages of your book. A note Anessa had written to you two days ago.

“No matter who it is—just promise me you’ll choose with your heart. Not theirs.”

The bell tower rang in the distance–once, twice.

Eleven chimes.

The final school day before graduation was almost over. And still, you felt no different.

No revelation. No soulmate.

Just the strange certainty that everything was about shift.

You stood slowly, brushing off your jacket and casting one final glance toward the sky.

Still no snow.

But the air tasted like a countdown.

And something—someone—was coming.

The air smelled like something ancient. Life frost hadn’t quite kissed the earth, but was watching it. Waiting. The campus clock had just struck seven. Everyone gathered beneath the massive, weathered willow tree that stood like a sentinel in the centre of the school’s main grounds.

The staff had not yet arrived. But the students have.

They trickled in, slowly, and then in droves–cloaked in the matching obsidian of their graduation gowns, murmurs weaving into a growing undercurrent of nerves and anticipation.

And then–you arrived.

Your gown, though uniform, flowed around you differently–cut just slightly more fitted, tailored at the waist, its sleeves flowing open like silk wings when you walked. Beneath the robe, the faintest shimmer of moon-dusted silver peeked from the hem of your dress, a soft contrast against the dull black.

Your hair was pinned with minimal effort, wisps trailing along your cheekbones. The kind of beauty that did not try, yet never failed to command attention.

Leaning against the courtyard’s outer wall, Wooyoung lit a cigarette just to distract himself. But he forgot to take a drag the second you appeared. A low whistle left his lips, barely audible. “goddamn ,” he mumbled, a crooked grin pulling at the edge of his mouth. He didn't care that it hurt to watch you like this–graceful, untouchable. He was used to pain. But desire? That was something else entirely. And tonight, it was beyond unbearable.

Mingi shouted uncomfortably where he stood, a group of classmates still trying to pull him into light hearted banter. But his gaze never left you.

The murmur around you had begun to dull into a kind of white noise, waves crashing at a distance–students greeting, laughing, nervously pacing. Even still, it all felt far too loud. Every face you passed looked like they were waiting for something invisible tto fall from the sky.

Maybe you were too.

San, seated on the outer steps with arms crossed and eyes half-lidded, clenched his jaw. Not because you looked good—but because you looked like freedom. Like light. Like something no one could own, least of all him. It burned. He hated it. He loved it.

Jongho, silent as always, leaned against a tree trunk near the base of the hill. His eyes traced your every motion with a mixture of reverence and melancholy. He didn’t look at you like a peer—he looked at you like a prophecy.

You didn’t notice all of them. Not at once.

But you felt it.

Like gravity on your skin. Like breath on your neck.

You spotted her easily through the press of robed silhouettes—Anessa, standing near the foot of the willow, chewing at the end of her sleeve like she always did when she was trying not to overthink. Her graduation cap was tilted slightly off-center, eyes flitting through the crowd like she was searching for someone. Or maybe trying to avoid someone.

You called her name softly, and she turned.

“Hey,” she breathed, relief lacing her voice.

She walked toward you and immediately hooked her pinky into yours the way she did in your first year, before soulmates, before prophecies, before all of this.

“Please tell me you’re internally combusting too,” she muttered.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way. “I'm trying not to look up in case the snow decides to fall out of spite.”

That made her laugh—quiet, tired, honest.

“I swear, if it happens tonight,” she whispered, glancing up at the sky anyway, “I’ll scream. I’ll actually scream. Like—‘ah yes, let’s reveal soulmates when I still haven’t even memorized my speech.’”

You nudged her gently. “You’re going to be fine. You always are.”

She gave you a sideways look. “Says the girl who’s got at least eight people on campus walking around like they’re ready to duel each other over her.”

Your heart skipped.

Yunho caught sight of you mid-conversation with a peer, and the sentence he was saying vanished from his lips. His eyes softened immediately. He didn’t see a fellow graduate—he saw something sacred. The way you held your robe, your delicate steps, the way your eyes scanned the space like you were searching for no one but still belonged to everyone. It was enough to break him open.

Seonghwa stood in the inner ring of students, camera hung loosely around his neck. But he didn’t raise it. He didn’t need a picture of you. Not tonight. You were already burned into his memory, even in the shadow of the falling dusk. He stared quietly, jaw tight. Regret etched deep in his posture.

Hongjoong stood alone on the far end of the lawn, hidden beneath the limbs of the willow itself. Orange hair bright against the black of his robe, he stared at you not like you were his—but like he didn’t know what would happen if you weren’t. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just watched, and something unreadable passed through his eyes.

Yeosang, though, was the last to arrive. Fresh from whatever solitude he’d slipped into since your greenhouse run-in. When he saw you—his whole body paused. He’d thought distance might dull the pull. He was wrong. If anything, you were worse now. More radiant. Like the universe had decided to punish him for walking away.

Eight boys. Eight destinies. All bound to a girl who walked through time like she’d never been told she’d break it.

“I didn’t ask for any of that,” you said softly.

“I know you didn’t,” she answered, her voice suddenly more serious. “And I hate how this school acts like it’s normal. Like... like we’re all supposed to be okay with waking up one day and suddenly someone is fated for us.”

A long pause settled between you. She sighed.

“I just don’t want it to hurt when it happens,” she admitted. “For either of us.”

You looked at her. Your best friend. The only person who had seen every part of you without needing some cosmic string to tie you together. The only one who chose you without a tether.

“I don’t think any of us are coming out of this without some kind of bruise,” you whispered.

Anessa leaned her head on your shoulder.

The air was colder now. The wind had teeth.

But her presence warmed you.

And somewhere, just behind the rows of gathered students, at least eight pairs of eyes were trying not to look too hard.

Trying—and failing.

Out of instinct—like they could read each other’s thoughts—the boys looked at one another, each noticing the other. Lips pursed, tongues pressing against the insides of their cheeks. They were still green with jealousy, masked by selfish desire. They had allowed it to consume them—all of it—right up until this very moment. This special day, where only love was meant to shine.

The sound came like a thread pulling silence taut–a chime. Not from a bell, but from the old willow tree itself. Hidden deep within its branches, a brass chime rang once, twice, then stilled. Conversations fell away like dust.

All eyes turned to the podium.

There stood the principal, cloaked not in a robe but in a ceremonial garb of the Umbra council–black and deep navy, etched with silver filigree that shimmered under the cloud-veiled sky. His hands rested on the podium as though holding up the air itself.

“Students of Eden," he began, voice the same, “the sky has not yet wept, but its breath grows colder with every hour. This is unusual. And yet, perhaps fitting,”

His gaze swept over the crowd.

You could feel it brush your skin like a searchlight.

“Eden was never meant to mimic the worlds we came from. It was designed to hold truth. To make space for fate. To restore what the ancient architects called the tether.”

Some students shifted nervously. You heard Anessa inhale sharply next to you.

“As you know, your soulmark will awaken with the first snow,” the principal continued. “Be it at dawn or the day after, it will come.”

His voice deepened.

“Whether you believe in destiny, or defy it—whether you await your other half with hope or fear—it does not matter. The snow does not seek permission. It does not arrive with kindness. It arrives with truth.”

And still, the snow did not fall.

The courtyard buzzed in quiet suspense, conversations hushed to a still as everyone stood, eyes forward—except for them. The eight.

They fidgeted. Jittered. Palms slick, shoulders stiff. Their eyes flicked back and forth between each other and you. You, who stood under the same willow where everything had first begun. Unbothered. Or perhaps just unreadable. That unreadability gnawed at them most.

A murmur ran through the crowd like wind through tall grass.

“And so,” he said, “I ask you not to brace yourself for love... but to brace yourself for clarity.”

You swallowed.

Yeosang shifted his weight, jaw tight as he cast a quick glance at Wooyoung, who wouldn’t stop clenching and unclenching his fists. San stared forward, his chest heaving slightly, while Yunho’s gaze flicked between the principal and the curve of your shoulders like he couldn’t decide which held more power.

“Some of you will find yourselves tethered to the one you longed for. Others, to someone you never once considered. And some of you...” he paused, “...may find that the person you’ve waited for does not walk this earth at all. And still, the snow will fall.”

You weren’t sure who he was speaking to anymore.

Only that his words felt colder than the air.

Seonghwa, hands clasped behind his back, eyes half-lidded, caught Hongjoong’s sideways stare and offered nothing in return. Mingi didn’t move at all—but his ears were red. And Jongho exhaled, hard, his stare locked entirely on you.

“Tonight, I ask you not to seek your answer. Only to breathe. Let the frost come. And when it does...”

Silence pooled like water around everyone’s feet. Nervous giggles from some students, sharp exhales from others. Eyes glanced to the clouds, to the horizon, to the crowd. But the eight didn’t look anywhere else.

Only at you.

Each one of them.

Then, the principal stepped down from the small podium, standing at the edge of the willow’s shadow as if it lent his words more weight.

He paused. Even the birds in the trees seemed to go silent.

The boys moved slightly.

As if a silent alarm had been triggered in all of them at once.

“...you will know. But for now—stand beside the one you believe may be yours. Be near them. Share this moment, even if it’s borrowed.He paused. Even the birds in the trees seemed to go silent.

They shifted—barely perceptible at first—hands twitching, shoulders straightening. Feet angling toward you.

Preparing.

To get to you before it was too late.

All at once. Selfishly. Determined.

Eyes trailed each other with veiled hostility, bodies tense with unspoken rivalry. A silent race born from a year of buried emotions, missed chances, and a connection none of them could deny—but none of them could share.

It has to be me. I’m the one they’re meant for. Not him.

Then came the words.

The principal stepped forward, and something about the weight in his posture made everything stop.

“Let the tether be restored.”

The wind shifted.

Students began to stir, slowly at first—then all at once.

Laughter broke out, gasps of surprise, sudden confessions. Some squealed in delight as their eyes met those they had only dared to dream about. Others panicked, pushing through the crowd to find the one they hoped would look back. It was chaos veiled in euphoria.

“Find your tether,” the principal had said. And so they did.

Bodies bustled across the courtyard in waves—feet crunching over frost-dusted stone, shouts ringing in the air. Arms outstretched. Hands fumbling to intertwine with hands. Some were crying. Some were already kissing. Others stood stunned, waiting for something—anything—to make it clear.

Anessa’s hand slipped from yours in a flash, her fingers brushing yours one final time before she disappeared into the crowd with a grin, off to find her eye candy. You turned your head to watch her go, but your feet didn’t move.

You stood still.

Right in the center of it all.

Like an anomaly. A single note in a song that was already halfway through its chorus.

You weren’t calling out for anyone. You didn’t chase, or run, or reach. You simply stood, hands at your sides, eyes wide beneath the drifting clouds that still refused to snow.

From across the grounds, the staff watched it unfold. Their gazes followed the eight boys—those same eight final-year students who had spent the year in a silent war of glances and subtle battles. Now, all of them moved. All at once.

Charging

Running.

Like their lives depended on it.

They pushed past dazed students, bumping shoulders, cutting corners with almost reckless abandon. Gowns flaring behind them like wings.

And every single one of them was headed for you.

The noise was deafening—heartbeat-level loud. Their breaths, ragged. Their eyes, wide and wild. Hearts hammering as one thought pulsed in all of them:

“Let it be me.”

Then–

Tick.

A sound split the air like a pin dropping in a cathedral.

Tick.

It came again.

Tick. tick. Tick. tick. Tick.

Faster now. Like it was racing their steps.

Tick. tick. Tick. tick.

Ten times. Rapid. Unrelenting.

Until–

Silence.

Everything stopped.

Everything—but them.

The crowd froze. Mid-step. Mid-word. Mid-breath.

Gowns halted in motion. Leaves still in the air. Mouths agape, laughter stuck between syllables. The willow tree, frozen in sway. Even the sky, in its heavy grey, seemed to pause.

Including you.

Only they can move. Eight hearts pound in collective panic.

“What the hell?” San breathes, eyes scanning the frozen crowd.

Mingi reaches for a passing student—his fingers glide through a still image. Wooyoung's voice cracks, “Is this... part of it?”

Faces contorted in shock as they looked around—watched everything turn to glass, unmoving. The weight of reality hit all of them at once.

They all watched, fearful now, standing around you like a religious crowd and the symbol in the centre.

You were frozen, head turned up slightly as you looked at the sky.

"She's not moving..." Yunho murmured, reaching a hand toward you, but stopping just short of contact—afraid.

Then—

Tick.

It was soft. Subtle. Almost imagined.

"Did you hear that?" Mingi asked, his voice taut with tension.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It came again, like a clock tucked beneath the earth, its rhythm pulsing louder with each second.

"Where is that coming from?" San stepped back, head swiveling, eyes scanning the air.

Tickticktickticktick—

It grew louder. Too loud. Almost suffocating. Like time itself was slipping through the cracks of their control.

Then—

Silence. No ticking.

Only a low hum filled the air–vibrating through their bones. Like a distant thunder, but no storm. A static lull. The atmosphere held its breath.

All eyes turned upward in sync. And then they saw it.

The first snowflake.

Small, silent, perfect.

It fell slowly, like a decision being made. And it landed–directly on the crown of your head.

A sharp sound followed:

Ding!

Like that of an elevator. And then–

Black.

The world collapsed into nothing. No light. No sound.

Only they could feel the certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.

Then—It all unpaused.

The air shifted. The noise returned.

Students moved again, conversations bubbling back like a tape resuming mid-play. Some laughed, some cried in joy, and others blinked in confusion, unsure of what had just happened.

But a few… felt it.

Something was missing.

Someone was missing.

Cherrie, the quiet girl who always sat by her desk in the dorm, felt the difference first. Her hand hovered over her heart as if to still its sudden race.

“Guys…” she whispered, but no one heard her.

Everything continued—too easily, too normally. Until Anessa felt it too. A cold prickle on the back of her neck.

“Guys!”

The desperation in her voice rang louder, forcing heads to turn.

“Where are they?” she asked, panic clinging to every word as she searched the crowd—her eyes frantically scanning for familiar faces.

Hongjoong.

Mingi.

Wooyoung.

Seonghwa.

Yunho.

San.

Jongho.

Yeosang.

But no one had an answer. Silence fell, uncomfortable and sharp.

Anessa’s voice broke through it once more.

As much as you were perturbed about the disappearance of your cat, you still had to drag yourself to work every morning.

But when you came home that day, a notification sitting untouched on your phone about your ring catching a recording, it all flipped around.

“Hey, I found this little lady wandering around my apartment somehow? I think she got in through an open window, but I remember her being yours. She’ll be with me for now, but come over when you have the chance to scoop her up? She keeps trying to start hissy fits with my cat.”

A warm, charming smile and pretty little dimples. Freckled caramel skin and a strong jaw.

Tousled black hair and sweet eyes that crinkled at the corners, his large arms holding your cat up to the birds-eye camera, giving her a silly look. She meows, seeming content in the strange man’s arms, and he walks away to his own apartment, cooing softly at her as he cradles her in his arms.

That’s how you met San.

He had found your cat and ever so graciously stopped by your door in hopes of dropping her off while you weren’t home. As soon as you saw the recording, you ran out of your home and down the hall to San’s door, knocking gently, trying to mask your excitement.

When he opened the door to your face beaming with happiness, he knew right then and there, he had to find some way to make sure he kept seeing you.

He’s asked to cat sit a few times. You’ve asked him to water your plants while you were out of town. He’s offered to fix your fridge when it started to leak. You offered to collect his mail when he was on a trip.

You scratched his back, and he scratched yours. A sweet and simple relationship that sometimes has blurred lines.

Like when he looked at you like you were beauty embodied, but you brushed it off. Or when you literally felt your heart stop when he held your cat in his arms, littering her little face in kisses, but the heart was a weird thing. He was a little older than you, and sometimes his age showed in the conversations he would hold with you.

But San was always pleasant to talk to, inviting you over for coffee, letting you rant about work, and listening to his stories about his travels around the world with his buddies. All this time living next door to him, and you had never spoken a word to each other until now.

It was a soft, platonic, crutch of a relationship. A person you could talk to after a long day and just be real with. San made you feel real.

Well, things would change very quickly.

And it was all because of a near heatstroke, the electrifying power of the sun, and a broken AC.

It was the dead of summer, one hundred degrees outside, and asphalt you could fry an egg on. And your AC gave out on you, the shitbox.

You had done everything you could to try and remedy it, but no matter what you tried, it was useless. Every YouTube video provided no help, the toolbox under your sink looked like an airplane cockpit to you, and you were so overheated it was getting hard to form thoughts.

Stripped down to just a thin sweat-soaked tank top and volleyball shorts, you rested your forehead against the edge of your balcony, the door wide open as you tried to catch any breeze that the gods felt generous enough to grace you with.

You tried standing in front of your open fridge, but you knew that would raise your bill, so your last resort was begging for wind on your balcony. You closed your eyes and sighed when a moment of fresh air washed over your wet skin, but it was gone just as quickly as it arrived.

“You look like you’re having fun.”

You nearly let out a moan of relief, the familiar voice flooding your ears like God himself was sent to help you.

“San…” you whined weakly, not lifting your head from your balcony. “I need you to rescue me.”

His sweet little laugh hits your ears, and you turn your head to see him standing on his own balcony, smiling at you fondly. “You know I’m just a door away; you could have just knocked and asked.”

You pouted and winced guiltily. “But I’ve been bothering you so much lately and-“

San interrupts you with a raise of his eyebrow and a snort. “You’re never bothering me, sweetheart. I’m always more than willing to help you out, you know that, don’t you?”

An angel, really.

“San, you’re the best.” You hang your head, and droplets of sweat fall onto the hot wood of your balcony. San is already walking back inside his apartment with a knowing smile.

“Let me grab my things.”

-

“How are you alive?”

The moment San stepped into your home, he immediately began to sweat. Your apartment really was that hot. Carrying his toolbox and a determination to bring coolness back to your abode, he nearly soaked his grey tank top upon stepping through your door.

You laugh dryly. “I guess I’m really resilient.”

San runs his free hand through his hair, inhaling deeply as he takes in the situation. “How long has it been like this?” he murmurs, still seemingly in shock over the temperature of your home.

“A few hours, maybe.” You bite your tongue and avoid looking at him, arms crossed as you take a sudden interest in the ceiling.

San scoffs, “It should have taken you 5 minutes to decide to come ask for my help (Name).” You could feel his eyes on you, and it was burning more than the sun.

“Well, excuse me-” before you could finish your sentence, he whistled loudly.

“Hey, over here.” He snaps, and you whip your head in his direction. Your eyes lock, and you watch as they fall from concentration to a strange softness. 

“There you are.” His voice lowers to something so gentle it makes your stomach flip. “Hi, neighbor. So you want this fixed or not?” San lifts his bag and raises his eyebrow in question. Your arms remain crossed, and you nod silently, words seeming to have left you.

“Alright then, c’mon. I want you to watch so you know better next time you’re too embarrassed to ask for my help.”

Your nervousness leaves you as he walks away from you, and you follow with a pep in your step and an annoyance in your tone. “I was not embarrassed, I just didn’t want to drag you out of your comfy air-conditioned home to come sweat off ten pounds trying to fix mine.”

San laughs as he makes a beeline to the closet in your hallway where your air conditioner is located, the metal in his bag clinking with each step. "Sounds like you’re jealous, actually.”

San gets to quick work to diagnose the problem, his head disappearing in the closet as he begins to poke and prod around the broken contraption, murmuring things to himself as he works. Some clanking around and a few screws loose, and he pokes his head from out of the closet.

He looks down at you, your eyes wide and hopeful at the chance of finally being able to feel air conditioning again. He smiles sheepishly, and you already knew bad news was coming.

“Bad news, the entire thing is frozen over.” You let out a defeated groan, and San rests his hands on your bare upper arms.

“Don’t pitch a fit, it’s an easy fix, but you may not like it.” San’s voice is gentle, his hands softly squeezing your arms. You try to ignore the way his skin sticks to yours from the sweat. Pervert.

“What?” You ask dejectedly. San lowers his voice to a whisper.

“You have to turn the heat on.”

You blink a few times, and you feel your entire body go into fight or flight.

“I’d rather you shoot me.” You deadpan, and San squeezes your shoulders one last time before slipping away.

“I’d rather not, babydoll, you give me work to do with my hands. I’d be bored without you.” His grin is genuine, his dimples on proud display, the tendons in his neck flexing, the sweat dripping off his brow. His eyes flick over your face and along your jawline. He licks a drop of sweat off his bottom lip.

And he wants to turn the heat on?

“Is that your way of saying I cause enough trouble to keep you busy?” You gnaw on your bottom lip as San reached behind him and turned the thermostat onto the heat, full blast. 

“You could say that.” He smiles and shuts the closet to the AC, and you could immediately feel the heated air start to flow from the vents around the house.

“I’m gonna die in here.” You whine, wiping the side of your neck with a disgusted face.

San sets down his toolbox, which it seems he brought for almost nothing. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay, and we can die together.”

You can’t help but crack a smile as you walk away and fall onto your carpeted floor with a tired thud. “You know you don’t have to, San.”

He only nods and lies down right next to you, spreading his limbs like a starfish and turning his head to face you. “I know.”

-

The rickety rotating fan San brought over from his apartment did little for your sweltering skin. You sat on your knees directly in front of it, sighing each time the rotation made it to your face, and groaning when it started to spin away.

San was sprawled across your couch, lips wrapped around a blue popsicle you had offered him from your freezer. His arm draped over the back as he watched you on your knees in front of the fan, the sweat trickling down your shoulder blades and leaving streaks on your tank top.

San’s eyes were lidded as his tongue traces absentminded patterns along the icy treat, his gaze fully trained on you. You were too focused on catching the flow of the fan to notice how intensely San was staring at you. His eyes followed the slope of your neck and the divots on your lower back where your tank top rode up over your hips. 

The way your hair sticks to your slick skin and how your shoulders rose and fell with each breath you took. The way your whole body would relax when the air finally reached you, and how it would tense right back on when it moved away.

The AC was not the only thing that was making San feel hot all over; he couldn't take his eyes off you. Dribbles of sugary blue melted down his wrist, and just when he lowered his mouth to clean up the mess, you turned to ask him a question.

His eyes lock with yours as you turn, but his mouth doesn't cease its movement. His pretty pink tongue slips out and licks up the trail that dripped down his tan wrist.

He mumbles out a low ‘hm?’ as his tongue lies flat against his skin and drags it up his wrist. Your words fail you once again as your eyes fall to his mouth against his skin, and yet San can’t find it in him to rip his gaze away from your pretty, desperate eyes.

“Do- is it good?” You stumble over your question, completely forgetting what you were originally going to ask him. San smiles and licks up the side of the popsicle until he stops and bites the end off of it with a silent snap.

“Very, thank you, sweetheart.” He chews on the blue ice, and you swallow.

“It's the best I can do since you won’t let me pay you.” You swirl your body around so you can fully face him, and grin as he bites off another small piece.

“Your company is payment enough.” He tells you that every time, because every time it goes the same way.

Something breaks, and San comes to your rescue. While he fixes it, you chat idly, and after he’s done, the conversation just seems to flow on even longer. He considers that his payment, always insisting that your time was his currency.

You’ve tried to shove at least a 20 down his throat, but he’ll never take it. You opened your mouth to argue some more, but as you did, your cat walked around the corner of the couch with a soft meow.

“Oh, and where have you been?” You call to her as he rubs herself on San’s man spread legs with a happy meow. San sticks his ice cream into his mouth and reaches down to scoop her into his arms.

“Hello, little lady.” He coos at her, rubbing his nose against hers and scratching her neck as he cradles her. She purrs contentedly, and you watch in near awe.

“Your mom's grumpy about her AC.” He whispers to her, and you roll your eyes. Almost as if she could understand, she meows quietly. 

“I hope you’re not conspiring with my cat.” You narrow your eyes playfully, and San gently sets her down back on the ground. She meanders her way over to you, placing her front paws on your knee as you reach down and pet her gently.

“I would never.” His popsicle is dripping again; it’s gotten down his chin this time, along his strong jaw, and dropped onto his tank top.

You inhale sharply. “You’re making a mess on my couch.” Your cat bounds away quietly, off to whatever little secret spot she’s been hiding in this entire time.

San looks down at the blue spot on his shirt and laughs softly. “Oops.” He lifts his thumb to his chin and wipes the river of blue on his chin. But as he moves to dip his thumb into his mouth, you move quicker.

You stand from your spot and snatch his wrist, and slip it into your mouth without hesitation. You clean the sticky sugary mess off his thumb, swirling your tongue around it slowly, keeping your eyes on him. San’s eyes are wide, surprised, and intrigued.

You’re not sure what on earth possessed you to do that, so you move back away from him. But San doesn’t let that happen.

His fingers curl around and grip your jaw, keeping your head in place, his thumb pressed down against your tongue, and he guides your head closer to him. You were trapped in his strong hold, and you felt your head begin to swim.

His fingers press into the flesh of your cheek, pursing your lips around his thumb, and the heat in your blood increases substantially when he keeps your head still so you can’t direct your embarrassed gaze away from him.

“Was that worth it?” He teases with a small grin, the hand with the popsicle lifting to slip the pop back into his mouth, running it up and down his tongue, which had turned blue by now. All the while, the thumb in your mouth mimicked his movement, stroking your tongue slowly.

You totally don’t notice the way his legs slightly spread further open, how he readjusts the angle of his hips. He totally doesn’t notice the way your thighs clench together and how your teeth scrape against his nail. You also don’t notice the way he looks at you like he wants to eat you, and he for sure doesn’t notice how you look at him like that’s all you’ve ever wanted in the world.

He slips his thumb out of your mouth so slowly it seems like time itself has been paused, a very thin trail of saliva connected between his nail and your parted lips, snaps like a silent cue. 

Your eyelids flutter, and San’s tongue darts out and licks a stripe up the pad of his thumb, before popping the ice cream back in his mouth.

He stands, leaving you dumbfounded on the floor below him. “Let’s go check and see how much that AC has thawed; this heat is getting unbearable.”

-

“I’d give it at least another hour before we can run the cool again.” San peers into the closet, and you feel a sigh of relief rack your body, wiping your chest to clear it of the sweat that had gathered there.

San turns to see you looking at him with eyes glimmering with adoration and hope, and he doesn’t catch the way your heart leaps when your eyes follow the droplet of sweat that clings to his chin.

“I really can’t thank you enough.” You sigh, trying to gather your bearings. 

“I promise you, as easy a fix this was, I mean you could have done it yourself-“ San’s lips spread into a sly grin, and you’re already rolling your eyes.

“You literally insisted on helping me.” You turn around to walk away, but his arm reaches out to grab your wrist as he drags you back to his chest.

“I know- hey, I’m talking to you, don’t walk away from me, c’mere…” he stops you from leaving, and you're standing in front of him again, much closer this time. He looks down at you, and your words die in your throat; his hand on your wrist doesn’t leave, it only squeezes tighter. 

“Hi there.” San murmurs. “Listen to me.” You swallow quietly and nod slowly.

“I love helping you out. Love working for you, babydoll.” His thumb rubs gentle circles over the pulse in your wrist, and his soft voice sends shockwaves to your belly.

“It’s a privilege if anything, I want you to always come ask for my help. But I am expecting a thank you.” He raises an expectant eyebrow, and you force your voice to come out, albeit small.

“Thank you, Sannie.” You speak lowly, and you feel his hands squeeze your wrist only slightly. He inhales slowly and lowers his lips just shy of your earlobe.

“You're welcome, beautiful, anytime.” You stifle a whimper when you feel the way his warm breath travels over your ear, and suddenly, you want to rip your skin off because you feel like you’re burning from the inside out.

You needed to divert.

“You should change your shirt, you look a mess.” You clear your throat, but San wasn’t done having fun with you.

“What, you don’t like me all messy?” He smiles and drags his fingertips every so gently across your exposed collarbone, and your skin shivers beneath his touch. 

“You’re even messier than I am now, sweetheart. You’re soaked.”

You know he’s talking about your tank top, which was, in fact, soaked with sweat. But you both knew he knew it’s a lot more than just that.

You bite your inner cheek nervously, and your limbs twitch. San’s fingers trail over your collarbone, along your shoulder, down your inner arm until he’s intertwining his fingers with yours.

His other hand cups around the back of your neck, gently massaging the nape, and a small, satisfied moan slips from your lips. Your eyes fall shut, and San keeps his gaze on you, enamored with every expression you make.

“San.” You whisper, your eyes still closed.

“Yeah?” He purrs, continuing to massage the tight knot on your neck with purpose. He subtly pulls you closer by the grip on your neck, and you can feel his nose ever so gently brush yours. His breath fans over your lips, and you can smell his scent. The sweat, the warm, woodsy notes of his fading cologne. 

“It’s hot.” Your eyes flutter open, and your knees nearly give out on you when you see just how close he is to you. You can point out every freckle on his face, every discoloration of skin, and every pore. And his eyes are so intense that it makes your stomach fall.

Lidded eyes and low lashes, his lips just barely quirked up into the slightest of smiles. “I know, baby, I know.”

“How much longer until we can turn the AC back on?” You're inching closer to him as you speak, and your breaths come shallowly.

San's lips move away from yours, and he’s pressing them in featherlight kisses against your neck. “You’re shivering like you’re cold, sweetheart.” A kiss below your ear, and one in the crook of your neck.

“M not cold.” You murmur, and you do in fact shiver each time his soft lips make contact with your skin. 

“You hot, baby?” He coos against your ear, and your arms grab the thick straps of his tank top and pull him away from your ear, back to face you. You nod.

“San.” You whine, your eyebrows knit together in desperation. “Please.”

“I’m gonna make it worse, beautiful.” He pouts playfully, poorly masking the want laced in his words. “You want me to make it worse?”

You can’t help your honesty. “I want you to do whatever you want.” You pull him closer, and your lips are just thin skin brushing thin skin, your breaths mingling, and your noses bumping.

“Oh, you shouldn’t say that to me.” He groans against your lip, his eyes locked on your hazy eyes. “I don’t want to do very gentlemanly things.” The hand he had interlaced with yours slips away, and you feel it trail up your inner thigh, and he’s pressing against the thin fabric of your volleyball shorts.

You whimper against his skin, and San’s lip parts in mock surprise. “Knew you were soaked.” He sighs, and he finally gives you what you want.

A slow, tasting kiss, savoring every flip of your tongue and soft whine. Your mouth is warm and sweet against his, the faint taste of your lip gloss and your sweat dancing on his taste buds. His fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, wasting no time.

You were so unbelievably slick, it was mind-baffling. San’s fingers immediately become soaked in your arousal, his eyes closed, and eyebrows knit in concentration as his fingertips slip all over your cunt.

When he pressed up against your clit you accidentally bit his tongue in surprise, and you ripped your mouth away from the kiss and pressed your forehead against his broad chest. Your breath comes heavy, and your hands slip away from his tank top straps and ball into fists against his pecs, your legs already beginning to shake.

San moves around so your back is pressed against the hallway wall, forcing the back of your head against the wall. “Uh uh.” He bites out, rubbing slow circles against your clit, your thighs squeeze around his wrist as the pleasure flows through your blood.

“At me.” His hand on your neck forced your head to crane upwards, and you locked eyes with him again and simply melted. His eyes are heavy and hot, looming over you as he plays with your cunt. “Here, baby, right here.”

You let a pathetic moan slip from your mouth when he trails his fingers down and slides one inside of you, thick and full against your warm walls. Your knees buckle, but San keeps you up by your neck.

“Don’t look away from me, babydoll.” His presence overwhelmed you, his body molded to yours, and his fingers knuckle deep inside of you, curling and pressing spots so deep it made you lightheaded.

Your eyes watered, and San bit his bottom lip, a smirk spreading across his face. “So fucking pretty, yes, you are, baby.” He curls his fingers deeper, and your mouth falls open. San takes the opportunity to kiss you nasty and deep, sliding his tongue over yours and groaning down your throat. “Yes, you are...” he purrs into your mouth, and your whole body feels like it’s on fire.

You were both overheated, but the broken AC had no contribution. You wanted your clothes off, you wanted to feel his skin on yours. You wanted San-

“You want me to fuck you, baby?” He growls into your mouth, slipping his fingers out of you to tease your clit, before they’re right back inside of you, stirring up your guts with deep, pressurized drags.

You nod breathlessly, giving him the sweetest little puppy dog eyes you didn’t even know you were making. San just had that effect on you; he awakened your instinct to beg.

His hand slides up and buries its fingers into your hair, gently pushing you away from his lips. His fingers slip out of your cunt, and you whine in protest, but then he’s pushing you to your knees.

You watch as he gradually grows taller the further you sink to your knees, and your hands grip his massive thighs through his jeans until you’re eye level with his bulge.

He cocks his head to the side, looking down at you like you were the sweetest thing. His fingers massage your scalp in slow circles, his other fingers sinking into his mouth as he slowly licks your slick off of them, all while never diverting his heated gaze from you.

Once clean, he wipes his saliva across his shiny chrome belt buckle, leaving a wet streak across the metal. Then he’s slowly unbuckling it, teasingly slow.

“I’ll consider this my thank you.” He says as he lets his belt fall open. You reach your hands up and unbutton his jeans, sliding down the zipper and letting your hands slip into his boxers.

You can feel him twitch as soon as your palm finds him, and as you pull him out, San’s breath hitches. Thick, heavy, and hot in your hand, you hold San’s cock, and you’re barely able to wrap your fingers around the length of him.

Pretty and pink, San runs his tongue over his lower lip when he catches the way your throat bobs as you take in the size of him. You raise your eyes to look at him as you stroke him languidly, and he's groaning under his breath.

His thumb hooks on his belt loop, his hand in your hair slipping from your hair and gripping himself at the base. “Tongue, baby.”

You obey, letting your tongue fall from your mouth. San lifts his cock and oh so gently slaps his pink tip against your tongue, drops of pre falling into your mouth. San can’t help the low giggle that rumbles from his chest at how willing you were for him.

“Relax for me, okay?” he whispers, and you grab either of his hips to hold yourself steady. “You gonna let me fuck that pretty mouth?”

“Yes, Sannie,” you whimper, and he slaps himself against your tongue a few more times before both of his hands wound through your hair. 

“Alright, sweet girl, breathe through your nose.” You relax your jaw and keep your eyes on his as he slides his cock past your lips, along your tongue, and into your mouth. You feel the thick vein against your tongue and the way he twitches when you hollow out your cheeks for him.

His grip in your hair tightens the further he glides into your mouth, and he comes to a stop just before his tip hits the back of your throat. Your eyes watered, and tears gathered on your lower lashes, and San was doing everything in his power to be a gentleman and not fuck your mouth to tears, but you were making it so hard.

Your tongue twitches against the underside of his length as he slowly slides out of your mouth, then thrusts back in in a muted, gentle rhythm.

He gnaws on his bottom lip, his flushed, sweaty skin giving him a glow that makes your thighs clench below you. His eyebrows are knit together, and his lips part in a quiet moan when he slips further down your throat. “Oh baby…” he sighs, rewarding you with a soft moan that makes your stomach do flips.

He pushes himself deeper into your mouth, and your nails dig into his thighs, but you’re taking it so well.

“Yeah… atta girl. So fucking precious,” he praised around hitched breaths and whiny groans. Drool slips down the corner of your mouth the further he pushes himself further down your throat. His scent, his taste, everything about him was overwhelming you to the point of painful arousal, and all you wanted to do was feel him everywhere.

You moan around his cock, and San’s grip on your scalp tightens, the vibrations of your sweet voice making it impossible to keep it together. “Make too much noise, and I’ll cum down your throat, sweetheart. Let's have manners, please.” He moans lowly as he pulls himself out of your mouth, your lips suctioning around his tip with a wet, dirty kiss.

You let your tongue fall out and drag it along the underside of him, and he shivers in bliss when you drag it up and gently tease his head.

San can’t take it any longer, and he’s lifting you by your hair and practically throwing you against the wall. He’s on his knees next, spreading your thighs and hiking one over his shoulder. He doesn’t even bother to take off your shorts or your panties, as he’s simply pulling the flimsy fabric to the side and cupping your dripping cunt with his mouth.

Warm and wet, his tongue dives between your folds, licking up, down, left, and right. Your hands bury themselves in his hair. His large, rough hands hold your thighs open for him as he bullies your pussy with his mouth, open kisses, and greedy licks. His lips wrap around your clit as he buries his face as deep as he can between your thighs like he can’t get enough. He’s groaning and cooing into your cunt, getting off on how wet he’s managed to make you just by being here. 

His tongue swirls around your clit, and you gasp aloud, your head falling back against the wall in desperation.You could see the blue that the popsicle he had earlier stained on his tongue.

Muffled and heavy, San’s voice travels through your cunt when he speaks. “Babydoll, look at me.” You force your head to crane back down and look at him.

His mouth between your thighs and his eyes stare up at you with a burning intensity that you can feel in your stomach.

“There she is, hi baby.” Keeping his eyes on yours, he teases your clit with suckling kisses, his fingers gently dragging through your slick folds as he watches your face fall in pleasure.

The sweat on his brow and your arousal on his lips, you feel like falling apart. “Keep looking at me while I eat this pussy. Please?” he whines as he begs, but the sly smile on his face is all telling as his fingers slip inside of you and curl up, his tongue laving flat over your puffy clit.

The hand on your thighs rubs gentle circles against the soft skin, all the while his tongue draws patterns on your clit, and his fingers work you inside out like he knows your body like the back of his hand.

“F-fuck… San…” you whine, tears threatening to spill from your eyes, his warm mouth almost too much for you.

“Don’t whine,” he groans, curling his fingers harder inside of you. “You’re not nearly wet enough, and I’m a big boy baby.” He smiles around your clit, his teeth nipping at it gently.

Your muscles tense, and you moan drunkenly at each press and prod of his thick fingers; each slip of his tongue has your brain fogging over.

“Need you to cum at least once before I fuck you, I might hurt you, beautiful.” All sweet sugary words, but the sinful grin and the precise way he works out your cunt make everything he says fall on deaf ears.

“So get nice and wet for me, soak yourself, so I don’t break you when I put you through this wall.” San’s fingers move faster, deeper, his lips staying attached to your clit as he sucked on it greedily, and your legs began to shake.

His promises make your orgasm fly towards you faster, and coupled with him suckling on your clit, he moans lowly around it, the vibrations setting your nerves on fire. 

“I feel you, you’re right there.” San’s fingers press against your G-spot with the perfect pressure, circling the pads of his fingers against that spongy spot with mind-melting purpose. “Keep your eyes on me and cum on my tongue, mkay?”